kait 🩵 @wrioism - Tumblr Blog

The Frost ꕤ

Featuring - Wriothesley

ꕤ Wriothesley insisted he was doing what was best for you when he called it all off. Yet, years later, you still find yourself drowning in grief and longing for what you two could have been. What happens when you run into him again after all this time?

ꕤ Warnings: angst, nsfw, f!reader, piv, protected sex, pwp, oral f!receiving, fluff, emotional sex, praise kink, let me know if i missed any!!

Word count: 9.3K

You knew what was going to come out of Wriothesley’s mouth that day the moment you saw his eyes.

Full of remorse, a regret for something he hadn’t even done yet. You would spend years wishing he acknowledged that, how obvious it was that he already knew deep in his heart that the choice he made was the wrong one.

You deserve better than me.

That was his reason.

Sure, it was annoying at times, having to venture down to the fortress to see him, otherwise needing to wait for his journeys to the surface that rarely came. Yes, you hated how cold it was in there, the metal walls constantly radiating a chill that you could feel in your bones. Yes, you hated the inmates whose eyes would linger on your figure as a guard escorted you to the Duke’s office. Yes, you hated how stressed he was, how often you had to question whether it was a good time to visit.

But that chill was always quickly soothed by Wriothesley’s heated palms, cupping the sides of your thighs, and then up to your waist, his skin pressing warmth into your bloodstream all the way to your face. When you would tell him about the wandering eyes of the people in his prison, he’d have them in solitary within fifteen minutes, and those particular set of eyes would never be a problem again. And no matter how stressed he was, how little time he had for you, you always noticed the relief and comfort behind his gaze when you’d reach the top of the stairs.

He was a busy man. But, Archons, he loved being busy with you.

But he hated feeling like he was holding you back. Sometimes you’d talk about getting a place together on the surface, and it was dreadful for Wriothesley to know that even if you did, he’d seldom be there. He lived in the fortress during your time together, and even then, it never felt like he spent enough time behind his desk to keep up with the workload. You’d talk about trips, he didn’t have time. You’d invite him to your house every single day of the month, but he’d only make it a handful of times.

You were the most important thing in the world to him. The only person he trusted, the woman he loved. And he felt cruel for shackling you to him of all people, a man who didn’t feel like he was fulfilling the role of what he knew you deserved. So despite your cries, your protests, your begs for one more chance as if you had done something wrong, he walked away.

If only you had known, you would’ve visited more. Spent more hours in front of a cup of tea in his office, finding entertainment in the wrinkle between his eyebrows that came out when he focused on whatever case came across his desk that day. You would’ve spent more time memorizing the swarm of scars planted across his body, you would’ve painted them and hung them in your apartment in The Court of Fontaine so part of him could always be with you.

If only you had known. That he’d leave. You’d have nothing left but the memories and a dreadful feeling, wondering if you could’ve eventually changed his mind with your choked reassurances. You’d be forced to look into your future and no longer see the blue in his eyes, the grey streaks in his hair, the scar under his eye you would trace with the tip of your pointer finger every chance you got.

This has been your reality for three years.

You haven’t seen him since a few days after the break-up, when you travelled down to his living quarters within the fortress to pick up your clothes and other belongings. You remember avoiding his gaze, trying to hold onto some of your pride by not begging anymore, and you knew you would if you locked eyes. You didn’t want to hear him tell you noagain.

He kissed your forehead before you left, and you sobbed the whole way home.

And now you’re on a date, with a man whose last name you don’t remember, who ordered a drink for you insisting you’d love it, and you had to hold down a gag when you sipped it and it tasted like dish water. He demanded you didn’t bring your wallet, but then complained about the price of the food you wanted, so you had to settle for a vegetarian appetizer that lacked as much taste as it did appeal.

And like every other time you’ve tried dating again, you’re thinking of Wriothesley.

You push him into the back of your head, forcing a smile. The man in front of you, first name Lewis, last name still a mystery, watches you with a sparkle in his dark green eyes, his blonde hair lazily styled to stay out of his face.

He hasn’t done anything wrong, but his gaze on you feels terrible. Like you’re entertaining someone you shouldn’t, like you’re a committing a crime by letting him get excited thinking of what you might let him do at the end of the night.

“So,” you start regrettably, clearing your throat and awkwardly tapping your full glass with your nail. Your forearms rest on the table, sitting in the middle of your side of the booth. Lewis is spread out on his side, resting his back against the corner that connects the booth and the wall. You think you’re supposed to find it hot, the laid-back attitude, but it sort of makes you feel dismissed. “You grew up in Fontaine?”

“Yeah.”

You blink at his exhilarating response.

Nod slowly. “Mhm. Me too.”

“Cool.” Lewis nods, licking his lips in a way that was clearly meant to be seductive yet again, but it just reminds you of a panting dog. Doesn’t exactly get you going. “You’re very beautiful, anyone ever tell you that?”

Yes.

You fiddle with your bracelet, holding your tight-lipped grin to appear polite and invested. It’s interesting how much more effort you’re putting in to seem absorbed when he’s the one pining to get laid. “Thank you. You look nice, too.”

“You think?” He cocks an eyebrow.

You nod dishonestly. You met this guy through a mutual friend who claimed he was the perfect guy to help you forget about your ex, even if just for one night. When she told you that, you figured this guy would be exciting. Have you on your feet and dancing or rambling your heart out so much that you wouldn’t have time to think of Wriothesley.

