A love story told through voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) IV
C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, violence, blood depiction, not proofread
A/N: This was kinda rushed guys mb, also made with extreme writer’s block so pardon me if this one’s drier than the others (this one’s the last part, hope y’all enjoy ittt)
Part 3
—
(You) Character Story: So what?
It started as a normal day.
Normal meaning they were minding their own business, building a perfectly stable, structurally sound tower out of ketchup packets in the cafeteria.
This one was going to be their best yet. It had layers. It had symmetry. It had vision.
“Careful,” someone muttered as they passed. “That thing’s gonna fall.”
“Not if you believe in it,” they said, carefully placing another packet on top. “And more importantly, not if I believe in it.”
That person didn’t look convinced.
Coward.
Anyway—everything was going great. Tower? Thriving. Them? Thriving. Emotional stability? Questionable, but there’s no need to get into that.
And then—
“Man, the Duke’s been real quiet lately.”
Their ears perk up at the sound of his name. It’s not eavesdropping if they had excellent hearing, right?
“Swear he’s gone soft,” another voice said. “Lets people get away with too much now.”
“Yeah, plays favorites too.”
They missed the next placement. A packet tilted. They caught it—barely—but their grip tightened just a little.
“Thought this place was supposed to be strict,” someone scoffed. “Not whatever this is.”
The tower wobbled, like it could feel the shift in the air. They stared at it, then at them, then back at the tower.
Okay, no.
We’re not doing this today.
They stood up, brushing my hands off like they weren’t about to make a series of deeply questionable life choices.
“Wow,” they said, stepping over. “That’s crazy.”
The group looked up. One of them—bowl cut, unfortunate—snorted. “What?”
“That you guys can talk and be wrong at the same time. Multitasking is impressive.”
“Mind your business,” one of them muttered.
“I was,” they nodded. “I was minding my business, building something beautiful, in fact,” they gestured vaguely toward the ketchup tower, “and then you decided to get dumber than you already are.”
A couple people nearby choked on their drinks.
The group didn’t laugh.
“Real bold,” one said, pushing back their chair, “for someone in the same place as us.”
They tilted their head. “Yeah,” they said lightly, “but I’m not the one spending lunch whining about the guy actually keeping this place running properly.”
“Properly?” another scoffed. “You mean picking favorites?”
“Oh, I love this part,” they said, stepping closer, a smile creeping across their face in a manner that wasn’t as warm as before. “Go on. Explain it to me.”
“He lets people slide,” said bowl cut boy. “Doesn’t enforce things the same anymore.”
Then, quieter—meaner:
“…Ever since you came along.”
That somehow triggered something in them—and from there, they chose violence. They looked him up and down. “Pick a struggle,” they said. “Bad attitude or bad haircut. You can’t commit to both, it’s confusing the rest of us.”
That one got a louder reaction from a circle they weren’t aware when or how it formed.
“Say that again,” he snapped.
“Oh, I will,” they said cheerfully. “I’ve got time.” Their heart was beating a little faster now. Not out of fear, just… something else.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” another cut in. “What, you his guard dog now?”
They grinned after a second of consideration. “No, guard dogs are trained.” Their feet crept closer as they rounded their shoulders. “I don’t hold back… at least, that’s what your mom said.”
Now that one really got reaction from the crowd. Bowl cut jumped up from his seat, “HOW DARE YOU BRING MY MOTHER INTO THIS?!”
Another inmate—big, muscle-bound, clearly looking for trouble, let’s call him Biggie—stood, cracking his knuckles. “Ooh, you’re gonna regret talking like that to us.”
“I’d like to see you try,” they glared through their teeth.
Bowl cut lunged first.
Predictable.
They stepped aside just enough for him to miss cleanly, his momentum carrying him forward—right into a table. Trays rattled, a cup tipped, water sloshing over the edge.
“Careful,” they muttered, grabbing the edge of the table and shoving it back into place. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
The bigger one didn’t wait.
