roxyyyy

dududududu

[sungjinwooscertifiedwife]

⋆˚✿˖° ̠r̠̠o̠̠x̠̠y̠'̠s̠ ̠m̠a̠̠s̠̠t̠̠e̠̠r̠̠l̠̠i̠̠s̠̠t ⋆˚✿˖°

=hellooooooo there lovely ppl ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡ =I'm 16 - female

=I'm a highschooler at the moment. i love writing and drawing but my art skills are lowkey questionable (╥﹏╥) I've also tried digital art but that's even worse ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) I'm not always posting frequently because of school but I'll try to be as active as i can ( ◡̀_◡́)ᕤ

Requests: OPEN (for genshin, solo leveling, KPDH) CLOSED (for others)

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝖨'𝗆 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈: ✦Solo levelling ✦KPDH ✦Black Butler ✦Death Note ✦Chainsaw Man ✦Millionaire Detective ✦Spy x Family ✦BSD ✦Obey Me ✦Genshin Impact ✦Diabolik Lovers ✦Homicipher ✦Yandere Simulator ✦Case Study Of Vanitas ✦Honkai Star Rail ✦Wuthering Waves ✦more to add when i remember (ᵕ—ᴗ—) 𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𝖥𝖺𝗇𝖽𝗈𝗆𝗌 𝖨 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗐𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝖿𝗈𝗋: ✦Diabolik Lovers ✦Homicipher ✦Death Note ✦Case Study Of Vanitas ✦Honkai Star Rail ✦Wuthering Waves =(because of lack of memory and also cause i've never finished or played long enough) =rules dividers by @dollywons, @saradika-graphics

This masterlist will be reedited again later (ㅠ﹏ㅠ)

[spectrestrings]

Title: Spoil

ᯓ★ . Imagine. You are not used to being spoiled, and Feofan makes sure you learn.

Pairing: Pantalone x Reader | Genshin Impact Warning: hinted smut but nothing explicit.

˚₊⊹ masterlist: Spoil ✧ Tumblr ˚ ₊⊹

word count: 1k

⏾⋆.˚ You are not used to being spoiled, and Feofan makes sure you learn.

⏾⋆.˚ When you started dating Pantalone, or rather, Feofan, one of the most difficult things to come to terms with was his impressive financial means. That and his peculiar friendship with a certain doctor, which sometimes led you to believe there was more than a mere friendship, yet you weren't one to judge.

⏾⋆.˚ The relationship came to happen from a mix of convenience and mutual respect, albeit you quickly figured that it was rather difficult to have Feofan's genuine respect and that more often than not his tone - despite being soft - hid a very ironic glint to it, which you grew to enjoy.

⏾⋆.˚ But the issue came when you had to learn to accept his gifts. He was wise with spending. Feofan wouldn't waste his mora unless he found the deal agreeable, and spoiling you became one of his favourite such deals. Unlike other deals, which had their allure - forcing you into an agreement - negotiating with you had a far better thrill to it.

⏾⋆.˚ Not used to having so much mora thrown at you for simply existing, you refused Feofan's gifts at first, but he didn't give in. He was intrigued and determined to push you. To see how long you could refuse him. So he began with at-home gifts, bringing over various lavish coats or shoes or jewellery, and having you try them as he revealed the price, leisurely so, to see the horror on your face when you heard the sum."

"How much?"

"Oh please, darling, it was nothing. A steal. One of these fine pieces could really amount to sometimes double the amount..." Feofan would tease, keeping up the relaxed tone as he glanced at you in the mirror, his hands still on your shoulders as he had finished tying a necklace around your neck. "Oh my, you look rather pale. Are you feeling unwell by any chance, my dear?"

"No, no, I... I don't think you should get me this. It's far too much mora spent on me."

"Oh, oh, nonsense. I told you not to worry about this kind of thing, my dear snowflake. It brings me joy to see I can spoil you. Not many men in Teyvat can pride themselves on treating their girlfriends like I can, no?" He'd laugh and place a kiss on the side of your cheek. "Besides... You always do wonderfully at rewarding me for these gifts..."

Your cheeks turned bright, and Feofan, noticing the change, chuckled. He guided his hands down from your shoulders across your sides and down to your hips, pulling you in. "I think I am ready to claim that reward now, darling."

⏾⋆.˚ Other times, if he wanted to amuse himself, he'd bring you personally to certain expensive stores. And always go right to the most expensive item he could find, having you try it on. It was a form of exposure therapy, if you could call it that, even though the intent was for Feofan's own amusement more than anything. Doing this in a public place had its benefits, for you could hardly argue with him, and you'd be forced to accept it most of the time and give him those defeated, pleading looks that he so gladly ignored, only to know how desperately you would've begged him not to do this.

"Ah, this seems fitting... How about you try this one on, my dear."

"I... maybe we should keep looking. Why stop in one place when we only came in?"

"Oh, nonsense, dear. This is a wonderful piece, come, come. Let me have you try it on." He chided, then turned to the store owner. Feofan loved making sure someone was there. The more the merrier. It was always more fun this way. "Ah! Look how wonderful this looks on you. It suits you perfectly, doesn't it?"

Feofan would turn to everyone in the store and tip them all if they would agree - yet more often than not, there was no need for tips. They couldn't deny that such expensive and beautiful pieces would work marvellously on anyone, but on you specifically, they did draw out your personal glow.

"But, the price."

"Ah!" Feofan would sigh dramatically, as if you had said the most offensive of words. "I cannot believe it... Do you think I am financially impotent? My... How betrayed I feel..."

"No, that's not what I-"

Feofan would turn his head away with a dramatic, hurt look, and you'd cling to him.

"Fine, fine. Anything you want..."

You'd hear it. His victorious chuckle as he turned to you, leaning over to peck your cheek and caress it in his palm. His tone changed with such rapidity that you knew you had once again fallen for his tricks, and he hadn't been upset, but merely toying with you. His lips would arch into a calm, collected smile. "Wonderful. I knew we could agree, my dear."

Then, as the others in the store turned away, that's when his demeanour changed. His eyes would glint with a familiar knowing glow, and his hand would find its way to your hip, far more possessive than before. Whilst the others were looking, he liked to behave, but when it was only you, his grip would strengthen, not to hurt you, but to remind you that each mora he spent on you was, after all, a mora he spent on himself. You were his, and whilst he respected you, you were his trophy too, and he wanted nothing more than to have fun with his trophy whenever he had the chance.

His head would bow lower, until his lips were by your ear, and he'd tug you into him, ever so slightly. "Besides... as always, I shouldn't have to remind you, but... when we get home, I will have you pay me back every mora... Merely not in the form of mora..." He'd whisper against your ear. "But I believe by now you know what that means, don't you, my dear?"

[themaskinthemirror]

warnings : kinda obsessive behavior, Flins being freaky and mischievous bc I think that's just something he would do... maybe

mischievous!Flins who when he first saw you, in his eyes you were shining like one of those rare gems he has a hobby of collecting

mischievous!Flins who struck a conversation with you with practiced ease, wanting to know all there is to know about you, if you were so very kind to share with him of course

mischievous!Flins who grew to love you in the very little time he spent with you at first. And the more you hung out, the more his love grew

mischievous!Flins who, at one point, started asking way too many questions about your love life. And whenever you hesitated in your answers he had no trouble in using that oh so very silky voice of his to coax the answers out of you with the utmost gentleness

mischievous!Flins whose lantern always seemed to glow a little but brighter whatever you were around, but whatever you asked about it, he would brush it off with a perfect excuse, managing to disperse your worries as quickly as they came

obsessed!Flins who started using his powers on you. He didn't want to, truly, but his fondness of you was too strong to resist

obsessed!Flins who released an almost invisible beautifully colored wisteria mist whenever you were around, the mist sparkling in the moonlight if you looked at it from just the right angle

obsessed!Flins whose mist made you act on your deepest desires, pushing you forward into his embrace, his being intoxicating you whenever you were at his lighthouse, making no room for escape

obsessed!Flins who, finally, after too much time passed, cornered you in his room down the lighthouse, mist now stronger and thicker as you grew visibility more weak and dizzy from the sheer amount of power he was using, his eyes bearing an equally intoxicated look of pure desire and lust

“My beautiful gem — he said, a hand stroking your hair — won't you let me court you? Won't you be mine? I know you love me just as much as I love you, from the first time I set my eyes on you”

And oh how could someone ever refuse him? When he took your hand in his and intertwined your fingers together, kissing your knuckles gently as he gave you an expectant look, knowing fully well that you will not refuse

And when you nodded, he wasted no time placing his lips on yours, slotting perfectly against each other as one of his hands rested on your waist and the other in your hair, and your hands too, took their place gripping at his uniform tightly

Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins who couldn't help groaning in pure ecstasy as you opened your lips to allow his tongue to tangle with yours, knees growing weak as he pulled you closer by the waist, leaving no room for space between your bodies. You were completely at his mercy

“My darling, you truly unmake me are you aware of that? Hm? I love you so much I'm afraid that I am as intoxicated of you as you are of me, like I put a spell on myself instead of you. Did you know? Fae hold onto their treasures quite tightly. No one dared to steal what's mine and I promise you they will not steal you either, you are safe right here in my arms my love

You belong to me now”

The ancient language of the fae easily slipped from his lips as he planted a gentle kiss on your lips, holding you more tightly than ever before. You giggled, dizzy as you were, and you allowed him to guide you up to his chambers

Later that night, he offered you tea, courtesy of the fact that he used so much of his power on you... not that you were aware of it anyway

obsessed!Flins who smiled in pure delight when your lips touched the cup, drinking the tea he made you, unaware the the fruit he squeezed in will seal you fate forever

© themaskinthemirror 2026

[alalalalalalalalalalalalalalaska]

He Loved You Before He Knew What Love Even Was

Flins x Wife!Reader

Tags: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, childhood friends to lovers

Author’s Note: I haven’t written in a while. But, I’ve had this concept in my mind for a while so I decided to work on it because we all love our gentleman from Nod-Krai ♡ I hope you enjoy this ^^

Proofread: Lightly. Grammatical errors may be there.

Summary: He met you when he was five. And since then, he can’t imagine life without you.

Word Count: 934 words

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The first time he saw you was when he was five years old and had crawled under one of the banquet tables with a pastry while the adults sat above, discussing politics, marriage, history and whatever adults found fascinating.

Unfortunately, he’d snuck under the same table you were hiding under.

The moment he saw you? All the etiquette lessons that his tutor had taught him left his mind.

Curled on the other side of the table was you, sitting cross-legged, hugging the little white fox your mother had made for you. Expressive, wide eyes blinking at him from behind bangs that seemed to cover your eyes, no matter how many times you tried to tame them. Locks escaping the snowflake hairpins your mother had oh-so lovingly pinned into your hair that morning, freckles scattered all over your face.

To say his train of thought completely derailed would’ve been a complete understatement.

“Who are you?”, you asked.

He snapped out of his daze and told you his name, Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, and you told him your name.

…That was it. The two of you became friends. Instantly.

Within ten minutes, it was established that you both hated sitting through boring adult conversations, both liked reading, and both thought the stuffed snow fox was extremely adorable.

He noticed that you had an absurd number of freckles. He sat beside you, carefully counting them.

“One… two… three…”

“What are you doing, Kyryll?”

“Counting.”

“Why?”

“Your freckles.”

You blinked, and then giggled.

He immediately decided that your laughter was his favorite sound. 

The two of you spent the rest of the evening whispering beneath the table.

Eventually, the whispers became quieter and then the games stopped. Somewhere, between discussing Nod-Krai’s snow and whether your white fox could actually talk, the two of you fell asleep beside each other.

Your parents eventually found the two of you curled up beneath the tablecloth– your head against his shoulder, his arm around you, the little snow fox trapped between the two of you.

Your mothers were horrified, your fathers were delighted.

The future wedding negotiations practically began there.

Your first kiss happened shortly afterward. 

It was… not romantic, not planned. In fact, it was entirely Kyryll’s fault.

He had stolen your stuffed fox.

You were furious, he wasn’t giving it back! So, you did what any sensible child would do.

“I’m going to tell mother!”

Kyryll panicked. He didn’t want you to tell your mother.

So, he did what his mind told him was most suitable to do.

He gave you the tiniest peck on the lips.

Both of you froze. Neither understood what just happened. 

You turned bright red. And, after staring at him for several seconds in stunned silence, you leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

Your mothers who were passing by nearly screamed in shock.

Your fathers were overjoyed.

“Well, I guess that’s settled”, said your father.

“THEY ARE FIVE”, your mother shrieked. 

“That just means there’s plenty of time to arrange the marriage”, his father laughed.

“Please, stop encouraging them”, said his mother.

As you grew older, your relationship never seemed to fade. It only became more obvious– like a flower that stood out against pale white snow during winters.

At every ball, the two of you were together.

If you entered the ballroom, his eyes automatically found you.

If Kyryll was somewhere, you were nearby. At one point, your mothers entirely gave up.

The two of you were practically nailed together, and there was no one that could separate you.

You danced together, talked together, walked together. And whenever the adults were too deep into their conversations to notice, he would take your hand and sneak you outside. The two of you would wander through snow-covered gardens beneath the moon for hours on end. 

Sometimes, you’d sit beneath enormous frozen trees and talk until you realized you’d been gone for hours. He’d bring you flowers, you’d braid his hair. Sometimes, you just sat in comfortable silence, stargazing.

By adolescence, everyone already knew. There wasn’t even a question.

“That’s future Lady Flins.”

“She’s already spoken for.”

“Don’t bother.”

It’d become a running joke amongst the aristocracy.

Anyone who looked at you for too long would inevitably hear it from someone nearby. Kyryll himself wasn’t even subtle. He’d simply appear beside you, hand around yours. Perfectly calm. But the message? It was loud and clear.

Then came the wedding. Nineteen years old.

Your wedding gown was absurd. Not in the bad way.

Gorgeous. Gorgeous but absurd.

Crystal blue silk that shimmered beneath the light, shrouded in delicate embroidery and a concerning number of crystals and diamonds sewn directly into the fabric. Your veil was even more spectacular– intricate, elegant lace adorned the borders, crystals dotting the breathtaking fabric.

The moment you began walking down the aisle, Kyryll stopped functioning entirely. His eyes immediately welled up.

His little girl from beneath the banquet table.

His first and only best friend. 

His beloved.

His betrothed.

And now, finally, his wife.

Centuries later, somehow, nothing really changed.

But, at the same time, almost everything did.

The Snowland Fae were gone. But, the two of you remained– the last of your kind.

He was the Lightkeeper of Nod-Krai– someone spoken of with reverence, someone who safeguards the living and guides the fallen.

Every now and then, the people of Nasha Town would sometimes find the two of you sitting together in the cemetery. Some assumed you simply liked graveyards, others assumed that cemeteries reminded you of everything you survived.

The real reason was that you simply liked being around wherever he was.

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Written by @alalalalalalalalalalalalalalaska . Please do not repost or use my work without permission.

[butteronabun]

(cw: HELLA suggestive! premise: female reader + modern au.)

“You know, if you can talk dirty with me, I have the assumption that you’ll be able to gossip with me,” you snark at the man with the disheveled blue hair and yellow eyes laying down beside you. 

Your eyes narrow when he gives you a side glance, his lips curving into a small, teasing smile. It’s unfair how ridiculously attractive he is, but then at the end of the day, you weren’t just some lunatic who would sleep with a random man. You weren’t that desperate—you have standards too. 

“Is that so?” he says, voice like velvet, before turning to you swiftly. He gives you a full view of his smooth neck and chest that were littered with marks. “My, if I didn’t know any better, Miss, you’d like to get to know me.”

With your position laying on your stomach, you roll your eyes, before laying your cheek on your arms that were resting on the sheets. He’s right. Usually, after you’d leave your men panting and dazed for a mind-shattering climax, you’d bail out afterwards—and it’s what your friends would like to call a “women in men-dominated fields” thing.

It’s not really in you to know this man, but perhaps after incredible rounds that left you screaming, it might not hurt to ascertain what he’s like. Especially when, out of all the men you’ve slept with, he’s the only one who checks out all the boxes. He took care of you. He shared the same fantasies as you. And it was such a bonus that yes, he was attractive, but he was also just your type. There is a difference.

The bed creaks when you shift to look at him properly. “You committing to no strings attached?”

“I suppose,” he answers honestly, though there’s still a playful lilt to it that annoys you, but also kind of excites you to no end. There’s something about him, and you won’t admit it to yourself just yet that he’s irresistible. “But I am merely matching what you are here for. If I’m not mistaken, you are the type to leave after. What changed?”

Guilty as charged, but you won’t let him deter you. “Just curious, is all.” It’s not like everyday you’ll get to meet someone who folds you in half and also treats you like glass at the same time. Your besties Linnea and Jahoda will surely yell at you to not let this man go. He’s a one of a kind, and it’ll be perfect to tell in a coffee shop that you met him in a fucking bar, and the chemistry was fantastic. 

“I am honored that you are interested in my history,” he claims, and you snort. Who even talks like that at this time? He does. But still, hot. You like a man who is eloquent and articulate, in a world full of wyd and u up? “Feel free to ask me questions.”

“That’s dangerous, sir,” you test the waters with a purr, and there’s some sick sense of delight when his smile deepened. He really likes that, huh? “What if I dox you? And act like some stranger wanting and so desperate to get into your pants again?”

He chuckles deeply, and you feel it tingle. Seriously. He’s fucking hot. “I wouldn’t mind, Miss.” His eyelids lower. “Not if it’s you.”

You stare at him. You can’t believe what you’re hearing—and you just scoff. Relax, girl. He’s just like all the men, he’s doing this because he wants to do it again. Do not fall for it. “Sweet talker.”

And instead of taking offense, he seems amused. “I am merely speaking the truth, my lady.”

“Sure.” you slowly rise, and you don’t ignore how his eyes fixate on your naked chest. “If you think that sweet talking me will end to us fucking again, dream on.”

Another chuckle escapes from his throat, and you miss the way his gaze darkens with hunger and desire that he hides with a tight, gentle smile. “Hmm, sure, Miss. Sure.”

Yeah, this is bad, you need to get out of here, stat. Even though it’s tempting to fall to his whims, you know that you really won’t be able to resist him. After all, you’ve surprised yourself enough already when he managed to make you agree after he kept on asking for another round and another and another, with the sweet promise that he’ll make you feel good, before sealing it with a passionate kiss. He’s a damn pleaser and a giver.

But then. . . no strings attached. You’re still young, and you’re having fun. There’s a reason why you don’t really stay and bask into the aftercare that some of these men badly want—though it gives you confidence and some pride that you’ve left them whining and clinging, you still have common sense. 

Also, you don’t really want to involve yourself with a man’s drama. Or unresolved issues. You don’t really care if he hasn’t moved on from his ex, or if he’s just releasing his pent frustration that he accumulated from college or his job. That shit doesn’t matter to you, and you’re sure Nefer will be so proud of you. Diva, she’d say.

As you pull your underwear and zip your coat, you grab your keys. You remember one man insisting that he will drive you back at your house—which was fucking stupid, who does that? and even calling you his passenger princess—it was satisfying to shut him out with a “I have a car.”

“Kyryll.”

His sudden interruption breaks you out of your reminiscence. You turn back to him, puzzled. “Huh?”

He’s still in the bed, the lower half of his body covered with the blanket. You immediately look at his face, and he laughs. He noticed. “You may call me by that name.”

You cross your arms at him. Okay, wow. The audacity. “What makes you think I’ll contact you again? Or even see you?”

“Do you want us to? Perhaps it is not so bad to re-introduce myself, just in case you forget,” he says, and it’s crazy how his voice makes your knees weak. “I really wouldn’t mind seeing you again, Miss.”

There it is. Is he getting attached? But that is so strange. You did not even give him the night of his life. More like it was the opposite. Does he really get off on pleasuring you? “I dunno where you are from, and perhaps you’re a local here in Nod Krai, but let’s just see where the wind will lead.” Usually you'd throw back a mean comment, but you decided to be kind this time.

You are starting to walk away. You really don’t want to stay here any more. What more can you say if you keep don't leave? He is already making you do weird things. And making you say things.

“Ah, Mondstadt, the City of Freedom, yes?” You are unlocking the door. “Perhaps the Anemo Archon may aid us in crossing our paths again. Because the next time we meet, it is my name you will be screaming for.”

You pause at that. 

And he knows what he’s doing, so he continues, with certainty that is so fucking hot, “I’ll make sure of it.”

excerpt

kyryll: see u around miss ^^  you: SHUT UP

[heliosunny]

Married to the Money

AU | Pantalone x Fem!Reader

You had been running for three days. Three days of cheap motels with stained sheets. Three days of paying in cash.

The moment you found out the adoption papers were signed, the moment your "family" smiled like they had won something and told you that you were going to marry him, you didn't even stop to pack.

You just ran.

God knows why he chose you. Maybe it was a game to him. Some bored, filthy-rich bastard scrolling through country data lists like a shopping catalogue, picking a random name to be his latest toy. Maybe he closed his eyes and pointed. Maybe he threw a dart at a board. You didn't care.

You heard the news on a crackling gas station radio two days ago. "Local family reportedly taken hostage in connection to outstanding debts..." Your name wasn't mentioned, but you knew. Of course you knew. Your "parents" were probably on their knees right now, weeping and begging, offering up your name like a bargaining chip.

"Please, she's the one he wants... take her, just let us go..."

You couldn't care less.

They adopted you for one reason, and it wasn't love. It was labor. A free servant. A pair of hands to clean their house, cook their meals, and fetch their slippers. You were the live-in help they didn't have to pay. The only reason they bothered with the legal papers was so they could control you.

Well, the joke was on them now. They had sold you off to a predator far more dangerous than themselves, and they were reaping exactly what they sowed.

You pulled your worn hoodie tighter around your shoulders and kept walking.

The road stretched ahead, endless and grey, and you had no idea where you were going.

But anywhere was better than there.

----

Back at the estate, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and even more expensive fear.

Pantalone sat in a high-backed leather chair, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He looked utterly bored. The kind of bored that was far more dangerous than anger.

Anger was passionate.

Anger was something you could work with.

Boredom was when he started getting creative.

On the floor before him, two figures knelt. A man and a woman. Middle-aged. Tear-streaked faces. Their hands were bound behind their backs with silk ties, too good for them, really, but Pantalone believed in maintaining a certain aesthetic even during unpleasant business.

"Please," the woman sobbed, "Please, we don't have the money... we told you... but we gave you our daughter-"

"You gave me a daughter." Pantalone corrected smoothly, his voice like honey laced with arsenic. "Whether she's actually yours is... debatable. The adoption records were rather... convenient, weren't they? Almost like you needed someone to take the fall."

The man -her so-called father- opened his mouth to protest, but Pantalone held up a single finger.

"Ah, ah, ah. Let's not waste breath on lies. I despise liars. Almost as much as I despise debtors who think they can simply offer a person in place of currency." He tilted his head, a cold smile curling his lips. "This family owes me a significant sum. Did you think I would simply forget because you handed me a girl?"

"We... we thought..."

"You thought I would be satisfied." Pantalone laughed. It was a soft, melodic sound, utterly devoid of warmth. "My dear, I am never satisfied. Satisfaction is the enemy of ambition."

He rose from his chair, the movement fluid and unhurried, and walked toward the window. The glass reflected his face. He adjusted the cuff of his impeccably tailored sleeve, admiring the way the light caught the silver threading.

"You know," he continued, his back still turned to them, "there are many ways to settle a debt. Cash is the most convenient. Assets are acceptable. Property, jewelry, investments..." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Organs are surprisingly lucrative on the black market. A healthy kidney, for instance, can fetch quite a price. And you both seem... moderately healthy."

The woman screamed.

The man started shaking, his voice cracking. "Please...no...we'll find her...we'll bring her back to you....just give us time."

"Time?" Pantalone turned, his smile never wavering. "My dear sir, if I wanted her back, do you think I would need your help?"

He walked back to his chair, settling into it with the grace of a king upon his throne. His eyes drifted, not to the weeping couple, but past them. Through them. Somewhere far away.

The memory came unbidden, slipping into his mind like a thief in the night.

The first time he had come to this house - what a shabby little place it was, filled with cheap furniture and cheaper people- he hadn't bothered to look at her. She was just a servant. He had dismissed her with the same casual indifference he showed all servants.

And then she had opened her mouth.

"Is that... fake?"

He had stopped mid-sentence. Turned slowly. His eyes had found her. She was staring at his suit jacket. Specifically, at the lapel pin.

"Excuse me?" He had asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

"The pin. Is it fake?" She hadn't even flinched. She had just stood there, tea tray still in her hands, looking at him with this... this disdain. Like she had seen a thousand men like him. Like his wealth meant nothing to her. "I saw the same one at a thrift store last week. Fifty dollars. The clerk said it was a knockoff."

His assistant had turned pale.

But Pantalone had just... stared.

No one spoke to him like that. And yet here was this girl, this nobody, this servant, looking at him like he was just another pretentious rich bastard trying to flex his money.

He had been... amused.

"It's genuine." he had said, his voice softer than he intended. "But I appreciate your... honesty."

She had shrugged and walked away.

And he had watched her go, a strange feeling curling in his chest.

Pantalone blinked, the memory fading. The couple was still kneeling, still begging, still utterly beneath his notice.

He waved a hand dismissively. "Take them to the basement. I'll decide what to do with them later."

As the guards dragged them away, their screams echoing down the hallway, Pantalone pulled out his phone.

A single message lit up the screen.

"Bus station. Eastern route."

His smile widened.

"You can run, my darling," he murmured, tracing a finger over the screen. "But you'll soon learn that I always collect what's mine."

He pocketed the phone and rose from his chair, straightening his jacket.

"Prepare the car," he called out to his assistant. "We're going on a little trip."

-----

The community center was tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, its fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped flies. The room smelled faintly of stale coffee and desperation - the kind of place where women came to piece themselves back together after men had shattered them.