You were mistaken. What she really meant is that this guy would flirt with a plate of jello if it meant getting his dick wet.

Maybe that could work, too. It might not make you forget, but a distraction couldn’t hurt, right?

You straighten your spine, looking at Lewis with a glint in your gaze that makes his face drop. “Do you want to get out of here?”

He smiles like he just won a first-place medal for something he didn’t even think he’d get bronze for. “Ha, hell yeah.”

-

What a nauseating mistake.

Your forehead is to Lewis’s front door, hands braced on either side of your body. You’re still dressed, Lewis grinding his erection against your ass with an arm swung over the front of your body, rubbing at your underwear with a lack of coordination that’s almost impressive.

You bite your lip out of annoyance. You’re not surprised by his lack of decorum, not waiting long enough to get you to his bedroom before jumping your bones, but not even the couch? Seriously? It’s seven feet away.

You reach down, grabbing his hand beneath your skirt and trying to guide him to your clit, so at least his ministrations, as unappealing as they are, actually do something for you.

He moves his hand back to it’s original position.

You want to die.

You feel his hot breath in your ear, a low chuckle making you feel uneasy. “What is it? Too much? You gonna come?”

You want to kill this guy, especially when you think of where you’d end up if you did.

You close your eyes tightly, sighing before turning your head to see him. “Stop.”

Lewis freezes. “Huh?”

You turn around, pushing him back and flattening your skirt with a defeated huff. You’ll try again next year. “This isn’t working. I’m leaving.”

Lewis laughs humorlessly, throwing his arms out. “You’re leaving? Are you kidding me?”

You look up at him, reaching back to open his door. He looks vastly confused, and there’s a hint of anger that makes you want out of here as soon as possible.

You turn and set off down the hallway, your stomach dropping at the sound of footsteps in your wake. He’s following you?

“The fuck did I even do?” Lewis calls out, still trailing you as you take quick steps down the stairs. Your jacket is long forgotten on the floor of his apartment, and you’re actually thankful he told you not to bring your wallet now. Your only objective is getting out of here, your quick footsteps in sync with your panicked breathing. “Come on, stop being a bitch.”

The second you make it out of his apartment building and onto the streets of Fontaine, a hand comes down on your shoulder, and you yelp as you’re roughly turned around.

“What is your issue?” Lewis demands, closing his fist tightly around your upper arm. Pain shoots through you, more terror setting in. “You can’t just leave after getting me all worked up like this.”

You hold your ground despite the lump in your throat. “I can. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Fuck that.”

Your eyes pop at his demanding tone, and just when you think your next move is to scream, fight, run, a new figure separates the two of you, Lewis’s hand being abruptly ripped from your arm.

“Do you know her?”

Lewis scoffs. He’s entirely blocked off from you now, the new person’s form shielding you from his view. “Yeah, she’s the bitch who thinks she—”

“Wrong answer. Get out of here before I have you arrested.”

“Have me arrested? And who the fuck—”

The man grabs at his belt, pulling off a pair of handcuffs and spinning them on his pointer and middle fingers.

Wait.

Silence for a moment, and then you see Lewis bolt down the street from behind the man’s body.

You almost consider doing the same thing. You hold your breath when the man turns, holstering the handcuffs, and when he opens his mouth to speak, likely to ask something along the lines of are you alright, he freezes to mirror your expression when he processes who you are.

He whispers your name like a question, as if contemplating that you’re real. You have to ask yourself the same thing.

You swallow, intertwining your fingers behind your back like you’re scared you’ll reach for him if you don’t. “Wriothesley.” You say, and somehow addressing him still feels as natural as it did. “What—What are you doing…”

“Are you alright?” He cuts you off, his tone alarmed, like it’s just now hit him what situation he got you out of. “Who was that?”

You sigh, dropping your head and shaking it. “That was—Uh, Lewis.” You awkwardly point in the direction your date ran off to.

“…Lewis?”

“We were on a date,” You tell him swiftly, but you hate to admit it. You don’t want to give the impression that you’re over him, God, you want him to know how he left you. You want him to know how he’s ruined you for every other man you’ve tried to let touch you over these past years. “Didn’t go very well.”

“I can see that,” he mumbles. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” You shake your head, not bothering to mention the lingering pain where he had your arm in his grip. “I… Uh, thank you. For your help.”

“Of course,” his voice is low, almost sad. You know this is hard for him, too, seeing each other, and that fact almost angers you. How could he be sad? You could’ve been by his side every second of the past three years, he’s the reason you haven’t been.

And yet, he’s talking like he’s missed you.

How the hell could he feel that way?

You suck in a breath sharply. “What are you doing above the surface?” You ask, dropping your arms to your sides, and Wriothesley almost looks guilty.

He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. He dresses the same way you remember, give or take a new tie and pair of pants.

“I have a place up here now.”

A sinking feeling weaves into every inch of your body at seven words. For a second, you’re not sure you heard him right. There’s no way you did, right?

I have a place up here now.

He has a place up here now. In the Court of Fontaine, like you two had always dreamt of doing together. Something he swore he would never actually do when he broke your heart. Hell, it’s basically the reason he convinced himself to leave.

You stare at him, but he doesn’t meet your eyes.

“Who is she?”

His eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“What’s her name?” You prod. “The woman that convinced you to buy a place. Tell me her name.”

