A Dance Or Two

a dance or two

jean kirstein x reader (strangers to lovers i think??)

the eldian peace ambassadors receive invites to a fancy ball. amongst the sea of glittering gowns and suits, you catch the eyes of jean, who notices you in a corner silently sipping on champagne.

“no one to dance with?” jean asks, a mischievous glint is his eyes as he approaches you amidst the waltzing couples.

the the ballroom was decorated in grand gold and velvet silks and ornate chandeliers. the air, filled with the scent of roses as well as the chatter of guests, atmosphere was charged with sophistication, but for you, it felt like being on the sidelines of a world you couldn't quite embrace. "guess not," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze, opting to glance at the dance floor.

with a playful twinkle in his eyes, jean extends one hand and places his other behind his back. “well, that’s about to change. my name is jean, if you didn’t know.” how could you not know his name? he and his friends stopped the rumbling after all. reluctantly, you took his hand, allowing yourself to be led onto the dance floor. the music enveloped you both as you swayed to the rhythm of the waltz. one hand found your hip, his other guiding and swaying to the music. some looked at you with jealously, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of the handsome man in front of you.

“you look wonderful tonight.”

you blush, and he raises his arm to twirl you around. you couldn’t help but chuckle, making his smile wider. “so do you, jean.”

you met jean’s eyes, a warmth in his gaze. "see, not so bad, was it?"

you couldn't help but smile. "guess i can survive a dance or two.” the music changes, its tempo slowing, and you find yourselves in a gentle embrace.

as the second song dies down, the world slowly drew back to its original pace, jean’s hands on your hip tightens slightly.

“perhaps…we can do something like this again sometime?” jean stammers, face turning pink.

“you mean, like a date?”

he stammers a yes and you smiled, reaching out to wrap your arms around him. “of course.” he buries his face into the crook of your neck with a relieved sigh, and the two of you remain like that until the music comes to a full stop, applause starting. parting ways to regroup with his friends who are smiling cheekily at the two of you by the side, jean places a featherlight kiss onto the back of your hand. the ball comes to an end, leaving the two of you to replay the night in your heads over and over again.

lovesick.

jean kirstein x gender neutral! reader. modern a.u.

summary : jean always felt like a fool around you. you've been a fool to not see it.

warnings : very subtle themes of religion (expected at this point)

a/n : y'all are getting FED. pure fluff to make up for peeks and blinders. i hope you like this :)

masterlist is linked in pinned post! ✿ requests are open! ✿ enter my taglist. ✿

taglist : @jeanscremebrulee , @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody .

✿ inspired by this laufey song ✿

he stayed with you for three nights.

before his flight back to his hometown for thanksgiving - an invitation for which had been extended to you as well, by Jean's mom. you had refused politely. you didn't want to come in between a special family holiday with their own traditions. jean tried to persuade you, told you that he'd be so bored without you there, that you're going to like it, but you brushed it away anyway. said you really didn't want to be a bother, flight tickets would be even more expensive with you there, Jean's mother would have to prepare extra food for you. you'd take too much space, you said.

jean said that it was a space he'd let you take. you shook your head with a smile.

before leaving, however, the two of you decided to spend three nights together. everyone had already left to see their families - sasha and Connie had taken the road, Marco left by flight as well. your apartment felt eerily empty so you asked jean one night, tipsy on cheap and old wine, to stay with you for the last three days he was there. after which you would see him - and by extension, everyone - a week after new years. you'd be stuck here, in an empty apartment, all alone, and he really shouldn't be leaving his dear best friend alone to rot, should he?

and jean had been so stupid to agree. he knew he shouldn't have after what he discovered he kept feeling about you. but you were looking at him with such conviction and warmth that he had to.

god, he was so lovesick. it made him feel stupid, really. but it was you, so he didn't really mind it. he'd learnt to shed any sort of discomfort with you.

well, he hadn't learnt it. you had just coaxed him into it without even using your voice.

he rolled his eyes and agreed.

"alright, alright, fine. I'll stay over. but I need to pack first."

you smiled brilliantly. "done!" his heart leapt out of his chest and into your warm arms that were currently trying to pour some more wine. he moved the bottle away from your hand.

"no more wine for you," he said, pushing a forgotten glass of water your way. "have some of this instead."

your smile didn't dissapear, though, and Jean hoped that his heart was still beating in your hands. you just looked at him with your cheek resting on the table and you looked so comfortable in that blue sweater of yours, with him. you lift your head up and drink the water diligently.

he was so, so stupid.

he got everything packed in two hours. made sure everything was organized and easy to remove, and left the suitcases next to your door so he could leave directly from your apartment to the airport. you smiled, again, when you welcome him in, proposing to go to the ice cream parlor.

it was winter. jean grumbled as he adjusted on your couch to glimpse at you from the corner of his eye. you were rummaging in your kitchen for something - chocolate - when you asked him if he wanted to go there with you. he rolled his eyes.

"it's winter." he reminded you. as if you could forget.

"please. you know I don't want the ice cream there. it's the ho-"

"hot chocolate, yeah, I know. that's not why I said it's winter. i dont want to walk in this cold." he complains, but he's already getting ready to move from the couch.

"you make it sound like it's a grand mission." you say, but you've gotten the hint as you, too, move to grab your coat from the rack near the door.