You had found it by accident. A crumpled flyer stuck to a telephone pole, rained on and faded:

"Women's Support Group - Every Thursday - All Are Welcome - No Judgment - No Fees."

No fees.

That was the magic word.

You had been sleeping in a bus station for two nights, your money running thin, your legs still aching from running. The group met in a small circle of mismatched chairs, twelve women of varying ages, their faces etched with different shades of pain.

One had been beaten. Another had been cheated on. A third was hiding from a man who had threatened to kill her children. They spoke in low, trembling voices, and you listened, your hands wrapped around a styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea.

Then it was your turn.

"What about you, sweetheart?" the group leader asked gently. "Why are you here?"

You looked up. Twelve pairs of eyes stared back at you. Pitying eyes. The kind of eyes that had seen the worst of men and survived.

You opened your mouth.

"I ran away from my fiancé."

A murmur of understanding rippled through the group.

"Was he hitting you?" someone asked.

"No."

"Cheating?"

"No."

"Threatening you? Controlling you? Isolating you?"

You shook your head to all of it. Their expressions grew confused. If not those things, then what?

You took a breath and said the words that had been eating at you for days.

"He's... rich."

Silence.

Then - laughter. Not cruel laughter, but the kind of confused, disbelieving laughter that came from thinking someone was joking. A few women chuckled, shaking their heads.

"Oh, honey, that's not a problem, that's a blessing," one woman said, wiping her eyes. "I'd kill for a rich man to chase after me."

"Seriously, is he single?" another joked.

"I'm not-" you started, your voice faltering. "You don't understand. He's not just rich. He's-"

You didn't get to finish.

A hand landed on your shoulder.

And a voice - that voice, the one you'd been running from- spoke directly into your ear, soft as silk and sharp as a blade.

"There you are, my darling."

Your blood turned to ice.

The women in the circle froze. Their laughter died in their throats. They stared at the man behind you: tall, impeccably dressed, with that chilling smile and those cold, beautiful eyes that saw everything and cared for nothing.

Pantalone.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"I've been looking everywhere for you. You have no idea how worried I was."

Your heart slammed against your ribs like a caged bird, and your hands trembled so hard the tea sloshed over the rim of the cup.

"You.. you can't be here" you choked out.

"Of course I can." His voice was sweet, almost tender. "I'm your fiancé. It's my duty to take care of you."

He straightened up, addressing the group with that disarming smile of his. "Ladies, I apologize for the interruption. My little runaway seems to have given you the wrong impression." He chuckled, the sound warm and convincing. "We had a small disagreement. A misunderstanding. She gets these... ideas in her head. But I assure you, I only want what's best for her."

The women exchanged glances. Some looked skeptical. Others looked relieved, like they were glad the story had a simple explanation.

"Are you... are you okay with this?" the group leader asked you, her voice uncertain.

Pantalone's hand tightened on your shoulder. Just slightly.

"We'll be just fine." he said smoothly. "Isn't that right, darling?"

Every instinct screamed at you to fight, to run, to do something.

But you had run for three days. You had slept in bus stations and eaten gas station snacks and worn the same clothes until they smelled like fear and sweat.

You were so tired.

So you just nodded.

And let him lead you out of the room.

The car was sleek and black, the kind that cost more than most people's houses. The leather seats were buttery soft, the interior smelled of sandalwood and something expensive, and the windows were tinted so dark you could barely see outside.

You sat as far away from him as possible, pressed against the door, your arms wrapped around yourself.

Pantalone sat across from you, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee.

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

He didn't yell. He didn't do any of the things a normal person would do when their runaway fiancée was finally caught.

He just... watched you. Those eyes never leaving your face, studying you like you were a puzzle he was determined to solve.

"Don't you have anything to say?" you finally asked, your voice hoarse.

He tilted his head. "Should I?"

"You should be angry. I ran away from you. I embarrassed you. I made you look like a fool."

"Did you?" He smiled. "I don't recall feeling foolish. If anything, I was rather... impressed."

"Impressed?"

"You lasted three days. With no money, no connections, no plan." He chuckled softly. "I underestimated you. That doesn't happen often."

You stared at him, utterly baffled. "That's... that's insane. You're insane."

"Perhaps." He shrugged.

You turned away, staring out the tinted window. "This is a mistake. You don't want me. You want someone who fits into your world."

"On the contrary," he said. "I've had plenty of women who know which fork to use. They bored me."

You scoffed. "So you found me... entertaining?"

"More than that." His voice dropped, losing its playful edge. "You looked at me like I was nothing. Like my money meant nothing. Like I was just... a man."

You didn't answer.

The car pulled through an iron gate, you didn't even see it open, it just appeared, sliding open like something out of a spy movie, and then you were driving up a long, winding driveway lined with trees.

And then you saw it.

The house. No, not a house. An estate. A mansion. A sprawling architectural monstrosity of marble and glass, with more windows than a department store and a fountain in the front that looked like it belonged in a museum.

"This is your place?"

"This is one of my places," he corrected. "I have several. But this one is closest to the city. I thought you'd find it comfortable."

The servants descended on you the moment you stepped through the door.

You couldn't count them. There were too many. They took your bag (what little you had), they took your shoes, they took your hoodie and before you could protest, they were guiding you through marble hallways into a bathroom the size of your entire childhood home.

"Please undress" one servant said.

"I can do it myself-"

"We are here to serve you, miss."

You tried to resist. You really did. But they were relentless- polite but firm, like you were a child who didn't know what was good for you. Before you knew it, you were submerged in warm water, scrubbed clean, your hair washed with products that cost more than your entire wardrobe.

You felt like a doll being prepared for display.

---

Dinner was a nightmare.

The dining table was so long you could barely see the other end. Candles flickered in crystal holders. Silverware gleamed. Dishes you couldn't name were arranged in perfect rows, their aromas confusing and exotic.

You sat at one end. Pantalone sat at the other, his face half-hidden in shadow.

"You must be starving."

You stared at the food.

"Which one is... which?"

"You can begin with whatever you want."

"But I don't know what any of this is."

"Then try them all. Consider it an adventure."

You picked up a fork and stabbed at the nearest dish. Something that looked like meat, maybe, in a sauce you couldn't identify. You took a bite.

It was delicious.

"This is wrong," you said suddenly, setting the fork down. "You know this is wrong."

"Wrong?" He raised an eyebrow. "A man feeding his fiancée is wrong?"

"All of this!" You gestured wildly at the room, the table, the food, the servants. "I don't belong here! Look at me.. I'm a nobody, and you're... you're you. This was a mistake. You should cancel this. Annul it. Whatever rich people do."

He was quiet for a long moment.

Then he set down his own fork, folded his hands on the table, and looked at you with those unreadable eyes.

"Let me tell you something, my dear." His voice was soft. Deadly soft. "I have had many things in my life. Money. Power. Women who threw themselves at me. Men who feared me. I have had everything that money can buy."

He paused.

"But I have never had someone who looked at me the way you did."

"That's... that's not a reason to marry someone."

"It's the only reason I've ever needed."

"But I don't want this!"

"Then why did you get into the car?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

Because you were tired. Because you had nowhere else to go. Because the support group had already failed you, and the world was cold and lonely, and even this gilded cage was warmer than the bus station.

"I didn't have a choice."

"Ah." He smiled, and there was something almost sad in it. "But you did, my darling. You always have a choice." He leaned forward, his eyes boring into yours. "You chose to run. That was your choice. And now you can choose to stay. Or you can choose to run again."

"Would you even let me?"

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, simply: "No."

"I don't hit you," he continued calmly. "I don't cheat on you. I don't threaten you. I don't control you. I have given you everything you could possibly want- a safe place to sleep, food to eat, servants to care for you. And yet you ran." He tilted his head. "So tell me, my love. What exactly are you afraid of?"

You opened your mouth to say something cutting- something about how he was a spoiled rich bastard who didn't understand what it was like to be trapped by someone's wealth-

But the words died in your throat.

Because he was looking at you with those eyes, patient and calm, and underneath it all, you saw something flicker.

"You don't want this," he repeated, nodding slowly. "But what about me, hmm? If you truly want something to happen, it has to happen on both sides. I accepted you. But it seems you haven't accepted me."

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

"I don't even know you"

A slow smile spread across his face. "Then let's fix that."

He stood up, walked around the table, and held out his hand to you.

"Starting tomorrow, we'll do things properly. I'll tell you about myself. You can tell me about yourself." His smile softened. "And eventually, my dear, you'll realize that I'm not the monster you think I am."

You stared at his hand.

You didn't take it.

But you didn't run, either.

---

You woke before the sun.

It was instinct. Years of waking at dawn to start chores before your "family" stirred, years of being the first one up and the last one to sleep. Your body remembered the rhythm even if your mind was still catching up.

You sat up, disoriented for a moment. Where were you? The unfamiliar ceiling, the ornate furniture. Right. The mansion.

You slipped out of bed, your bare feet padding silently across the cold marble floor. The nightgown the servants had dressed you in was embarrassingly luxurious. It felt wrong on your skin, like wearing someone else's identity.

The hallway was empty. The mansion was enormous, a labyrinth of corridors and doors, and you had no idea where anything was. But you were curious. And curiosity had always been your weakness.

You crept down the grand staircase, your hand trailing along the polished banister.

And then you saw him.

He was on the first floor, standing near a massive window, his back half-turned to you. He was already dressed, immaculate suit, perfectly styled hair, not a single wrinkle in sight. In his hand was a stack of papers, and beside him stood his assistant, Charles, holding a tablet and taking notes.

"...and the quarterly reports from the eastern branch?"

"Ready for your review, sir," Charles replied. "Also, the acquisition in Liyue is proceeding as expected."

"Good. And the..."

You couldn't hear the rest. You were too busy staring.

He worked this early? You had assumed men like him slept in, lounged around, had servants bring them breakfast in bed while they counted their money. But here he was, fully dressed, already deep in business matters.

You hid behind the curved wall of the staircase, pressing yourself into the shadows.

This is your chance, you thought. He's distracted. Find out what you're dealing with.

You slipped away, moving as quietly as you could.

You wandered through the mansion, opening doors at random.

A library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A ballroom that could fit your entire hometown. A home theater with seats that looked more comfortable than any bed you'd ever slept in. A gym that rivaled a professional training facility.

And then you found it.

A door at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. It was unremarkable- plain wood, no fancy carvings or gold trim. But something about it called to you.

Your hand hovered over the handle.

Don't be stupid. This is private. You shouldn't be here.

But you pushed the door open anyway.

The room was small, windowless, lined floor to ceiling with safety deposit boxes. Hundreds of them. Thousands, maybe. Gleaming metal rectangles, each with its own keyhole and number.

You stepped inside, your breath catching in your throat.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against one of the boxes.

"Fascinating, isn't it?"

You spun around.

Pantalone stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

"I..I was just.."

"Exploring?" He finished for you, pushing off from the doorframe and walking toward you. His footsteps were silent on the polished floor. "I told you this place was large. I didn't expect you to find this particular room, though." He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

"I wasn't looking for anything," you said quickly. "I was just... curious."

"Curiosity," he repeated, a small smile playing on his lips. "A dangerous trait, my dear. But also an admirable one."

His eyes traveled down your body, not in a lecherous way, but appraising. Taking in the silk nightgown, your bare feet, your sleep-mussed hair.

"You haven't changed."

"I didn't have anything to change into."

"Ah. An oversight on my part." He turned to the doorway, raising his voice slightly. "Charles!"

"Yes, sir?"

"Have a wardrobe delivered to her room. Everything she might need. And I mean everything. Shoes, accessories, casual wear, formal wear. Whatever she wants."

Charles's pen scratched across the screen. "Of course, sir."

"And ensure the servants are aware that she is not to be disturbed unless she requests it."

"Understood."

Pantalone turned back to you. "Consider it a start. Now, shall we have breakfast?"

You sat across from Pantalone, poking at a plate of food you couldn't name. The servants hovered in the background, ready to refill your glass or clear your plate at a moment's notice.

It was suffocating.

"Can I make a rule?" you said abruptly.

Pantalone looked up from his newspaper. "A rule?"

"About... this." You gestured vaguely at the room, the servants, everything. "If I'm going to stay here.. and I'm not saying I am staying-but if I do, I want to do things my way."

He folded his newspaper, giving you his full attention. "I'm listening."

"First: I'll do things to my liking. I don't need servants hovering over me. I can dress myself, feed myself, clean up after myself. If I want something, I'll ask for it. You don't need to assign people to me like I'm a child."

"That's... unconventional."

"I'm unconventional." You met his gaze, refusing to look away. "If you wanted a proper society girl, you should have picked someone else. But you picked me. So this is what you get."

Pantalone then turned to Charles, who was standing nearby. "Make a note of that, Charles."

"Noted, sir."

"That's it? You're just... agreeing?"

"You made a reasonable request." He shrugged, returning to his newspaper. "I see no reason to deny it."

You stared at him, utterly confused.

This isn't how it works, you thought. He's supposed to argue. He's supposed to assert control. He's supposed to be a villain.

But he just sat there, calm and unbothered, like your defiance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

It was deeply unsettling.

You made up your mind during breakfast.

If he wanted you to learn about him, then you would. You'd follow him around, see what his life was actually like. And then you'd decide if he was worth staying for.

"I want to come with you today." you announced.

He looked up from his newspaper again. "Excuse me?"

"To work. Wherever you're going. You said you wanted me to know you, right? Well, I can't do that sitting in this mansion all day."

He set down his newspaper. "You want to see my work?"

"I want to see you." You crossed your arms. "What you do. Who you are. All of it."

"Very well. But I must warn you.. it won't be what you expect."

"I didn't expect any of this." you muttered.

He laughed and turned to Charles. "Cancel my appointments for today. We're changing plans."

Charles's face flickered, just for a second, with an expression that screamed seriously?!

But he recovered quickly, bowing his head. "Of course, sir. I'll rearrange your schedule."

----

The car pulled into a neighborhood that made your childhood home look like a palace.

Buildings were crumbling. Windows were boarded up. Trash lined the streets, and the air smelled of rot and despair. People huddled in doorways, their eyes hollow, their clothes ragged.

You stared out the window, your stomach churning. "What is this place?"

"The Slum" Pantalone said casually, as if he were naming a tourist attraction. "It's where the city's forgotten live. The ones who owe debts they can't pay."

He opened the car door, stepping out into the grime like he owned it. His tailored suit, his polished shoes, his expensive cologne, none of it seemed out of place. He was a king walking through his kingdom, even if his kingdom was a slum.

You followed him.

"Normally, he doesn't do this himself," Charles whispered as you walked. He had appeared at your side. "He has people for... collections. This is beneath him."

"Then why are we here?"

Charles glanced at you, then at Pantalone's back. "Because you're here."

A group of children had gathered nearby, dirty faces, torn clothes. They were begging, their hands outstretched, their voices thin and reedy.

"Please, miss.. spare some change.."

Your heart twisted. Without thinking, you reached for your pocket, pulling out a few crumpled bills.

A hand grabbed your wrist.

"Not now. Not here."

"But they're children"

He dragged you away, his pace quick and purposeful. The children's cries faded behind you.

"You'll understand soon."

You wanted to fight, wanted to pull away and run back to those kids, but something in his voice stopped you.

The meeting was in a run-down building, the walls stained and peeling. A man knelt before Pantalone, a middle-aged man, his hands trembling, his face slick with sweat.

"I told you, I don't have it yet.." the man stammered.

"You've had three months." Pantalone's voice was calm. Almost bored. "Three months of extensions. Three months of promises. And yet, here we are."

"I'll get it! I swear! Just give me one more week.."

"One more week, and the interest compounds. Do you understand what that means?"

The man's face went white.

"It means you'll owe me more than your life is worth."

This wasn't the man from breakfast, the one who laughed at your defiance and gave you silk nightgowns. This was something else entirely.

He collected what he came for, papers signed, promises extracted, fear sown like seeds, and then he left.

You followed him back to the car.

The children were still there.

But now, adults had joined them. Brutish men with hard faces, their fists raised. A child was on the ground, sobbing, while another adult raised a whip.

"No!"

You threw yourself in front of the children, your arms spread wide, your eyes shut tight, waiting for the blow.

The whip snapped.

But it didn't hit you.

You opened your eyes. Pantalone stood before you, one arm raised. The whip was wrapped around his forearm, and there was a thin line of red, bleeding slowly onto his pristine white sleeve.

He didn't even flinch.

"That's enough," he said calmly. "Collect your debt elsewhere."

The adults hesitated. They looked at each other, then at him. Something in his eyes made them back down.

They fled.

You turned to him. "Your arm-"

"It's nothing."

"But why?.. "

"You were about to get hit," he said simply. "I don't allow anyone to hit you."

You stared at him, speechless.

He gestured to the children, who were scrambling away. "They pickpocketed you."

You checked your pocket. The bills were gone.

"They beg..They steal from the soft-hearted. Then they give their spoils to the adults who 'protect' them."

"I didn't know-"

"Of course you didn't. But I'll teach you."

He turned away, walking toward the car.

"Wait." You ran after him, grabbing his sleeve. "The children. Can't we—I don't know... help them?"

He stopped. Looked at you.

"They're not worth saving," he said flatly. "They're parasites. They'll take and take and never give back."

"But they're just kids-"

He was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, "Come. We're going somewhere else."

"But-"

"If you want to save them, do it properly. Save them all or save none. Half measures will only make things worse."

He opened the car door, gesturing for you to get in.

You hesitated.

Then, reluctantly, you climbed inside.

He was right. The thought stung.

"Is that what you do?" you asked quietly. "Collect debts from people who can't pay?"

"Among other things." He was examining his wounded arm, dabbing at the blood with a handkerchief. "It's not my favorite task, but it's necessary."

"Necessary?"

"Money makes the world turn, my dear. And I make sure the money keeps turning." He looked at you, "You'll learn. In time."

You didn't answer.

Your mind was still on the children. On the feeling of his arm shielding you from a blow that had been meant for your back.

The car pulled into a cemetery.

It was beautiful, in a haunting sort of way. Rolling green hills dotted with headstones, ancient oak trees casting dappled shadows, flowers blooming in carefully tended plots.

You looked at Pantalone, confused. "Why are we here?"

He didn't answer. He simply opened the door and stepped out.

You followed him, your footsteps soft on the dew-damp grass. He walked with purpose, weaving between headstones until he reached a particular plot.

You hung back, watching.

He knelt down and laid a bouquet of white lilies on the grave.

And then you saw it.

His eyes. They were sad. Deeply, profoundly sad, in a way you hadn't seen before.

You looked at the headstone. A woman's name.

His mother? A sister? A lost love?

You didn't ask.

You just stood there, a respectful distance away, giving him his privacy.

Finally, he rose. His composure was back in place.

He walked back to you without a word.

The drive back was quiet.

You sat across from him, your eyes drifting to his arm. The blood had dried now, a dark stain on the pristine white fabric. You couldn't stop staring at it.

"Your arm. Does it hurt?"

He glanced down at the wound, then back at you, amused. "Just a scratch."

"That's not what I asked."

"No. It doesn't hurt."

Liar.

You bit your lip. "What are you going to do with the shirt?"

"I'll throw it away, obviously. It's ruined." He said it casually, like it was nothing.

"And just... buy a new one?"

"That's typically how it works, yes."

You were quiet for a moment, thinking about his words from earlier—about the people who threw themselves at him, who would do anything for a piece of him.

"Out of curiosity," you began carefully, "would someone actually pay for that shirt? You know. With your blood on it?"

He stared at you.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed. His eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Are you implying I should sell it?" he asked, his voice warm with amusement. "You're starting to make money off me, my dear. Literally from my blood."

You felt your cheeks flush. "I'm not- that's not what I meant. I was just curious."

"Relax." He waved a hand, still smiling. "I'm not offended. In fact, I find it refreshing."

"Refreshing?"

"Most people would be fawning over me right now. Asking if I need a doctor, offering to tend to my wounds, trying to earn my gratitude." He tilted his head, studying you. "You're just wondering if my blood has monetary value."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it.

Because... yes. That was exactly what you were wondering.

"That was insensitive. I shouldn't have.."

"Don't apologize." His voice was soft. "I'd rather have your curiosity than someone else's false concern. At least yours is genuine."

You didn't know what to say to that.

So you just nodded, put the thoughts aside, and stared out the window as the city rushed by.

That night, you found yourself in his private study.

It wasn't planned. You had been wandering again, old habits die hard, and you'd stumbled upon him, sitting in an armchair by the fire, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.

He looked up as you entered. "Couldn't sleep?"

"Couldn't stay in my room." You gestured vaguely.

"Then sit." He nodded at the chair across from him.

You hesitated. Then, against your better judgment, you sat down.

He poured you a glass. You coughed, and he laughed softly.

"Take it slow," he advised. "It's stronger than it looks."

You took another sip, smaller this time. The warmth spread through your chest, loosening something tight and anxious.

"You know," you said, staring into the amber liquid, "I feel like we could be really good friends. At some point."

He raised an eyebrow. "Friends?"

"Yeah. You know. The kind who have drinks together and talk about... stuff." You gestured vaguely. "Just not husband and wife."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling his glass.

"And why is that?"

"Because... what you're feeling right now.. this fascination, or whatever it is.. it's new, right?"

He didn't answer. But his silence was confirmation enough.

"It'll only last a while. The novelty will wear off, and then you'll realize I'm just... me. Not worth all this." You gestured at the room, the mansion, everything. "Marriage is supposed to last a lifetime. It takes more than a first impression to make it last. More than just... intrigue."

You set down your glass, meeting his gaze.

"I don't want to be someone's experiment. I don't want to be married and divorced in five years because you got bored. I want something that lasts." You took a breath. "So... I really think you should reconsider your other options. Find someone who fits your world. Someone who won't disappoint you."

He stared at you for a long moment.

"You think you'll disappoint me?"

"I think everyone disappoints everyone eventually."

He was quiet again.

"You're wrong about one thing."

"What's that?"

He opened his mouth to answer. But you never heard it.

Because the alcohol hit you all at once, your head dropping to the table with a soft thunk.

You woke briefly to the sensation of being carried.

You murmured something incoherent, your head lolling against his chest.

"Shh," he whispered. "Go back to sleep."

The sheets were cool and soft. A blanket was pulled up to your chin. A hand brushed the hair from your forehead.

Then footsteps faded away, and the door clicked shut.

You sank back into darkness.

---

You woke with a headache that felt like a thousand tiny hammers pounding against your skull.

"Ugh," you groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. "Never again."

You stumbled out of bed, still in last night's clothes. Your hair was a disaster, and you desperately needed water, coffee, and possibly a new head.

You made your way down the hallway, toward the grand staircase, and stopped.

A woman's voice echoed up from the first floor.

"—I don't care about your 'business' or your 'commitments'! When am I going to get a grandchild?!"

You crept to the edge of the staircase, peeking down.

A woman stood in the foyer, elegantly dressed, silver-haired, with the kind of imperious presence that could only come from a lifetime of being obeyed. She was pointing a finger at Pantalone, who stood calmly before her.

"Mother," he said, "We've discussed this."

"We've discussed nothing! You keep putting it off! First you were too young, then you were too busy, then you said you needed to 'find the right person' well, have you found her or not?!"

Pantalone opened his mouth to respond, and then he looked up. His eyes met yours.

Oh no, you thought. Oh no, no, no.

"Actually," he said smoothly, "I'd like you to meet someone."

You traitor.

You tried to retreat, but it was too late. His mother's head snapped up, her sharp eyes locking onto you like a hawk spotting prey.

"Who is that?" she demanded. "A servant? Why is she dressed like that? And why is she on the second floor?"

"She's my fiancée" Pantalone said calmly.

Your stomach dropped.

"Your what?!" The woman's voice reached a pitch that could shatter glass. "You never told me about a fiancée! Where did she come from?! What family? What name?"

"Her name is—"

"Don't you dare introduce me!" you hissed down at him. "I'm not part of this!"

But it was too late.

His mother was already marching up the stairs, her heels clicking against the marble. She stopped in front of you, her eyes raking over your disheveled appearance with obvious disdain.

"You're the one? Stand up straight! Look at me when I'm speaking to you! What's wrong with your hair? And why are you wearing that nightgown in the middle of the day? Are you ill? Are you lazy? Explain yourself!"

You looked desperately at Pantalone.

He was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a small, smug smile on his face, clearly enjoying your suffering.

I'm going to kill him, you thought. I'm going to kill him in his sleep.

"I'm not his fiancée," you said quickly. "I'm just.. I'm a guest."

"Guest?" The woman's eyes narrowed. "A guest who sleeps in a nightgown and sneaks around upstairs? Do you take me for a fool?"

"I—"

"She's being modest," Pantalone called up. "We're engaged. It's official. I was going to announce it at the family dinner next week."

"YOU WHAT!??"

"Let's discuss this over tea. She's still tired from last night. She needs her rest."

He was already climbing the stairs, his hand sliding into yours and pulling you away from the woman's wrath.

"We're not done talking!" she shouted after you.

The door to your room shut behind you, muffling her voice.

You rounded on him. "What was that?! Why did you tell her we're engaged?! We're not anything!"

He leaned against the door, rubbing his injured arm absently. "I had to tell her something. She's been pestering me for years."

"And you threw me under the bus?!"

"You were already on the bus, my dear." He smiled. "You just didn't know it yet."

You glared at him.

He smiled back, utterly unrepentant.

"Congratulations," he said. "You've just met the most terrifying woman in my life. And she already approves of you."

"How do you figure that?!"

"She didn't throw anything at you. That's high praise, coming from her."

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you grabbed a pillow and threw it at his face.

He caught it effortlessly, laughing as he left the room.

---

You waited until the mansion was quiet.

Midnight. The time when even the most vigilant servants retreated to their quarters, and the halls fell into darkness.