A hand shot out, catching their shoulder and slamming them sideways. Their hip hit the bench hard enough to sting, metal screeching against the floor.
They twisted out of his grip, snatching a tray on instinct and swinging it up just in time—
CLANG.
The impact rang through their arms, but it blocked the fist that was about to hit their face. Water splashed across the tray, across their sleeve, dripping to the floor.
Bowl cut recovered faster than expected, grabbing at their shirt. They jerked back, but not fast enough—the fabric pulled tight as he tried to yank them forward.
They landed a punch square to the face, strong enough to make bowl cut tear up as he aided his nose. Meanwhile Biggie over there prepared a meal to serve them—another tray, yet this time it had freshly made soup, still hot enough for steam to come out. He came charging at them with a yell.
But failing to notice the water underneath him, he fell to his back, the soup scorching his torso. They couldn’t tell if he was groaning from the fall or the soup. Either way, they seethed through their teeth out of second-hand embarrassment, “Ouch…”
This time, Bowl Cut didn’t charge.
He wiped at his eyes with one hand, the other still hovering near his nose, breathing hard—angry, humiliated, and just smart enough not to rush in blind again.
Good. They preferred it when people thought before making bad decisions.
Didn’t stop him, though.
He swung. Not wide this time—quick, sloppy, but aimed. His knuckles bruised their cheek as he sent them flying backward. Their breath left them in a sharp oof as their back hit the ground, metal cold against their spine.
For a second, the ceiling spun.
They wheezed, blinking up at the lights that seemed to loom closer then farther. Aches spawned from their head and made their way to their lungs— or was that a separate ache?
The crowd’s cheers and boos blurred into a dull roar, muffled beneath the pounding of their own heartbeat. The ceiling lights flickered in and out of focus, too bright one second, too far the next. Pain spread—sharp at first, then dull—through their head and down into their chest, making each breath feel heavier than the last.
A shadow fell over them. Not Biggie. Not Bowl Cut.
Someone else—the one who told them to mind their business.
Right.
They pressed a fist against the floor, forcing air back into their lungs as they pushed themselves up. Their vision swam, edges blurring—but they steadied.
It wasn’t over.
Not yet.
(Wriothesley) Character Story: So what?!
The cafeteria was louder than usual.
Not unusual for the Fortress—but loud in a way that grated. Voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the low hum of something brewing beneath it all.
“Hey— HEY—!” A guard barked at the commotion, cutting through the crowd. The guard’s shout barely registered over the din.
Wriothesley appeared at the edge of the cafeteria, eyes narrowing. He always noticed these things—everything, really—but today, the sound of his name carried differently. Sharper. Louder. Harder to ignore.
He scanned the scene.
Them.
Sleeves rolled up, tray in hand like a shield, hair disheveled, breathing uneven—and still standing their ground.
They pivoted, stance wide, chest heaving, eyes blazing, clothes noticably wrinkled and dirtied, nose dribbling with red, knuckles noticeably blackened. “What gives you the right to talk about the Duke like that?!” Chairs squeaked, trays rattled, and someone knocked over a cup, spilling its lukewarm contents across the floor.
His jaw tightened, just slightly.
This is ridiculous.
He stepped forward, boots clicking against the floor, cutting through the chaos with an authority that made everyone—even the biggest troublemakers—pause.
“Enough.”
The single word sliced through the cafeteria like a blade. Chairs scraped back, voices dropped an octave, and even Biggie froze mid-lunge, soup tray raised. Reader blinked, mouth half-open in disbelief.
“What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t have to raise his voice for it to send chills down the room’s spine.
They were the first to speak, “I— we were—“
Wriothesley didn’t look at them. Instead, he turned to the group they’d been fighting.
“If you have a problem with me, then say it to my face.”
Silence.
A glance passed between them. Hesitation. Pride. Fear.
“Again,” he said evenly. “If you have a problem with me, say it.”
No one moved. The cafeteria held its breath. Even the tray-laden servers paused mid-step.
Wriothesley exhaled slowly.