"well, it is, for me. my toes freeze up just like your hands do." he says, but again, he's already slipping his shoes on.

you smile teasingly. "whats the point in having such long legs if you're not going to use them?" you're slipping your phone, wallet and keys into your pockets.

he wears his coat. "self defense." he says. it's not the most normal answer. it makes you laugh as you close the door behind you with a click, locking it. jean would continue to say anything you want him to to make you laugh.

you don't ask him to say anything. he does it anyway. the walk to the ice cream parlor is short, and jean wonders if it's going to snow soon.

"i hope it snows," you say, almost reading his mind. jean isn't even surprised by it. he nods, muttering "same."

"i thought you hated cold?" you say. he should've guessed you would've said that because it's so obivous, the low hanging fruit that came back to bite him in the ass.

"snow is different from cold," he lies, "it's..." he trails off. it's idiotic. he didn't even have anything to say. you breathe out a laugh.

"it's what? better than rain?" you bump your shoulder into his.

"anything is better than rain." he answers, shaking his head, "snow is like if rain was cooler and better." he says, adding a "literally cooler." at the end.

it makes you laugh again, but softer this time. it wasn't that funny. he notes that down in his head like he's going to be quizzed on it later.

"i knew you'd say that." you speak. your warm breath gets fogged up against the cool weather.

the sentence is said in one breath, a certain softness and confession to it. of course you knew what he'd say, out of all people, you would. you'd know what he was planning to do, how the gears inside his body worked, and still let your gears work right beside his anyway. he was sure you knew every little working of his stupid heart except for the fact that it beat only for you.

your shoulders are brushing again. he licks his drying lips, trying to come up with a better joke to pass the time. not that he had to, because silence with you wasnt uncomfortable or forced. it felt like peace, like a small pocket of warmth that couldn't be broken. but he wanted to hear your laugh again; the sound was his own pocket of warmth, even if you complained, sometimes, about your laugh being too loud and boisterous, he didn't care because you were happy and smiling and he wouldn't do anytning to take that away.

he's still thinking of what to say when there's a buzz in both of your pockets - someone messaged the group chat. he watches as you pull your phone out of your pocket, typing in an answer that makes his phone vibrate again. he takes a peek at your screen.

Marco :D : my mom is going crazy over how many people she invited :')

she's showing me off to all her friends ijdlsk

constance : I'd show you off if I was your mom too tbh

sasha <3 : agreed

aww say hi to your mom for us!!

Marco :D : will do!! wish you guys were here tho :/

constance : kinda miss annoying jean right about now

sasha <3 : *atttachment : 1 image*

it was a picture of Connie sitting next to sasha on the flight, his phone was open to a video of jean grumbling something under his breath and connie leaning in close to him snickering a whispering a joke in his ear.

sasha <3 : he was watching this the entire flight

constance : stop EXPOSING me

jean hears you snort out a small laugh. he sighs in annoyance, saying "I don't miss it." as an obvious lie.

you breathe out another laugh; jean wins again, and hold up the phone to take a picture of the two of you. it's a little blurry when you click it, jean hold a small smile looking at you and you hold up a peace sign with a smile that's yours.

the picture is sent to the groupchat. jean loops his arm into yours so you don't stray away too far from him while typing out 'trip 2 ice cream parlor for the hot choco'

Marco replies instantly.

marco :D : you two are inseparable istg :') send hot choco pics

constance : Marco asking for hot choclate pics like people ask for nudes

I'm 6'3 btw

sasha <3 : LIARRR

also wow hot chocolate without me????? sin.

you smile before closing your phone and slipping it back into your pocket, saying something about how the two of you should steal their hot chocolate recipie. jean nods half-heartedly.

his mind is on fire. 'you two are inseparable istg' in Marco's words, something he hadn't thought about before. he didn't have to think about it, either, because being with you didn't make him question it. of course he'd always come back to you even if his bones were charred from the inside, even if his body screamed at him to take rest. you were his rest.

he thinks about how yes, the two of you are inseparable, and maybe he's being delusional, but he thinks about how you co-exist with him so peacefully : a feat noone could do with a smile on your face. there has to be cold to imply the existence of warmth, there had to be chaos to imply peace. there had to be you for there to be a him. he thinks about how glad he is to exist the same time and same place as you, your arms linked and pace synchronized. you rest your head on his shoulder when you walk. he thinks about how the two of you simply breathing in such close proximity beat all odds.

his heart beat faster at the thought. or maybe it didn't, maybe he was just aware of the fact that he had one, maybe you were the only one that could make him listen to his own heart that he had forgetten existed for a while.

an ungodly amount of hot chocolate had been drunk only because your "jean they have a discount and it's winter. we have to." persuasion had worked like always, and he had refused to let you pay like always, and you were rubbing your full belly as you unlocked the door to your apartment. it was dark now, reminding jean that winter had a way of forcing stillness and silence before it was due, but it didn't feel that way anymore. it didn't feel like there was a stillness or stiffness because the lights in your apartment were warm, and the hot chocolate had oiled up the machine of his body as much as your presence had. you removed your coat and shoes near the door and jean looked at you, surrounded with these lights and this warmth and softness and thought about how perfectly you belonged here. with him, sharing a space, the same air, the same layers. and he thought about how he belonged here too. with you.

"wish we could do that everyday," you claim, stretching your arms above your head, fingers interlocked. jean scoffed.

"im concerned about your diet." he said.

"it was the best meal we ever had! if I commit murder and am put on death row-"

"death row doesn't exist in this state-"

"then I'd want, like, a whole barrel of hot chocolate as my last meal. with whipped cream on top."