You had packed light, just the essentials. A change of clothes. Some cash you'd managed to find in a drawer. A small knife for protection. Nothing that would weigh you down.

You crept through the corridors, your footsteps silent on the marble floor. Your heart pounded in your chest, but your mind was clear.

This time, you thought, I'll make it.

The front door was just ahead. .

You reached for the handle.

And a hand clamped down on your wrist.

"Going somewhere?"

You spun around.

Pantalone stood behind you, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"How did you-"

"I have cameras everywhere, my dear. And motion sensors. And guards who report to me directly." He smiled, but there was something cold in it. "Did you really think I'd let you run again?"

You tried to pull away, but his grip was like iron.

"Let me go," you hissed. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be married to you. I don't want any of this!"

"And yet, here you are." He pulled you toward him, his face inches from yours. "Running again. Like a frightened little bird."

"I'm not frightened. I'm sane."

"Sane people don't run from luxury, my dear. Sane people stay put and enjoy the comfort."

"Sane people don't trap other people in marriages they don't want!"

He was quiet for a moment.

Before you could react, he had scooped you up, one arm under your knees, the other around your back, and carried you up the stairs.

"Put me down!" You beat against his chest. "Put me down right now!"

"Shh." His voice was calm, almost soothing. "You'll wake the household."

"I don't care! Put me-"

He kicked open the door to your bedroom and dropped you onto the bed.

You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the headboard. He loomed over you.

"Stop," you said, your voice trembling. "Just stop. We can talk about this."

"I've done nothing but talk," he said. "I've been patient. I've been kind. I've given you space, given you freedom, given you everything you asked for. And what do you do?" He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you. "You run. Again."

You opened your mouth to argue-

"Have you ever considered my thoughts?" he continued, his voice low and intense. "Have you ever considered that I might actually want this? That I'm not just playing a game?"

"I.."

"I've never disagreed about this. Not once. The only one who objects is you."

He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek. You flinched, but he didn't pull away.

"If you insist on running," he said softly, "I'll find you. Wherever you go, I'll find you. And I'll bring you back. Every single time."

"Then I'll run again," you whispered. "I'll never stop."

"Then I'll never stop chasing." He leaned closer, his lips inches from yours. "We can do this forever, if you'd like. But eventually, you'll tire. And I'll still be here, waiting."

You tried to push him away, but he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head.

"Let go of me! "

His hand moved down your side. His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, brushing against your bare skin.

"Stop," you said, your voice cracking. "Pantalone, please-"

"Please what?" His thumb traced a slow circle on your hip. "Please stop? Or please continue?"

"I hate you," you spat. "I hate you so much."

He smiled. "Hate and love are closer than you think, dear."

And then he kissed you.

It wasn't gentle. It was consuming, claiming. Like he was branding you with his lips, marking you as his.

When he pulled back, you were breathless.

"Tell me," he murmured against your ear, "do you know what the rate of pregnancy before marriage is these days?"

You froze. "What?"

"Quite high, actually." His lips brushed against your jaw. "If you'd rather have a baby to keep this marriage together, I'm more than willing to oblige."

"No!"

"Are you sure? Because I think a child would suit you. A little girl with your eyes, my smile. She'd be beautiful. And she'd tie you to me forever."

He reached for his shirt, his fingers working at the buttons.

The door flew open.

"Oh! Oh my!"

You both froze.

His mother stood in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, darting between you and her son.

"I didn't know you took my words so seriously," she said, her voice dripping with amusement. "I apologize for the interruption."

Then she smiled and pulled the door shut.

The lock clicked.

"CARRY ON, YOU TWO!"

You stared at the door in disbelief.

Then you looked at Pantalone.

He was still above you, his shirt half-unbuttoned, his expression a mix of shock and embarrassment.

"Your mother," you said flatly, "just locked us in."

"She did."

"And she's probably going to announce the pregnancy at the next family dinner."

"Most likely." He rubbed the back of his neck. "She's... enthusiastic."

You pushed him off you, sitting up. "This is insane. This whole situation is insane."

He sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. "I don't disagree."

"And you just..you threatened to get me pregnant-"

"Threatened is a strong word. I offered a solution."

"A solution to a problem you created!"

"I meant what I said. I don't want you to run. I want you to stay. And if a child is what it takes to make you stay, then..."

You stared at him. This man, who could have anything, who could have anyone, was willing to go to such extremes.

It was terrifying.

You took a deep breath.

"Fine" you said.

He blinked. "Fine?"

"Fine. I'll marry you. But on one condition."

"Name it."

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. "I want a contract."

"A contract?"

"If you ever divorce me half of your wealth becomes mine. Every last penny. Every property. Every investment. I'll take you for everything you're worth."

He stared at you.

"Are you serious?" he asked.

"Completely. You want to marry me? Then you'd better be sure. Because if you change your mind, if you get bored, if you decide I'm not worth the trouble, I'll ruin you."

"You're more dangerous than I thought." he murmured.

"I learned from the best."

A slow smile spread across his face.

"Fine," he said. "I'll have Charles draw up the papers tomorrow. But I warn you, my dear.. I never lose. And I never back out of a deal."

"Neither do I."

He reached out, taking your hand. "Then we have an agreement."

You shook his hand, your grip firm.

"I should warn you," he added, "that this will only make me more determined. If you think you can escape me now..."

"I've already tried twice. I'm sure I'll try again."

He laughed. "I don't doubt it."

He stood up, walking toward the door. He unlocked it, his mother had left the key in the lock, the meddling woman, and paused at the threshold.

"One more thing" he said, looking back at you.

"What?"

"If you ever do manage to escape, I'll give you a head start. A day, maybe two. To make it interesting."

"You're insane."

"Probably." He smiled. "But I'm your insane fiancé. You agreed to that, remember?"

He left you alone, standing in the middle of the room, your heart pounding.

The wedding was held three weeks later.

It was a grand affair, flowers, music, hundreds of guests you didn't recognize. You wore a dress that cost more than your adoptive family's house. You walked down the aisle toward the man who had hunted you down like prey.

And you thought, This is it. I agreed to this. I made my choice.

But as you stood before the altar, exchanging vows, you couldn't shake the feeling that you'd been outmaneuvered.

The contract was signed. If he divorced you, you'd be rich. If he stayed married to you, you'd be trapped.

Either way, he won.

Was this all a setup? you wondered. Did he plan this from the beginning?

He had hunted you down twice. He had used his mother's interference to his advantage. He had threatened you with a child, and you had folded.

And now here you were, his wife, standing in front of hundreds of witnesses.

He got what he wanted, you realized. He got exactly what he wanted.

The ring slid onto your finger.

And as he leaned in to kiss you, you heard his mother clapping enthusiastically from the front row.

"FINALLY!" she shouted. "NOW GIVE ME GRANDCHILDREN!"

The guests laughed. You didn't.

Pantalone pulled back, his lips brushing against your ear.

"Don't worry," he whispered. "I'll give you time. We have the rest of our lives to figure this out."

Nothing could go wrong from this point, you told yourself. I have the contract. I'm safe.

But as you walked back down the aisle, your new husband's hand on yours, you couldn't shake the feeling that you had just walked into a trap.

And the trap had closed.

[sungjinwooscertifiedwife]

cause im a little bit lost without you

Akedemia!Zandik x Fem!Reader

Warnings: stalking, murder, murdering method described, graphic cont., obsessive behaviour, severing of sciatic nerve and femoral nerve (causing inability of movement in leg and bending of knee), blood, sohreh mentioned (in my own way/not canon)

Word count: 1.1K words

flowerr: (ó﹏ò｡) uh i love yall

this wasn't supposed to happen. 'shes's going to find out SHIT! I need to do something....think think zandik'

sohreh looked quite pleased with herself. she finally got to kiss her long-term crush!! internally, she was jumping in joy.

she let out a small cheeky smile before running away from zandik, leaving him standing alone among the endless bookshelves of the house of diana.

zandik looked like he was wearing a blank expression but his eyes were clouded with a spiral of emotions. mostly it was just rage and anger...but a deeper part of him felt scared.

scared of you finding out

scared of what your reaction will be

you had only caught zandik's interest when you scored a fabolous result in the previous exam. he noticed you more after that and his deep-rooted obsession escalated wayyy to far

you were a sweet thing, oblivious to the dangers that lurked right behind you. gosh the things you made him feel-

'no i must do something now before this bitch tells someone'

he silently walks back to his dormitory, locks the door and begins planning. zandik wasn't going to let her celebrate long..

'finally, now we wait'

the deed was done and sohreh remained no more. she was no a mingled corpse, looking like a tigers late night snack.

it was rather easy if you asked him. all he had to do was ask her out on a picnic near the desert plains. being the giddy lovestruck girl she was, she agreed without hesitation.

'heh'

when she closed her eyes, basking in the afternoon sunlight, zandik jumped towards her throat.

'WAI-!" "PLEAS- STOP" "IT- I-IT HURTS-" "I-I CANT BREA.."

digging his hands, compressing them tightly around her oesophagus until he crushed it, untll he heard the sound of bones breaking would he let go.

her eyes lose it shine, blood spills a bit from her mouth and fresh bruises litter her throat.

zandik then takes out a pair of stolen surgical blades and leaves searing bruises on her body, ripping her attire to shreds in the process to strip her of her dignity.

he dumped her body in the avidya forest, disposed of his tools in the bonfire and washed his bloodied hands in the nearby river.

this time, he wont repeat the same mistake twice.

"hes just so UGH IDK HES SO CUTE RAGHH" you were whisper-screaming to your friends, gushing around about your silly crush on none other than zandik

and then there was zandik, standing behind the wall and listening in to your confessions.

'now which dipshit is she talking about?!' zandiks blood was boiling. silly him he didnt know it was him

"honestly he could just chase me around in the forest at this point" you exclaimed. your friends were just looking amongst them, praying that your imaginations stay as imaginations

"you read TOO many dark romance shit, Y/N! GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF THOSE PAGES" your friend, Stel exclaimed. oh boy was she done with you

"its ok let her be, its not like she'll actually get chased by him. he's way to study-oriented to be bothered with crushes anyway," sighed your friend Shar. he was a bit of a freak like you

"GUYS PLEASE JUST HEAR ME OUT-"

yeah zandik had enough. you liked being chased huh...

well, being from the desert really had its perks didn't it

all those years of dreaming about you...........

funny how he could now easily bend fate to get you, expeltion meant nothing to him now that he climbed the ranks to one of the most feared figures in Teyvat.

your legs were going to give out any minute now

you've been running for what feels likes ages, being chased by someone with a scary mask.

you should've never picked up the dumb letter, asking you to meet in avidya forest at 2 in the night, addressed from Stel and Shar.

it was clear now that the letter was a fake, forged with excellent copying skills. you weren't dumb to fall for a forged letter but this one..

this one looked too real, as if they had written it themselves.

but right now, you had to find a way out. you weren't familiar with the forest layout, and neither were you built for so much physical activity

you could hear heavy footsteps approaching you slowly, drawing nearer and nearer..

'I-I need to hide'

but there was nowhere to hide,

the entire landscape was covered with endless rows of densely packed trees.

before you could think of something else, you remember something from the morning news.

the death of student Sohreh was being reported around the akedemia and asking students to be aware of wild tigers in the avidya forest.

it was this same forest.

'either im becoming a tigers next meal or a dead body from a phsyco'

at that moment, a flying dagger zapped past you, causing you to lose your footing to dart away from it even after it embedded into the tree

what you failed to notice.. was the next blade

that embedded right into your right leg muscles, a little below the back of your knee

you fall to the ground unexpectedly, letting out a blood curling scream on instinct. tears gather at your eyes, body shaking from adrenaline rush and panic.

you didn't give up yet, you couldn't..

you dragged your bloodied leg forward.. you need to get away you have to-

"dead end, hmm?"

'that voice..' you snapped around immediately, trying to get a glimpse of his face.

the moonlight only made him look far more frighting. a crow shaped mask adorned his face, a lump of brightly blue hair and a lean body peered down at you.

"ple-please! I-I please let me go-!" you begged the figure before you, pleading for his mercy

your body shrinks further in, and a flood of tears flood out in further accelerated panic

"it was rather... wonderful to find out all those ramblings from a few days ago in the house of diana was about.. myself. I'm rather flattered"

"..what..?" ramblings? what was he talking about?

he chuckles under his breath, before slowly unclasping his mask. revealing his blood red eyes and his face-

your breath hitched

'no...no it cant be'

his grin only widened, seeing the recognition flash in your pretty eyes.

"if you think you can continue running away, I'll have you know that your sciatic nerve and femoral nerve has been severed in your right leg."

zandik lets out a dark laugh, amusement coveting his features, "you're coming with me to snezhnaya, my dearest"

border/divider by: @hemalace @pixopix @ttara-hae-archive

written by @sungjinwooscertifiedwife do not copy, or use in ai reposts are allowed don't claim my work as yours

[circusofdelirium]

Warning for horror, blood, gore, body mutilation.

This wasn't how you planned the night to go.

You didn't expect this to happen, yet here you were running for your life, your heart racing, pleading for this nightmare to end.

In a panic, you kept running, then when you realized they were getting closer, you ran into the nearest tent you were at. Hoping for a good hiding spot, for a place to escape to for now.

Those pursuing you stopped in front of the entrance of the tent you entered, as you hid behind some large crates.

They said some things you couldn't understand in another language. Then they started to walk off, but one remained until they were called off and soon they finally left too.

You remained in your spot for a moment, and once you believe it to be safe to emerge from your safe spot of hiding. You looked around, feeling odd, unsettled.

The tent was dark. Pitch black in fact, minus the small section lit by the moonlight sneaking into the tent through the entrance. But you couldn't shake the feeling you were being watched.

Then finally, you saw it.

Two eyes, purple and bright, glowing with a threatening vibe, as they stared right at you.

You frozen in your steps, unable to move. Not sure if out of fear, or something else entirely.

"Looks like our little mouse ran into the wrong tent for safety...How unfortunate."

The man, the clown, stepped forward. Purposely standing in the little light cast into the tent. Letting the moon illuminate his appearance and form before you. As you saw who it was, it was Jester.

"Now what exactly did you find out to make my family so desperate to catch you?"

"...The...The Fools...I know what you've doing to them. They're just people. Innocents. They don't deserve to be treated like this, to be used like--"

"Slaves? Pets? Animals?" Jester let out a small chuckle.

"...They're suffering."

"Are they now?" Jester lifted a hand up, and then snapped his fingers once.

In a instant, a Fool appeared by his side. They looked different and special than the other ones you met, half their face concealed with a mask, the other half visible to all to see.

Their expression however was dead, emotionless.

"How about I show you how good they are in our care...Remove your mask."

You were confused on why Jester was ordering that. Then the Fool started to do as they were told.

At first, the Fool grabbed their mask, and remained still. Then slowly, they started to pull and claw the mask off...Forcefully.

The sound of flesh tearing was loudly heard as you watched on in horror. And as you started to see the blood fall down their face, you screamed, begged to make them stop.

But Jester only stood there and grinned widely as he let the Fool continue. As their mask, their face, literally was ripped off their own head like nothing.

Then finally, you saw the aftermath of that horror and mess before. As half their face was now gone, a horrific scene now burned into your mind.

"Smile for them now, widely."

And so the Fool did, grinning widely to you. Making the scene more frightening, as you started to see bloody tears fall from their eyes. As they kept grinning, not moving, while they held their mask, their face, in their now blood soaked hands.

You had enough, you've seen enough. You panicked and ran from the tent, from the scene, as Jester started to laugh.

You tried to erase the image from your head, of the Fool, that person, in that gruesome state, just grinning widely at you.

You cried from the trauma, hoping to forget, to escape and forget it all. But in your panicked state, with your blurred vision thanks to your tears. You failed to see the very ones you were trying to escape from before. Were now standing before you and you impulsively ran into their hold.

At first, they quickly restrained you, to prevent you from running away. But they quickly realized in surprise you not trying to escape, but actually cling to them in fear, for safety. Shaking rapidly as you cried with wide fearful eyes.

"P-please...P-please make it go away. Make it s-stop.P-pleasePleasePlease--" You begged in sobs now. As finally Pierrot slowly wrapped his arms around you and held you close. As he and the others weren't aware what left you in such a traumatized and broken state now.

[yandere-romanticaa]

"whoopsy daisy yoo hoo, yelling I love you" but it's you getting chased by Flins in the Nod Krai wilderness. It's cold, it's dark, the only speck of light is the occasional gleaming flower and perhaps a firefly if you're lucky...

Don't look at the flickering flame in the distance.

[drpantalone]

🎨Zetsuyoru on x

[fatuismooches]

The eight-year-old Segment was unlike any child you had ever met.

When you were in the Akademiya with Zandik, you had gathered bits and pieces from what he told you about his childhood to somewhat imagine what a little Zandik would look like. It was… difficult to envision, not because you couldn’t form a picture, but because the thought of him being hurt so deeply as a child hurt you too. But when you finally saw the slice of his child self in front of you, you quickly realized the reality was far more cruel than you could ever think of on your own.

His eyes were… empty. For someone so young, not even a glimmer of light could be seen within the redness. It would have comforted you more to see even anger or sadness, but there seemed to be nothing of the sort. And yet, it did not deter you from attempting to befriend him, despite Eight’s initial lack of interest.

He was the child, and yet you were the one wandering after him like a lost kid. The Segment would just stare at you before excusing himself. Perhaps he was confused about why you were speaking to him in such an excited tone. Perhaps he did not know how to deal with it. All he knew was that the others had told him to treat you respectfully but not to bother you, and Eighteen specifically gave him a look every time you tried to usher him closer.

But in the end, a child was a child. A child would think and behave like one no matter how much they buried themselves, and that was also true for little Eight. You had noticed Eight frequently spent his spare time writing and doodling in his notebook, although he would always shut it if you got too close, obviously still guarded around you. At least he had gotten comfortable enough to let you stay in his room. Still, it was easy to piece together what he was doing in there. So, one day you slipped him a drawing of an Aranara you had drawn yourself. 

Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly. 

“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”

“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.

“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”

“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.

“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.

“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.

“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.

“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.

The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk. 

“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”

For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.

“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”

“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.

“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?” 

And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.

“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.

“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.

Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.

—

One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.

“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.

“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”

He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.

“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…

“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.

Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.

“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.

Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.

—

Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.

“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.

“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.

“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.

“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.

“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.

“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true. 

—

The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.

You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.

All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.

“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.

“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing? 

“But why?”

“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”

“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.

“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.

“A-And what does he say?”

“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.

“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do? 

“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.

“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.

You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…

“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.

“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.

“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?

“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.

The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.

You were truly a warm person.

His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.

The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.

He hoped you’d stay with him forever…

Masterlist.

[luminarylorecat]

Who's the Father??

Warnings: A lot of talk about childbirth, labor, and possibly inaccurate medical terms. Mentions of storing and freezing the placenta. Segments using swear words and being involved with the delivery (except 8, he's a minor). Segment 35 (Omega), being a little possessive and self-centered as always. No smut, but mentioned and implied nsfw.

Sitting in the labor room, you held the red scarlet-eyed baby in your arms, stroking the infant's tuft of blue hair every now and then. Segment 8, or "Little Doctor" as you like to call him, leaned over the side to look at the newborn, an innocent sort of curiosity brimming in his very own pair of red eyes.

Your baby was born healthy, looking just like a mix of both you and Zandik. He'd helped deliver it himself, muttering about how he trusted no one but him to take the task upon himself.

Well, technically, it was just Segment 25 who helped with the main task; the others volunteered themselves with other stuff, such as weighing the baby, stitching your tears up, cleaning the blood, storing your placenta and umbilical cord for research purposes, etc.

All the segments insisted on helping out, even Little Doctor, who unfortunately had to sit outside for most of the labor but was eventually allowed in to see the baby and check on you. Everyone's main goal was to ensure the mother and newborn were both safe and healthy.

Now that everything was successfully executed, you and the newborn were both taking a small, well-earned nap. All the adult segments turned to look at one another with suspicion.

Who the fuck was the baby's real father?

They all had slept with you, came inside of you, so the possibility that one of them was the father was 20%.

Except they were all Zandiks.

They all had the same DNA, the same blood. They might as well all be identical twins, if identical twins were all the segment of a man who died a century ago.

"Well? What were we all even expecting? That the baby would be born, and we could take a DNA test to verify the paternity? We all share the same blood dipshits. Ever thought of that?" Segment 18 spat out, looking at the other older segments after they'd all stepped out.

Segment 25 merely took off his mask and gloves, opting to let the other Segments deal with the guy instead.

"We were hoping to keep the peace until the baby was born to keep our Lady's pregnancy smooth. You know she gets troubled when we all get into unnecessary fights." Segment 65 explained, stepping closer to your door to make sure it was locked in case their argument woke you up. "A miscarriage would've been tragic. Besides, we all had our own goals to accomplish during this period. I doubt Omega is going to let you have a share of the placenta."

Omega, or Segment 35, who snuck off to the side to keep your placenta in a freezer, shot them all a dirty look. "How rude! Preserving the placenta has it's benefits-"

"We never said it didn't. But must you be so greedy as to keep it for yourself?" Segment 45 cuts off.

"-because I am the most research-oriented out of all of us, one who shall produce the most fulfilling results. In case of a genetic disease or a tumor, it will prove to be very useful." He preened

"You talk as if you're the real father." scoffs Segment 18.

"Well, of course I am. Who else but I could produce such brilliant progeny."

The comment riled up Segment 18, who walked up to Omega's face, his sharp teeth bare, "So sure of yourself, aren't you, old man? You sure your sperm can even swim that far? Your cock get that hard? Well, getting erect would be no problem for such a beauty; however, I bet her fallopian tubes shriveled the moment you got in you son of a-"

"Alright, alright. There's no need to stir up a ruckus right here," said Segment 25, wiping his hands dry on a towel, clearly the most tired of them all.

Unlike the other Segments, he had to be on-call and close to you that day, and hence had stayed by you till the moment you had pushed the baby out. "She's still inside, sleeping, taking a well-earned nap before one of us has to wake her from her blissful slumber in two hours to take her vitals again. Not to mention, we will need to attend to my newborn as well. For now, we could all take a moment, Segment 8 will alert us should anything happen-"

"What do you mean, 'my newborn'?" Segment 45 butts in, "You didn't even try to debate whether the child is yours or not."

"Well, of course, because it is mine. Only fools fight over what's not theirs-"

"Get a load of this asshole-"

"Can we all take this somewhere else, the baby might wake up-"

"Dottore!" a voice booms from down the hall, along with the sound of multiple footsteps.

All Segments turned around to see The Regrator, Pantalone, along with a few Fatui agents carrying many boxes and bags with them.

"I believe congratulations are in order? How is the missus and the baby?" asked Pantalone.

"Who let this guy know about her labor? I thought we were to keep this information from the other Harbingers," sneered Segment 25.

"And you certainly did, I assure you. No one other than me knows about this little joy of yours. I only happened to find out about this because the 8-year-old segment seemed quite anxious about not being let into the operating room. Seeing as you did not hesitate to let him watch the dissection of the original Zandik, my only conclusion about not allowing him in the operating room was that your wife was giving birth. That, and the fact I hadn't seen her for quite some time. Seemed easy to deduce." The Regrator stated, shrugging and rustling his fur coat.

"And what if it was a surgery like, say, an appendectomy? What use are the gifts then?" Segment 18 pointed out.

"Then I believe that you must get started on producing a progeny, no? Anyway, I've brought a few tokens of goodwill. I hope you'll accept them from a friend."

"Leave them out here. She's sleeping, and we'd rather not disturb her or the baby." Segment 65 said, pointing towards a table for the gifts to be kept. "We'll let her know of them as soon as she's able to concern herself with things other than herself and the baby. I hope you understand she's not in the condition to receive guests at the moment."

"That's alright." The Regrator signed his agents to keep the presents on the table and take their leave.

"Speaking of not disturbing the baby, though, what were all of you arguing about? Well, it's not rare to see each of you in disagreement with the other. Rather, it happens pretty often to be rare. But an opportunity that brings all of you together to have such a conflict......."

"We were discussing who the real father of the baby is," said Segment 18.

Pantalone nodded in understanding.

"I'd hardly call that a discussion. But does it truly matter? All of you are the same person, and hence, similar at your core. I'm sure the child would benefit from having multiple parental figures. I wouldn't call it a major issue."

"It is." Said all the Zandiks there in unison.

"Dear Feofan, it seems you still don't understand us all, even when you are a dear friend of ours. We all may be derived of the same Zandik, but as Dottore, we're all different," Omega explained, "Our values, our approach to research, our research, and our view of this world, they all differ due to the number of memories we carry. Determining the true father is determining whose legacy will be carried on. It isn't as simple as 'raising a child'."

".......so it has to do with your ego," Pantalone cheeked.

"How rude, I have genuine affection towards my wife and my child," said Omega.

"There he goes again," Segment 45 groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Oh my god, it's MY baby you twat," argued Segment 18.

"Well, you're certainly not raising my child with that mouth of yours," said Segment 65 calmly.

"Gents, gents," Pantalone raised his hands, trying to mitigate and calm down all the Dottores before it would escalate, lest they end up dissecting another one of them again.

"I have a solution. How about you solve this the way you know best? You're all intelligent and highly educated individuals; surely you can come to a conclusion amongst yourselves."

All the Zandiks looked at each other, as if they had never considered that idea.

"Determining the father of the baby through research. We can't do a DNA test, but....." mused Segment 45.

"Surely, only DNA can't be the only factor to determine the paternity," suggested Segment 18.

"If we can't find a way to find a match with blood, tissue, or DNA, we could always narrow down the possibility of one of us being the father by calculating the fertility factor of our sperm, the time between conception and delivery, and the general condition of the mother and the baby during pregnancy," Segment 35 muttered.

Pantalone sighed, seemingly relieved that he had managed to prevent another Zandik from being dissected today.

