Wriothesley Being Rough With His S/o (thank You For Your Masterpieces Miss Yoru)

Wriothesley being rough with his s/o (thank you for your masterpieces miss yoru😋😘)

cw. rough n needy, fem! reader

a/n. wrio is cumming and so am i

you could feel how wriothesley was affirmatively humming and pondering against your warm skin, an aimless, tinkering tune playing over your neck and collarbones as rapid tremors travelled down your entire back, taking your breath away, goosebumps emerging on your frame right after.

effortlessly, he keeps your hips down with his bare hands, pinning you to the bed while rushing himself into your cunt, no hesitation, not doing it soft nor sluggish, for some specific reason it almost gave the impression away as if wriothesley was somewhat selfish and indulgent with your body tonight, taking you so fucking well that your shaking legs were about to turn numb and harvest a deep rooted burn of fatigue, yet he was the one splitting them apart, because— he required enough space in order to fit in between you.

you take him deeper and moan into his mouth when he bites your lip, gracefully milking his throbbing cock, your eyes glossed over with boundless crystalline pebbles as you scratch a long, deep line on wrio's defined back, your nails sauntering up and down his flexed muscles while he's pistoling his cock into you— not hard enough to break his skin but edging pretty fucking close to it. 

the blistering, fiery heat of his body against your own figure was way more than enough to make any little complaint die inside of you— it's easier to see that wriothesley underestimates his own strength at times but you do not push him away and welcome it, sighing into his messy kisses, noticing his grunting— his sounds edged within sharp, low rumbles that rattle into your flesh.

it's intimate and adds greatly to the stimulation on your cunt. wrio breaks the kiss, and you thirst the look on his handsome face, the husky exhales whenever you ran your fingers over the frazzled, large muscles on his back;

"you're making me lose my mind."

he grins without shame, covering his face in your neck, the thought of having the oh so distinguished lord of meropide blatantly admit this to you, no, simplified— filthily moan it into your ear without any shame while he hides the pink, pretty blush on his face was intoxicating, your hips jerking forward at the obscene sounds, twisting your insides around his girth as you feel hot and sticky all around him, liquids dripping down your thighs, drying up, making a mess, and most importantly, fueling the arising lust in the air.

©2023 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

Thinking about Neuvillette finally starting a relationship with you and the melusines immediately noticing it,,

The Chief of Justice, although still seemingly appearing as the cold judge from the courtroom - softens his gaze at the sight of flowers, stopping by a merchant who offers them freshly picked.

The melusines quickly catch on; after all, the judge always tended to leave straight to his home after a long day of work. His amethyst-colored eyes scan the plants carefully, ordering a beautiful bouquet. People who pass Neuvillette by think nothing of it - if anything, better not to disturb him - but the tiny creatures observing him from afar can't stop wagging their tails excitedly, noticing a warm smile appearing on his lips.

The melusines notice how quickly the rain stops after trials. Back when the rain poured down until the sun rose the next day, now it takes a few hours less.

The little creatures hide behind corners and observe both of you; they gasp and cover their mouths when they see Neuvillette kissing your hand goodbye, quickly shushing others.

Every single one of them notices that the chief’s aura glows with happiness; slowly, some people do as well - they greet him with smile, and Neuvillette reciprocates it.

The melusines giggle to themselves when they see you and Neuvillette together, sometimes loud enough for you to turn around and laugh yourself; their cheeks turn rosy, and before they run away - they mutter an apology and storm off to share the news to others.

But when you finally make it official, they SWARM you. They offer to help you with shopping bags, to accompany you to make sure you’re safe, some even offer to do your hair. Small hands wave eagerly when they notice you. They stop by just to cling to your leg and hug it tightly, and you can’t help but ruffle their hair. They offer you their most prized possessions - after all, you’re the same to Neuvillette… or that’s how they understand it.

The melusines craft a special ribbon for you, so you and Neuvillette could match.

It seems like they love you just as much and Neuvillette couldn’t be happier.

Very brave of me to make a set of illustrations that's 90% hands

Anyway. This is about my personal theories/headcanons about the vision requirements

EDIT: I made a post elaborating on my theories/headcanons! Check it out if you wanna know a bit more :D

ᕱ⑅ᕱ ۪ ۫ 〜 ꒰ 𝓂𝓎 𝒻𝓁𝓊𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇𝒷𝓎, 𝒻𝓁𝓎, 𝒻𝓁𝓎. al haitham x f!reader. sfw. reader is in a skirt ﾉ some playful bicker ◞ some kisses ◞ some naughty touches ૮꒰ྀི⊃⸝ ⸝ ⸝⊂꒱ྀིა ﾉ jus fluffy stuffs ꒰ྀི 1.2k wc

you’re taller than al haitham as children— all dangly, clumsy fawn legs where he’s only a baby sapling that’s just begun to sprout from the soil.

even with his fluffy mop of slate hair, the tippy top of his head reaches under your chin, and it takes two of his strides to match one of your own.

perhaps it’s rude and not at all like you or your mother had taught you, but it’s so much fun teasing him about it— the ‘know-it-all’ little brat of a schoolmate who you consistently place second to, who won’t play with you at lunch break and sighs in boredom as often as he breathes and so evidently does not belong in a classroom of children his age.

it’s so much fun watching him struggle to reach for a book on the fourth shelf, one that you pick out with ease (but certainly cannot read with ease), hand to him with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, ruffle his hair and seemingly disregard him with a giggle, a lax wave of your hand.