He blinks a few times, looking beyond shocked at your accusation. “There’s no woman.” He insists, but you don’t believe him for a second. He always said his love for you was the only reason he’d even consider moving out of Meropide, so the only logical explanation for this is that he’s found a woman he actually treasures enough to go through with it.

You nod once, feeling the bitterness on your face and the sting of the tears welling up in your eyes. “Right.”

You haven’t even been able to find a man you like enough to laugh at his jokes, nevermind something like this. God knows you aren’t even capable.

Betrayal, sadness, regret, it all barrels into you at once, and all you can do to combat it is hope none of it is real.

But it is.

You should’ve never gone out tonight. You think you’d rather have just never known. Hope may be paralyzing, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like this.

“Can I walk you home?” He mutters. His black hair with the silver streaks is the same as you remember it. How can be so familiar and not the same at all? “You don’t look well.”

Wonder why.

“Do what you want, Wriothesley.” You snap, turning and setting off down the street. His presence doesn’t disappear from your personal bubble, his large frame taking place beside you, matching your pace.

He says your name.

You ignore him.

You hold down the tears. Right now he thinks you were just on a date, he probably thinks you do that regularly. He probably believes you moved on just like he did. He doesn’t deserve your tears. He doesn’t deserve to know that your shattered heart has been waiting on the day where he finally comes to his senses, a day that will never come.

He didn’t even come see you. You didn’t even know. How long has he been spending his mornings before work somewhere above the surface? How long has he been bidding farewell to the guards at the end of each night, smiling to himself as he thought about what was awaiting him at a place he called home?

Who is she? What about her could you not compare to?

You walk faster, but Wriothesley has no problem keeping up with your pace until you eventually find yourself on your porch. He stays on the stone walkway, yet you can still feel his eyes pinned to you.

He says your name again, quietly, desperately. Against your better judgment, you turn to him.

“What does she have?” You command, and you despise how broken you sound. How defeated you seem, how desperate you are to know what you were lacking. “What does she do for you that I didn’t?” You point to your chest angrily.

“It’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, watching him closely as he ascends your porch steps to stand across from you. “What?”

“You’re the woman.”

You knit your eyebrows together, the action making you realize that the tears you’d been desperately holding in have started to stream down your face. “What are you talking about, Wriothesley?”

He sighs, leaning back against the railing. Your eyes trail him, noting his body language. His chest is rising and falling slowly, and there’s a tightness to his jaw like he’s clenching his teeth. His eyes flit around your shared surroundings, searching for something solid to focus on other than you. You haven’t seen him this nervous since the day he told you he was in love with you.

“I made a mistake when I called it off,” he starts. “I know I did.”

You tilt your head, your bottom lip jutting down in a silent cry. It should feel like a victory, him admitting that, but it doesn’t. “I would’ve—”

“I know.” He whispers. “I know you would’ve. You would’ve kept coming down to the fortress every single day, sitting with me even when I couldn’t offer you my attention. But I didn’t want you to make anymore sacrifices for me, and it didn’t cross my mind that I owed a few sacrifices of my own.”

You listen intently, eyes locked on him.

“About eight months after I broke up with you, I really started to realize how much I messed up. I thought I was doing the right thing, but even after so much time, I still wasn’t confident in the decision I made. I wanted to make it right, and I started by hiring some help in the fortress and buying myself a house in The Court of Fontaine.”

Eight months after.

Over two years ago.

You shake your head, confused. “Why didn’t—”

“I tried,” he cuts you off. “I did. The day I got the keys, I came straight here, to your house.” His eyelids are heavy, nearly concealing the blue irises that you used to stare into for hours on end. “And you were here, outside.” He nods his head to the front lawn. “With… Some guy. He was kissing you.”

Your heart plummets.

You remember that guy. Vaguely. Even his first name is lost to you now, but you went on a few dates. He was your first attempt at trying to get over Wriothesley. The whole ordeal lasted a total of two weeks, if not less, before you realized that you still didn’t have eyes for anyone except The Duke.

He thought you moved on. That you fell in love with someone else. In eight months.

“Wriothesley.” You almost sob.

“It’s not your fault, I just thought—”

“Wriothesley.” You close the distance, putting your hands on the sides of his face. Your voice drops to a low whisper, tainted with the same regret you used to pray he felt every day. “Oh Gods.”

He looks down at you, swallowing. His voice is rough. “I take it you broke up.”

“I was never with him,” you correct, and his face twists. “God—I was just trying… You really think I’d be with someone else after eight months?”

He blinks. “You weren’t dating him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “God, that was probably the last time I spoke to him. I haven’t—” You pause to catch your breath. “It’s still you. It never wasn’t, Wriothesley.”

You can only decipher the look in his eyes because you’re feeling the same exact way.

Two years. Two years you’ve been waiting on each other.

You could’ve had him back two years ago. Had the life you wanted, above the surface, holding him at night, having breakfast with him in the morning.

He exhales shakily. “Are you serious?”

Your bottom lip quivers, one of your hands sliding to the back of his neck, the other still cupping his face. “You should’ve—” Your voice cracks. “You should’ve came back. Even if I was with him, I’d drop everything if…” You trail off, biting down on your lip.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “I should’ve.”

You choke out a breath as his hands find your waist. “I’m so sorry.”

He lowers his eyebrows. “For what?”

“I can’t believe you thought I was with him,” you say. “That I could love someone else, especially that soon…” You slide your hand again, from his nape to his collar, where you squeeze.