"I must, however, object to executing this plan right now," said Segment 25, "her postpartum period is to last for at the very least 2 months, and we have a newborn to care for as well."

"Naturally," all Segments agreed and nodded.

"Then," smirked Omega, "we shall have a time limit of 2 months to conduct our research. Whosoever manages to bring concrete proof along with the timeline and convinces everyone that the baby is theirs shall get to claim the progeny and raise them. Do we all agree?"

"Yes," said all the Segments.

"Then shall I volunteer as a referee? You know, as a neutral party, to keep things nice and fair?" asked Pantalone.

"Of course, friend. You're more than welcome to invite yourself to my research discussions. You are, after all, the one funding all of our experiments," said Omega gleefully.

Pantalone watched with interest as all of the Segments dismissed themselves, some going to rest after what he assumed was a long day of being in the delivery room, others sprinting to their assigned labs to get a head start on their research, while the rest stayed to be available for you.

'Ah,' Pantalone thought to himself, stepping outside and pulling out a cigarette, 'this whole ordeal shall be quite entertaining.'

Part 2??? (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

a/n: hello hello everynyan |˶˙ᵕ˙ )ﾉﾞ I wrote this at 3 am in a fever dream lol. Fun fact: kids of identical twins are genetic half-siblings. SO if you have an identical twin and have a baby, the baby is also half of your twin lol. It gave me the idea about what if multiple people shared the same DNA and boom that's how I wrote this fic in 2 hours when I have like 12 other drafts that have been collecting dust ehe (ᵕ—ᗜ—) I might make a few edits here and there so pls excuse any grammatical errors lol I don't know english well ≽^•⩊•^≼ anyway enjoy ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

@luminarylorecat Do not repost, translate, adapt, feed into AI, or claim this work. Reblogs and links are appreciated; copying and reuploading are not.

[nyxessence]

sunshine leagues beneath the tide. ۶۟ৎ when you were sentenced to ten years beneath the sea, you didn't quite expect to find love and light that makes you never want to leave.

— wriothesley x female reader (__ used in place of y/n); canon compliant i think i did a lot of research and timeline stuff for his age and inventions and such but if there is anything wrong please ignore it; strangers to lovers; slow burn (for me); mentions of rape (not shown or discussed in depth but reader was imprisoned for attacking a friend's unnamed rapist); mentions of violence; themes of grief; spoilers (wrio's story); sex scene (unprotected piv, body worship, praise, just two people in love). might have inconsistencies or grammar issues, was very minimally edited. i apologize. ۶۟ৎ 13.7k words. please be kind to her. no part two!!!

“According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mecanique d’Analyse Cardinale, __ is guilty.” The Iudex’s eyes meet yours, and you shift uncomfortably, shrinking under the venom of the crowd’s gazes. The lights in the Opera Epiclese are strong enough you can’t see much, but the buzz of electricity and chatter makes you feel sick. “To be punished by ten years in the Fortress of Meropide, and a fine of 100,000 Mora to be paid via labor.”

How unfair. The crowd jeers and you stumble backwards as a Garde tightly grips your arm and yanks you off the stand with enough force that you hiss, shoulder aching from the way he twists it. “Come along,” the man barks, and you blink back the tears that have been prickling at the edge of your vision, nod, and glance back at the crowd—already dispersing now that the entertainment has wrapped up and been removed from their view.

The last thing swallowed by the lights in your vision is your Archon’s smiling face. Delighted. Like you were but a character in a play. 

It’s a blur, being dragged down to an elevator on the edge of the ocean, faces and voices swimming around you, choppy bits of not-so-hushed whispers asking, “how could someone accuse and assault such a good man?” and how you were getting what you deserved.

You try to keep your head up high when a Gestionarre reads your sentence to you once more and confirms your information for records, you really do. “You will not be allowed to leave the Fortress of Meropide for the duration of your sentence. You will not be permitted to bring items inside with you. Your sentence may be extended for the duration it takes to pay off your fines.” Her cold eyes bore unflinchingly into yours. “You will leave by this elevator in ten years’ time, should your debt be paid.”

Ten years. Ten years for daring to prevent another crime, for believing that that sniveling coward of a man would make good on the promises he’d been leaving your friend for years and choosing to protect her dignity at the cost of his (not that he had much. He was pathetic and afraid, always harming her in private while pretending to be the kind of man your parents would want you to bring home). You scoff. Your handcuffs are tugged harshly at the sound before you’re dragged into the center of the elevator platform. The sun burns your eyes as you look up at the bright blue sky, perfectly clear. The Hydro Dragon would not cry for you. The brightness stings, but you stubbornly look upwards until the musky gloom of the Fortress envelops you and you’re dragged forward to a desk in a line of other prisoners, uncuffed, and promptly left alone as the Garde hurries back above ground like the air itself would taint them.

That was fine. It was silence you desperately needed. A break from the chatter that questioned your morals—morals you knew were strong in their convictions and actions you would, should you need to, repeat again. Even the stagnant air of the Fortress warns of its unchanging state, mildew that must have never been cleaned mixing with metallic acridity. Fitting, for prisoners, you supposed. To have a sensory experience that assaulted the senses at worst and provided nothing but the bare minimum at best. A punishment, in its own right, to compliment the sentence the Oratrice handed to everyone this deep below the sea.

The receptionist is an older woman, privileged to live a life so long that the joints of her hand have begun to stiffen. That’s the main thing you notice, signaled as she grips the pen to fill out your forms with more force than something so flimsy needed. How terrible, you think, lips pressing into a thin line, to live so long and see and do so much, only to spend your days in such a dank tunnel, writing down the information of Fontaine’s worst.

You wonder how often she sees the sun.

“Name?” She glances up at you. 

“__,” you provide, and you spell it, too. You can’t help your curiosity, and as she starts an obviously practiced spiel about where to go and what to do next, interrupt “do you miss the sun?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The sunlight.” There’s restless movement behind you, other new inmates wondering what’s taking you so long. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?”

She smiles at you, and it feels like pity. “I do.” Places her pen down, shuffles your papers into an orderly stack, clips them, and drops them into a chute just behind her desk. “Next.”

–——–

The next thing of note that happens in the Fortress, other than the first night you spend without a wink of sleep, anxiously jolting at the sound of footsteps around you and the tiny bit of dignity you could still cling to (the new clothing tucked into the dingy trunk at the end of your stiff cot, and the bracelet your friend had given you they’d forgotten to take off your wrist), is the entry of a new inmate a bit over a month after you arrived.

New prisoners come in daily, like clockwork, just another cog in the machine of Meropide’s production. But there’s a buzz around this one, snippets of giddy conversation that felt like being transported back into the Opera Epiclese. 

“I heard he killed his parents! Could you imagine the sight of them?” and “must be an ungrateful brat” and even, “he must be quite strong, then. To kill two so young. Let’s invite him to spar.” It seemed like every inmate you happened across, whether during work or meals or down time, had some form of moral judgment to pass disguised as curiosity directed towards a man who, for all intents and purposes, was just like any of them. A criminal found guilty in the eyes of Fontaine’s courts.

It was interesting, you supposed. Parricide. The whispers of his sentencing made it evident he was young, though that could be gleaned from the leniency of his sentence alone. But it also made people curious—when he was on that stand, blinded by spotlights and surrounded by the buzz of gossip passed behind palms, was there unrest? A genuine uncertainty that brought to light some question of innocence and whether or not punishment was needed? If remediation could be enough? Some form of debate about whether or not his parents deserved it flitted into every conversation for days, despite barely anyone having laid eyes upon him. Just the paperwork that signed away his fate and went into the same chute as anyone else’s. 

It was ridiculous.

You were all in prison. How could any of you claim to be better? All of you had reasons, excuses, a tale you could recite as easily as breathing—some form of conviction and belief in yourself that justified why you were thrown into the Fortress. What gave any of you the right to question his life, his story, his actions? Would it even matter if you knew why? If he had a reason. Would it make it right? More interesting? Or was all the talk just a means to justify the snap judgments the headline alone made?

–——–

The grimy fluorescent lights of the infirmary are not among your favorite things to wake up to. In the bottom five, even. While they were once bright, dust and debris had filtered them to a hazy yellow that, when paired with the head nurse’s meals, was truly horrifying.

You shift, attempting to sit up, and a wave of nausea surges through you, strong enough you groan softly. When you can finally blink away the heaviness to your eyes, you spot another inmate on a cot nearby. He looks to be about your age, with a streak of blood on his shirt sleeve—and, upon closer inspection, Sigewinne appears to be giving him stitches right below the stain. There’s dirt on his cheek and a crooked smile that seems rather out of place for the scolding he’s getting (“you’ve got a death wish, picking a fight with someone so much bigger than you! Do you want to see how many stitches someone can have at once?” and a disapproving click of her tongue). 

You’ve never heard her be so fed up.

It takes effort to turn into a more comfortable position, but you do, snickering when you hear him—“bigger they are, harder they fall, right? I’d take a few stitches in exchange for justice any day.”

Sigewinne hums and finally closes up the wound. She levels him an unimpressed stare “do not move, Wriothesley. I’m going to get some ingredients for an ointment that you will put on as it heals.” She doesn’t seem to notice you’ve woken up as she bustles out of the room, though you’re fine with that. Having her undivided attention is a guarantee you’ll be nagged so thoroughly it’d put generations of mothers to shame.

Slowly, you sit up. Your gaze keeps drifting to the boy—Wriothesley, you suppose—he’s rather scrawny looking, like someone not quite done growing into their frame. There’s a nasty scar on his neck and chest, one that makes you inhale sharply at the sight. It’s a dark mark you can tell will never fade, from the jagged edges of discoloration and the way it’s not flush with the skin. Healed enough to be done healing, but not enough to ever be a mark he could forget. 

“Why are you staring?”

You flinch slightly, taken aback by him suddenly addressing you. “No reason,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the ground as embarrassment rushes through you. His voice is steady for the amount of stitching you saw, betraying no pain. How much has he gone through? You wonder, frowning, that this is nothing to him? 

Your curiosity has always been one of your bigger flaws. You never know when to drop things.

You blurt out “who’d you pick a fight with?” before sense can catch up to you. Thankfully, Wriothesley seems amused, snorting at the question and how your hand slaps to cover your mouth.

“No one important,” he drawls, and there’s a lilt to his voice that betrays that he must be smiling. “Just some asshole shaking down new inmates. Thinks he’s all that.”

It takes a second to register, mind racing through possibilities. And then, “you picked a fight with Dimitri?” You finally look back at him, reassessing his strength. “Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. He deserved it. He thinks he’s special, that he’s all that. He’s just a coward.”

“It still looks like he got you pretty good.”

Wriothesley shrugs, though the movement is stiff on the injured arm. “He looks worse than I do. Sigewinne didn’t even need to numb it.”

“She didn’t?” The blood soaking through the fabric makes the wound look pretty sizable.

“I told her not to,” he supplies softly. “There’s no need.”

“Not hurting is a pretty good reason.”

His expression is stormy when you look at him—there’s a hardness to his eyes and the slant of his pressed lips that give you pause. His silence is worse—all you can hear is the buzz of machinery in the air, the hum of the fluorescent lights and distant clanks of metal down in the production zone. The stale air of the infirmary has never been more oppressive than the way the words sit.

Finally, he sighs. He looks at you, unreadable, and gives a small, soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hurting is inevitable.”

You can’t press him on it. You didn’t have a right to, but even if you did, Sigewinne had just returned with hurried instructions for her nurse of the day and her hands full. She finishes up with him quickly, sending him off with an earful about picking better battles and how she’ll know if he doesn’t use the ointment, and she’ll track him down herself to put it on if he doesn’t. He’d laughed easily and dodged her out the door like it was a daily occurrence.

“__,” Sigewinne turns to you and you stiffen, smiling apologetically at the stern look on her face. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “No need to be sheepish.” She hands you a painkiller and some water and hums when you take them. “But working all day and night won’t get you out of here any faster.”

“I know…” you mumble, setting the glass down on the bedside table.

“Then stop doing it,” she pleads. “Resting will mean better work. And better days. That’s better than getting out with injuries from your impatience.”

You huff. “I’m not injured.” It falls flat when you’re in the infirmary and had to be brought in by other inmates that’d found you alone in the tunnels you were welding, with gear scattered haphazardly around your slumped figure and soot along your cheeks. “Fine. I’ll be better.”

“I will personally make sure of that, too.” Sigewinne squints at you. “You may go.”

–——–

Debt was one of the worse sentences the Oratrice could give. Going under the tide was expected if you were found guilty, but with how the Fortress ran solely on Credit Coupons (which seemed to have market fluctuations based on the administrator’s whims), any effort towards paying off your sentence would be foiled by having to pay for the bare necessities. Hungry? Need new bedding? You had to pay for it with the Coupons earned from your labor.

You were faced with this again, knuckles whitening as you tightly grip the flimsy plastic tray and stare down at the small, sloppily wrapped sandwich—the cling wrap has gaps, the bread’s gone stale, and the cook stares back at you. Not without sympathy, but not enough to sneak something else to you across the counter. “Costs went up again. This is what the minimum gets today.”

“Thanks…” you say. You try to smile at the guy working. He’s nice enough. You know it doesn’t meet your eyes.

You’re about to turn and sit to choke it down when someone behind you speaks.

“I’ll cover a bit more. Add a few sides.”

When you turn, you’re met with the boy—Wriothesley, you remind yourself—from the infirmary. He regards the cook steadily, expression unreadable. He jerks his chin slightly, and suddenly, the cook scrambles to action and places a decent looking salad and what appears to be some snacks next to the sandwich.

Wriothesley tosses a bundle of Coupons without glancing at or counting the amount. “That’s enough for mine and hers.”

You regard him with suspicion. He’s rocking on his heels casually; hands stuck back into his pockets as he waits.

“I was fine, you know.”

His brow raises. “Do you not want it?”

That makes you deflate a little, sighing heavily. It takes a lot to swallow your pride, but you’ve been hungry all week—it’s gnawed at you, and you’ve gotten close to fainting too many times in the production zone. “No, I’ll… I’ll take it. Thank you.”

He grabs his food when it’s placed with a thud on the counter. His eyes narrow at the cook, and it sends a chill down your spine. When you glance down at the tray, it’s filled with food. More than you’ve seen in a bit. Then, you notice there’s raw, broken skin on his knuckles—red, angry, almost splitting with his grip.

“What happened to your hands?”

He looks down at them, like it’s surprising you’d even ask. “Boxing.”

Wriothesley offers nothing more.

When he turns on his heel to walk away, you stop him to hand him a small bit of scrap you’d pocketed from your welding jobs. It’s not much, just metal too warped or thin to work for walls and rivets, and pieces too small for the guards to notice. There’s what looks like burns along his arms, the same kind you’d seen when he was getting stitched. You’d burnt yourself enough in the tunnels that you know how metalworking marks the skin.

He accepts them.

–——–

There’s been a fighting ring in the Fortress for a bit. It’s definitely not official—the participants scatter the second the buzz of a radio on a guard’s hip draws a bit too near to the abandoned tunnel. It’s interesting though. You’re not a fighter, never have been, but it’s easy to consider the betting as a way to make Coupons.

Of course, you know gambling isn’t a good idea. But, in theory, it makes you feel hopeful. So, you end up in that damp, wide, unfinished tunnel today, eyeing two fighters surrounded by a ring of clamoring inmates.

It seems like you’re late to place bets.

You can’t see the fighters—the throng of the crowd is too thick to see through. But you can hear the scrape of metal on metal and hissing elemental energy that seeps outwards as vapor. It doesn’t take long for a victory to be decided; evident by the thud of a body falling and cheers filling the area.

Credit Coupons trade hands swiftly. Everyone disperses even faster.

One of the fighters remains. It’s not shocking that it’s Wriothesley. There’s a bit of blood trickling down his jaw from a small nick, and his chest is heaving from the exertion. He has gauntlets on his hands, with gears ticking and what looks like Cryo crystallizing along the edges. His wrists roll uncomfortably as he is handed a sizable pouch of Coupons from the referee.

You regard the drops of blood speckling the floor, and the elemental residue for a moment more. Then, you turn on your heel and follow behind Wriothesley, a few feet behind. You follow quietly behind him right until the opening of the tunnel. His shoulders are still tense, and he moves cautiously.

When you catch up and go to walk out, he spins and pins you to a wall in just two seconds. Your breath hitches, and your eyes dart from his furrowed brow down to the hand pressed against your throat. It looks like he recognizes you, because the pressure lessens, but he keeps you trapped.

“If you wanted to sneak up on me, you should walk quieter.”

“I didn’t want to,” you croak out, pressing your head backwards to breathe a little easier.

“Then what?” Wriothesley huffs.

“Your hands—” you inhale sharply when he presses a little more. “I have more scrap. For your gauntlets, right?”

Wriothesley drops his hands to his side. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“—and I can walk quietly!”

He laughs at your indignance. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

You sigh, relieved, when he steps back further. “Yeah. I won’t be slandered.”

Wriothesley tilts his head at you. “You’re an odd one. Fine, I’ll barter for your scrap.” He begins walking down the hall and you scurry to follow him and fall in step. “What would you like for it? Potions?”

“I was thinking more… we look out for each other?” Your voice softens nervously. “It’s good to have someone on your side down here.”

There’s a pause as he considers it. “Sure.”

–——–

It becomes a habit to find him after his fights and help fix up his gauntlets after that.

He’s been here—you’ve been here—for about three years now. It’s nice to have someone to trust, even more so when it’s someone as strong as Wriothesley.

He’s grown into his frame and strength now. He’s not lanky anymore, instead stacked with corded, functional muscles. Taller, too, and broad. Everything about his posture and form screams how strong he is. You think he probably doesn’t even need the gauntlets anymore. The callouses on his hands and the force his punches pack would be enough to knock almost anyone flat on their backs.

Wriothesley is normally quiet during repairs. The machinery is small and difficult to work with, and his hands don’t fit in as well as they used to (you’d learnt he made them initially at fourteen, and that made the crude welding much more understandable. He’s far too skilled and in control to make such sloppy welds now).

You’re better at it than he is, carefully reinforcing a segment with slow, steady hands.

“Why do you still use these?” You ask when you pause to inspect them, sitting up and giving your aching back a break from the way you hunch over the work. “You don’t really need them anymore.”

He hums, sliding the gauntlets into his palms and checking the work. He seems pleased by the small smile on his lips. “They make me stronger. Why not?”

“You wouldn’t need to scrounge for scrap is all,” you mumble, setting all his tools back. “And you’re not afraid of stitches. What’s a few more in your hands going to do?”

Wriothesley laughs at that, free and happy. It makes you grin, too.

“Why get them, though? It lets me use Cryo and it makes the fights faster. Very efficient.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I guess… if you ever leave them in here, I’ll chase off any would-be thieves.”

“You’re not much of a fighter though, are you?”

“I’m not,” you admit. You were only down here because you defended your friend. As protective as you were, you were rash. You’d come to realize Wriothesley wasn’t that quick to anger, and you envied the trait. He was strong, and he was calculated. If anything riled you up enough, it was normally too late to think it through, which being friends with him had made very evident.

“Well,” he says dryly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think I’m a better guard dog than you.”

When you huff dramatically, he just rolls his eyes with a smile.

–——–

You earn most of your Coupons in the production zone. It felt wrong to bet on Wriothesley—like you were cheating, almost. Of course, the other inmates bet on friends and rigged things, but you had several more years to go. You might as well work to make the time pass.

Wriothesley visits sometimes. When you’ve been forging so long, you can’t wipe the sweat off your brow before more forms, and when you can barely maintain your grip on your tools.

“What do you want to get with all your Coupons?” You ask him. He’s leaning against a wall a few feet away and watching you work—he’ll at least carry the finished rivets to the guard managing the area for you, speeding up your process a little. “You have a lot now, right?”

“I do,” he agrees. It’s nice that he doesn’t rub it in. You don’t know how much he has now, and you think finding out would crush your spirit.

“Do you just want to be rich?” You’re a bit woozy when you straighten and breathe in shakily. The air is stagnant and heavy, and it takes a moment to breathe normally again. “Start with taking over my shifts.”

Wriothesley snorts. “You could just stop taking them. Go place bets. Hell, maybe you could fight in the matches.”

“And get my face folded in?” You scowl at him.

He laughs, and, when the guard isn’t looking, finishes hammering out your last six rivets. He makes it look effortless.

“Maybe you’d be good.” Wriothesley shrugs. “Order. I want to buy order.”

“How do you plan on buying a concept?” You put back the tools and gather all your rivets. He falls into step with you. “Doesn’t seem like something a merchant of smuggled goods can stock.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, arms crossing over his chest. You watch the movement of muscle with rapt attention for a moment before turning away to turn in your work. “But I can buy a chance to make it happen. Make it so people pretend they didn’t see anything.” There’s a certainty to Wriothesley’s voice that intrigues you, but right now you’re too hungry to care.

“Well, restructuring a prison you’re an inmate in seems difficult. Regardless of how rich you are. You can start with buying me lunch.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “Are you always this greedy?”

You shrug. “Will you buy it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

–——–

The steam rising off the tea is a novel sight. It’d been a long time since you had any warm drink, and much less one imported. Wriothesley had chided you for the purchase, but you were firmly of the belief that you should still have small joys in your life, even when you’re well under the sea. 

You had caught him in the cafeteria earlier, told him with bright eyes and slightly warm cheeks that you had tea—from Liyue, and a new blend at that—if he’d like to come try it.

It surprises you when he shows up. It shouldn’t, but it does. His gauntlets are off, perhaps in his dormitory, and his hair looks damp. He’s rather unguarded and domestic in a way that makes your pulse flutter. When he sits next to you, you finally break the silence with a soft, almost shy “you can pick first.” He’s smiling freely as he spins the mug around and studies it. Inhales. Sighs out happily, humming at the aroma and the warmth on his fingers as he lifts it. By the way his brows raise and the corner of his mouth lilts, it’s a good blend and steeped well. That makes you happy.

“It’s delicious,” he mumbles, leaning his head back on the edge of your cot. You lean down and grab your own before resting back on the wooden frame, studying his expression. “It was an irresponsible purchase. But… an enjoyable one, I must admit.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Must you chide me now? Just enjoy it.”

He shrugs and smiles at you. “I am enjoying it and chiding you,” he chuckles, savors another sip. “I’m capable of multitasking.”

The silence over the pair of you is comfortable. He seems softer than normal and, after a few minutes, your curiosity (nosiness, you can hear his voice in your head, you’re just nosy!) gets the better of you. “Why are you so happy today?”

Wriothesley makes a noncommittal noise. “Can I not be?” Your exasperated sigh and silence are answer enough. “It’s… my birthday,” he says finally, setting his empty mug down where he won’t accidentally knock it over. “I know this is by no means a birthday present, but it was… pleasant. To have this day be marked by a nice present.”

“Oh,” you gasp, and there’s a bit of shame that flickers through you for not knowing it was his birthday. “Happy birthday, Wriothesley,” and then, almost as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re spending it with me.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “I spend a lot of days with you,” he reminds. “This one is no more special.”

“It is!” You insist, sliding onto the floor before shuffling closer to him. “It’s your birthday. And, sure, I didn’t know it was”—he looks at you, amused and mischievous, and you make a face back before continuing—“but I’m happy that we got to enjoy an imported tea on your birthday. Birthdays should be pleasant.”

He nods. “They should, I suppose,” he leans against you a little, and your skin prickles with warmth where you’re pressed flush against him. “They aren’t always. But this one is,” he studies you. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

You giggle and he scoffs when you sing-song “oh, so you like me!” You sober a little bit, tone dropping to be more sincere. “I’m glad you do like me though, you know. It took a lot of time and effort to do that. I’m happy to have that confirmation.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Surely, you must know I like you. With the amount of time I spend with you, it’d be crazy if I somehow didn’t.” It’s so not romantic, it’s just… Wriothesley, straightforward and simple and teasing. No laced meaning. But your mind races and imagines him saying he likes you in a far different way. 

He sighs softly, getting more comfortable (as much as you can on a floor made of warped, cold metal dotted with huge, poorly done rivets). You drink him in, gaze flitting from the strength of his brow, to the way the amber lamplight looks like stained glass where it reflects in his eyes, the bend in his nose (caused by a poorly set fix after a fight, you’re sure). The angle of his jaw, and the dark shadow of stubble that dots over it. His hair, with small gray streaks that he’s gotten during his time here (you know he did not have them when you first met; you’re quite sure you’d remember if he did), falling loosely over his face and frizzing slightly as it dries.

“How old are you now?” You ask abruptly when you’re suddenly aware of how shamelessly you’ve been admiring him. You hope he is too tired to notice the weight of your stare.

He looks at you, eyes heavy and sleepy, and you know him well enough to tell the tiredness of the day has caught up to him at this point—and yet he humors you anyways. “Twenty-one,” he seems to be thinking through the timeline for a moment, wading through the endlessly recursive days he’s spent in the Fortress. “I’ve been in here for exactly five years now.”

“You were admitted on your birthday?” It’s upsetting, knowing that his birthday was the day he was found guilty and brought in. It’s no wonder he doesn’t find it pleasant, you think, frowning at his words, to have your birthday just be a reminder of how much time you’ve spent down here.

Wriothesley nods. “It’s alright. I’m guilty of the crime, after all. I know what I did to be here.” He brushes his hair back out of his eyes and sighs. “It’s just like any other day.”

Worst of all, you know he means that. His birthday is nothing to be celebrated and certainly shouldn’t overshadow the things he did—where it’s just a day, with the good and bad cancelling each other out. Where his birthday was nothing to be celebrated when compared to any other day. “I heard some of the guards mention it was snowing,” you say softly, studying his expression. “Maybe one birthday soon you’ll get to enjoy it.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not a big fan of snow anyways, it’s not the cold I prefer.” That wording gives you pause. What does he prefer then? Cryo? Hydro? Or is he just talking about cold refreshments, like ice cream or a drink with several ice cubes? It’s not anything worth dwelling on, just a subtle ache from the gaps in your knowledge. You want to know him so much better than you do. “Long time until I get out, anyways. The weather the Court gets right now is of no interest to me.”