"i think you'd be dead by chocolate overdose instead of the actual punishment."

you smiled, and jean swore he'd melt despite the cold weather after seeing the glint in your eye. "exactly. don't act like you wouldn't like to die by chocolate consumption. I've seen the way you look at chocolate ice cream."

jean clenches his jaw because you're right. "i dont look at-"

"yes you do. you look at it like it just like you look at Reiner's cat."

"she has a name, yknow." he reminds you, sitting beside you on your couch. his hands fold on top of his chest to keep his hands straying and holding yours. hes afraid you'd feel the yearning behind his touch, because it was something he couldn't control. he could control his tongue from telling you about it, he could control his thoughts to an extent, he could control his stupid heart to an extent, but not his touch.

"right, my bad. what's her name, again?" you ask, just because you know it'll get a rise out of him.

it does.

"it's mcflurry. the fact that you forgot speaks a lot about your character, just so you know. im judging you."

you giggle. he loves it. "you're always judging everyone."

"not you. never you." he says. he doesn't just mean it for the judging everyone part, though, because his voice is soft and startlingly slow, enunciating every syllable because he wanted you to know, he wanted you to know and understand that he'd never not give you the benefit of doubt. he'd never doubt you in the first place.

you're not startled. you smile to match the tone of his voice and eyes. he inhales.

"thank you." you say. you want to say much more. jean doesn't need to hear much more though, because he knows already. he knows that you're not thanking him out of obligation, but out of devotion. like he had thanked the skies out of relief after his middle school English teacher got fired. it was deserved, honestly, the guy had it coming, and all the students had an unsaid hatred towards him-

your hand rests on his shoulder, rubbing the fabric of his shirt. jean exhales.

"whadya wanna watch?" you ask, reaching for the remote on the coffee table, your hand still on his shoulder as if you belong there.

you do. "that episode of new girl we left out on." he says.

you smile. he belongs there. "fuck yes."

despite thinking that he'd sleep in and relax, his eyes woke him up just as the sun came up, which was to say extremely early. jean groaned as he stretched his limbs, finding himself on the sofa just as he was left last night; only without you. you had fallen asleep on his shoulder and he refused to move until you'd wake up, which turned out to be only twenty minutes ago. his head fell on yours and he fell asleep as such, and his mind quietened with the sound of the t.v. and your soft snores in his ear.

he blinked his bleary eyes up, his bones creaking in protest. but he didn't let them be heard because he found you, with your back facing him, outside the small balcony of your apartment.

it wasn't even a balcony - when you first moved in, it was just an empty space attached to the large window that was unkept and dirty. sasha and Mikasa, her previous roommate, didn't find that much of a use there anymore, but you did. you insisted on renovating the little platform, adding fake and real plants along with a small mat on the ground so anyone could sit there. come every small celebration, you'd decorate it with fairy lights and different ornaments, and jean found it all too endearing how you kept making things yours, including the kitchen that now held mugs with sayings that had outdated humor on them that you had purchased 'ironically', the couch which was now covered in a blanket you had found in a thrift store, the walls where you'd stuck up pictures of all of them together and little sticky notes that the five of you had passed around to each other during class throughout the year, and Jean's heart.

he'd let you rip apart any semblance of empty space in the workings of the pumping organ if you promised to make it yours in the process. and you had, somehow, because his heart now refused to feel empty, and just like you did with the apartment, you had marked every rusted and untamed part of him with your own touch and words that would play on repeat in his chambers for a long time.

he gets up from his place on the couch, passing a hand through his hair before making his way to where you stood outside. you were leaning on the railings, your chin resting on your palm. if he had to guess, it was almost 8 in the morning, the sun was shining in the way it always did in the winters - it's presence was known but shone only softly, refusing to be forgotten. jean leaned on the railing in the space right beside you, shoulders touching yet again.

you smiled at him. "good morning." you said, and your voice matched the skies above you - soft and refusing to be forgotten. he'd never forget you.

he smiled back, face scrunching up so his eyes were squinting as he looked at you, still getting used to the morning light. "morning." he replies raspily. "couldn't sleep?"

you shook your head, looking at the treetops below you. "slept well enough. thanks for being my pillow."

jean's ears redden. you're convinced it's the cold. "youre welcome." he wants to make a joke about how his services would need a payment, but he's too lost in the way your face is lit up by the sun to say anything.

even if you're looking away from him, he can see the shine in your eyes. you've always said, in your own way, that his eyes were really pretty, but he'd argue that it was your eyes that were pretty because only yours could meet his the way they did. only yours looked at him the way they did, only yours had the courage to. only yours could see the way you saw the world.

he looks at the way your lips are shining - he had noticed how whenever they were chapped and dry youd lick your lips a little too much. he had carved all your little traits into the forefront of his skull, drawing in shapes and filling in the blanks of the expanse so that it could be filled with you- your smile, your eyes, your hands, your laugh, your blinks. everything.

god, he thinks, he's so lovesick.

the wind brushes his hair away from his face. he can tell you're shivering slightly even if your arms are under a layer of thick sweater, and his chest heaves slowly - inhale, exhale, inhale - he tucks you under his arm to keep you warm. you smile. - exhale.