Wriothesley shakes his head. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You frown, your gaze dropping to his chest. You have so much to say to him, so much to ask him, so much to mend. It feels like there isn’t enough time in the world to sit him down and dissect every thought he’s had since the day he left, but it’s the only thing you want to do.

You peer back up.

“Will you come inside?”

-

You place a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of Wriothesley. You’re quick to note his body language, the way he sits up straight, intently focuses on your movements with genuine intrigue, and not just a hope to get in your pants.

There were times that, while holding all these other men to a standard Wriothesley set, you had to ask yourself if it was all as good as you remembered it, or if it was just something you fabricated in your grief.

But, no. He’s everything no other man could ever be. Even now, you can tell how well your memory has served you.

You sit down beside him, soaking in the way he leans down and picks up the cup to take a small sip before placing it back on the saucer. It’s almost domesticate, almost familiar. A dangerous thing to want to get used to. His jacket is discarded on the hook by the door, and he’s stripped other extraneous accessories. His attempt at getting comfortable fills you with a fragile optimism.

“Wriothesley,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, and within a millisecond you have his full attention. There’s a longing in his blue eyes, and you want to mend the pain that caused it. The pain that three years worth of misunderstandings caused you both.

He moves closer to you, and the closeness, the intimacy, you only just got control of yourself, and you want to sob again.

“I missed you so much,” you tell him, and you have to focus on anything but his face to maintain control of your voice. “I’ve thought of you every day, I can’t tell you how many times I considered just showing up in the fortress, to see if you’d turn me away, or if you’d change your mind, maybe even just give in to one more night together.” You furrow your eyebrows, your lips staying parted through your short pause. “I hated not knowing how you were feeling, if you regretted it, if you missed me, too…”

He says your name, gently, almost like a coax, and it successfully draws your gaze to his.

“I know,” he says, voice just above a whisper, and it’s such a simple thing, but it’s validating. It lifts a weight off your back, knowing that he understands, not just because you’re telling him, but because he’s been dealing with the same thing. The same way you’ve been waiting on him changing his mind, he’s been waiting for you come back to him.

He’s provided you a freeing amount of clarity already, a delicate hope blooming deep in your chest, but you still have so much to ask.

“Have you…” You hesitate, adjusting yourself on your couch that suddenly feels rock solid. You’re still in the outfit from your dumpster fire of a date, a skirt veering on the shorter side and a long sleeve tight enough that you feel physically restrained with your quick heartbeat and laboured breaths. “Been with anyone else?”

You don’t know if you have the right to ask, but you want to know. It’s a miracle in itself that you two found each other in the first place with how demanding his job is, or was, but his options have since broadened. You wonder if missing you was a good enough reason for him to ignore that.

“Not really,” he answers easily, like he’s not shocked by your curiosity surrounding the subject. “I went on a blind date that I was tricked into and a blind double date that I was also tricked into. That’s it. Can’t confidentially say I remember either of their faces, so I don’t know if that counts as being with someone in any capacity.”

No. He hasn’t.

He hasn’t had his hands on another woman, and their hands haven’t been on him.

You gulp, flattening your palms over your skirt. “You’re making it sound like you were waiting around for me,” you say, only half-joking.

He chuckles. “Well, that’s not untrue.”

You flush, forgetting how to use your voice well enough to muster a response.

“You?” He murmurs, his gaze dropping to look you over before settling back on your eyes. His body is turned toward you, one arm propped up on the back of the couch, his hand ghosting awfully close to your head. “I know you’ve been on dates, but…”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone,” you answer, and you’re pleasantly surprised that you were able to make a coherent declaration. “I tried. I thought that it would help with moving on, if I just bit the bullet. But I was never able to go that far with anyone.”

You feel the heat of Wriothesley’s stare, unrelenting and leaving a weakness behind in your limbs.

“How far did you go?”

“They’ve… Um…” You think about Lewis’s front door. “Touched me. But I never liked it very much, and always ended up asking them to stop. It just felt…” There’s a million words for it. Their hands made you feel dirty, undervalued, and out of place. But above all else, “wrong.”

He exhales slowly. “Wrong,” he echoes.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Wrong. For a lot of reasons.” What they were doing, who they were, why they were doing it.

“Did any of them make you come?”

You nearly choke at his bluntness. You stare at him with wide eyes, expecting him to backtrack and apologize for being so bold, but he just watches you as he awaits an answer he seems to believe he already has.

“No.”

Wriothesley frowns. Like it genuinely upsets him to know that you’ve gone so long without anyone taking care of you adequately. You’d be lying if you said that reaction wasn’t enough to make you dizzy.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he starts, and his face suggest the words feel bitter on his tongue. Not because he doesn’t want to apologize, or believes he shouldn’t need to, but the statement just doesn’t seem sufficient. I’m sorry that we lost years together. I’m sorry about how easily it could’ve been prevented.

You pull your knees onto the couch, folding your hands together in your lap.

“I’m sorry for all of it,” he continues, voice gentle. “I just… I love y—loved you so much, and I wanted better for you.”

“I didn’t want better,” you whisper. “I wanted you.”

Wriothesley bites his gums, dropping his head in defeat with a long sigh. “I know. I felt the same. It just seemed like the right thing, to let you go, hope you would find someone who had more to give you.”

You press your lips together. “I didn’t.”