“Long time?” You hazily remember his sentencing from the talk when he entered the Fortress five years ago, but not well. Just that it was lenient in many people’s eyes.

“Seven more years,” he chuckles. “It’s alright. I’ll enjoy the sunshine in seven years’ time, and I’ll appreciate the snow from behind a window.”

You snort. “Yeah?”

Wriothesley grins, boyish and gentle, before whispering a soft “yeah.” He looks happy, carefree, for a moment. His smile is a little crooked, and there’s a dimple under his lips you’ve never noticed before. Achingly, he looks like the boy—man, now, you suppose—he is. The sight of him makes you wish that kameras were something allowed in the prison, and that you could afford one. You want to immortalize the crinkle to his eyes and the scrunch of his nose. 

It fades quickly, though, and you hope your mental snapshot will do it justice. He sombers some, shoulders dropping. “I miss it,” he admits. “The sun. Sometimes, when…” he pauses, weighing his words. You wish he wouldn’t, so eager to hear his unfiltered thoughts. “Sometimes, I go by the intake desks and the elevator to watch the searchlights sweeping the waters outside,” he admits. “I imagine it’s the sunlight filtering through, that the rays could reach us down here. It makes it a whole lot brighter.”

You chew your lip and nod. “I miss the warmth, too,” you tell him, and he seems relieved to hear it. “I have seven more to go too—I mean, not on paper. It’s something like four. But we both know my debt won’t be paid off by then,” you draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. You feel his stare and glance away, voice cracking as you whisper, “I don’t know if I’m ever getting out of here.” The sting of tears takes a lot of effort to blink back, and you tense slightly as his hand comfortingly rubs your shoulder. How embarrassing. “The current administrator… he keeps… I don’t know, I guess he just wants us down here forever and fuck with us, the bastard. Every time it seems like my debt is shrinking, the number of Coupons you can earn and their value gets lower, or interest on the debt gets higher. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the sun again.” There’s a lump in your throat when you finally stop speaking, and no amount of swallowing it down or rubbing your face makes it stop. 

“He’ll be stopped one day,” Wriothesley resolutely tells you. 

You laugh, a broken, watery sound that tears its way out. “How can you be so sure?”

“I plan to make sure of it,” he shifts, then rises. “One day. When I can buy that order I’ve always wanted.” You roll your eyes in an effort to be playful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ll get out some day. We both will.” He promises, and you shiver as callused fingers shift some fine hairs off your temple. “Goodnight, __. Thank you for the tea.”

–——–

By the time Wriothesley has gathered more Coupons and established his name, you’ve been in there for eight years. It’s obvious you won’t be out when your ten years end—you can’t pay off the fine. But you do enjoy more luxuries than you had more in your youth.

Wriothesley is generous, and kind, and will cover smaller purchases or meals for you. Or, at least, your version of Wriothesley is.

He’s notorious. Other inmates don’t remember the crime that landed him in here, and, honestly, you don’t either. But they speak of his strength and his ruthlessness in the ring; of his wealth and their ideas of his plans for it all; and they speak of him as an opponent. To be talked about and to be known is to have power, at least among the inmates. The guards don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You all get the same disdain.

It means he’s challenged often. Now, the referee and ringleader of the underground fights has caught the two of you in an isolated bit of the dormitory floor, where no one walks by. Étienne had grown frustrated by his continuous success. It’s a known secret he rigged the betting. If Wriothesley participates, those attempts fail.

“If you ever step foot in my arena again,” he sneers at Wriothesley, hands balling into fists at his side. “I’ll make sure you can’t ever again.”

Wriothesley raises his brows and smiles. You scoff, eyes flickering between the two of them. Étienne is no match for Wriothesley, and you both know it. He’s a bit scrawny and a coward to boot—reliant on people he’s paid to stand by him, and he lets their fists do the talking for him. He’s alone in this confrontation, and you wonder how he gained the confidence to do it.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who ended up underground for fraud,” you say. It’s kind of fun to see his attention dart suddenly to you and the lazy roll of your eyes. “Very bold of you to talk so much shit. Don’t you know both of us are in here for more violent offenses?”

You slide off of the box you were sitting on, and he falters, mouth opening and closing on an argument he can’t form. You circle him—it’s funny, really. Your crime was not that violent. Aggravated assault, sure, but it was on a coward of man who raped your friend, and you’d waited to catch him off-guard. You weren’t the type to win in a heads-on confrontation.

But Étienne doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to. His focus remains on Wriothesley even as you keep talking and sizing him up because he is the much more obvious threat.

“I mean, look at you. No scars, no fights won against anyone worth their salt… you’re kinda scrawny, aren’t you? That’s why you hire those guys… your muscle. The bite to your bark. Do you think you could take him?”

Wriothesley is smiling. You can see in his eyes that he’s amused by you and the bravado, but you imagine it’s much scarier if you don’t know him. Like he’s smiling at the idea of knocking you out.

“It’d probably be cathartic for him to go all out, you know? Fight someone without holding back?”

Étienne steps back.

Wriothesley cracks his knuckles, and you watch Étienne flinch, pausing in his slow, steady retreat like a deer in headlights as he says, “Word of advice? Pick battles you can win. If you’re weak, you can’t be a fool, too.”

–——–

At some point, Wriothesley finally started getting the guards to turn a blind eye. It’s been three years since he told you of his plans for order. You’d joked about his certainty he’ll create a new, sure, but you can truly see the respect he’s earned by now.

The administrator’s hand has slipped a bit by now, and his corruption has grown more evident in the way he adjusts Credit Coupon values to his will. He’d even begun to lay off longtime guards and all the support staff Sigewinne had in the infirmary.

Inevitably, understandably, they began to chafe under his tight grasp.

Wriothesley was well-mannered and likable. But more importantly, confident enough to push back and force change—even in things as small as making food more affordable and having a basic need for living met, regardless of the hours you put into the Production Zone. You hadn’t gone hungry in a while.

The guards ignored anything he stirred up. Hell, you’d even caught snippets of conversation, during long nights of working on and welding tunnels, where they rooted for him over their boss.

He’s finally lessened the amount of fighting he does, too. If he is ever in the ring, the knock of his knuckles against jaw or ribs and the dark bruises blooming is enough to earn respect. The gauntlets are primarily retired, a bit too stiff and old to function as well as they used to.

You plan on upgrading them for him some day.

He’ll use it if he must, leaving nicks in the skin from metal on opponents who pushed their luck too far. Sometimes, he’ll even Cryo the enemy—which was a shock for you the first time you witnessed it, just a few minutes ago.

“You have Cryo potions?” It was still simmering in the air above Dimitri’s unconscious frame. You backed away without meaning to, attempting to avoid the chill nipping at your arms. “I thought no one smuggled them anymore?”

Wriothesley rolls his shoulder and wrists, and then he slips off the gauntlets. “No one does.”

“Then—”

“A Vision.” Wriothesley nudges Dimitri with his boot and sighs. He stoops to lift him, shifting the weight easily. “We have to bring him to the infirmary.”

You frown. “Someone will find him, surely.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I've never tested what Cryo does to someone if you leave it on their flesh. I don’t particularly care to test it.”

The mental image of it eating his skin makes you flinch. You gather his gauntlets and follow him. It’s not really surprising he has a Vision—he’s exactly the type the gods would smile upon. Strong. A sense of justice. Triumphant in the face of hardship.

You wonder why the Hydro Archon never smiled upon him. Did she have a premonition of his crimes?

“When did you get it?” You ask softly, once you’ve drawn near to the infirmary and he shifts the weight to better climb the stairs.

“My birthday,” he laughs bitterly. “A lot tends to happen on it for me, huh?”

“A Vision is a blessing, at least.”

Wriothesley hums. “It might be. But it also marks what I had to live through. It’s neither good nor bad.” He sets Dimitri on a bed. Sigewinne will find him eventually. “But it is useful in times like these.”

–——–

Wriothesley is anxious. He shouldn’t be—asking for favors beyond the scope of what prisoners are meant to have access to and paying in Credit Coupons has long since been standard in the Fortress. He wasn’t even asking for contraband, like some of the tougher, older inmates who used their money and connections to sneak in potions and weapons to keep people in check and feel more powerful than they were.

He was asking the cafeteria’s cook to make cupcakes.

The cook had agreed readily, making cakes that were shockingly nice (the cook was skilled—Wriothesley had just accepted that food in the underworld tended to be dry and the ingredients able to be used were always subpar produce, cuts of meat, or sent in such small quantities that they weren’t able to make a dish excellent) and giving him a frosting bag that looked small in his hand. It was hard to use for that reason, but Wriothesley also just… didn’t have a talent for cake decoration. At least, that was his conclusion when he finished frosting all six, where it slid onto the sides and made such messy spirals; he didn’t think you could tell that they were meant to be spirals.

It was for a small thing, too—another reason his nerves felt ridiculous. Your sentence, the ten years spent below the sea, was ending that day. Wriothesley had wanted to celebrate, though he was not deluded into thinking you’d walk out and see the sun again just yet. Your debt was substantial and paying it off above the sea would only make the interest steeper and attach the ball and chain of parole to what was meant to be your freedom. But you had celebrated his birthday for four years now, since you’d found out the date (and, shamefully, he realizes he still doesn’t know yours).

He wanted to, for a change, celebrate you.

His hand holding the plate shakes a little, and he shifts his attention to check that none of the frosting stuck to the dust jacket of the book he’d gotten you. It was a frivolous purchase, a bit pricey, the exact thing he’d scold you for spending money on when you still have your debt to deal with. He can envision it clearly, you whining that, “you always tell me not to waste money! Why can you and I can’t?” in that exasperated tone you take when you think he’s not being fair. But you’d enjoy it; he knew you would. When it released, news trickled down through the shoddy welding and into whispers, and you’d lamented how desperately you wanted to read something new—instead of the same book you got a few years back and have since read so thoroughly the spine had cracked. And, particularly, you wanted to read this book because the whispers around it were so interesting—an analysis of entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure making it to publication in Fontaine, of all places, had piqued your interest. It was fiction, sure, but you bitterly hated Fontaine’s idea of the arts and their value—he’d been subject to many a rant on the topic. It only made sense you wanted to read something a bit more scathing, even if it would be dulled in its sharpness by the packaging of “any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental”.

Wriothesley had also offered to pay off your debt a few times by now, but he’d learned his lesson after the second. He had enough Coupons to cover the difference for your unadulterated freedom and would drop them on the bill in a heartbeat, but you’d refused—said you wanted to earn it. He knew it was pride. He also knew better than to push you on it. Cupcakes and a book would have to do.

He stands awkwardly in the doorframe for a moment. You know he’s there, he’s sure of it. He’s grateful the other inmates that sleep in the same room are away—that only you are witnessing the way he awkwardly shuffles in and tries to shield the presents from your view until he gives up and puts them on the small trunk you use as a coffee table and mumbles out a gruff “congrats on your sentence ending…” with red cheeks.

He’s still a little awkward and stiff, shifting nervously as you look at him and then, slowly, read the title of the book and look at the messily frosted cupcakes and the way frosting smushed onto the side of a few.

He wants you to say something.

He doesn’t expect what you do, though, stiffening as you suddenly let out a soft, happy gasp and hug him tightly, your arms wrapping over his shoulders and squeezing. Wriothesley hasn’t ever been this close to you, where your chest presses fully against his and his nose tucks against your hair—you smell good, and he swears his heart stutters when your fingers find their way to the hair at the base of his neck and grip to steady your balance.

His pulse stutters more when he feels your lips softly brush against the scar on his throat when your chin tucks against his shoulder. He doesn’t think you meant to kiss him—in fact, he’s almost certain you didn’t, but the touch short circuits his brain and by the time he remembers he needs to hug you back, needs to move his arms from where they hang limply by his sides, you’ve pulled away suddenly and turned your gaze to the presents. Almost like you can’t bear to look at him.

“I—” you frown, and Wriothesley blinks owlishly at you. His brain was still caught on the warmth of the hug, and the way it felt to have you that close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it’s just been so long since I’ve been this happy…” Your voice grows quiet, arms wrapping protectively around yourself.

Wriothesley realizes, finally, that you think you messed up by hugging him. “It’s okay,” he whispers softly, tone gentle—the kind he’d adopt to coax a scared kitten, one he has used just for that back when he was thirteen, and a small, hungry calico used to linger by his small tent. “I just haven’t been hugged like that before. Ever.” He admits it shakily, a bit ashamed. The fact that this was the most affection he’d ever been given, that he would lock up so horrifically at such a neutral action he’d make you feel like you’d done something wrong by being happy, felt terrible. “I’m not used to it, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t unwelcome, __.”

He inches slightly closer, fingers twitching as he places his palm on your arm before gently turning you to face him again. Goosebumps bloom beneath his fingers and your downcast expression pricks his heart. You look vulnerable and defeated in a way he’s not used to, weak and gentle in the palm of his hand as it skates up to your jawline and his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley is soft, achingly gentle, and as his gaze falls to your lips again, he realizes he wants to kiss you. He wants the brush of your lips along his throat to have been just that—a kiss. Maybe one you didn’t intend, but one he could have you replicate until his pulse flutters beneath your attention. “Is this okay?” He asks that a bit late, calloused thumb still tracing the planes of your face like he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know if he can. You look so vulnerable and sweet—and he should feel guilty. He does. He’s upset you on a day you should be celebrating, he’s potentially pushing boundaries by leaning into the care you have for him, but, selfishly, he wants to soak up a bit more of that affection.

You lean into his palm despite his doubts, nuzzling against the warmth of his hand cupping your cheek, the scratch of scars and callouses over your smooth skin. You’re warm under his fingers. Probably from your shyness, but he entertains the thought it is borne of want instead. A blush from his proximity. Wriothesley has never thought much about love. He didn’t feel much of a need for it. The love he’d been given, by his mother and father, had been conditional—despite the honeyed words and gentle hugs and promises of forever they’d given him; that love was rescinded and dried up the second he aged out of their favor. Living on the streets, or in the Fortress, didn’t give much for love either. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and, to come out on top, Wriothesley had long since learned that vulnerability was a weakness.

But the warmth of love and affection was much like the sun. People blossomed in it. He wanted that warmth and light, the blooming heat of being desired. His eyes fall to your lips once more: the soft curves; the deeper color where you’d chewed your bottom lip; the way they smush together from the force of his hand on your cheek into an endearing pout. And this his eyes trail to the cast of your lashes as you gaze downward, still hesitant to meet his gaze. The line of your nose. How he wouldn’t change a feature of yours, not as he watches with rapt, maybe inappropriate, focus while you blink back the glassiness of tears and furrow your brow in an effort to not look weak.

You’re using her, a nasty, persistent voice—his own—needles into him, you know you are. Why are you only entertaining these ideas when she’s like this? It gives him pause, enough that he drops his hand when your eyes flutter, and you meet his gaze with watery eyes. You deserve better than for him to act on a spur of the moment desire, even if it takes white knuckling his shirt with his other hand while he waits for you to find the words. Wriothesley thinks you deserve reciprocity. A better man than him.

“I’m okay,” you laugh softly, warmer and gentler than he expected. “Just a little embarrassed.”

He shakes his head and goes to deny it, but you shush him quickly.

“Are you okay?” You tilt your head, and he flushes under the weight of your gaze. It’s always been piercing—stripped down every wall he’d ever built with surgical precision and a kindness he never felt he deserved. “I know you don’t really like—I mean, I don’t know, but I assume you don’t like hugs… or any of that. I don’t… I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I don’t think that was okay.”

Wriothesley snorts, even smiles. “It’s alright. It’s rare to be so happy you lose control of yourself… at least down here. I’m glad that you’re happy.” It was nice to have you so close to me. “You were excited. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

–——–

You avoid Wriothesley for roughly a week after that night.

It’s easy to do. The production zone’s forges are almost always lit, heat simmering in the air and orange illuminating the cogs until the guards shut it down for curfew. Mindlessly working the machines until your shoulders ache and the muscles scream doesn’t leave time for conversation.

It does, unfortunately, leave time for thought. A mental replay of the stiffness to Wriothesley’s shoulders; how his hands slowly move and remained clumsy once he reacted; and, worst of all, how you still didn’t get a glimpse into his thoughts—it remained rushed apologies and reassurances that you were fine to be happy, to be emotional. Not whether or not he wanted affection from you.

Honestly, it just stung.

You had thought that you and Wriothesley got along well—and, sure, you’ve found him handsome since back when you were both teenagers, and you saw him, still lanky and boyish, tight-lipped as Sigewinne stitched him up, in the infirmary. But attraction aside, you hadn’t expected him to hate being touched so much. Perhaps foolishly, it had been easy to think that he didn’t mind closeness if it came from you.

And it was embarrassing to have kissed his neck. It wasn’t fully intentional, not really, but you’d be a liar if you’d said you hadn’t thought of it before. Many times, you’d imagined the scratch of his stubble along your cheek and jaw; the soft curve of his mouth contrasted by the fact his lips were almost always chapped (partly thanks to his tendency to pick the skin); and you’d pictured the way he might melt into it.

Now, he didn’t seem the type.

At least he hadn’t commented on it. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to face him again if he had.

You suppose the worst part was there was a moment where you thought he might have reciprocated your interest—he’s always been sweet, and kind, even if he was a bit rough on the edges and guarded when you first met. But there, over his cupcakes and presents, when his thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, you could’ve sworn he looked at you like he wanted you too.

Wriothesley has quite expressive eyes, and now, years into knowing him, you find them pretty easy to read—you’ve learnt each furrow to his brows, and the appearance of fine lines, formed from stress and aging, when emotion twists his features. And when his gaze fell to your lips, warmer than a blue that icy should ever be, they looked like maybe, just maybe, he could want you too.

Now, you’ve taken up one of the tunnel welding jobs. There’s a guard, only half-paying attention, at the entrance, and a damp, mossy wall of stone to your left as you add rivets and force paneling to agree with the curved shapes and haphazardly aligned beams. It’d be easy to not work. Your only monitor is toying with a cigarette and distracted by every patrol that comes by below the stairs.

It helps, though. When the sparks fly, and you carefully merge sheets of thick metal, and place large rivets as best you can; you don’t exactly have the time to endlessly think through Wriothesley’s reactions, and where you stand with him.

The guard leaves you at one point—you think maybe curfew?

But you remain, despite your handiwork growing sloppy, your eyes heavy, and your protective gear (cast aside hours ago once condensation began fogging your vision and sweat slicked your hair to your temples).

You don’t even remember slumping forward with exhaustion.

When you regain your senses, it’s to the sound of your welding gun clanking against the panel beneath your knees. Then, the heavy thud of boots splashing in the puddles where water drips steadily onto the unfinished floor.

“There you are.”

You barely lift your head, blinking blearily at the wall. “Have you been looking?”

It’s no surprise when Wriothesley answers, with what sounds like a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” There’s a sound of his boot scuffing against metal, and you can sense his presence behind you—from both his proximity and the shadow it casts in front of you, barely there in the low light. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Hm.” You catch the implication, the undercurrent of worry, but, for once, you want him to externalize his thoughts for you. You don’t want there to be a chance of you misreading him and projecting your fondness for him into the smallest acts of care. “Have I?”

“C’mon, __,” Wriothesley implores, voice softening as he sweeps a bit of soot from your temple. “You know you have been. Are you upset with me?”

You poke your cheek with your tongue, then sigh. “Not exactly. I’m worried I overstepped.” It stings to admit. “That it’s not okay, even with what you said.”

Wriothesley shifts to kneel down next to you, and it takes every bit of restraint you have to not turn to face him once he’s fully in your periphery.

“You didn’t.” He laughs, but it’s empty, an almost bitter, half-sound devoid of amusement. “I know I can be… difficult. Especially when you put me next to someone like you—you don’t really have issues feeling and expressing.” Wriothesley clicks his tongue and sighs. “Whatever, it’s beside the point. What I’m trying to—what I want to say, is your kindness and happiness is not unwelcome. They’re my issues, not yours.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.” Wriothesley pauses for a bit. You turn your chin a little to sneak glances at him, and it’s like you can see the words sitting on his tongue. There’s a solemness to his face, a cast to his jaw, that feels like you’ve stripped him bare. “My… history with love is not something you had any part in. And I’m really sorry it made you… I don’t know. Think I don’t care, maybe? That I used you?”

He laughs bitterly, muscles in his jaw ticking as he swallows thickly. “I guess I think I don’t deserve it. That’s all. I haven’t been hugged much. I was surprised.”

You frown, go to comfort him and smooth the furrow between his brows with your thumb, but it seems like now that he’s started; the words come on their own accord.

Wriothesley settles more, slumping next to you—so close your thighs touch, and his fingers find a seam on the inside of his jacket that he rolls over and over between his thumb and index finger as he speaks. “Love, affection, care… they’ve all only ever been a means to an end. A way to get ahead at the cost of someone else’s emotions and belief in you. I don’t know if you remember what I’m in here for, but it was parricide.

“I killed my parents. Love, for them, was… a way to make money. To make sure no one asked questions like ‘where’s that boy you fostered now?’ I was loved. I loved… love… them. But when I got too old, too—I don’t even know. Not worth it? They went to sell me to the highest bidder. And it’s hard to reconcile that with the fact that, when I was really young, they brushed my hair before bed and read to me until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“Or that they took my eggs out of the pan before everyone else’s at breakfast, because I liked them a little runnier.” He laughs, and it’s a little watery. When you finally turn fully to look at him, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears. “I ran away, at first, you know?”

“You had to live,” you whisper.

“I know,” Wriothesley said. “But it meant I left every kid they fostered and let them get their hopes up the same way. I found apprenticeships, I scrounged the streets and got into fights here and there. Made my gauntlets. But I never did anything until my little sister was too old for them. I just… it was okay if it happened to me, but not her.

“I was fine with scraps for clothes, only a bulle fruit I plucked off a tree on my stomach. I could take it. But I couldn’t let them do it to her and… it was the only way I could think to stop them. It’s just hard. To hear that I’m loved, and then have them try to dispose of me, and do it again, and again, and again.”

It’s obvious what he means to finish on. How do you reconcile that? How do you feel comfortable being cared for when all that ever was… was a lie?

Wriothesley leans back a bit.

The silence is palpable. He doesn’t turn to leave.

“I don’t know what to say,” you manage. “I mean—thank you for telling me, but…”

“It’s okay.” Wriothesley smiles. He tilts his head and just looks at you for a bit. “You don’t have to find the words to comfort me. I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I’ve done. I just didn’t want you to think you’d done something wrong.”

You turn towards him fully. It’s a relief to hear, but also deeply upsetting. There’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow against a few times. He’s suffered so much, you think. It was impressive that he could still keep going.

“Still, I’m happy you told me and trusted me with it,” you tell him. “You’re not a big sharer.”

He laughs. “I’m not, am I?”

“No. Like a ten-thousand-piece puzzle.”

That makes him snort. You smile, fondness blossoming in your chest. “I’m still sorry if the hug made you uncomfortable, though. Reasons aside, I don’t ever want to make you unhappy.”

“I know.”

“I, um, I want you to be happy too, you know? Not just me.” He grins, studying the nervous twitch to your lips when he held unexpected eye contact for a moment too long. “You deserve it. If I can do anything to make you happier, I want to.”

Silence stretches for a bit. When Wriothesley speaks again, his tone has dropped a bit lower and rougher. “Anything?”

When you meet his gaze, the gleam of humor is gone. There’s a sincerity to them that makes your stomach do flips. “Yeah,” you mumble. “If it’s something neither of us will regret… yeah.”

“I can promise I won’t regret it.” He doesn’t move just yet, restraint tensing every muscle as he maintains the distance. When your gaze flits down to his lips, a little chapped like always, he smiles. “Can I kiss you, __?”

The sound of your name on his tongue makes you shiver.

“Yes.” Your whisper is just as fragile as the thread of restraint between the two of you. Your permission snips it, and you curl into the warmth of his hand along your jaw and the soft, sweet press of his lips to yours. His stubble scratches your skin, and his lips aren’t smooth; but the soft, shaky inhale he takes, and way he melts into you, not pushing to take anything, is perfect.

When you lean into him with a bit more urgency and force as you meld against him, hands moving to cling to his broad shoulders, he smiles. Your noses bump together and your teeth clash against his in a small, blunt annoyance. When you giggle, he swallows the sound with a soft sigh and guides the tilt of your head with the hand cradling your cheek until you slot perfectly against him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

When he finally pulls back for air, your lungs burn for oxygen and your face is warm. Wriothesley isn’t much better—chest heaving a little; cheeks flushed a deep red; and his eyes look a little hazy where they remain trained on your lips.

When you laugh softly, he blinks at you, almost deer in headlights. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

He looks away suddenly, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the next shaky breath he takes. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” There’s an amused lilt to his voice, and he shakes his head to not laugh at his own nerves. “It must’ve been agonizing.”

“It will be, if you don’t kiss me again.”

Wriothesley smiles, the soft, boyish lilt that makes your heart ache. And never the type to purposefully cause harm, he does kiss you again, and again, and again.

–——–

Dating Wriothesley is so normal, you often forget you’re still leagues beneath the sea. It’s easy to imagine buying a home with him, adopting a cat, strolling down side alleys in the city and spending exorbitant amounts of Mora on trinkets; on homemade mugs that have chips in the pottery or uneven glaze that Wriothesley feels guilty getting for a discount, despite their flaws, because the creator spent time making each one, and money on the clay; on plants where you’ll bicker about what windowsill it’d look best in, and which room has the best sunlight for life.

Sunlight. It’d be nice to bicker about that, to have it.