if there was a god that day, he was sure that he was out to get jean when he saw you use his mother's noodle soup recipe, warm foods to keep his insides safe not knowing that you were doing that already by just being there. the pair of you had the soup in two servings each, the second one topped with that new chilly crisp you had gotten, the one that made Jean's mouth turn into a puddle, and he was sure whatever fates had aligned that day were out to get jean because his stupid heart did that stupid thing it always did when he was around you. it didn't skip a beat anything poetic like the Hallmark movies, no, instead it stayed there, in his chest because that's where you belonged. it stayed with you, in his chest, in his wheezing, creaking, old machine that was only just realising that it was creaking and wheezing because it was loved.

and he swore he was down on his luck because he saw you dancing to the end credits of yet another shitty movie that you had jokingly decided to hate-watch but only ended up slightly liking - an opinion he would not share with anyone else but you - unsynchronised to the beat of the song, not knowing what to do with your hands, until jean joined you in the cramped space infront of your t.v. where you were dancing and held them, held your hands, guiding them to the melody, telling them what to do with a softness that was only reserved for you.

stupid beating heart.

when the last day rolled around, jean refused to move from his seat on your bed. the laptop you had decided to get homework done was left askew on the unmade and comfortable bed, and Jean's neck held a small ache at its base, but it was worth it because you were beside him and he was sure your own neck had the same pains he had. it was well into noon, and unlike the previous day where the pair of you had woken up early, you were still dozing off at his side, rolled over with your back facing him.

he had never known this type of peace. the silence that coated the room was welcome to the point that it felt like it had always been there, something jean was only just realising.

he sighed. wondered about how his life had gone on without you in it for so long, how he'd been clambering for meaning not knowing that you were in it, the same earth, with the same beating heart. he wonders how he'd live without you again, how he'd avoid feeling the grief if you ever did leave.

he'd have to hold you then. he'd have to grasp on to you in the same gentle way that he always had, and not give you any reasons to leave. but that was the thing, right, because if you wanted to leave you'd have done it already, and you hadn't, so thst had to mean something, right?

he's always been afraid of loving too much. he'd always been afraid of the fact that he had too much to give, so he always ended not giving any of it because he was too cautious, too self aware to. but you made him comfortable in the way he had never felt before, you made him want to love you too much. he was still deathly afraid of it, but you made it bearable to look at it in the face without flinching.

the rustle beside him made him blink back into reality, turning his head towards your no longer sleeping figure, a small smile etching itself onto his stubborn lips.

what had you done to him?

the wires in his brain were wound too tight as you talked about everything and anything, him replying and adding onto your obscure sentences like they were always supposed to. the gears in his heart continued turning and turning and turning to the sound of your laugh when he, again, had made a joke as a desperate hope to make you commit to fleeting happiness.

it wasn't so fleeting for him, however, because it was you.

night rolled around just as you finished a late lunch/early breakfast for dinner situation - pancakes and french toast and hashbrowns sprinkled with seasonings - and jean rubbed his belly as he came face to face with the confrontation of him leaving in an hour.

but you were simply blinking, sitting infront of him, going through you phone to find a picture that you thought was relevant to the conversation, a smile on your face. and even if it was so mundane, so normal, it felt like a good dream. like he was going to wake up any time soon and come to the revelation that it had all been fake and conjured up because it had to, because there was no way this was real. when you finally found what you were looking for, flipping the phone around so he could see, he found a hard time looking away from your eyes and giddy smile.

did you know? you had to, right? he laughed covering his mouth with his hand as you flipped your phone back infront of you. you had to know. there was no way you didn't. there was no way you had turned him into himself without knowing that you were the cause of it. it was so obvious-

"I'll miss you." you say. it's a quiet admission, sounding like you've wanted to get it over with for a while now. hes sure you have. he looks at you and his heart - the damned machine - does what it always does; it clangs and makes noise.

maybe you hear it. maybe you're meant to.

"i know we'll see eachother again in a while but...I don't know. I've always wanted to spend new years with my friends and not alone. I'm glad we met. I'm glad we exist together." you say. it's not rushed or hidden or desperate. you're baring yourself open to him and it doesn't feel uncomfortable like it does when youre changing clothes infront of someone and you're bare and open and all your scars and hairs and marks are on display for them to see. it feels like this is how it's meant to be.

he blinks.

hes sure if there was music accompanying the moment, it would be swelling and high-pitched and perfect - the type that makes you feel and ache in just the right ways. but there wasn't, and the silence played a greater cacophony than any instrument, because your sentences didn't need embellishments to be pronounced. your statements didn't need proof of being alive - they were alive and bare open and vulnerable and so was he now, because of you.

his heart ached comfortably.

stupid, beating heart.

he realised he hadn't said anything when you got up from the table. he was still staring at the spot where you were a minute ago as you took both your dishes back to the sink. he blinks again. inhales, exhales. gets up to join you, takes your hands that were reaching for the soap in his own warm ones - god they're so warm - and says, "I'll miss you too."

he was glad there's no music. he's glad that his voice, even if it was soft and gentle, wasn't muddled with melody. inhale, you were smiling, exhale. blink. his involutary actions got more attention because you made him aware of his machine. how his machine didn't feel like a machine anymore. how his machine - metal and steel and nuts and bolts - felt soft. plyable. putty in your hands. you're squeezing his hands again; the comfortable ache returning and the two of you start doing the dishes that had been ignored for a while.