"looks like you're too short to reach that shelf, haithie. i guess it just can’t be helped!”

neither the book he’s been wanting to read for weeks nor the strap of his suspender sliding off his shoulder have his attention now that you’ve stolen all of it for yourself. 

his head tilts curiously and he looks on in a bit of a stunned daze as you skip off to the section of the library that houses picture books and fairytales, two pigtails swaying side to side and the heels of your loafers scuffing along the carpet and he thinks you’re akin to a butterfly— or flutterby, as you like to call them— prancing about in that carefree way you tend to do.

haithie.

what a peculiar feeling the nickname brings him— a certain eagerness, childlike joy bubbling in his tummy and giving rise to something that he can’t seem to place a name to.

(no one’s ever called him by a nickname before. it’s… nice. just nice, and nothing else. yes, that’s correct… nothing else.

…

his face warms at the realization.)

and then he hears you squeal, watches you trip and tumble to the ground, scrape your palms and sit there pathetically on your knees with your shoulders slumped over.

what a clumsy little flutterby you are.

tiny hiccups are peeled from your throat and you begin to cry softly, and al haitham worries. his feet move on their own when he walks toward you, digging in his knapsack for the last bandage he has left. 

“take this.” the boy who you think dislikes you speaks to you for the first time, so you look up at him for the first time, lips wobbly and lashes sticky and cheeks glistening.

his face, however, is unchanging; he is as straight-lipped as you’d expect him to be, brows set in concentration and eyes sharp, piercing.

(but if you look closely, you’d see how the edges are clouded in concern, blunted down and soft and tender and caring— all the things you’d expect him not to be.)

“you really ought to be more careful,” he leans down to your level, wags the bandage in front of your face, “how will you be able to take notes in class if you hurt your hands?”

“you… you…” 

his words present themselves to you as a challenge and it makes you seethe, furrow your brows, scrunch up your nose, frown. 

al haitham swears there must be fumes coming out of your ears. 

“you’ll get wrinkles if you keep pouting like that.”

“don’t pater— pat— hmph! don’t patronize me!” you yap the too-difficult word awkwardly, snatch the bandage from his hand and run off, cheeks swollen like freshly puffed corn, either from the pain stinging at your palms or in embarrassment at having made a fool of yourself in front of your very first, very real, perhaps unrequited, and only love.

two decades later and you're standing uncomfortably with one knee up on the kitchen counter, tippy toes barely brushing the tile floor as you aimlessly reach for the spice tin sitting at the top of the pantry.

you grapple at air, slide your hand over to the left of the shelf, and to the right, and to the left again, and then you think you finally have it when you feel cool metal graze over your fingertips. stretching, wiggling your fingers as far as you can, you hook a nail under the side clasp and drag it to the ledge of the shelf; you have it, until—

“ow!” your hand flys down to the top of your thigh where your skirt has ridden up in your position that has you rather exposed, to where two lithe fingers much larger than your own surprise you with a pinch, and then a cheeky squeeze of your rear.

“need help with that?” before you can register it, your husband reaches up with ease to take the spice tin in his own hand, shaking it in front of your face almost tantalizingly. 

you frown.

(but then you catch sight of the flex of his bicep as he brings it to your level, the veins lining his forearms, his fingers drumming playfully over the tin. and your frown lessens.)

“haithie, i almost had it!” you lower yourself to the ground and whine, craning your neck up towards al haitham. it’s merely a second after that he raises the spice tin high in the air with a pompous smirk on his face that only serves to make him even more handsome, higher up than the top shelf of the pantry and certainly too high for you to reach.

his grin widens when you bounce on the balls of your feet, grip at his shirt and use it for leverage as you try so, so hard to take the tin from him. to no avail, of course.

you furrow your brows and puff out your cheek, look up at him as if you were about to throw a tantrum and then he’s brought back 20 years to his school library, akademiya-prep physics textbook in his hands and you splayed on the floor in front of him with your pigtails and scraped palms and blubbery cheeks and sullen little flutterby wings.

“you’re such a meanie.”

"and you're too short to reach that shelf, darling,” he muses, eyes swimming with hazy mirth as he finally holds out the spice tin for you to grab, watches on with a tender smile as you hug it to your chest and release a dissatisfied little hmph!

you’re older now, shorter than him now— your lips are fuller and your cheeks are dimpled with smile lines, but your childish peevishness has remained. perhaps it’s one of the things that endears him most to you.

and then he’s placating you the way he knows best, running his knuckles adoringly along the lift of your cheekbone because you’re just so cute when you get all pouty and petulant like this, because you melt under his touch like cream in the sun, because your pout softens and before you realize it you’re biting on your lip to hold back a giggle.

oh, how quickly he’s able to soothe your heart like this. his little flutterby.

"i guess it just can’t be helped.”

𐂯 ‧₊˚ thanku for reading i hope u luv teasing hubbie haithie as much as i doooo :3 🌈🍀💝☮️ ! ! consider reblogging or leaving a comment if u enjoyed ෆ

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