Today, you also imagine watching the fireworks the Palais Mermonia sets off for the new year. It’s a newer tradition. One you’d seen in newspapers weeks after the event—it started a few years back. You’re not sure why. But you imagine it’s beautiful. Lights and colors giving the stars a run for their money, and the glimmering reflection on the ever-rising sea like a scattering of gemstones. It’d be cold, you think, with the spray off the surf carried by the wind, and the night deep enough the cicadas have begun to sing.

You think you’d tuck into his chest, with your head under his chin, just like you are now. Then, drape his coat or a blanket haphazardly over both of you, and stay until the night sky goes still.

“What are you thinking about?” Wriothesley asks, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Life up there,” you murmur, nuzzling closer. He shivers a little when your nose brushes his collarbone. For a man with a Cryo vision, he’s shockingly bad with the cold. “With you.”

“Yeah?” His smile is evident in his voice. “If you could wish for anything, right now, what it’d be?” Wriothesley’s fingers trace along the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up in your back, and you swear it feels like he’s writing I love you every now and then. “I heard people makes wishes and plans for the new year when they do the fireworks.”

You hum, trying to twist to view him a bit better. It’s hard to see him in the low light, but you can make out the shadow his stubble casts and fading patches of lavender from a days-old bruise by his eye. He’s a bit disheveled, but he’s yours. The messiness of his hair, and the threadbare, worn-soft shirt he has on—it’s all reserved just for you.

“I have everything I could want.”

Wriothesley hums when you say that, and then slowly asks, “even if your debt could be paid off, in full? You wouldn’t wish for that?”

You consider him for a moment. “I—of course I want to be done being an inmate, Wrio. But I’ve got you. I don’t mind it taking longer.” I wouldn’t want to leave you alone down here.

He laughs. Then shifts to burrow his head in your hair, placing a kiss on your scalp and inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “Okay,” he agrees. “But say the word, and I’m buying you out.”

It’s sweet—stated like a no-brainer to let you walk the surface again, even if it costs him thousands.

“What about the order you wanna buy?”

Wriothesley snorts. “It can wait. Until you’re free. You can always visit me and check on my progress.”

“Tempting… conjugal visits.”

He pulls back a little to look you in the eyes. “If you want to go, I’ll make it work. I promise. A pretty girl like you should be frolicking in the fields. Not in dorms that smell like mildew.” He scrunches his nose a little. Your last bit of candles can’t light anymore, and it really does smell terrible. You laugh, and he follows with a helpless smile.

“Promise you’ll frolic with me? Whenever we leave?”

“I could be convinced.”

When you smile, Wriothesley’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his laughter quickly fades. You hear the thump of your own heart, and his slow, steady breathing.

“You seem like you could be convinced to do a lot of things.” The joke falls short in the heavy tension suddenly blanketing you both. Then, his fingers tilt your chin up to look at him.

“If it involves you, yeah.” Wriothesley doesn’t even try to argue your point, and he leans close enough you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. “I’m always down.”

His eyes have darkened significantly, and that, along with his proximity and the scent of his cologne wrapping around you, is enough to have your pulse racing.

“You should probably say no to me sometimes. You’ll spoil me.”

Wriothesley smiles, and then he kisses you so sweetly that you forget how to breathe.

“I like you spoiled, silly girl,” he murmurs, dragging his kisses down to your jaw. He’s pleased when your breath hitches, and you make a soft, sweet sound as he makes small bruises along your throat. “You’re always so good f’me.”

“I am?” You ask breathlessly. You’re already pliant from the warm, calloused skin meeting your ribs as his hands slowly ruck up your shirt; but the affirming hum makes you practically melt into him. Wriothesley’s had you like this, sweet and wanting, on his palms many times by now—but it’s the first time he’s left a nearby lamp on.

“‘Course,” he agrees, lowering his head to kiss your breasts. “Look at you. Sweet and pretty.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” you say.

Wriothesley laughs and shakes his head. “That’s okay. I can see how pretty you are.”

You can see how pretty he is, too, when he tugs his shirt off and flings it to who knows where with yours. The scars along his chest, neck, arms, and hands; a small, dark smattering of hair along his pecs and another patch trailing down into his pants; and, more importantly, the sparkle to his eyes and a smile that won’t quite fade from his lips.

“You’re pretty, too,” you tell him. It’s hard to focus on the shy smile he gives you, because his right hand starts tracing your hip bones. “I like seeing you.”

He kisses you again. It’s slow and deep. Your heart aches. “I know, baby, I know.”

He does know. You’ve always made it a point to compliment him, and you can’t count the number of times he’s caught you staring, even during the most mundane tasks, on both hands. Wriothesley knows you think he’s attractive—he knows you even find the scars on the back of his hands charming. You’ve traced the shapes with the excuse of “putting ointment on so they heal right!” more times than he can remember, long after the skin had healed. He knows you like the dimple under his mouth, and how it’s only really visible when he gives a close-lipped smile because you’ve flustered him. He knows you like the crooked set to his nose bridge where a break didn’t heal quite right. You even comment on and embrace the gray streaks in his hair, cooing any time you notice a new silver strand down at the root.

And he loves you. Finds you beautiful. He adores it all. He’ll admire the curve of your hip into your waist, the soft, plush skin that gives under and fills his hands perfectly as readily as he’ll admire your hands; and how they slot into his, or squeeze his cheeks so hard he can’t talk, or card through his hair until he falls asleep. Wriothesley loves the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes when you laugh, and the way your nose scrunches up when you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

When he has you like this, he loves the arch of your spine and unconscious part of your lips. It’s clearer now than it’s ever been, with the golden lamplight making your skin glow. Your back arches when he finally slips pants and underwear away to test how wet you are on his fingers, and your lips pliantly welcome his other hand’s thumb. You nip gently when he trails his fingers away from your clit to your inner thigh to watch the way the muscles quake.

“Sorry, princess.” He’s not very sorry. He wants to catalogue every reaction you could ever have.

“Touch me.” It’s the brattiest you ever really get with him—when you start to impatiently wiggle to meet his touch or demand that he picks up the pace. He doesn’t deny you, even if he should. He does love you spoiled, after all.

“I am,” he reminds, laughing when you scowl. He lets his thumb roll over your clit and sinks his index to the first knuckle with no resistance.

When you moan softly, you can see him swallow and hear his breathing hitch. He slowly and steadily works you open until you take two fingers easily, curling and scissoring inside you until all you can hear is his palm meeting your soaked cunt. It’s obscene. It makes you want him so bad.

“You okay? You’re doing so good for me.” Wriothesley bends to kiss your temple, and you whine.

“Want you, Wrio. ‘m ready.”

He huffs out a laugh, melting against you when you drag him down to kiss you properly. He loves when your nails catch along his shoulders, and he loves more when you insistently tug down at the root of his hair.

“Okay, okay,” Wriothesley says. “So greedy.”

You are greedy. You watch the skin being presented with hungry eyes as he discards his pants and underwear. Your throat goes dry when his thick cock slaps against his stomach, and you can see the slick of his precum shining on his abdomen. He’s been bulking a bit lately—something about a tournament in the fighting rings? You don’t really care about the reason, but you’re grateful. He looks strong and sturdy. His tip is flushed a pinkish-red, and his cock twitches when you spread your legs a bit more open and shift your weight to lean further back.

“Such a pretty girl,” he croons.

The confidence falters the second he presses into you. His hips stutter a little, and he bites back a husky moan when your wet, warm walls welcome him so readily. Wriothesley presses his forehead to yours and steels himself for a moment with a deep breath.

“So deep,” you whimper as he finds a slow, steady pace that grinds his pelvis against your clit. Every time he bottoms out, the friction catches so deliciously it makes it hard to breathe.

His brow furrows at the praise, and you feel him twitch inside you. He kisses you messily—more breathing in each other than proper kisses, because his attention fades from nipping and licking your lip to the steady flutter of your pulse around him, and the arousal that only grows and slicks his skin when it meets yours.

When your back arches from the pleasure, one of his hands moves to brace there. His thumb rubs soothing circles onto the skin as your breath begins to catch more, and your moans grow weak. It’s possessive, too. A grip you know will leave bruises.

You lace your fingers through sweat-slick hair, tangled at the base of his skull.

“Wrio—” you whine brokenly, hips canting in slow, steady rolls that feel mind-numbingly good.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He’s twitching inside you, a telltale sign he’s close, too. The flex of his muscles you manage to see through blurry, teary-eyed vision makes the heat in your stomach burn brighter. “You can wait a second, right?”

“Kiss me,” you plead instead.

He does.

It’ll do both of you in, and you both know it. Your muscles twitch uncontrollably, and his breath pauses before he groans low and slow, spilling inside you right as your peak crashes into you. Wriothesley fucks you through it. He always does, until he’s outright whimpering into kisses because overstimulation has crawled up his spine and everything stings. But he needs you to feel good—he’s desperate for the way your breathing slowly returns to normal, and the way you melt beneath him into the mattress.

Even after he can catch his breath through the heady air, he stays in you until you push him and the heavy crush of his torso off you. He’ll wipe you clean and draw the lightest, coolest sheet over your bodies, and his greedy hands will keep tracing along your spine.

“I love you,” he whispers after a few moments of sated silence. “So much.”

“I know,” you answer. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles under the touch. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and he relishes in your affection. “I’m staying, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Until you can leave, too. What’s the point of being free if I don’t have you up there with me?”

Wriothesley hums. His eyes are soft and sweet. He looks carefree. “As long as you’re happy, I hope you’ll allow me to be greedy and keep you next to me.”

You laugh. “I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind.”

“I’ll be heartbroken if you do.”

–——–

The day Wriothesley’s sentence ends, the administrator runs for the hills.

He’d been challenged to a duel he could never win and was too much of a coward to be imprisoned in the same place he used to grow rich off the inmates’ labor. None of the guards particularly cared. One even ‘dropped’ the master key in Wriothesley’s path when he went to process his release paperwork. He hung it on the same chain his Cryo vision now proudly dangles from.

Taking over the Fortress is relatively easy. He’s earned the respect of the staff, and equal amounts of fear and awe in the other inmates. No one dared to challenge him—or, rather, no one who valued their own health did. Any foolish enough to bristle over Wriothesley taking up the mantle were swiftly reminded why he’d gone nearly undefeated in the underground ring.

The first thing he does, now a free man granted power, is strike your debt.

“You paid far more than 100,000 Mora,” Wriothesley said simply, when you asked why. It wasn’t a secret the value had been changing at will, but it was a relief to hear you could leave.

You didn’t, not yet.

Instead, you stayed to watch him set up an actual arena for fights—with more rules and regulations, so anyone fighting or betting had some level of protection he was never granted as a participant. He fixed the cafeteria. He extended friendly relations and mutual support back to the Palais Mermonia (and you’d teased him about making a friend with the Iudex and Sigewinne, though he protested for a month or two that the Head Nurse would always be more like his mother).

You weren’t happy about meeting the Iudex in a personal capacity at first. But you were quick to learn he was gentle and caring, and that he did not blame you for your actions or find you wrong. Just that the laws did. And as judge, he would defer to them in official capacities. He was charming and earnest. The type of man you’d want Wriothesley to be friends with, and more ammunition to help when Wriothesley got caught in his head (“Neuvillette wouldn’t be friends with you if you were a bad person, you know?”).

Once everything settles, he asks you about leaving more seriously.

“You know you can go back up, right?” Wriothesley’s voice is gentle. It’s a conversation he doesn’t really want to have. He likes having you close, he likes waking up to you, but he knows you’ve wanted to return above the sea since you entered twelve years ago.

“I know,” you tell him, tracing a finger along the rim of your teacup. They were new, courtesy of Sigewinne. “But I like being here with you. It’s not so bad.”

“A glowing review,” he murmurs dryly. “But, really. I have to stay down here now as the administrator. If you want to go back up, don’t stay on my accord. You can visit anytime. I can visit you—”

“I would want to go up with you.”

He nods. “I will. But I will have to work. You can slap me if I ever go too long without visiting. I’m not a coward; I can take it.”

“Will you press charges?” You’re teasing him now, smiling at the way he rolls his eyes. Both of you know you wouldn’t want to hit him and that he’d barely feel it if you did.

“Never, it’s the consequences of my actions. I’ll face them bravely.”

You grin and lean across the table to kiss him.

“I think… you should just get a bed big enough for the two of us. You have a fancy room back there. It can fit two.”

“Even if we don’t have the sunlight?”

“We’ll still get some from time to time,” you giggle. “Surely, you don’t think you’re getting out of your promise to frolic in the meadows with me?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is infinitely fond. “I promised you’d see the sun again someday. Maybe we’ll see the snow, too.”

You give an exaggerated sigh and pinch his cheek. “Guess I’ll have to buy you a scarf then.”

That makes his cheeks turn red. “You’re a fiend.”

“Mm, and all yours.” Wriothesley smiles wider.

For all the time you spent worrying that you’d never see the sun again, you can’t help but laugh softly. You’d made your own light far below the tide, using an amber lamp to light up a bedroom and future just for the two of you.

۶۟ৎ nyx's notes: i have been suffering and struggling with this for months. this is all i have im sorry.

[nyxessence]

sunshine leagues beneath the tide. ۶۟ৎ when you were sentenced to ten years beneath the sea, you didn't quite expect to find love and light that makes you never want to leave.

— wriothesley x female reader (__ used in place of y/n); canon compliant i think i did a lot of research and timeline stuff for his age and inventions and such but if there is anything wrong please ignore it; strangers to lovers; slow burn (for me); mentions of rape (not shown or discussed in depth but reader was imprisoned for attacking a friend's unnamed rapist); mentions of violence; themes of grief; spoilers (wrio's story); sex scene (unprotected piv, body worship, praise, just two people in love). might have inconsistencies or grammar issues, was very minimally edited. i apologize. ۶۟ৎ 13.7k words. please be kind to her. no part two!!!

“According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mecanique d’Analyse Cardinale, __ is guilty.” The Iudex’s eyes meet yours, and you shift uncomfortably, shrinking under the venom of the crowd’s gazes. The lights in the Opera Epiclese are strong enough you can’t see much, but the buzz of electricity and chatter makes you feel sick. “To be punished by ten years in the Fortress of Meropide, and a fine of 100,000 Mora to be paid via labor.”

How unfair. The crowd jeers and you stumble backwards as a Garde tightly grips your arm and yanks you off the stand with enough force that you hiss, shoulder aching from the way he twists it. “Come along,” the man barks, and you blink back the tears that have been prickling at the edge of your vision, nod, and glance back at the crowd—already dispersing now that the entertainment has wrapped up and been removed from their view.

The last thing swallowed by the lights in your vision is your Archon’s smiling face. Delighted. Like you were but a character in a play. 

It’s a blur, being dragged down to an elevator on the edge of the ocean, faces and voices swimming around you, choppy bits of not-so-hushed whispers asking, “how could someone accuse and assault such a good man?” and how you were getting what you deserved.

You try to keep your head up high when a Gestionarre reads your sentence to you once more and confirms your information for records, you really do. “You will not be allowed to leave the Fortress of Meropide for the duration of your sentence. You will not be permitted to bring items inside with you. Your sentence may be extended for the duration it takes to pay off your fines.” Her cold eyes bore unflinchingly into yours. “You will leave by this elevator in ten years’ time, should your debt be paid.”

Ten years. Ten years for daring to prevent another crime, for believing that that sniveling coward of a man would make good on the promises he’d been leaving your friend for years and choosing to protect her dignity at the cost of his (not that he had much. He was pathetic and afraid, always harming her in private while pretending to be the kind of man your parents would want you to bring home). You scoff. Your handcuffs are tugged harshly at the sound before you’re dragged into the center of the elevator platform. The sun burns your eyes as you look up at the bright blue sky, perfectly clear. The Hydro Dragon would not cry for you. The brightness stings, but you stubbornly look upwards until the musky gloom of the Fortress envelops you and you’re dragged forward to a desk in a line of other prisoners, uncuffed, and promptly left alone as the Garde hurries back above ground like the air itself would taint them.

That was fine. It was silence you desperately needed. A break from the chatter that questioned your morals—morals you knew were strong in their convictions and actions you would, should you need to, repeat again. Even the stagnant air of the Fortress warns of its unchanging state, mildew that must have never been cleaned mixing with metallic acridity. Fitting, for prisoners, you supposed. To have a sensory experience that assaulted the senses at worst and provided nothing but the bare minimum at best. A punishment, in its own right, to compliment the sentence the Oratrice handed to everyone this deep below the sea.

The receptionist is an older woman, privileged to live a life so long that the joints of her hand have begun to stiffen. That’s the main thing you notice, signaled as she grips the pen to fill out your forms with more force than something so flimsy needed. How terrible, you think, lips pressing into a thin line, to live so long and see and do so much, only to spend your days in such a dank tunnel, writing down the information of Fontaine’s worst.

You wonder how often she sees the sun.

“Name?” She glances up at you. 

“__,” you provide, and you spell it, too. You can’t help your curiosity, and as she starts an obviously practiced spiel about where to go and what to do next, interrupt “do you miss the sun?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The sunlight.” There’s restless movement behind you, other new inmates wondering what’s taking you so long. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying it?”

She smiles at you, and it feels like pity. “I do.” Places her pen down, shuffles your papers into an orderly stack, clips them, and drops them into a chute just behind her desk. “Next.”

–——–

The next thing of note that happens in the Fortress, other than the first night you spend without a wink of sleep, anxiously jolting at the sound of footsteps around you and the tiny bit of dignity you could still cling to (the new clothing tucked into the dingy trunk at the end of your stiff cot, and the bracelet your friend had given you they’d forgotten to take off your wrist), is the entry of a new inmate a bit over a month after you arrived.

New prisoners come in daily, like clockwork, just another cog in the machine of Meropide’s production. But there’s a buzz around this one, snippets of giddy conversation that felt like being transported back into the Opera Epiclese. 

“I heard he killed his parents! Could you imagine the sight of them?” and “must be an ungrateful brat” and even, “he must be quite strong, then. To kill two so young. Let’s invite him to spar.” It seemed like every inmate you happened across, whether during work or meals or down time, had some form of moral judgment to pass disguised as curiosity directed towards a man who, for all intents and purposes, was just like any of them. A criminal found guilty in the eyes of Fontaine’s courts.

It was interesting, you supposed. Parricide. The whispers of his sentencing made it evident he was young, though that could be gleaned from the leniency of his sentence alone. But it also made people curious—when he was on that stand, blinded by spotlights and surrounded by the buzz of gossip passed behind palms, was there unrest? A genuine uncertainty that brought to light some question of innocence and whether or not punishment was needed? If remediation could be enough? Some form of debate about whether or not his parents deserved it flitted into every conversation for days, despite barely anyone having laid eyes upon him. Just the paperwork that signed away his fate and went into the same chute as anyone else’s. 

It was ridiculous.

You were all in prison. How could any of you claim to be better? All of you had reasons, excuses, a tale you could recite as easily as breathing—some form of conviction and belief in yourself that justified why you were thrown into the Fortress. What gave any of you the right to question his life, his story, his actions? Would it even matter if you knew why? If he had a reason. Would it make it right? More interesting? Or was all the talk just a means to justify the snap judgments the headline alone made?

–——–

The grimy fluorescent lights of the infirmary are not among your favorite things to wake up to. In the bottom five, even. While they were once bright, dust and debris had filtered them to a hazy yellow that, when paired with the head nurse’s meals, was truly horrifying.

You shift, attempting to sit up, and a wave of nausea surges through you, strong enough you groan softly. When you can finally blink away the heaviness to your eyes, you spot another inmate on a cot nearby. He looks to be about your age, with a streak of blood on his shirt sleeve—and, upon closer inspection, Sigewinne appears to be giving him stitches right below the stain. There’s dirt on his cheek and a crooked smile that seems rather out of place for the scolding he’s getting (“you’ve got a death wish, picking a fight with someone so much bigger than you! Do you want to see how many stitches someone can have at once?” and a disapproving click of her tongue). 

You’ve never heard her be so fed up.

It takes effort to turn into a more comfortable position, but you do, snickering when you hear him—“bigger they are, harder they fall, right? I’d take a few stitches in exchange for justice any day.”

Sigewinne hums and finally closes up the wound. She levels him an unimpressed stare “do not move, Wriothesley. I’m going to get some ingredients for an ointment that you will put on as it heals.” She doesn’t seem to notice you’ve woken up as she bustles out of the room, though you’re fine with that. Having her undivided attention is a guarantee you’ll be nagged so thoroughly it’d put generations of mothers to shame.

Slowly, you sit up. Your gaze keeps drifting to the boy—Wriothesley, you suppose—he’s rather scrawny looking, like someone not quite done growing into their frame. There’s a nasty scar on his neck and chest, one that makes you inhale sharply at the sight. It’s a dark mark you can tell will never fade, from the jagged edges of discoloration and the way it’s not flush with the skin. Healed enough to be done healing, but not enough to ever be a mark he could forget. 

“Why are you staring?”

You flinch slightly, taken aback by him suddenly addressing you. “No reason,” you whisper, eyes dropping to the ground as embarrassment rushes through you. His voice is steady for the amount of stitching you saw, betraying no pain. How much has he gone through? You wonder, frowning, that this is nothing to him? 

Your curiosity has always been one of your bigger flaws. You never know when to drop things.

You blurt out “who’d you pick a fight with?” before sense can catch up to you. Thankfully, Wriothesley seems amused, snorting at the question and how your hand slaps to cover your mouth.

“No one important,” he drawls, and there’s a lilt to his voice that betrays that he must be smiling. “Just some asshole shaking down new inmates. Thinks he’s all that.”

It takes a second to register, mind racing through possibilities. And then, “you picked a fight with Dimitri?” You finally look back at him, reassessing his strength. “Are you insane?”

He shrugs. “Maybe. He deserved it. He thinks he’s special, that he’s all that. He’s just a coward.”

“It still looks like he got you pretty good.”

Wriothesley shrugs, though the movement is stiff on the injured arm. “He looks worse than I do. Sigewinne didn’t even need to numb it.”

“She didn’t?” The blood soaking through the fabric makes the wound look pretty sizable.

“I told her not to,” he supplies softly. “There’s no need.”

“Not hurting is a pretty good reason.”

His expression is stormy when you look at him—there’s a hardness to his eyes and the slant of his pressed lips that give you pause. His silence is worse—all you can hear is the buzz of machinery in the air, the hum of the fluorescent lights and distant clanks of metal down in the production zone. The stale air of the infirmary has never been more oppressive than the way the words sit.

Finally, he sighs. He looks at you, unreadable, and gives a small, soft smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hurting is inevitable.”

You can’t press him on it. You didn’t have a right to, but even if you did, Sigewinne had just returned with hurried instructions for her nurse of the day and her hands full. She finishes up with him quickly, sending him off with an earful about picking better battles and how she’ll know if he doesn’t use the ointment, and she’ll track him down herself to put it on if he doesn’t. He’d laughed easily and dodged her out the door like it was a daily occurrence.

“__,” Sigewinne turns to you and you stiffen, smiling apologetically at the stern look on her face. “We’ve talked about this before, haven’t we?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She sighs. “No need to be sheepish.” She hands you a painkiller and some water and hums when you take them. “But working all day and night won’t get you out of here any faster.”

“I know…” you mumble, setting the glass down on the bedside table.

“Then stop doing it,” she pleads. “Resting will mean better work. And better days. That’s better than getting out with injuries from your impatience.”

You huff. “I’m not injured.” It falls flat when you’re in the infirmary and had to be brought in by other inmates that’d found you alone in the tunnels you were welding, with gear scattered haphazardly around your slumped figure and soot along your cheeks. “Fine. I’ll be better.”

“I will personally make sure of that, too.” Sigewinne squints at you. “You may go.”

–——–

Debt was one of the worse sentences the Oratrice could give. Going under the tide was expected if you were found guilty, but with how the Fortress ran solely on Credit Coupons (which seemed to have market fluctuations based on the administrator’s whims), any effort towards paying off your sentence would be foiled by having to pay for the bare necessities. Hungry? Need new bedding? You had to pay for it with the Coupons earned from your labor.

You were faced with this again, knuckles whitening as you tightly grip the flimsy plastic tray and stare down at the small, sloppily wrapped sandwich—the cling wrap has gaps, the bread’s gone stale, and the cook stares back at you. Not without sympathy, but not enough to sneak something else to you across the counter. “Costs went up again. This is what the minimum gets today.”

“Thanks…” you say. You try to smile at the guy working. He’s nice enough. You know it doesn’t meet your eyes.

You’re about to turn and sit to choke it down when someone behind you speaks.

“I’ll cover a bit more. Add a few sides.”

When you turn, you’re met with the boy—Wriothesley, you remind yourself—from the infirmary. He regards the cook steadily, expression unreadable. He jerks his chin slightly, and suddenly, the cook scrambles to action and places a decent looking salad and what appears to be some snacks next to the sandwich.

Wriothesley tosses a bundle of Coupons without glancing at or counting the amount. “That’s enough for mine and hers.”

You regard him with suspicion. He’s rocking on his heels casually; hands stuck back into his pockets as he waits.

“I was fine, you know.”

His brow raises. “Do you not want it?”

That makes you deflate a little, sighing heavily. It takes a lot to swallow your pride, but you’ve been hungry all week—it’s gnawed at you, and you’ve gotten close to fainting too many times in the production zone. “No, I’ll… I’ll take it. Thank you.”

He grabs his food when it’s placed with a thud on the counter. His eyes narrow at the cook, and it sends a chill down your spine. When you glance down at the tray, it’s filled with food. More than you’ve seen in a bit. Then, you notice there’s raw, broken skin on his knuckles—red, angry, almost splitting with his grip.

“What happened to your hands?”

He looks down at them, like it’s surprising you’d even ask. “Boxing.”

Wriothesley offers nothing more.

When he turns on his heel to walk away, you stop him to hand him a small bit of scrap you’d pocketed from your welding jobs. It’s not much, just metal too warped or thin to work for walls and rivets, and pieces too small for the guards to notice. There’s what looks like burns along his arms, the same kind you’d seen when he was getting stitched. You’d burnt yourself enough in the tunnels that you know how metalworking marks the skin.