warm, orange lights glowed from above you, the sounds of dishes clanking and the sink running was the only things to be heard, and the domesticity became divinity. the kitchen became holy, and his hands - metal and steel and nuts and bolts - became the remark of a sculptor creating something beautiful. the moment didn't feel crafted but it felt like he had caused it, and if he was capable of creating something as great as this then he was sure he was walking side by side with God.

beating heart. inhale, exhale, his hands dry the plate you just handed him, he's hearing you hum softly to a song he knows far too well. inhale, exhale.

night had fallen soon, he drove all the way to the airport next to you. you kept talking like you had to get it all out there before he left. it was only a month and a half, and he knew you knew you were being dramatic, but he loved it anyway. you opt the radio instead of the aux for the first time, surprised when your favourite song comes on.

he turns the volume up. you sing to match it's pitch. he wishes he can show you his childhood bedroom. you'd love it, he says. "i have speakers. i used that fact as like a bribe to make new fridnds. i told people, 'hey I have speakers in my room' and they'd want to hang out with me." what he didn't say, however, was that he only wanted them to see the speakers in his bedroom. now, he wanted you to see him in his bedroom, he wanted you to linger near the doorway. best part was, he knew you would someday.

it wasn't that long of a drive. it felt long though, somehow, because time stretched and restricted when he was with you, and he stopped the car at the airport gate with a heart pounding off from his chest. he wonders if yours was too, but one look at you confirms that yes, it was. you two were in the same boat, the same machine that had been sanded down and weathered until it was soft and rounded.

inhale, "well, this is...it" exhale.

you nod slowly, "this is it." you breathe out laugh. "why are we acting like we're never gonna see eachother again?" you say but you already know the answer. jean does too.

he laughs the same way you do, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looks ahead, one hand on the steering wheel, refusing to move anywhere without you. "maybe it's the amount of movies we've seen." he says. a lie.

"and who's fault is that?" you ask, teasing and laughing.

"all mine." he admits. it was his. he doesn't feel any remorse for it.

you nod again. you're looking at him. the lights reflect in the water of your eyes.

"call me when you reach?" you ask.

he nods. "promise."

silence. inhale, exhale.

"i think I'm in love with you." you're the one that says it. if he could, he would hear the fast pace of your heart that beat dutifully with his own and he swears there's something in the cool winter air that been locked out of the car because there's no way he's hearing it right. there's no way he heard those words said with deliberate commitment and a hell of a lot of hope - something jean was learning to have from you - because no-one but you had the courage of regard him like this.

but it was you. of course it was you.

his hand holds your cheek before he can even think about it. he blinks. inhale, "I think I'm in love with you too," exhale. matching sentiments has always been easy, but it feels more breathable and bearable now. with you.

bearable, beating hearts.

you smile. you smile so hard your cheeks hurt, you smile so hard that your face feels like your face and not just a symbol of you, your face doesn't feel like a machine and it feels like muscle and skin and fat and blood like it's supposed to and you realize, a little too late, that jean makes you feel a little more human than you are in the way where it feels holy, almost, because being human has always been about being divine. jean makes you see it clearer than you have been seeing it.

another breath passes.

"is this the part where..." he swallows, trailing off. "where we kiss?"

you laugh. "you really think this is a hallmark movie, don't you?"

he laughs too. "no, if this was a hallmark movie then you'd be chasing me at the airport. you'd say-"

"oh my god," you're laughing and your stomach hurts comfortably.

"you'd say 'jean I've been in love with you since I laid my eyes on you'-"

"you wish," your voice is breathy.

"'i can't take my mind off of you, jean, and you deserve the best. also you're very handsome.' you'd say that."

you hold the hand that is resting on your cheek. "oh, jean, I've been in love with you ever since i saw you.-"

"ever since I laid my eyes on you. that sounds poetic."

"you're insufferable."

"and you're in love with me." he says. he's confident and he's never felt better about it than now.

you shake your head with an affectionate smile. "unfortunately yes."

there's a pause. the two of you are smiling. you lean forward to press a kiss on the top of his nose, turning it pink and human. "you'll get a kiss after getting back." you say. it's a promise.

"I'll look forward to it."

stupid, bearable, comfortable, beating organ.

his heart felt alive. his lungs felt like they were no longer chambers filled with air but something that could experience the space of being around you.

god, he was so lovesick. but he was with you, so it didn't matter.

he had you. he always would.

nymph’s tea party

wriothesley x reader picnics with wriothesley, inspired by his voiceline 'when the sun is out'

masterlist

wriothesley hardly ever leaves the fortress but today, you found yourself embarking on a picnic with none other than the duke of the fortress of meropide himself. his usually stern expression softened as he watched you set out the blanket and arrange the carefully packed baskets of food. the sun hung night in the sky, casting a a warm, golden glow over the landscape.

“they say there’s nothing new under the sun,” wriothesley remarked, his voice carrying the weight of wisdom, “but somehow a picnic in the warm sunshine never gets old.”

you looked up at him, his eyes, the colour of a story sea, reflecting the brilliance of the sunlight. there was a rare twinkle in his gaze, a glimpse of a side you rarely saw— wriothesley, not the formidable lord of the fortress of meropide, but as a man who found solace in the simple pleasures of life.