He offers you a slow nod. “I know you didn’t.”

“He doesn’t exist,” you continue. “This person you made up that could ever be better for me than you are.”

A weak smile tugs at his lips, curving up on the side of his face where his scar is. “Didn’t you do the same thing?” He offers with a cock of his head. “Thought I was up here for another woman.” His arm that was slung over the back of your couch shifts, his fingers absentmindedly starting to twirl loose strands of your hair. “There hasn’t been a single woman other than you.”

You want to tell him there hasn’t been a man other than him, even though he already knows that isn’t true. It feels true—No one came close to him. There might as well have been no others.

“There hasn’t been a man like you,” you decide to say. “Someone who—”

“Got you off?”

You blush. “Partly.”

He nods, his eyes pinned to where he fidgets with your hair. Even this touch, no skin, no real connection, makes your body feel warm. “What else?”

You exhale shakily. “Someone who makes me laugh.”

“Mhm.”

“Who cares about what I have to say, who listens to me when I speak, who remembers the little things.”

You bet he still has everything you’ve ever told him committed to memory.

“Keep going.”

You lean into his touch, his knuckles grazing the side of your head. “Who knows how to touch me.”

He hums.

“How to please me.”

Now he’s cupping your face.

“How to love me.”

Your chin. He’s closer now, you’re not sure when he shifted, but you could swing your leg over his and be in his lap in one quick movement.

“Who took the time to learn these things.” You don’t stop. His face is close now, his breath and yours meeting, but he’s intent on listening to every point you make. “Who…”

You trail off. Your eyes are pinned to his mouth, and Gods, he’s so close. Your house is only illuminated by a dim lamp you flicked on beside the couch, and the moon pouring in through your open curtains. You can smell his cologne, the same scent that welcomed you on his sheets during so many early mornings. The warmth radiating off of him doesn’t leave a lingering chill, neither is it so much that you feel a burn.

Everything about him was crafted to tend to each and every one of your individual needs, your wants, the impractical ones, the filthy ones. Now more than ever, you can’t believe he ever thought that someone else could fill that void.

“Who?” He prods.

Your hand comes up, fisting the front of his shirt, and your nose just barely swipes against his.

“Someone who’s you.”

Wriothesley tips your chin up, encouraging you to bring your eyes back up to his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, like he’s praying that the two words mean enough to keep you this close. “I’m sorry that I took all of that from you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he murmurs. “If you let me.”

The only response you can muster is a nod, desperate enough to ignite a small smirk on a face.

“I think I know where to start.”

Then he’s kissing you.

Your hands dart to the sides of his head, sliding into his hair and grasping. He lifts you into his lap, one arm curling around your lower back and the other cupping the side of your face.

It’s hurried, desperate, but there’s no real rush. Just a need verging on animalistic. His lips move against yours as if he’s taking time to relearn the shape of them, and hell, it doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm that feels like two puzzle pieces falling into place.

You murmur his name, not to ask for anything, just to ground yourself.

He hums affirmatively, as if helping you remember that it’s him. Not Lewis. Not any of your other unfulfilling dates you’ve been on.

You’re getting properly taken care of tonight.

His palm cups your nape, holding your mouth flush against his. You wait until your chest constricts before pulling back for air, and Wriothesley begins to trail kisses over your jaw, down your neck, immediately tending to a sensitive part of your neck by sucking and biting.

You whimper at the feeling, your hips pressing down against his instinctively. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair, resting your cheek on his head. “You remember.”

He pulls back, just a bit, soothing a bite with a swipe of his tongue. “How I forget something I’ve recited every day?” He tugs his head from the crook of your neck, and you drop your forehead to his. “I’ve thought of this, thought of you, every moment without fail. Ever since that day.”

You slide one hand under his shirt, just to rest it on his midsection, have his skin on yours. You listen to the melody of his confession, and it works to soothe the cracks in your heart, while simultaneously building that primal need entwining deep in your stomach.

“My own face has become nothing but a place your hand used to sit, my name nothing but a word you used to say.” He kisses you, quickly, like he needs your lips against his like oxygen in his lungs in order to continue. “How could I forget how to make you feel good, what draws those sounds from your lips?”

He uses his arm slung around your hips to pull you forward, rocking against him again. You purse your lips, a whine barely breaching the air between you.

“I still love you. Not for a second did I stop, I couldn’t. I can’t.”

“Wriothesley,” you breathe.

“I love you,” he mumbles, diving back in to trail kisses up the side of your face, across your forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you say back, and you mean it.

He groans, and then he’s standing. Your legs circle his waist, and your mouth finds his again almost magnetically. He doesn’t need you to stop, he easily navigates to your bedroom like each step is natural.

He leans over the side of your bed, bracing a hand behind your head as he slowly lowers you to the mattress. He squeezes the sensitive nerves on your waist, and when your lips part in a whimper, his tongue darts out.

He licks into your mouth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole, or fuse your beings into one. Anything that keeps you here, and you want him to know it’s unnecessary, that there isn’t a thing that could rip you away from him again. Not him. Not the Gods above. You’re not letting him go.

His fingertips descend agonizingly slow, dipping under the hem of your shirt and tugging. His knuckles glide across your skin, and you moan into his mouth.

“So needy,” he murmurs, reverence coating his rough voice. “My poor girl. No one around who could take care of her. For so long.” He leans back, watching himself as he lifts your shirt higher, just below your breasts. “My baby deserves so much better than that.”