He accepts them.

–——–

There’s been a fighting ring in the Fortress for a bit. It’s definitely not official—the participants scatter the second the buzz of a radio on a guard’s hip draws a bit too near to the abandoned tunnel. It’s interesting though. You’re not a fighter, never have been, but it’s easy to consider the betting as a way to make Coupons.

Of course, you know gambling isn’t a good idea. But, in theory, it makes you feel hopeful. So, you end up in that damp, wide, unfinished tunnel today, eyeing two fighters surrounded by a ring of clamoring inmates.

It seems like you’re late to place bets.

You can’t see the fighters—the throng of the crowd is too thick to see through. But you can hear the scrape of metal on metal and hissing elemental energy that seeps outwards as vapor. It doesn’t take long for a victory to be decided; evident by the thud of a body falling and cheers filling the area.

Credit Coupons trade hands swiftly. Everyone disperses even faster.

One of the fighters remains. It’s not shocking that it’s Wriothesley. There’s a bit of blood trickling down his jaw from a small nick, and his chest is heaving from the exertion. He has gauntlets on his hands, with gears ticking and what looks like Cryo crystallizing along the edges. His wrists roll uncomfortably as he is handed a sizable pouch of Coupons from the referee.

You regard the drops of blood speckling the floor, and the elemental residue for a moment more. Then, you turn on your heel and follow behind Wriothesley, a few feet behind. You follow quietly behind him right until the opening of the tunnel. His shoulders are still tense, and he moves cautiously.

When you catch up and go to walk out, he spins and pins you to a wall in just two seconds. Your breath hitches, and your eyes dart from his furrowed brow down to the hand pressed against your throat. It looks like he recognizes you, because the pressure lessens, but he keeps you trapped.

“If you wanted to sneak up on me, you should walk quieter.”

“I didn’t want to,” you croak out, pressing your head backwards to breathe a little easier.

“Then what?” Wriothesley huffs.

“Your hands—” you inhale sharply when he presses a little more. “I have more scrap. For your gauntlets, right?”

Wriothesley drops his hands to his side. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“—and I can walk quietly!”

He laughs at your indignance. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

You sigh, relieved, when he steps back further. “Yeah. I won’t be slandered.”

Wriothesley tilts his head at you. “You’re an odd one. Fine, I’ll barter for your scrap.” He begins walking down the hall and you scurry to follow him and fall in step. “What would you like for it? Potions?”

“I was thinking more… we look out for each other?” Your voice softens nervously. “It’s good to have someone on your side down here.”

There’s a pause as he considers it. “Sure.”

–——–

It becomes a habit to find him after his fights and help fix up his gauntlets after that.

He’s been here—you’ve been here—for about three years now. It’s nice to have someone to trust, even more so when it’s someone as strong as Wriothesley.

He’s grown into his frame and strength now. He’s not lanky anymore, instead stacked with corded, functional muscles. Taller, too, and broad. Everything about his posture and form screams how strong he is. You think he probably doesn’t even need the gauntlets anymore. The callouses on his hands and the force his punches pack would be enough to knock almost anyone flat on their backs.

Wriothesley is normally quiet during repairs. The machinery is small and difficult to work with, and his hands don’t fit in as well as they used to (you’d learnt he made them initially at fourteen, and that made the crude welding much more understandable. He’s far too skilled and in control to make such sloppy welds now).

You’re better at it than he is, carefully reinforcing a segment with slow, steady hands.

“Why do you still use these?” You ask when you pause to inspect them, sitting up and giving your aching back a break from the way you hunch over the work. “You don’t really need them anymore.”

He hums, sliding the gauntlets into his palms and checking the work. He seems pleased by the small smile on his lips. “They make me stronger. Why not?”

“You wouldn’t need to scrounge for scrap is all,” you mumble, setting all his tools back. “And you’re not afraid of stitches. What’s a few more in your hands going to do?”

Wriothesley laughs at that, free and happy. It makes you grin, too.

“Why get them, though? It lets me use Cryo and it makes the fights faster. Very efficient.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, I guess… if you ever leave them in here, I’ll chase off any would-be thieves.”

“You’re not much of a fighter though, are you?”

“I’m not,” you admit. You were only down here because you defended your friend. As protective as you were, you were rash. You’d come to realize Wriothesley wasn’t that quick to anger, and you envied the trait. He was strong, and he was calculated. If anything riled you up enough, it was normally too late to think it through, which being friends with him had made very evident.

“Well,” he says dryly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I think I’m a better guard dog than you.”

When you huff dramatically, he just rolls his eyes with a smile.

–——–

You earn most of your Coupons in the production zone. It felt wrong to bet on Wriothesley—like you were cheating, almost. Of course, the other inmates bet on friends and rigged things, but you had several more years to go. You might as well work to make the time pass.

Wriothesley visits sometimes. When you’ve been forging so long, you can’t wipe the sweat off your brow before more forms, and when you can barely maintain your grip on your tools.

“What do you want to get with all your Coupons?” You ask him. He’s leaning against a wall a few feet away and watching you work—he’ll at least carry the finished rivets to the guard managing the area for you, speeding up your process a little. “You have a lot now, right?”

“I do,” he agrees. It’s nice that he doesn’t rub it in. You don’t know how much he has now, and you think finding out would crush your spirit.

“Do you just want to be rich?” You’re a bit woozy when you straighten and breathe in shakily. The air is stagnant and heavy, and it takes a moment to breathe normally again. “Start with taking over my shifts.”

Wriothesley snorts. “You could just stop taking them. Go place bets. Hell, maybe you could fight in the matches.”

“And get my face folded in?” You scowl at him.

He laughs, and, when the guard isn’t looking, finishes hammering out your last six rivets. He makes it look effortless.

“Maybe you’d be good.” Wriothesley shrugs. “Order. I want to buy order.”

“How do you plan on buying a concept?” You put back the tools and gather all your rivets. He falls into step with you. “Doesn’t seem like something a merchant of smuggled goods can stock.

“It isn’t,” he agrees, arms crossing over his chest. You watch the movement of muscle with rapt attention for a moment before turning away to turn in your work. “But I can buy a chance to make it happen. Make it so people pretend they didn’t see anything.” There’s a certainty to Wriothesley’s voice that intrigues you, but right now you’re too hungry to care.

“Well, restructuring a prison you’re an inmate in seems difficult. Regardless of how rich you are. You can start with buying me lunch.”

He laughs, short and surprised. “Are you always this greedy?”

You shrug. “Will you buy it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

–——–

The steam rising off the tea is a novel sight. It’d been a long time since you had any warm drink, and much less one imported. Wriothesley had chided you for the purchase, but you were firmly of the belief that you should still have small joys in your life, even when you’re well under the sea. 

You had caught him in the cafeteria earlier, told him with bright eyes and slightly warm cheeks that you had tea—from Liyue, and a new blend at that—if he’d like to come try it.

It surprises you when he shows up. It shouldn’t, but it does. His gauntlets are off, perhaps in his dormitory, and his hair looks damp. He’s rather unguarded and domestic in a way that makes your pulse flutter. When he sits next to you, you finally break the silence with a soft, almost shy “you can pick first.” He’s smiling freely as he spins the mug around and studies it. Inhales. Sighs out happily, humming at the aroma and the warmth on his fingers as he lifts it. By the way his brows raise and the corner of his mouth lilts, it’s a good blend and steeped well. That makes you happy.

“It’s delicious,” he mumbles, leaning his head back on the edge of your cot. You lean down and grab your own before resting back on the wooden frame, studying his expression. “It was an irresponsible purchase. But… an enjoyable one, I must admit.”

You laugh, nudging his shoulder with your socked foot. “Must you chide me now? Just enjoy it.”

He shrugs and smiles at you. “I am enjoying it and chiding you,” he chuckles, savors another sip. “I’m capable of multitasking.”

The silence over the pair of you is comfortable. He seems softer than normal and, after a few minutes, your curiosity (nosiness, you can hear his voice in your head, you’re just nosy!) gets the better of you. “Why are you so happy today?”

Wriothesley makes a noncommittal noise. “Can I not be?” Your exasperated sigh and silence are answer enough. “It’s… my birthday,” he says finally, setting his empty mug down where he won’t accidentally knock it over. “I know this is by no means a birthday present, but it was… pleasant. To have this day be marked by a nice present.”

“Oh,” you gasp, and there’s a bit of shame that flickers through you for not knowing it was his birthday. “Happy birthday, Wriothesley,” and then, almost as an afterthought, “I’m glad you’re spending it with me.”

Wriothesley raises a brow. “I spend a lot of days with you,” he reminds. “This one is no more special.”

“It is!” You insist, sliding onto the floor before shuffling closer to him. “It’s your birthday. And, sure, I didn’t know it was”—he looks at you, amused and mischievous, and you make a face back before continuing—“but I’m happy that we got to enjoy an imported tea on your birthday. Birthdays should be pleasant.”

He nods. “They should, I suppose,” he leans against you a little, and your skin prickles with warmth where you’re pressed flush against him. “They aren’t always. But this one is,” he studies you. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

You giggle and he scoffs when you sing-song “oh, so you like me!” You sober a little bit, tone dropping to be more sincere. “I’m glad you do like me though, you know. It took a lot of time and effort to do that. I’m happy to have that confirmation.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Surely, you must know I like you. With the amount of time I spend with you, it’d be crazy if I somehow didn’t.” It’s so not romantic, it’s just… Wriothesley, straightforward and simple and teasing. No laced meaning. But your mind races and imagines him saying he likes you in a far different way. 

He sighs softly, getting more comfortable (as much as you can on a floor made of warped, cold metal dotted with huge, poorly done rivets). You drink him in, gaze flitting from the strength of his brow, to the way the amber lamplight looks like stained glass where it reflects in his eyes, the bend in his nose (caused by a poorly set fix after a fight, you’re sure). The angle of his jaw, and the dark shadow of stubble that dots over it. His hair, with small gray streaks that he’s gotten during his time here (you know he did not have them when you first met; you’re quite sure you’d remember if he did), falling loosely over his face and frizzing slightly as it dries.

“How old are you now?” You ask abruptly when you’re suddenly aware of how shamelessly you’ve been admiring him. You hope he is too tired to notice the weight of your stare.

He looks at you, eyes heavy and sleepy, and you know him well enough to tell the tiredness of the day has caught up to him at this point—and yet he humors you anyways. “Twenty-one,” he seems to be thinking through the timeline for a moment, wading through the endlessly recursive days he’s spent in the Fortress. “I’ve been in here for exactly five years now.”

“You were admitted on your birthday?” It’s upsetting, knowing that his birthday was the day he was found guilty and brought in. It’s no wonder he doesn’t find it pleasant, you think, frowning at his words, to have your birthday just be a reminder of how much time you’ve spent down here.

Wriothesley nods. “It’s alright. I’m guilty of the crime, after all. I know what I did to be here.” He brushes his hair back out of his eyes and sighs. “It’s just like any other day.”

Worst of all, you know he means that. His birthday is nothing to be celebrated and certainly shouldn’t overshadow the things he did—where it’s just a day, with the good and bad cancelling each other out. Where his birthday was nothing to be celebrated when compared to any other day. “I heard some of the guards mention it was snowing,” you say softly, studying his expression. “Maybe one birthday soon you’ll get to enjoy it.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not a big fan of snow anyways, it’s not the cold I prefer.” That wording gives you pause. What does he prefer then? Cryo? Hydro? Or is he just talking about cold refreshments, like ice cream or a drink with several ice cubes? It’s not anything worth dwelling on, just a subtle ache from the gaps in your knowledge. You want to know him so much better than you do. “Long time until I get out, anyways. The weather the Court gets right now is of no interest to me.”

“Long time?” You hazily remember his sentencing from the talk when he entered the Fortress five years ago, but not well. Just that it was lenient in many people’s eyes.

“Seven more years,” he chuckles. “It’s alright. I’ll enjoy the sunshine in seven years’ time, and I’ll appreciate the snow from behind a window.”

You snort. “Yeah?”

Wriothesley grins, boyish and gentle, before whispering a soft “yeah.” He looks happy, carefree, for a moment. His smile is a little crooked, and there’s a dimple under his lips you’ve never noticed before. Achingly, he looks like the boy—man, now, you suppose—he is. The sight of him makes you wish that kameras were something allowed in the prison, and that you could afford one. You want to immortalize the crinkle to his eyes and the scrunch of his nose. 

It fades quickly, though, and you hope your mental snapshot will do it justice. He sombers some, shoulders dropping. “I miss it,” he admits. “The sun. Sometimes, when…” he pauses, weighing his words. You wish he wouldn’t, so eager to hear his unfiltered thoughts. “Sometimes, I go by the intake desks and the elevator to watch the searchlights sweeping the waters outside,” he admits. “I imagine it’s the sunlight filtering through, that the rays could reach us down here. It makes it a whole lot brighter.”

You chew your lip and nod. “I miss the warmth, too,” you tell him, and he seems relieved to hear it. “I have seven more to go too—I mean, not on paper. It’s something like four. But we both know my debt won’t be paid off by then,” you draw your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. You feel his stare and glance away, voice cracking as you whisper, “I don’t know if I’m ever getting out of here.” The sting of tears takes a lot of effort to blink back, and you tense slightly as his hand comfortingly rubs your shoulder. How embarrassing. “The current administrator… he keeps… I don’t know, I guess he just wants us down here forever and fuck with us, the bastard. Every time it seems like my debt is shrinking, the number of Coupons you can earn and their value gets lower, or interest on the debt gets higher. I don’t know if I’ll ever see the sun again.” There’s a lump in your throat when you finally stop speaking, and no amount of swallowing it down or rubbing your face makes it stop. 

“He’ll be stopped one day,” Wriothesley resolutely tells you. 

You laugh, a broken, watery sound that tears its way out. “How can you be so sure?”

“I plan to make sure of it,” he shifts, then rises. “One day. When I can buy that order I’ve always wanted.” You roll your eyes in an effort to be playful, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “You’ll get out some day. We both will.” He promises, and you shiver as callused fingers shift some fine hairs off your temple. “Goodnight, __. Thank you for the tea.”

–——–

By the time Wriothesley has gathered more Coupons and established his name, you’ve been in there for eight years. It’s obvious you won’t be out when your ten years end—you can’t pay off the fine. But you do enjoy more luxuries than you had more in your youth.

Wriothesley is generous, and kind, and will cover smaller purchases or meals for you. Or, at least, your version of Wriothesley is.

He’s notorious. Other inmates don’t remember the crime that landed him in here, and, honestly, you don’t either. But they speak of his strength and his ruthlessness in the ring; of his wealth and their ideas of his plans for it all; and they speak of him as an opponent. To be talked about and to be known is to have power, at least among the inmates. The guards don’t care who you are or what you’ve done. You all get the same disdain.

It means he’s challenged often. Now, the referee and ringleader of the underground fights has caught the two of you in an isolated bit of the dormitory floor, where no one walks by. Étienne had grown frustrated by his continuous success. It’s a known secret he rigged the betting. If Wriothesley participates, those attempts fail.

“If you ever step foot in my arena again,” he sneers at Wriothesley, hands balling into fists at his side. “I’ll make sure you can’t ever again.”

Wriothesley raises his brows and smiles. You scoff, eyes flickering between the two of them. Étienne is no match for Wriothesley, and you both know it. He’s a bit scrawny and a coward to boot—reliant on people he’s paid to stand by him, and he lets their fists do the talking for him. He’s alone in this confrontation, and you wonder how he gained the confidence to do it.

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who ended up underground for fraud,” you say. It’s kind of fun to see his attention dart suddenly to you and the lazy roll of your eyes. “Very bold of you to talk so much shit. Don’t you know both of us are in here for more violent offenses?”

You slide off of the box you were sitting on, and he falters, mouth opening and closing on an argument he can’t form. You circle him—it’s funny, really. Your crime was not that violent. Aggravated assault, sure, but it was on a coward of man who raped your friend, and you’d waited to catch him off-guard. You weren’t the type to win in a heads-on confrontation.

But Étienne doesn’t know that, and he doesn’t need to. His focus remains on Wriothesley even as you keep talking and sizing him up because he is the much more obvious threat.

“I mean, look at you. No scars, no fights won against anyone worth their salt… you’re kinda scrawny, aren’t you? That’s why you hire those guys… your muscle. The bite to your bark. Do you think you could take him?”

Wriothesley is smiling. You can see in his eyes that he’s amused by you and the bravado, but you imagine it’s much scarier if you don’t know him. Like he’s smiling at the idea of knocking you out.

“It’d probably be cathartic for him to go all out, you know? Fight someone without holding back?”

Étienne steps back.

Wriothesley cracks his knuckles, and you watch Étienne flinch, pausing in his slow, steady retreat like a deer in headlights as he says, “Word of advice? Pick battles you can win. If you’re weak, you can’t be a fool, too.”

–——–

At some point, Wriothesley finally started getting the guards to turn a blind eye. It’s been three years since he told you of his plans for order. You’d joked about his certainty he’ll create a new, sure, but you can truly see the respect he’s earned by now.

The administrator’s hand has slipped a bit by now, and his corruption has grown more evident in the way he adjusts Credit Coupon values to his will. He’d even begun to lay off longtime guards and all the support staff Sigewinne had in the infirmary.

Inevitably, understandably, they began to chafe under his tight grasp.

Wriothesley was well-mannered and likable. But more importantly, confident enough to push back and force change—even in things as small as making food more affordable and having a basic need for living met, regardless of the hours you put into the Production Zone. You hadn’t gone hungry in a while.

The guards ignored anything he stirred up. Hell, you’d even caught snippets of conversation, during long nights of working on and welding tunnels, where they rooted for him over their boss.

He’s finally lessened the amount of fighting he does, too. If he is ever in the ring, the knock of his knuckles against jaw or ribs and the dark bruises blooming is enough to earn respect. The gauntlets are primarily retired, a bit too stiff and old to function as well as they used to.

You plan on upgrading them for him some day.

He’ll use it if he must, leaving nicks in the skin from metal on opponents who pushed their luck too far. Sometimes, he’ll even Cryo the enemy—which was a shock for you the first time you witnessed it, just a few minutes ago.

“You have Cryo potions?” It was still simmering in the air above Dimitri’s unconscious frame. You backed away without meaning to, attempting to avoid the chill nipping at your arms. “I thought no one smuggled them anymore?”

Wriothesley rolls his shoulder and wrists, and then he slips off the gauntlets. “No one does.”

“Then—”

“A Vision.” Wriothesley nudges Dimitri with his boot and sighs. He stoops to lift him, shifting the weight easily. “We have to bring him to the infirmary.”

You frown. “Someone will find him, surely.”

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But I've never tested what Cryo does to someone if you leave it on their flesh. I don’t particularly care to test it.”

The mental image of it eating his skin makes you flinch. You gather his gauntlets and follow him. It’s not really surprising he has a Vision—he’s exactly the type the gods would smile upon. Strong. A sense of justice. Triumphant in the face of hardship.

You wonder why the Hydro Archon never smiled upon him. Did she have a premonition of his crimes?

“When did you get it?” You ask softly, once you’ve drawn near to the infirmary and he shifts the weight to better climb the stairs.

“My birthday,” he laughs bitterly. “A lot tends to happen on it for me, huh?”

“A Vision is a blessing, at least.”

Wriothesley hums. “It might be. But it also marks what I had to live through. It’s neither good nor bad.” He sets Dimitri on a bed. Sigewinne will find him eventually. “But it is useful in times like these.”

–——–

Wriothesley is anxious. He shouldn’t be—asking for favors beyond the scope of what prisoners are meant to have access to and paying in Credit Coupons has long since been standard in the Fortress. He wasn’t even asking for contraband, like some of the tougher, older inmates who used their money and connections to sneak in potions and weapons to keep people in check and feel more powerful than they were.

He was asking the cafeteria’s cook to make cupcakes.

The cook had agreed readily, making cakes that were shockingly nice (the cook was skilled—Wriothesley had just accepted that food in the underworld tended to be dry and the ingredients able to be used were always subpar produce, cuts of meat, or sent in such small quantities that they weren’t able to make a dish excellent) and giving him a frosting bag that looked small in his hand. It was hard to use for that reason, but Wriothesley also just… didn’t have a talent for cake decoration. At least, that was his conclusion when he finished frosting all six, where it slid onto the sides and made such messy spirals; he didn’t think you could tell that they were meant to be spirals.

It was for a small thing, too—another reason his nerves felt ridiculous. Your sentence, the ten years spent below the sea, was ending that day. Wriothesley had wanted to celebrate, though he was not deluded into thinking you’d walk out and see the sun again just yet. Your debt was substantial and paying it off above the sea would only make the interest steeper and attach the ball and chain of parole to what was meant to be your freedom. But you had celebrated his birthday for four years now, since you’d found out the date (and, shamefully, he realizes he still doesn’t know yours).

He wanted to, for a change, celebrate you.

His hand holding the plate shakes a little, and he shifts his attention to check that none of the frosting stuck to the dust jacket of the book he’d gotten you. It was a frivolous purchase, a bit pricey, the exact thing he’d scold you for spending money on when you still have your debt to deal with. He can envision it clearly, you whining that, “you always tell me not to waste money! Why can you and I can’t?” in that exasperated tone you take when you think he’s not being fair. But you’d enjoy it; he knew you would. When it released, news trickled down through the shoddy welding and into whispers, and you’d lamented how desperately you wanted to read something new—instead of the same book you got a few years back and have since read so thoroughly the spine had cracked. And, particularly, you wanted to read this book because the whispers around it were so interesting—an analysis of entertainment and voyeuristic pleasure making it to publication in Fontaine, of all places, had piqued your interest. It was fiction, sure, but you bitterly hated Fontaine’s idea of the arts and their value—he’d been subject to many a rant on the topic. It only made sense you wanted to read something a bit more scathing, even if it would be dulled in its sharpness by the packaging of “any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental”.

Wriothesley had also offered to pay off your debt a few times by now, but he’d learned his lesson after the second. He had enough Coupons to cover the difference for your unadulterated freedom and would drop them on the bill in a heartbeat, but you’d refused—said you wanted to earn it. He knew it was pride. He also knew better than to push you on it. Cupcakes and a book would have to do.

He stands awkwardly in the doorframe for a moment. You know he’s there, he’s sure of it. He’s grateful the other inmates that sleep in the same room are away—that only you are witnessing the way he awkwardly shuffles in and tries to shield the presents from your view until he gives up and puts them on the small trunk you use as a coffee table and mumbles out a gruff “congrats on your sentence ending…” with red cheeks.

He’s still a little awkward and stiff, shifting nervously as you look at him and then, slowly, read the title of the book and look at the messily frosted cupcakes and the way frosting smushed onto the side of a few.

He wants you to say something.

He doesn’t expect what you do, though, stiffening as you suddenly let out a soft, happy gasp and hug him tightly, your arms wrapping over his shoulders and squeezing. Wriothesley hasn’t ever been this close to you, where your chest presses fully against his and his nose tucks against your hair—you smell good, and he swears his heart stutters when your fingers find their way to the hair at the base of his neck and grip to steady your balance.

His pulse stutters more when he feels your lips softly brush against the scar on his throat when your chin tucks against his shoulder. He doesn’t think you meant to kiss him—in fact, he’s almost certain you didn’t, but the touch short circuits his brain and by the time he remembers he needs to hug you back, needs to move his arms from where they hang limply by his sides, you’ve pulled away suddenly and turned your gaze to the presents. Almost like you can’t bear to look at him.

“I—” you frown, and Wriothesley blinks owlishly at you. His brain was still caught on the warmth of the hug, and the way it felt to have you that close. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—it’s just been so long since I’ve been this happy…” Your voice grows quiet, arms wrapping protectively around yourself.

Wriothesley realizes, finally, that you think you messed up by hugging him. “It’s okay,” he whispers softly, tone gentle—the kind he’d adopt to coax a scared kitten, one he has used just for that back when he was thirteen, and a small, hungry calico used to linger by his small tent. “I just haven’t been hugged like that before. Ever.” He admits it shakily, a bit ashamed. The fact that this was the most affection he’d ever been given, that he would lock up so horrifically at such a neutral action he’d make you feel like you’d done something wrong by being happy, felt terrible. “I’m not used to it, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t unwelcome, __.”

He inches slightly closer, fingers twitching as he places his palm on your arm before gently turning you to face him again. Goosebumps bloom beneath his fingers and your downcast expression pricks his heart. You look vulnerable and defeated in a way he’s not used to, weak and gentle in the palm of his hand as it skates up to your jawline and his thumb brushes over your cheek.

“Are you okay?” Wriothesley is soft, achingly gentle, and as his gaze falls to your lips again, he realizes he wants to kiss you. He wants the brush of your lips along his throat to have been just that—a kiss. Maybe one you didn’t intend, but one he could have you replicate until his pulse flutters beneath your attention. “Is this okay?” He asks that a bit late, calloused thumb still tracing the planes of your face like he can’t help himself. He doesn’t know if he can. You look so vulnerable and sweet—and he should feel guilty. He does. He’s upset you on a day you should be celebrating, he’s potentially pushing boundaries by leaning into the care you have for him, but, selfishly, he wants to soak up a bit more of that affection.

You lean into his palm despite his doubts, nuzzling against the warmth of his hand cupping your cheek, the scratch of scars and callouses over your smooth skin. You’re warm under his fingers. Probably from your shyness, but he entertains the thought it is borne of want instead. A blush from his proximity. Wriothesley has never thought much about love. He didn’t feel much of a need for it. The love he’d been given, by his mother and father, had been conditional—despite the honeyed words and gentle hugs and promises of forever they’d given him; that love was rescinded and dried up the second he aged out of their favor. Living on the streets, or in the Fortress, didn’t give much for love either. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and, to come out on top, Wriothesley had long since learned that vulnerability was a weakness.