“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll assume there isn’t one.”
His gaze flicked—brief, sharp—back to them. Still disheveled. Still standing between him and the others. Still… trying.
Something in his chest shifted.
Wriothesley didn’t linger on the others.
“Clean this up,” he said, already turning away. “And if I hear about this happening again, we’ll be having a very different conversation.”
A chorus of quick, mumbled yes, Your Grace followed.
Chairs slid back into place. Trays were picked up. Conversations resumed in hushed, cautious murmurs, like the room itself wasn’t sure it was allowed to breathe yet.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
(You) Character Story: So…
“—You.”
There it was; that tone. Not loud. Not sharp. Worse. Focused.
Their head snapped up. “…Me?” they said, pointing at themselves like there was anyone else it could possibly be.
Wriothesley held their gaze for a second—just long enough to make it very clear. “Yes, you. Walk with me,” he added, already turning, clearly not a request.
They hesitated for half a second—just enough to consider making a run for it (hypothetically)—before falling into step beside him.
The cafeteria noise faded behind them as they stepped into the corridor. They kept a careful distance at first. Then realized that made it look suspicious. Then overcorrected and walked too close.
Great. Fantastic. Nailed it.
The silence stretched. They could hear their own heartbeat, feel the dull throb in their cheek, the sting in their shoulder, the very vivid awareness of his presence beside them.
Say something. Anything.
“So,” they started, voice just a little too bright, “that was—uh—fun. Team bonding, you could say—”
“Stop.”
They stopped.
Wriothesley didn’t slow down, but his voice dropped—quieter now. Not for the room, but for them.
“You’re injured.” It wasn’t a question.
They blinked. “What? No, I’m—”
“You’re limping.”
…Oh.
They glanced down like maybe it would magically fix itself if they didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s barely a limp.”
“And your cheek.”
They resisted the very strong urge to cover it. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m aware.”
That made them pause.
Because… yeah. He would be. The silence returned, but it wasn’t the same anymore. It pressed in closer. Heavier.
They exhaled, rubbing the back of their neck. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I’ve handled worse than a couple of idiots with bad opinions and worse aim.”
Wriothesley slowed—just slightly.
“…That’s not the point.”
They frowned, glancing at him. “Then what is?”
He stopped walking.
They took one more step before realizing—and had to awkwardly shuffle back a half-step to face him properly.
His gaze settled on them—not sharp, not cold, but steady in a way that made it hard to look away. “For someone who claims to think things through,” he said, “you’re remarkably careless when it comes to yourself.”
They blinked.
“Careless—?” they echoed, a little defensive now. “I wasn’t being careless, I was—”
“Outnumbered.”
“…Winning.”
“You were getting hit.”
“…Okay, that was one time.”
“Twice.”
“—That doesn’t count, I recovered!”
Wriothesley exhaled—not quite a sigh, but close. His hand came up briefly to his temple, like he was trying to keep something in place. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”
Their expression shifted. “So I should’ve just stood there and listened to them talk like that?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?” they shot back, frustration slipping through now. “Because it sounded like you wanted me to just ignore it.”
“I’m saying,” he replied, voice still calm—but tighter now, “that you don’t need to prove anything by getting yourself hurt.”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything!”
“Then why?”
The question landed cleanly between them. They hesitated, because the answer was right there—too close, too obvious.
“…They were wrong,” they said finally, quieter now. “About you.”
Something flickered in his expression that vanished just as quickly.
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not,” they muttered, looking away, “but someone should say something.”
Silence fell over them as the Duke took another step, them following behind.
“…You care a great deal,” Wriothesley said. Not in a teasing way, not as a joke—he said it as a statement, something that could be observed from a mile away.
They froze.
HOW DID HE KNOW?!
“I mean—not like that,” they said quickly, waving a hand. “I just—care in a general sense. Like—morally. As a person. A totally normal amount of caring—”
“—About me.”
They stopped. He said it so simply, as if he already knew. Their brain, very helpfully, stopped working.