You can’t speak. You don’t even bother trying.

“Can this come off?” He asks.

You nod swiftly. He doesn’t waste a moment, guiding your arms above your head so he can peel the fabric off your body. You arch your back once he’s tossed it aside, giving him access to the clasp of your bra as he smothers your chest in lazy kisses.

He snaps the clasp open, pulling the straps off your neck and getting rid of that, too.

“Fuck,” he grunts.

You hum. “Did your memory serve you well?”

“Nothing my mind could conjure up compares to this,” he tells you, and you roll your bottom lip into your mouth at the tender words. “You’re perfect. The only flawless thing to come out of this nation. This world.”

He palms one of your breasts and dips down to take your other nipple in his mouth. Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of the wet warmth enveloping you. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling roughly.

He pops his mouth off your nipple, grinning up at you. “So impatient.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you reply breathlessly.

He cocks his head at that, leaning up until he’s kneeling on your bed with your thighs thrown around his hips. He curls his fingers in the bottom of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift movement.

The scars. God, the scars. You didn’t think you would ever miss them. They made you frown at one point, knowing the pain Wriothesley endured to earn them, but after sitting him down and having him explain the tale behind each one, you stopped feeling that way. They weren’t reminders of losses, they were reminders of victories. And you loved how each of them brought him closer to the day you saw him for the very first time.

You lean up, quickly flattening your hands over his lower stomach. They roam upwards, pausing at each discoloured line to trace the marred skin. You’re sure you could do so just as accurately with your eyes screwed shut, but you want to see him.

He lets you continue your silent exploration, head tipped down to watch your careful movements.

“Anything new?” You murmur.

“None,” he responds easily. “Couldn’t risk it.”

You look up at him. “Risk what?”

His gaze meets yours. “Something happening to me before I got you back.”

You exhale shakily, sliding your hands to his face and pulling him back down to the bed with you. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that up. The whole not-risking-your-life thing.”

He smiles at that, pressing a quick peck to your temple. “Anything for you.”

His mouth is on yours again, not wasting any time now before swiping his tongue past your lips. You take it greedily, meeting him with the same amount of vigour, but it’s not enough. You want all of it back, everything you’ve missed out on.

You push up, grinding yourself against the front of his slacks. He grunts against your lips, reaching one hand down to steady your hips, and you squirm defiantly and pull from his mouth.

“Archons—I’m trying to take my time with you,” he complains, but there’s no real strictness in his words.

“I told you I’ve waited enough, Wrio,” you repeat. “So have you, and I want you.”

Your words draw a chuckle from deep in his chest. “I’m supposed to be making up for two years of absence here, baby. I don’t want to rush.”

“I don’t feel very made up to,” you grumble, and you grind up again when his grip on your hip finally loosens.

“Gods, you’re killing me here,” he groans, but concedes, meeting your action by rocking his hips forward. You can feel his bulge straining against his slacks, meeting your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. You reach down, hooking your fingers in the waistband of your skirt and tugging, just wanting less between the two of you.

Wriothesley is quick to assist you, leaning up just enough to help pull the skirt all the way off before tossing it to join the existing pile of your shared clothing.

He looks down at you, inadvertently biting his lip as he takes in your appearance. You feel a little shy with his heated gaze drinking you in like this, eyes narrow with arousal and fists opening and closing like he’s resisting grabbing hold of you. It never used to make you nervous when he’d look at you this way, but you don’t take it as a bad thing.

“Wriothesley,” you say quietly.

“I could stare at you forever,” he mumbles.

You smile, cupping your hands on the sides of his neck. “That’s sweet. However, I’d prefer something more… Physical.”

He chokes out a laugh, tilting his head and meeting your eyes. “I can do that, too.”

Yes.

Wriothesley presses a kiss to your chest, trailing down the middle of your body until he’s right above your underwear. They’re a bit fancier than what you’d usually wear, only because you were anticipating someone seeing them, even if you weren’t thrilled about that before.

You couldn’t be happier now.

Wriothesley tucks the tips of his fingers under the hem, fidgeting with the red fabric. “He see these?” He questions, voice barely above a mutter.

“No,” you answer, and it’s true. He touched them, but didn’t see them.

“Did he touch you?”

You swallow, contemplating lying to him and saying no, but the last thing you need right now is to be dishonest. “He did.”

He cracks his neck, saying something indiscernible under his breath.

“He didn’t make me feel good,” you add. “That’s why I left.”

Wriothesley knits his eyebrows together. “Poor thing.” He presses a kiss to your hipbone. “I’ve got you now.”

He hooks his fingers in the sides of your underwear, tugging them down to the middle of your thighs and pausing only to groan at the sight of you. He’s quick to pull them the rest of the way, leaving you entirely bare in front of his face.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he notes, which makes you whine and flush. “Did you get like this for him?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I didn’t for any of them.”

Wriothesley grabs your thighs, guiding you open for him. He kneels at the side of the bed, like he’s worshipping you. You wouldn’t say that’s too far off. “Good.”

He licks a stripe up your slit, and you gasp at the initial sensation, the warmth, the lingering reminder in the back of your mind that it’s him. You slide a hand into his hair, not tugging or guiding, just resting. He hums approvingly at the way you can’t help but reach for him.

He takes your clit past his lips, sucking gently, experimentally. He pulls back when you moan, a wicked grin planted across his lips. “You taste even better than I remember.”