But the warmth of love and affection was much like the sun. People blossomed in it. He wanted that warmth and light, the blooming heat of being desired. His eyes fall to your lips once more: the soft curves; the deeper color where you’d chewed your bottom lip; the way they smush together from the force of his hand on your cheek into an endearing pout. And this his eyes trail to the cast of your lashes as you gaze downward, still hesitant to meet his gaze. The line of your nose. How he wouldn’t change a feature of yours, not as he watches with rapt, maybe inappropriate, focus while you blink back the glassiness of tears and furrow your brow in an effort to not look weak.

You’re using her, a nasty, persistent voice—his own—needles into him, you know you are. Why are you only entertaining these ideas when she’s like this? It gives him pause, enough that he drops his hand when your eyes flutter, and you meet his gaze with watery eyes. You deserve better than for him to act on a spur of the moment desire, even if it takes white knuckling his shirt with his other hand while he waits for you to find the words. Wriothesley thinks you deserve reciprocity. A better man than him.

“I’m okay,” you laugh softly, warmer and gentler than he expected. “Just a little embarrassed.”

He shakes his head and goes to deny it, but you shush him quickly.

“Are you okay?” You tilt your head, and he flushes under the weight of your gaze. It’s always been piercing—stripped down every wall he’d ever built with surgical precision and a kindness he never felt he deserved. “I know you don’t really like—I mean, I don’t know, but I assume you don’t like hugs… or any of that. I don’t… I know there’s a lot you haven’t told me, but I don’t think that was okay.”

Wriothesley snorts, even smiles. “It’s alright. It’s rare to be so happy you lose control of yourself… at least down here. I’m glad that you’re happy.” It was nice to have you so close to me. “You were excited. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

–——–

You avoid Wriothesley for roughly a week after that night.

It’s easy to do. The production zone’s forges are almost always lit, heat simmering in the air and orange illuminating the cogs until the guards shut it down for curfew. Mindlessly working the machines until your shoulders ache and the muscles scream doesn’t leave time for conversation.

It does, unfortunately, leave time for thought. A mental replay of the stiffness to Wriothesley’s shoulders; how his hands slowly move and remained clumsy once he reacted; and, worst of all, how you still didn’t get a glimpse into his thoughts—it remained rushed apologies and reassurances that you were fine to be happy, to be emotional. Not whether or not he wanted affection from you.

Honestly, it just stung.

You had thought that you and Wriothesley got along well—and, sure, you’ve found him handsome since back when you were both teenagers, and you saw him, still lanky and boyish, tight-lipped as Sigewinne stitched him up, in the infirmary. But attraction aside, you hadn’t expected him to hate being touched so much. Perhaps foolishly, it had been easy to think that he didn’t mind closeness if it came from you.

And it was embarrassing to have kissed his neck. It wasn’t fully intentional, not really, but you’d be a liar if you’d said you hadn’t thought of it before. Many times, you’d imagined the scratch of his stubble along your cheek and jaw; the soft curve of his mouth contrasted by the fact his lips were almost always chapped (partly thanks to his tendency to pick the skin); and you’d pictured the way he might melt into it.

Now, he didn’t seem the type.

At least he hadn’t commented on it. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to face him again if he had.

You suppose the worst part was there was a moment where you thought he might have reciprocated your interest—he’s always been sweet, and kind, even if he was a bit rough on the edges and guarded when you first met. But there, over his cupcakes and presents, when his thumb caressed your tear-stained cheek, you could’ve sworn he looked at you like he wanted you too.

Wriothesley has quite expressive eyes, and now, years into knowing him, you find them pretty easy to read—you’ve learnt each furrow to his brows, and the appearance of fine lines, formed from stress and aging, when emotion twists his features. And when his gaze fell to your lips, warmer than a blue that icy should ever be, they looked like maybe, just maybe, he could want you too.

Now, you’ve taken up one of the tunnel welding jobs. There’s a guard, only half-paying attention, at the entrance, and a damp, mossy wall of stone to your left as you add rivets and force paneling to agree with the curved shapes and haphazardly aligned beams. It’d be easy to not work. Your only monitor is toying with a cigarette and distracted by every patrol that comes by below the stairs.

It helps, though. When the sparks fly, and you carefully merge sheets of thick metal, and place large rivets as best you can; you don’t exactly have the time to endlessly think through Wriothesley’s reactions, and where you stand with him.

The guard leaves you at one point—you think maybe curfew?

But you remain, despite your handiwork growing sloppy, your eyes heavy, and your protective gear (cast aside hours ago once condensation began fogging your vision and sweat slicked your hair to your temples).

You don’t even remember slumping forward with exhaustion.

When you regain your senses, it’s to the sound of your welding gun clanking against the panel beneath your knees. Then, the heavy thud of boots splashing in the puddles where water drips steadily onto the unfinished floor.

“There you are.”

You barely lift your head, blinking blearily at the wall. “Have you been looking?”

It’s no surprise when Wriothesley answers, with what sounds like a smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah.” There’s a sound of his boot scuffing against metal, and you can sense his presence behind you—from both his proximity and the shadow it casts in front of you, barely there in the low light. “You’ve been quiet.”

“Hm.” You catch the implication, the undercurrent of worry, but, for once, you want him to externalize his thoughts for you. You don’t want there to be a chance of you misreading him and projecting your fondness for him into the smallest acts of care. “Have I?”

“C’mon, __,” Wriothesley implores, voice softening as he sweeps a bit of soot from your temple. “You know you have been. Are you upset with me?”

You poke your cheek with your tongue, then sigh. “Not exactly. I’m worried I overstepped.” It stings to admit. “That it’s not okay, even with what you said.”

Wriothesley shifts to kneel down next to you, and it takes every bit of restraint you have to not turn to face him once he’s fully in your periphery.

“You didn’t.” He laughs, but it’s empty, an almost bitter, half-sound devoid of amusement. “I know I can be… difficult. Especially when you put me next to someone like you—you don’t really have issues feeling and expressing.” Wriothesley clicks his tongue and sighs. “Whatever, it’s beside the point. What I’m trying to—what I want to say, is your kindness and happiness is not unwelcome. They’re my issues, not yours.

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately.” Wriothesley pauses for a bit. You turn your chin a little to sneak glances at him, and it’s like you can see the words sitting on his tongue. There’s a solemness to his face, a cast to his jaw, that feels like you’ve stripped him bare. “My… history with love is not something you had any part in. And I’m really sorry it made you… I don’t know. Think I don’t care, maybe? That I used you?”

He laughs bitterly, muscles in his jaw ticking as he swallows thickly. “I guess I think I don’t deserve it. That’s all. I haven’t been hugged much. I was surprised.”

You frown, go to comfort him and smooth the furrow between his brows with your thumb, but it seems like now that he’s started; the words come on their own accord.

Wriothesley settles more, slumping next to you—so close your thighs touch, and his fingers find a seam on the inside of his jacket that he rolls over and over between his thumb and index finger as he speaks. “Love, affection, care… they’ve all only ever been a means to an end. A way to get ahead at the cost of someone else’s emotions and belief in you. I don’t know if you remember what I’m in here for, but it was parricide.

“I killed my parents. Love, for them, was… a way to make money. To make sure no one asked questions like ‘where’s that boy you fostered now?’ I was loved. I loved… love… them. But when I got too old, too—I don’t even know. Not worth it? They went to sell me to the highest bidder. And it’s hard to reconcile that with the fact that, when I was really young, they brushed my hair before bed and read to me until I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

“Or that they took my eggs out of the pan before everyone else’s at breakfast, because I liked them a little runnier.” He laughs, and it’s a little watery. When you finally turn fully to look at him, his eyes are glossy with unshed tears. “I ran away, at first, you know?”

“You had to live,” you whisper.

“I know,” Wriothesley said. “But it meant I left every kid they fostered and let them get their hopes up the same way. I found apprenticeships, I scrounged the streets and got into fights here and there. Made my gauntlets. But I never did anything until my little sister was too old for them. I just… it was okay if it happened to me, but not her.

“I was fine with scraps for clothes, only a bulle fruit I plucked off a tree on my stomach. I could take it. But I couldn’t let them do it to her and… it was the only way I could think to stop them. It’s just hard. To hear that I’m loved, and then have them try to dispose of me, and do it again, and again, and again.”

It’s obvious what he means to finish on. How do you reconcile that? How do you feel comfortable being cared for when all that ever was… was a lie?

Wriothesley leans back a bit.

The silence is palpable. He doesn’t turn to leave.

“I don’t know what to say,” you manage. “I mean—thank you for telling me, but…”

“It’s okay.” Wriothesley smiles. He tilts his head and just looks at you for a bit. “You don’t have to find the words to comfort me. I’ve come to terms with who I am, and what I’ve done. I just didn’t want you to think you’d done something wrong.”

You turn towards him fully. It’s a relief to hear, but also deeply upsetting. There’s a lump in your throat that you have to swallow against a few times. He’s suffered so much, you think. It was impressive that he could still keep going.

“Still, I’m happy you told me and trusted me with it,” you tell him. “You’re not a big sharer.”

He laughs. “I’m not, am I?”

“No. Like a ten-thousand-piece puzzle.”

That makes him snort. You smile, fondness blossoming in your chest. “I’m still sorry if the hug made you uncomfortable, though. Reasons aside, I don’t ever want to make you unhappy.”

“I know.”

“I, um, I want you to be happy too, you know? Not just me.” He grins, studying the nervous twitch to your lips when he held unexpected eye contact for a moment too long. “You deserve it. If I can do anything to make you happier, I want to.”

Silence stretches for a bit. When Wriothesley speaks again, his tone has dropped a bit lower and rougher. “Anything?”

When you meet his gaze, the gleam of humor is gone. There’s a sincerity to them that makes your stomach do flips. “Yeah,” you mumble. “If it’s something neither of us will regret… yeah.”

“I can promise I won’t regret it.” He doesn’t move just yet, restraint tensing every muscle as he maintains the distance. When your gaze flits down to his lips, a little chapped like always, he smiles. “Can I kiss you, __?”

The sound of your name on his tongue makes you shiver.

“Yes.” Your whisper is just as fragile as the thread of restraint between the two of you. Your permission snips it, and you curl into the warmth of his hand along your jaw and the soft, sweet press of his lips to yours. His stubble scratches your skin, and his lips aren’t smooth; but the soft, shaky inhale he takes, and way he melts into you, not pushing to take anything, is perfect.

When you lean into him with a bit more urgency and force as you meld against him, hands moving to cling to his broad shoulders, he smiles. Your noses bump together and your teeth clash against his in a small, blunt annoyance. When you giggle, he swallows the sound with a soft sigh and guides the tilt of your head with the hand cradling your cheek until you slot perfectly against him.

You don’t know how long you stay like that.

When he finally pulls back for air, your lungs burn for oxygen and your face is warm. Wriothesley isn’t much better—chest heaving a little; cheeks flushed a deep red; and his eyes look a little hazy where they remain trained on your lips.

When you laugh softly, he blinks at you, almost deer in headlights. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

He looks away suddenly, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob with the next shaky breath he takes. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” There’s an amused lilt to his voice, and he shakes his head to not laugh at his own nerves. “It must’ve been agonizing.”

“It will be, if you don’t kiss me again.”

Wriothesley smiles, the soft, boyish lilt that makes your heart ache. And never the type to purposefully cause harm, he does kiss you again, and again, and again.

–——–

Dating Wriothesley is so normal, you often forget you’re still leagues beneath the sea. It’s easy to imagine buying a home with him, adopting a cat, strolling down side alleys in the city and spending exorbitant amounts of Mora on trinkets; on homemade mugs that have chips in the pottery or uneven glaze that Wriothesley feels guilty getting for a discount, despite their flaws, because the creator spent time making each one, and money on the clay; on plants where you’ll bicker about what windowsill it’d look best in, and which room has the best sunlight for life.

Sunlight. It’d be nice to bicker about that, to have it.

Today, you also imagine watching the fireworks the Palais Mermonia sets off for the new year. It’s a newer tradition. One you’d seen in newspapers weeks after the event—it started a few years back. You’re not sure why. But you imagine it’s beautiful. Lights and colors giving the stars a run for their money, and the glimmering reflection on the ever-rising sea like a scattering of gemstones. It’d be cold, you think, with the spray off the surf carried by the wind, and the night deep enough the cicadas have begun to sing.

You think you’d tuck into his chest, with your head under his chin, just like you are now. Then, drape his coat or a blanket haphazardly over both of you, and stay until the night sky goes still.

“What are you thinking about?” Wriothesley asks, voice rumbling in his chest.

“Life up there,” you murmur, nuzzling closer. He shivers a little when your nose brushes his collarbone. For a man with a Cryo vision, he’s shockingly bad with the cold. “With you.”

“Yeah?” His smile is evident in his voice. “If you could wish for anything, right now, what it’d be?” Wriothesley’s fingers trace along the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up in your back, and you swear it feels like he’s writing I love you every now and then. “I heard people makes wishes and plans for the new year when they do the fireworks.”

You hum, trying to twist to view him a bit better. It’s hard to see him in the low light, but you can make out the shadow his stubble casts and fading patches of lavender from a days-old bruise by his eye. He’s a bit disheveled, but he’s yours. The messiness of his hair, and the threadbare, worn-soft shirt he has on—it’s all reserved just for you.

“I have everything I could want.”

Wriothesley hums when you say that, and then slowly asks, “even if your debt could be paid off, in full? You wouldn’t wish for that?”

You consider him for a moment. “I—of course I want to be done being an inmate, Wrio. But I’ve got you. I don’t mind it taking longer.” I wouldn’t want to leave you alone down here.

He laughs. Then shifts to burrow his head in your hair, placing a kiss on your scalp and inhaling the scent of your shampoo. “Okay,” he agrees. “But say the word, and I’m buying you out.”

It’s sweet—stated like a no-brainer to let you walk the surface again, even if it costs him thousands.

“What about the order you wanna buy?”

Wriothesley snorts. “It can wait. Until you’re free. You can always visit me and check on my progress.”

“Tempting… conjugal visits.”

He pulls back a little to look you in the eyes. “If you want to go, I’ll make it work. I promise. A pretty girl like you should be frolicking in the fields. Not in dorms that smell like mildew.” He scrunches his nose a little. Your last bit of candles can’t light anymore, and it really does smell terrible. You laugh, and he follows with a helpless smile.

“Promise you’ll frolic with me? Whenever we leave?”

“I could be convinced.”

When you smile, Wriothesley’s gaze drops to your mouth, and his laughter quickly fades. You hear the thump of your own heart, and his slow, steady breathing.

“You seem like you could be convinced to do a lot of things.” The joke falls short in the heavy tension suddenly blanketing you both. Then, his fingers tilt your chin up to look at him.

“If it involves you, yeah.” Wriothesley doesn’t even try to argue your point, and he leans close enough you can feel his breath ghosting across your cheek. “I’m always down.”

His eyes have darkened significantly, and that, along with his proximity and the scent of his cologne wrapping around you, is enough to have your pulse racing.

“You should probably say no to me sometimes. You’ll spoil me.”

Wriothesley smiles, and then he kisses you so sweetly that you forget how to breathe.

“I like you spoiled, silly girl,” he murmurs, dragging his kisses down to your jaw. He’s pleased when your breath hitches, and you make a soft, sweet sound as he makes small bruises along your throat. “You’re always so good f’me.”

“I am?” You ask breathlessly. You’re already pliant from the warm, calloused skin meeting your ribs as his hands slowly ruck up your shirt; but the affirming hum makes you practically melt into him. Wriothesley’s had you like this, sweet and wanting, on his palms many times by now—but it’s the first time he’s left a nearby lamp on.

“‘Course,” he agrees, lowering his head to kiss your breasts. “Look at you. Sweet and pretty.”

“I don’t have a mirror,” you say.

Wriothesley laughs and shakes his head. “That’s okay. I can see how pretty you are.”

You can see how pretty he is, too, when he tugs his shirt off and flings it to who knows where with yours. The scars along his chest, neck, arms, and hands; a small, dark smattering of hair along his pecs and another patch trailing down into his pants; and, more importantly, the sparkle to his eyes and a smile that won’t quite fade from his lips.

“You’re pretty, too,” you tell him. It’s hard to focus on the shy smile he gives you, because his right hand starts tracing your hip bones. “I like seeing you.”

He kisses you again. It’s slow and deep. Your heart aches. “I know, baby, I know.”

He does know. You’ve always made it a point to compliment him, and you can’t count the number of times he’s caught you staring, even during the most mundane tasks, on both hands. Wriothesley knows you think he’s attractive—he knows you even find the scars on the back of his hands charming. You’ve traced the shapes with the excuse of “putting ointment on so they heal right!” more times than he can remember, long after the skin had healed. He knows you like the dimple under his mouth, and how it’s only really visible when he gives a close-lipped smile because you’ve flustered him. He knows you like the crooked set to his nose bridge where a break didn’t heal quite right. You even comment on and embrace the gray streaks in his hair, cooing any time you notice a new silver strand down at the root.

And he loves you. Finds you beautiful. He adores it all. He’ll admire the curve of your hip into your waist, the soft, plush skin that gives under and fills his hands perfectly as readily as he’ll admire your hands; and how they slot into his, or squeeze his cheeks so hard he can’t talk, or card through his hair until he falls asleep. Wriothesley loves the wrinkles at the corner of your eyes when you laugh, and the way your nose scrunches up when you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

When he has you like this, he loves the arch of your spine and unconscious part of your lips. It’s clearer now than it’s ever been, with the golden lamplight making your skin glow. Your back arches when he finally slips pants and underwear away to test how wet you are on his fingers, and your lips pliantly welcome his other hand’s thumb. You nip gently when he trails his fingers away from your clit to your inner thigh to watch the way the muscles quake.

“Sorry, princess.” He’s not very sorry. He wants to catalogue every reaction you could ever have.

“Touch me.” It’s the brattiest you ever really get with him—when you start to impatiently wiggle to meet his touch or demand that he picks up the pace. He doesn’t deny you, even if he should. He does love you spoiled, after all.

“I am,” he reminds, laughing when you scowl. He lets his thumb roll over your clit and sinks his index to the first knuckle with no resistance.

When you moan softly, you can see him swallow and hear his breathing hitch. He slowly and steadily works you open until you take two fingers easily, curling and scissoring inside you until all you can hear is his palm meeting your soaked cunt. It’s obscene. It makes you want him so bad.

“You okay? You’re doing so good for me.” Wriothesley bends to kiss your temple, and you whine.

“Want you, Wrio. ‘m ready.”

He huffs out a laugh, melting against you when you drag him down to kiss you properly. He loves when your nails catch along his shoulders, and he loves more when you insistently tug down at the root of his hair.

“Okay, okay,” Wriothesley says. “So greedy.”

You are greedy. You watch the skin being presented with hungry eyes as he discards his pants and underwear. Your throat goes dry when his thick cock slaps against his stomach, and you can see the slick of his precum shining on his abdomen. He’s been bulking a bit lately—something about a tournament in the fighting rings? You don’t really care about the reason, but you’re grateful. He looks strong and sturdy. His tip is flushed a pinkish-red, and his cock twitches when you spread your legs a bit more open and shift your weight to lean further back.

“Such a pretty girl,” he croons.

The confidence falters the second he presses into you. His hips stutter a little, and he bites back a husky moan when your wet, warm walls welcome him so readily. Wriothesley presses his forehead to yours and steels himself for a moment with a deep breath.

“So deep,” you whimper as he finds a slow, steady pace that grinds his pelvis against your clit. Every time he bottoms out, the friction catches so deliciously it makes it hard to breathe.

His brow furrows at the praise, and you feel him twitch inside you. He kisses you messily—more breathing in each other than proper kisses, because his attention fades from nipping and licking your lip to the steady flutter of your pulse around him, and the arousal that only grows and slicks his skin when it meets yours.

When your back arches from the pleasure, one of his hands moves to brace there. His thumb rubs soothing circles onto the skin as your breath begins to catch more, and your moans grow weak. It’s possessive, too. A grip you know will leave bruises.

You lace your fingers through sweat-slick hair, tangled at the base of his skull.

“Wrio—” you whine brokenly, hips canting in slow, steady rolls that feel mind-numbingly good.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” He’s twitching inside you, a telltale sign he’s close, too. The flex of his muscles you manage to see through blurry, teary-eyed vision makes the heat in your stomach burn brighter. “You can wait a second, right?”

“Kiss me,” you plead instead.

He does.

It’ll do both of you in, and you both know it. Your muscles twitch uncontrollably, and his breath pauses before he groans low and slow, spilling inside you right as your peak crashes into you. Wriothesley fucks you through it. He always does, until he’s outright whimpering into kisses because overstimulation has crawled up his spine and everything stings. But he needs you to feel good—he’s desperate for the way your breathing slowly returns to normal, and the way you melt beneath him into the mattress.

Even after he can catch his breath through the heady air, he stays in you until you push him and the heavy crush of his torso off you. He’ll wipe you clean and draw the lightest, coolest sheet over your bodies, and his greedy hands will keep tracing along your spine.

“I love you,” he whispers after a few moments of sated silence. “So much.”

“I know,” you answer. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles under the touch. His eyelids flutter shut for a second, and he relishes in your affection. “I’m staying, by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Until you can leave, too. What’s the point of being free if I don’t have you up there with me?”

Wriothesley hums. His eyes are soft and sweet. He looks carefree. “As long as you’re happy, I hope you’ll allow me to be greedy and keep you next to me.”

You laugh. “I’ll let you know if I ever change my mind.”

“I’ll be heartbroken if you do.”

–——–

The day Wriothesley’s sentence ends, the administrator runs for the hills.

He’d been challenged to a duel he could never win and was too much of a coward to be imprisoned in the same place he used to grow rich off the inmates’ labor. None of the guards particularly cared. One even ‘dropped’ the master key in Wriothesley’s path when he went to process his release paperwork. He hung it on the same chain his Cryo vision now proudly dangles from.

Taking over the Fortress is relatively easy. He’s earned the respect of the staff, and equal amounts of fear and awe in the other inmates. No one dared to challenge him—or, rather, no one who valued their own health did. Any foolish enough to bristle over Wriothesley taking up the mantle were swiftly reminded why he’d gone nearly undefeated in the underground ring.

The first thing he does, now a free man granted power, is strike your debt.

“You paid far more than 100,000 Mora,” Wriothesley said simply, when you asked why. It wasn’t a secret the value had been changing at will, but it was a relief to hear you could leave.

You didn’t, not yet.

Instead, you stayed to watch him set up an actual arena for fights—with more rules and regulations, so anyone fighting or betting had some level of protection he was never granted as a participant. He fixed the cafeteria. He extended friendly relations and mutual support back to the Palais Mermonia (and you’d teased him about making a friend with the Iudex and Sigewinne, though he protested for a month or two that the Head Nurse would always be more like his mother).

You weren’t happy about meeting the Iudex in a personal capacity at first. But you were quick to learn he was gentle and caring, and that he did not blame you for your actions or find you wrong. Just that the laws did. And as judge, he would defer to them in official capacities. He was charming and earnest. The type of man you’d want Wriothesley to be friends with, and more ammunition to help when Wriothesley got caught in his head (“Neuvillette wouldn’t be friends with you if you were a bad person, you know?”).

Once everything settles, he asks you about leaving more seriously.

“You know you can go back up, right?” Wriothesley’s voice is gentle. It’s a conversation he doesn’t really want to have. He likes having you close, he likes waking up to you, but he knows you’ve wanted to return above the sea since you entered twelve years ago.

“I know,” you tell him, tracing a finger along the rim of your teacup. They were new, courtesy of Sigewinne. “But I like being here with you. It’s not so bad.”

“A glowing review,” he murmurs dryly. “But, really. I have to stay down here now as the administrator. If you want to go back up, don’t stay on my accord. You can visit anytime. I can visit you—”

“I would want to go up with you.”

He nods. “I will. But I will have to work. You can slap me if I ever go too long without visiting. I’m not a coward; I can take it.”

“Will you press charges?” You’re teasing him now, smiling at the way he rolls his eyes. Both of you know you wouldn’t want to hit him and that he’d barely feel it if you did.

“Never, it’s the consequences of my actions. I’ll face them bravely.”

You grin and lean across the table to kiss him.

“I think… you should just get a bed big enough for the two of us. You have a fancy room back there. It can fit two.”

“Even if we don’t have the sunlight?”

“We’ll still get some from time to time,” you giggle. “Surely, you don’t think you’re getting out of your promise to frolic in the meadows with me?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is infinitely fond. “I promised you’d see the sun again someday. Maybe we’ll see the snow, too.”

You give an exaggerated sigh and pinch his cheek. “Guess I’ll have to buy you a scarf then.”

That makes his cheeks turn red. “You’re a fiend.”

“Mm, and all yours.” Wriothesley smiles wider.

For all the time you spent worrying that you’d never see the sun again, you can’t help but laugh softly. You’d made your own light far below the tide, using an amber lamp to light up a bedroom and future just for the two of you.

۶۟ৎ nyx's notes: i have been suffering and struggling with this for months. this is all i have im sorry.

[butteronabun]

cw: suggestive

More than once, you find yourself walking outside the lighthouse’s threshold with slightly messed up tresses, disheveled clothing, and skin littered with marks, in a daze. There’s no doubt that once Jahoda, or even Linnea, see you in such a state, they’d double take and say the same thing: ‘Wow, you’re glowing.’ ( Jahoda may even be shocked, while Linnea may put on her glasses and gasp in fascination. )

That is, if that is truly going to happen, because your fae of a husband has no plans of letting you go just yet. You sense his presence from behind, and you blink when you hear a deep, amused chuckle.

Oh, no—

A gloved hand appears, and you release a yelp when you are tugged back inside.

[omnisnowboard]

LOVE

[era-wao]

the rabbit caught you🐰