“…I,” they started, and immediately regretted it. Because now they had to finish that sentence. Their heart was doing that thing again. Loud. Fast. Unhelpful.
Say something normal.
Say something not incriminating.
“I just think you deserve better than that,” they blurted.
Close enough. Probably.
Wriothesley went quiet. He was looking at them like he was putting something together. Like pieces he hadn’t allowed himself to arrange before were suddenly… clicking.
Now for the first time since this started—he didn’t look entirely in control of it.
“…You shouldn’t do that again,” he said after a moment.
Their stomach dropped. “What—defend you?”
“Get hurt for me.”
They let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a lot worse than it actually—”
“I mean it.”
The humor died instantly. His voice hadn’t risen, yet something in it had. Something real, unfiltered.
Suddenly, this didn’t feel like a lecture anymore.
It felt like something else. Something neither of them had quite said yet.
The silence stretched.
They could hear it now—their heartbeat, loud and uneven, filling the space between them. The faint hum of the Fortress beyond the corridor. The way the air felt… different.
What is this?
(Wriothesley) Character Story: So…
Wriothesley didn’t look away.
That was the first sign.
Usually, he would’ve by now. Redirected. Reframed. Filed this under unnecessary complications and moved on.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he studied them—really looked this time; at the way they stood there, trying to hold their ground despite the slight shift in their weight, the faint redness blooming across their cheek, the stubborn set of their shoulders, even now.
They’d stepped in. Not because they had to, nor because it benefited them. But because they cared.
His brow furrowed, just slightly.
He’d seen loyalty before, respect, obligation, duty. This was impulsive, reckless, unnecessary… and entirely theirs.
Something in his chest tightened.
Why does that bother me this much?
He’d broken up fights before. Dozens of them. Worse than this. People got hurt, that was part of life in the Fortress. He handled it and moved on.
So why—
Why had this one followed him out of the room? Why was he still standing here? Why was he still looking at them like this?
His gaze flicked briefly to their cheek again, to the way they were trying very hard not to react to it. Then it clicked like something that had been there the entire time, finally allowed to exist.
The way the Fortress felt quieter when they weren’t around. The way his shoulders eased—just slightly—whenever they walked into a room. The way he’d started expecting them. The way—
His jaw tightened.
…The way he couldn’t ignore this.
A slow breath left him.
“…I’ve handled worse situations than that,” he said, voice low, steady—but no longer distant.
They blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Fights. Injuries. People making poor decisions.” He paused, “and I’ve never had an issue keeping my composure.”
Something in his tone made them still.
He stepped closer. “So explain something to me.”
Their breath hitched.
“…Why,” he continued, quieter now, “is this the one that bothered me?”
They didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because suddenly, they weren’t sure if this was still a conversation they could joke their way out of.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“I’ve been asking myself that,” he went on, “since the moment I walked in and saw you standing there.”
Another step grew closer—enough that the distance felt… intentional. “Thought it was irritation, at first,” he said, letting out a faint, almost self-aware huff of breath. “It wasn’t.” He continued, “Then I thought it was responsibility; you’re part of this place, that makes it my concern. But that wasn’t it either.”
They swallowed. “…Then what is it?” they asked, barely above a whisper.
Wriothesley held their gaze. “…It’s you.”
(You) Character Story: WOAH
Their breath caught.
“I don’t react like that for everyone,” he said. “You know that.”
They did know that.
His voice lowered slightly. “I don’t lose focus. I don’t get… distracted. But lately?”He faintly shook his head. “That’s all you seem to do.”
They stared at him. Processing. Failing. Trying again.
“…Wrio—”
“I notice when you’re not around. I notice when you skip meals. When you’re quieter than usual. When you’re trying too hard to act like something doesn’t bother you.”Each word landed heavier than the last. “And today,” he added, voice tightening just slightly, “I noticed you getting hurt.”
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, almost difficult to ignore. “…And I didn’t like it.”
“Why?” they asked, even though they weren’t sure they wanted the answer.