You sigh. “You’re so crude.”

He chuckles, and you can feel his breath against your cunt when he does. He slides one of his arms under your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder and grabbing your hip to hold you still, entirely at his disposal.

You’re aching for him, immediately trying to grind up against his mouth when he finally dives back in, but his iron grip keeps you still. He groans against you, his tongue toying with your clit in a way that’s as much teasing as it is consuming.

“I missed this so much,” he says, and you can barely make out his words over your own panting. “Did anyone else do this for you?”

You shake your head, not even attempting to speak. Your need for him is getting to a point of suffocating, your cunt clenching around nothing every time he touches you, every time he speaks.

“Fuck—Good.” His hand that was on your hip flattens over your stomach, his thumb darting out to rub your clit with coordinated strokes. You shudder, breathlessly moaning his name. It spurs him on, his head dropping and his tongue swiping over your fluttering hole before dipping inside.

Your fist closes in his hair, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip before you bite into it. He pushes his tongue deep into your channel before retreating entirely, sucking your clit back into his mouth firmly and clutching your hip once more.

“Wriothesley, oh Gods,” you whimper, your back lifting off the bed. His other hand moves from pinning your thigh open to instead find your hand, intertwining your fingers with his own.

“I got you,” he reassures, voice thick with his own arousal.

Your breath hitches when he releases your hip to probe your cunt with the pads of his fingers, and all it takes is one encouraging roll of your hips for his thick digits to press inside of you.

He continues working at your clit, and the added sensation from his fingers dragging along your inner walls before curling in the perfect way has the tightly-wound coil in your stomach beginning to unwind.

He doesn’t falter, especially not when he recognizes the signs of you quickly hurling toward your peak, hungrily lapping at your cunt with the desperation only a man who has waited could possess. He suddenly pulls his mouth back without slowing his fingers thrusting and bending inside of you. “Come on,” he tempts. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

He gives your clit one more hard suck, and you come apart for him at his demand. You cry his name, tugging roughly at the dark strands of his hair and squeezing his hand in yours. Wriothesley works you through every wave of your orgasm methodically, rhythmically rolling your sensitive clit under his tongue.

He grunts when you slacken against the mattress with his name still quietly falling from your lips. “There you go, such a good girl.” He gently takes your thigh off his bare shoulder, placing it back on the bed. “Did so well for me, just like you always have.”

You coax him back to you by reaching out to him, and he’s quick to put himself back in your embrace, your arms thrown over his neck and his mouth pressing against yours. You groan at the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Gods,” he says, voice muffled against your mouth. “I love you. I’ve loved you, I love you.”

“I love you,” you murmur, your heart aching at his tenderness, the affection and desperation in his strangled voice. “I want you so bad, Wriothesley. Please.”

“My needy girl,” he murmurs fondly, and then he snakes his hands around your body and hoists you into his arms. Your legs circle his waist, and he only holds you up long enough to readjust you, pulling back the covers of your bed and laying your head down on the pillow. “Want me to take care of you?”

“Yes,” you nod, exhaling, your voice choked from the intensity of your recent orgasm. Still, you don’t feel even remotely fulfilled. You need all of him.

Wriothesley kneels above you, and you watch with hungry eyes as he unbuckles his belt with one quick motion of his hand.

“You’re gonna be good for me?” He coos, continuing to undo his pants with one hand while the other trails up the side of your shuddering thigh.

You nod again, resisting the urge to reach up and tug his cock out for him. Wriothesley tosses his belt aside, stepping out of bed just long enough to entirely strip his pants and boxers, freeing himself. He’s somehow bigger than you remember him, or at least he looks that way.

Your mouth waters as he grabs his wallet from the pocket of his pants, fishing out a condom before getting back in bed.

“You okay, baby?” He checks up on you even though you couldn’t be more obviously ready for him.

“Yes,” you respond eagerly, half-lidded eyes tracking him as he positions himself on his knees in front of you. You watch as he rips the condom open and rolls it onto his cock, hard and begging to be buried deep inside of you.

“I’ll be gentle,” he soothes, leaning over you and kissing your cheekbone. “It’s been a while, yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes when he pulls his head back. “Yeah.”

He braces his forearm beside your head. “Have you done anything by yourself?” He asks, wondering if you’ve really gone years without anything satisfying.

“Barely,” you answer quietly, your hands finding his shoulders. “No one else could make me feel good, and I could only make myself feel good if I thought of you.” He curses at that. “And I didn’t think I should.”

He shakes his head. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

You laugh once. “Yeah, take it in, Wriothesley. You have ruined me for every other man.”

“You don’t need any other man.” He retorts quickly, dropping his head until his lips ghost right over yours. “Not anymore.”

He kisses you. Slowly, and it’s more than just that. He’s promising you, devoting himself to you all over again, and this time, you get to relish in the feeling of any doubt for the future whisking away.

He reaches between your bodies, and you gasp in his mouth at the feeling of the head of his cock pushing against your fluttering entrance. He rocks forward, just the tip pushing inside of you, and he swallows the whimper that emerges from your throat greedily. He holds your thigh open, keeping you spread as he keeps pressing deeper, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

“Wriothesley,” you moan.

“I know—Fuck.” He grunts, pausing when he’s halfway in to give you time to adjust. “I know, baby. You feel perfect.”