“i agree with that saying,” you replied, voice soft as you spread the picnic feast before you. “there’s something magical about basking in the sunlight, surrounded by nature’s beauty and indulging in delicious food.”

wriosthesley sits down besides you, his posture elegant yet surprisingly relaxed. his eyes scanned the landscape, taking in the picturesque view of blooming wildflowers and the tranquil waters of the lake. “the beauty of fontaine lies not only in its grandeur but also in the tranquility it offers,” he said, tone appreciative. “in moments like these, i find myself forgetting the burdens i carry, if only for a little while.”

you reached out, hand finding his, a silent gesture of understanding. “everyone needs a break,” you said, voice gentle. “even the duke needs moments of respite to rejuvenate his spirits.”

a faint smile curved his lips, an expression that seemed to brighten the very air around him. “you have a way of bringing light to the darkest corners of my world,” he confessed, his stormy eyes netting yours. “in your presence, i find moments of peace that i never thought possible.”

-; I'LL TAKE CARE OF YOU. / IT'S ROTTEN WORK.

(NOT TO ME, NOT IF IT'S YOU) ; in which wriothesley lets you tend to his wounds after the dramatic affair with the beret society.

CW: not beta-read. cerberus chapter spoilers! gn!reader, slight hurt/comfort, fluff, mentions of blood, injury, and violence. mention of scars (+ my headcanons of how wrio got some of them), & finally, lovesick loser wrio!

"i'm telling you, sunshine, i can handle it myself."

at his words, your hands still, pristine rolls of gauze and bandages already soaking in red blood. a frown breaks across your countenance as you glare up at wriothesley, eyebrows furrowed. there will be no stopping this, you know; there will be days where your beloved duke returns to your arms with a new wound that you're sure will scar. days he brandishes blooming bruises on his knuckles, and you'll eventually press butterfly kisses to them. perhaps, he will crawl into your loving embrace, his warm home, with blood dripping from his fingertips. (grimly, you wonder how much of it will be his own. you know you'll thank the archons when it's not all his.)

with a sigh and a dab of the alcohol-soaked cotton against his exposed side, you mutter: "you always say that. look where that's got you now."

"it's just a scratch."

"wri, it's a bullet wound. you're lucky it only just grazed you."

"so... what i'm hearing is that it really is just a scratch."

now that earns him another glare (which he sheepishly smiles at).

"look, as stupid as it may sound," he sighs, clear blue eyes finding your own, "i didn't think dougier would have a gun with him." the duke's expression contorts ever so slightly, a weak hiss slipping from his gritted teeth, as you rub a cooling ointment against his angry, red wound. "didn't think he'd have that many gardemeks either."

(another comment, much quieter: "and i thought it'd be cool, really.")

and with that, you both fall into relative silence. the classical music playing from the office gramaphone, your steady breathing, and the occasional pained hiss from wriothesley (followed by your whispered string of apologies) permeate the space between. in the quiet, your mind eventually runs rampant with thoughts of your love getting injured. wriothesley may have proven to you time and time again that he would always return to your side, but he wasn't invincible. your gaze wanders, frowning further when you soak in the sight of the scars that mar his chest. they do nothing to comfort you.

"hey," wriothesley starts, when he notices your stare on the claw marks etched into the skin of his neck. they stretch downwards, the cruel tally marks stopping right above where his heart would be. you try not to think about how they could've easily torn out his throat. "i know you'll still worry about me, but i've been through much worse." he raises his own hand to trace the scars, playing with the black wraps around his neck; "and, as you can see... i fought and won."

( you know he has. he's told you all about them, once. on a sleepless night, where you two lay in bed and traced designs on each other's skin. his calloused fingers against your softer flesh, your touch along the lines of his many scars. some were from fierce sea creatures, he tells you, with a teasing lilt in his voice that makes you giggle. others from his time serving his sentence, fighting for his life in the ring. when you trace one along the back of his arm, smaller than the rest, his voice gets a little softer — he got it on the day he spilt his first blood. you had kissed along all his scars that night, and he had returned the favour with a shower of kisses along your cheeks.)

"promise me you'll be more careful." you say, as you unroll a new roll of gauze and begin wrapping it around his torso. it's a beat, and then two, and when he doesn't respond you turn your gaze back to him.

wriothesley frowns, now. he could do cheeky proclamations of victory, tell you he'll always crawl back to your side alive... but he can't promise you that. not with your current lives in meropide. "you know i can't—"

"wriothesley." the syllables roll off your tongue and he quickly seals his mouth shut—it's been a good, long while since his full name has graced your lips. (he much preferred wrio, or sweetie, or darling; something from you that made him kinder. softer.) "please?"

the silence comes back for a heartbeat. you think you feel tears pooling at the corner of your eyes—

"alright, alright. i'll try." he says, quickly relenting to your teary-eyed gaze. and when that's not good enough for you, highlighted by the pout of your lips and the slightly-aggressive tightening of his bandage wrappings, he says: "fine. i promise to be more careful. as best as i can."

a smile graces your lips. (wriothesley thinks he's seen the sun. you, his darling star, whose mere presence lights up his gloomy underworld.)

"sigewinne and i will keep you to it then."

he can't help the way he leans into your warmth as you press a quick, gentle peck to his temple nor can he help how he almost whines when you step away from him. his gaze is on you even as you pack up the first aid kit and make your way to the stairs (how cruel you are, leaving your lover while he toils in pain!) wriothesley stands from where he leans against his table, just as you reach the bottom of the stairs. he stands up a little straighter, smiles as you shout out:

"oh, and i heard from the traveller! your stunt did sound pretty cool."

a/n: happy birthday wriothesley! here's a very short, indulgent, not beta-read thing to celebrate his birthday and his c1 coming home during his banner! sorry if he's a little ooc or this is just. a really oddly worded / structured fic — this was very much so written in a haze after seeing his story quest cutscene... he's so dreamy. . ..