Wriothesley exhaled slowly, like this was the part he couldn’t walk back from.
“…I was planning on ignoring it,” he admitted. “Because it complicates things. Whatever this is.” He let out a small, humorless breath, his gaze softening just slightly. “But I don’t think I can.”
Their pulse spiked. “…Can’t what?”
He held their gaze. “Pretend you don’t matter more than you should.”
Their breath hitched, and this time, they couldn’t hide it.
“…That’s—” they started, voice failing halfway. “That’s not fair.”
His brow lifted slightly. “No?”
“You don’t just—say something like that and then expect me to—” they gestured helplessly, words falling apart under the weight of everything they were trying not to say.
“—to what?”
“Not—” they exhaled sharply. “Not feel anything about it!”
There it was. Out in the open.
Wriothesley went still. “…You feel something about it,” he repeated.
They froze. There it was—the point of no return.
“…I,” they started, then stopped, trying again. “…You already know,” they muttered, looking away.
A silence settled between them, softer now—but no less heavy.
“…I do,” he said.
Their head snapped back up. This time, there was no distance left in his expression—no detachment, no careful restraint. Just something steady. Certain.
“…That’s why I’m saying this now,” he continued, voice measured but no longer guarded. He took a breath. “I like you.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They settled—slow, heavy—somewhere deep in their chest, like their heart had forgotten how to keep up.
“And I don’t think that’s going to change.”
They stared at him, like if they blinked enough times, he might take it back.
“…That’s,” they started, voice catching immediately. They cleared their throat. “That’s—wow. Okay. You can’t just say that like it’s—like it’s a normal sentence people say.”
Their hands moved before their brain could catch up, gesturing vaguely between them. “That’s not a normal sentence, Wrio. That’s, like, a life-altering sentence.
“‘I like you.’ Yeah, sure. Casual. Totally fine. I’m handling this so well right now—“ They dragged a hand down their face, exhaling sharply, then peeked at him again like he might’ve changed in the last five seconds.
He hadn’t.
“…You’re serious,” they said, quieter now.
When he didn’t waver, something in them did.
Their shoulders dropped just slightly, the frantic energy bleeding out into something softer—something a little more honest.
“…That’s not fair,” they muttered, but there was no bite in it this time. “I had a whole plan, you know.”
His brow lifted. “A plan.”
“Yeah,” they said, nodding, because apparently they were committing to this. “It involved me never saying anything, ever, and just… dealing with it internally. Like a responsible person.
“…It was a bad plan,” they admitted.
Silence settled again—but this time, it didn’t feel like something to escape from.
They shifted their weight, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—him, the space between them, their own heartbeat refusing to calm down.
“…I like you too,” they said, quietly, sincerely, carefully. Then—because they physically could not leave it there—“I mean—obviously,” they added quickly, gesturing toward the general direction of the cafeteria. “I just got into a fight over you, which, in hindsight, feels like it should’ve been a private realization and not a public event, but here we are—”
They stopped, wincing. “…I’m not making this any better. But …I do. Like you. A lot, actually.”
(Wriothesley) Character Story: Woah-
“…I’m glad you didn’t stick to your plan.” That might’ve been the closest thing to a joke he was going to give them right now.
He shifted his weight, not stepping closer—but not putting any distance between them either. Deliberate. Careful in a way that mattered more now than it had before.
“I meant what I said,” he continued, tone steady again, but no longer guarded. “This doesn’t change easily for me. But it already has.” His gaze held theirs—not intense, not overwhelming, just certain, like he wasn’t going anywhere.
Then, quieter—almost like an afterthought, but not one he tried to take back:
“…And for the record, I didn’t mind the public display. …Though I’d prefer fewer injuries next time.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the bruise forming along their cheek, his expression tightening just slightly out of concern.
“…Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the corridor. “Sigewinne’s going to have a field day if we show up late.”
He turned—but slower than usual.
Like he expected them to follow.
Like he knew they would.
And they did.
—the end.—