You clench around him at the praise, and he chokes at the feeling of you trying to tug him deeper. Your nails sink into his skin, leaving crescents behind as he chooses that moment to bottom out in one fell swoop.

You cry out, your neck arching against the pillow and your jaw unhinging. Archons. You had forgotten how right he felt. For years, you’ve been drowning in a weird, dreadful feeling of everyone else being so wrong. It was the only word you could ever conjure up for how those men made you feel.

Wrong.

Nothing has ever been less wrong than this.

“Never go again,” you beg, wrapping your arms around him and tugging his face into the crook of your neck.

Wriothesley barely draws back before thrusting back in, filling you to the brim. Your walls ache around his thick cock, but it’s a good pain, a dull pain that’s already fading. Your legs encircle his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “I’m not. I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

You whine, clenching around him again like you’re physically holding him to that promise. He takes this as an invitation to pull back again, nearly exiting you entirely, then he fills you again in a slow thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He turns his face into your neck, finding that same sensitive patch of skin and sucking a mark into it as he repeats that same long, deep thrust.

You rake your nails down his back, feeling the dents of the existing scars under your fingertips, and it’s a weird comfort to know none are new. It’s like you were never apart. No new stories, nothing physical that serves as a reminder how long it’s been since you had each other in this way.

He gradually increases the pace, filling you over and over again, each snap of his hips against yours more intense than the last. You writhe beneath him, the joint sensations of his cock stretching you open and his teeth nipping at your skin coming together to send shockwaves through your veins. You feel everything, every ridge of his cock dragging through you, and it’s bordering on overwhelming.

He pulls his head back, his forehead falling to rest against yours as he easily maintains a bruising pace. “I can’t believe I ever walked away from this,” he grumbles. “Away from this face. This woman. This—This fucking feeling.” He presses forward hard, seated as deep as possible. “I’ll make up for every minute.”

He’s making solid progress.

He continues to rock his hips, pressing his mouth to yours to swallow the desperate sounds emerging from deep in your chest. You cling to him, using his form to anchor yourself and not drift out of the moment for even a second. You soak in every single grind of his hips greedily, murmuring in his ear how amazing he feels when he takes you like this.

Wriothesley’s hand slips down the front of your body, finding your sensitive clit and rubbing firm circles. You let out a broken cry, squirming as the added stimulation has you quickly barrelling toward another high.

He shushes you, kissing you tenderly as he angles his thrusts to give you more than you think you can handle. You scream out, one of your hands having to drop to cling to the sheets as your body rocks forward with every push of Wriothesley’s cock. Your headboard slams into your wall, and you’re sure your neighbours will file a complaint about the noise, but you can’t find it in you to care. Not when you’re so close to tipping over the edge—

You’re laying beneath him in a daze, barely able to discern the sound of him spurring you on, encouraging you to let go for him. All it takes is a few more thrusts for you to obediently follow through, squeezing his cock as the most harsh orgasm of your life crashes over you in near paralytic waves.

“That’s it,” Wriothesley encourages, breathless as he fucks you through your climax, rapidly chasing his own release. Despite the exhaustion tugging at your limbs, you press your hips to meet his hurried thrusts, angling them to let him in impossibly deeper.

He groans, his hand retreating from your clit to instead slip beneath your body, pulling your chest flush to his as he spills into the condom, cursing in the midst of rough gasps. The sensitivity makes it feel like your nerves are on fire, but even if you were confident in the current ability of your vocal cords, you wouldn’t complain.

He finally stills inside of you. He now has you caged in with a forearm on each side of your head as he catches his breath, allowing you to do the same. You fight the tiredness, the need to curl up against his chest and let the world fade away, to watch his face as he pants. His eyelids are barely fallen shut, lips parted, sweat beading down his forehead.

He’s beautiful.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper tiredly.

Wriothesley chokes out a laugh, opening his eyes. “I really didn’t make my presence known?”

His presence is still known.

As if on cue, Wriothesley slowly begins to pull out of you, rolling the condom off his softening cock and discarding of it in the trash can beside your bed. He smooths his hands over your thighs, gently soothing the muscles with a soft massage. “Are you alright?”

You nod lazily, glancing up at him, and you’re sure there’s hearts in your eyes. Either that or birds circling your head.

“Feel like you’ve been taken care of?” He teases with a smile, rubbing your hipbone with his thumb before reaching over the side of the bed and retrieving his boxers.

You nod again. “Even if I didn’t, I don’t think I could stay awake for another round.”

“Eh, I could keep you up.” He quickly pulls his boxers back up, and then he’s on you again, smothering your face in firm kisses. You smile, bold and real.

“I’m here,” he says. “Right here. I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.” When he reaches your lips, he slows, savouring the taste and the feeling of you. “You did so well for me.”

And suddenly, the future isn’t scary anymore, because it’s not lacking him. The man that made you believe in soulmates, in there truly only being one person out there for you. And he’s your one person. And you’re his.

You smile then, and he draws back to return the gesture at the sight of you. “I can’t wait to see your place,” you tell him. His place above the surface.

He chuckles, kissing your cheek and rolling over with you in his arms, settling you on his chest. “I can’t wait for you to live there.”

ꕤ Authors note: it makes me sick that i took this long to write a solo wrio fic when my blog is dedicated to him so i had to go all out. i really enjoy writing him, his character is so dear to me everyone read his full lore and character story if you haven't already you won't regret it!!! i hope you enjoyed :)

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