Since they were children-slave traders, it's safe to assume the couple who adopted Wriothesley had data written down, like files of all the children and the transactions and the like. And after the murder, all of that would be discovered, and perhaps it leds to further investigation, but my point is: Wrio choosing a new name for him on the spot, and later on a new birthday, means that his files doesn't match with his person anymore, so all things considered, he's an insider of the situation but completely detached from it. After the trial and getting sent to Meropide, he really really gets to have a fresh start, since above world, trial documents aside, he don't exist. He working hard in Meropide, then assuming the control there, then reforming the system, then living his life there was the first time ever he had and made a choice about what he wanted to do. He could live on the low down there and go back above ground to start fresh, sure, but he's not cut for it. Not since the accident. Meropide gave him the closest of a real home he ever had, and that only happened because he forged the place to be one for him. We all know he made and still make things better for being there and working the way he does, but that's all because he made a choice for things to be like this.

Considering everything, I find the idea of him holding tokens of his "previous" life a little demeaning of his journey. That is a man who got the closest to die and be born anew without and actual death. So it defeats the purpose of fresh start to hold on the old life, since everything he did was to leave it behind. He have regrets? Sure thing, he admitted himself that he wished to have a happy childhood to look back to, but that's not possible, is it?

Enough is spoken about characters having a new life after many bad things happened, but they still having some sort of lingering about the old times, perhaps nostalgia, perhaps unresolved feelings.

Wriothesley is not one of them.

And the best part? His vision came to him when he was about to enter Meropide, not later. He was THAT determinated from the get go. But he never revealed having one nor even used his new discovered abilities until he became the Big Boss. Everything he did in all those years it took him to take over was himself.

I'm so fucking proud of him.

⭒ WRIOTHESLEY

fluff. fem reader -> you’re married + referred to as his wife. afternoon tea with your husband. wriothesley has found a new preference for his tea. playful banter. ₊ 𓂃 masterlist.

something is not quite right, to put it bluntly.

WRIOTHESLEY is resting at desk, as he usually is around this time for his sacred afternoon tea break; two cubes of sugar with his tea, that’s how it always is. it’s brewed the exact same way as he’s been brewing it, all these years doing the same thing will give a guy a sort of routine, he likes to think he’s got a knack for making a good cup at this point.

but something is just… off. it’s different.

he lifts the porcelain teacup up to his lips to take a sip and instead of the usual satisfied, content sigh that leaves his mouth following his first taste he just… inhales through his teeth before he sets it back down disappointingly.

a dash of milk with his coffee, two sugars with his tea. it’s the same routine, nothing has changed but it feels like everything has. had wriothesley not brewed it long enough? was this shipment damp when he received it? but he’s sure he checked it over, nothing ever gets past him unchecked (especially not his teas.)

he groans as he lets his elbow rest on the desk to squeeze at his temple and he feels a headache coming on as he thinks. it’s a pain that could usually be soothed by his favourite time of day and normally it would be, it would work. but maybe the dukes tea making skills are going downhill.. nah, that can’t be it, right?

wriothesley groans as he rests back in his chair, eyeing up the small porcelain bowl of sugar that he always has resting on his desk for visitors to help themselves too. against his better judgement, he decides that maybe an extra sugar cube or maybe.. two, may help to flavour his choice of brew.

he leans over to pick up a few of the tiny squares between his fingers, his train of thought momentarily being interrupted by the heavy, steel sound of his office door being opened before it closes again.

he knows it’s you, he always does and its not only because nobody else would dare to walk into the dukes office unannounced. but also because he just has a way of sensing your presence when he feels the tension in his shoulder suddenly melt away as you call for him from your way up the stairs.

“sorry, i’m late. caught up at work.” ah yes, there it was.

that sweet call of your voice, the soft tone it takes when it calls out for him. you’d agreed to visit wriothesley to eat lunch together, with him working longer hours at work to finish up on some looming documents and the new influx of prisoners, it was really the only time he was getting to see you throughout the day.

you’re like the sun in the otherwise grimy, underground walls of his office. so bright and pretty when you finally step up the top step and he gives you a soft smile as he drops the two extra sweet cubes from between his fingers into his brew.

your presence almost feels like it warms along his shoulders, like the light in the overworld would.

you do pick up on the anomaly in his routine as you make your way around his desk to rest on the arm of his seat. “extra sugar? i never realised the renowned duke suddenly acquired a sweet tooth.” you tease, pressing yourself into wriothesley’s side and the sweet scent of your perfume makes him inhale deeply with his next breath, relaxing even more with the exhale that follows.

normally the duke would be opposed to such public displays of affection, he is at work afterall. but in the safe security of his office (and his protected afternoon teatime) he has no qualms or hesitations when it comes to wrapping his arm around your waist to welcome you.

“yeah, well… somethings not right today and i intend to get to the bottom of it.” you eye wriothesley as he stirs his tea with his free hand, four sugars deep now from what you’d assume (considering the two extra he just added as you walked in), bringing it to his lips a few moments later before he’s taking another sip.

“and.. did that help?” you ask curiously but you can already tell he hates it when his nose twitches slightly and his brows furrow before he even speaks - although he tries to play off his distaste and his mistake by clearing his throat.

years of marriage will do that to you, you can read this man like a book despite the way he tries to deny it.

“oh, not at all.” wriothesley jokes, although matter of factly and his playful tone makes you laugh as much as it always has.

“yeah i figured as much.” you squeeze at his shoulder before pushing yourself up to stand, whisking away the wasteful teacup filled with the sickly sweet brew. “here, let me make you a cup.”

“you sure? might be something with the tea, maybe.. ah, i don’t know.. something got into the shipment.” the duke grumbles slightly, the weight of a wasted batch of tea weighing heavy on him as he flicks absentmindedly through the pile of documents on his desk.

he’s not paying attention to work though, he’s too busy looking at you.

“you check over them though, right?” you hum like you don’t believe his excuse, it was well known that wriothesley went through shipments with a fine tooth comb. nothing ever went unchecked under the dukes watch but still you hear him sigh, before he shrugs.

“well, maybe i got sloppy.” you can’t help but snort out a laugh as you carefully brew the tea infront of you.

“only one way to find out. you’re still good with two sugars, right? or do you want the other ten, too?” you’d made enough tea for your husband to know exactly how he likes it, two sugars with his tea and a dash of milk with his coffee. you give him a look over your shoulder as you joke, it’s one he meets with his own chuckle.

“oh absolutely not. i’ve learned my lesson.” you turn to finish brewing the tea but wriothesley‘s eyes remain on you, too hypnotised by your figure in his office and the gentle movements in which you handle his things. he clears his throat, straightening up at his desk when he realises he’s staring and shuffling at his papers absentmindedly, he’s not taken in a single piece of information from them since you got here. “two is perfect.”

a few more serene moments and you give him a smile as you turn to serve him his tea, resting it down infront of the duke gently before you’re taking your space on the arm of his chair again.

you cosy into his side as his hand squeezes affectionately at your thigh; accompanied with the gentle, appreciative thank you he gives you.

the teacup and saucer always look so small in wriothesley’s big hands as he picks it up, bringing it to his face as he takes a slow inhale of the brew before he sighs. he tilts his head to give you a look, but you’re already smiling like you’re just begging him to take a sip and his lips curl around the cup as he does.

now that is lovely; the perfect blend of flavours, expertly brewed tea exactly to his liking. it almost makes his eyes close at how well it dances along his taste buds, easing the slight headache he felt coming on (although your presence alone did wonders for that.)

“uh oh..” he drawls, choosing not to give too much away just yet, he feels you shift in your seat curiously as he rests the cup back down on his desk. although he deliberately pauses for a few more seconds, waiting until you’re nudging at his shoulder impatiently before he continues. “well, good news is i guess the shipment is fine.”

“to be expected under your watch, your grace.” you quip quickly, wriothesley knows you’re teasing him but oh the title rolling off of your tongue is so saccharine he almost burns hot under his collar. he even finds himself readjusting his tie as you lean closer. “but? the bad news?”

“but, unfortunately, i’m gonna have to keep you down here with me from now on.” he reaches for you as he replies, snaking his arm around your hips so he can pull you closer - until you’re almost sitting on his lap, thighs across his own. your brow lifts at his words, albeit you’re smiling too.

“your tea making expertise is just too valuable to be walking around the streets of fontaine unguarded.” wriothesley nods, all handsome and rugged as he squeezes at your hips. “so im offering you top class protection, curtesy of the duke himself ofcourse.”

“right.” you pretend to roll your eyes at his teasing despite the way you still lean in closer, “too afraid to admit i make better tea than you do now?” your voice is a captivating murmur and it seems to lure the duke into you as he tilts his head to look at you, huffing out a chuckle - almost at himself, with the way his wife has him wrapped around her pretty finger with a cup of her tea.

“you look even more pleased about this than i do.”

you shrug, opting to trace your finger along the soft stubble that’s gathering across your husbands jawline as you speak, “well, i did learn from the best.”

“and seems like the time has come for me to finally pass down that title.” wriothesley leans into the press of your fingertips, it’s incredible the way you’re able to render the renowned duke of the fortress of meropide into a lovesick fool.

his hand squeezes at your hips as the other arm comes to reach and rest behind his head and he kicks out his feet into a more relaxed pose, leaning against the back of his chair like he’s about to go for a (much-needed) nap as he playfully closes his eyes. “guess i’m forced to retire.”

“well if you say it like that, i guess there’s no choice, i’ll have to come back again tomorrow too. how else will you enjoy your tea everyday if i’m not here to make it?” wriothesley peaks an eye open at you, like he’s gauging your next move and your hand rests on his chest as you meet his gaze.

“oh? but my afternoon tea is part of my daily schedule.” he reminds you with a raised brow,

“whatever will we do.” you pretend to think as you pat your fingertips on his shirt, acting like you’re lost in thought - but you both know where you’re going with this already. “we can’t have the duke going without his wife’s tea everyday, i hear he gets grumpy.”

“oh, absolutely not.” wriothesley snorts but lets just say the prisoners in the fortress of meropide might think a little differently if asked.

although thankfully, he’s self-aware enough to admit defeat when he gives your hips another lingering squeeze and gives you another smirk as he pushes himself up straight again. he’s puffing out his chest like you’re about to conclude your business meeting today - a very successful one in his opinion.

“well, it seems with that being said, it would be my honour on behalf of the fortress of meropide to humbly accept your invitation to accompany me for afternoon tea, everyday. you can consider my schedule cleared.”