Princesschimchim1325 - SimpWonderland

𝓯𝓸𝓷𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓽 𝓫𝓪𝓫𝔂 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 𓈒 ˖ ࣪ 𝜗𝜚 ‎

wriothesley x sub!f!reader . nsfw — mdni . established relationship ﾉ daddy kink ﾉ breeding ﾉ oral [ m -> f ] ﾉ dirty talkin' ooo finger suckin' ooooo (๑ ˃̵͈́ᵕ˂̵͈̀ ) ﾉ infantilization + mindbreak ﾉ praise ﾉ lotsa petnames [ babydoll + little girl + princess + sweetheart + baby ] ﾉ sappie wuvie dovie sex bcos ! ! well :3 it's me !

the fortress of meropide’s pankration ring is vacant now— three hours after the stronghold’s annual boxing spectacle, two hours after champagne showers, one hour after all the prisoners and gardes have made their way back to their sleeping quarters.

the fortress of meropide’s pankration ring is vacant now, nearly— it’s pitch black, nearly, save for the warm yellow flickers of the half-functioning light fixture hanging above the ring’s canvas, the image it casts on the rusty steel walls of two bodies pressed together.

a dancing shadow of your back curling into a perfect arch off the floor, the tilts and turns of wriothesley’s head as he fervently suckles on your clit with alcohol-stained lips, the heels of your frilly-socked feet digging further into his shoulder blades, toes wriggling within the lavender fabric.

“daddy—!”

“pussy tastes so good—”

“pleasepleaseplease— won’t last if you keep— h-huuughh…”

“so fuckin’ sweet— shit, babydoll.”

it’s not like your lover to dirty talk you like this— obscenely and unabashedly and so greedily— licking and sucking and slurping and huffing, blunt nails digging into the plush of your thighs, past the white stockings he’s fortuitously torn off your legs where he now leaves little mauve moons upon your skin.

your lover is usually all grunts and groans and whines that get tangled in his throat— but you adore it when he gets like this. you adore it when he gets all touchy and clingy and desperate for your love after he’s knocked back a couple drinks, you adore the carnivorous growl in his voice when he tells you, fuck, princess, need you so bad, you adore the shower of praise and kisses and bold touches where his heart lies in his fingertips and he smudges lines of pink and red all over your flesh.

“pretty little pussy’s all mine… look at you, sweet thing practically drooling for daddy, yeah?” wriothesley moans, speaking more to your cunt instead of you, and pulls away, slick strung in a thin ribbon that connects his lip to the pearl of your clit. he watches how your hole twitches and clamps around air as it searches for something that only he can give you— hungry and ready with how much of your sticky cream oozes from it and drips down the globe of your ass, soaks the silk of his scarlet boxing robe that you lay atop of.

and your daddy’s right— it is practically drooling, so pathetically leaking for him. 

“fuckin’ gorgeous.”

a glob of saliva builds under his tongue at the sight, and he gathers it in the purse of his lips before spitting it out onto your pussy, watching the frothy bubbles cling to your skin, laughing lowly when you begin to whimper and writhe beneath him, knead biscuits on his chest in a weak attempt to push him away.

“daddy, ‘s embarrassing when you look, o-oh—!” your protests are shushed when he collects the stringy mixture of his spit and your slick from your pussy and moves back up to meet your lips, kiss you messily.

“ah, ah, ahhh… don’t get all shy on m’now, sweetheart.”

the peach champagne on his tongue hits you after the sugary saltiness of your release, and evidently, you realize he must be drunk by the slur of his words, the greedy paws that cup your pussy, and then grab at your hips, your waist, your breasts.

a sharp glint of bright white has one of your eyes squeezing shut when wriothesley shifts to look down at you, his smile nothing short of beguiling. his frame is wide— broad shoulders and a strapping chest and sinewy arms that you’re caged under, the gold of the medal hanging loosely off his veiny neck reflecting the light from above.

and, oh, wriothesley thinks you look so pretty when the heavy metal thuds against your cheek amidst his soft swaying— he thinks you’ll look even prettier with his victory wrapped around your neck, because what’s his is yours, yours is his; you belong to him and he belongs to you.

he wouldn’t have it any other way.

bringing the gold up to his lips, he places a sweet kiss on it, lowering the medal back down to you so you can place another one right on top of his, baritone voice losing it’s primal growl and replaced with something more silky, loving. “fuck, couldn’t have won this without you.”

your fingers scrabble at one of wriothesley’s hands, holding it tight to your chest— to your heart— because you think the sheer sincerity in his voice is enough to have you losing balance and falling into an abyssal love. but that’s okay, that’s where you belong, deep, drowning in it, because you love him, you love him, you love him.

“love you, i love you, daddy— so, so much; love you forever…”

and the fortress’ duke thinks you just might kill him, with that admission.

with that milky, fuzzy, adoring look in your eyes, and how you press his palm to your heart, serve him your entire soul on a diamond-embedded platter— it cuts into his chest and carves deep into his flesh. your words are flames, and they are but dew on his skin, soothing and healing. 

something knots in his throat; and all of a sudden he feels overwhelmed— by the rush of alcohol in his blood, by how sweet you’re being for him, by the painful ache of his leaky cock as he slides the length up and down your folds, each of his movements decorated by a tiny whimper that’s pried from your throat.

“fuuuuck, haha— love your daddy that much, huh? well, i love you, princess. love you even after forever.” wriothesley hunches over so close to you, cupping your cheeks with such delicate care— as if you’re crafted from the finest porcelain— before he kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you, shoving an eternity’s worth of promises and secrets down into your lungs.

he pulls back shortly thereafter to admire your kiss-swollen lips, wiping the pearls that dew at your lashes from just how achingly painful your weeping cunt feels— from how awfully you need to have your daddy inside you.

“inside— nghhh, wanna feel you inside, wanna—”

“i know, i know, but can you be a big girl ‘nd wait a little longer? can y’do that for daddy?” he shushes you with a sweet coo and prod of his thumb at the swell of your bottom lip, gathering the drool that sits there, before you obediently take the digit into your mouth. his cock jumps against your clit and wriothesley doesn’t realize that his mouth has been watering at the show you’ve been putting on for him until a drop of spit lands on your shoulder— your smaller fingers lightly wrapping around his wrist to hold his hand in place, sucking and swirling your tongue around his thumb, licking the tip repeatedly and hollowing your cheeks, giving his thumb the same attention and care you would his cock.

“a-awhhh, shit— you’re such a good girl, mhm?”

your hips grind up mindlessly against your lover’s cock at his praise and your mind fogs up in submission, taking the digit deeper, deeper, suckling and licking until you’re drivelling spit down your chin, giggling stupidly and coating his heart in fondant. “mhmmm, hehe—! wanna be your good girl, daddy…”

“yeah? archons, you’re so cute,” he chuckles with you, shaking his head at how you’ve already gone featherbrained from so much as a mere suckle of his finger, pinching your cheek softly within his thumb and forefinger. “gonna put it in now, ‘kay? gonna give you your cock ‘nd you’re gonna take it; like my good little girl.”

with his free hand, he holds the heavy weight of his cock in the palm, tapping it over your clit and thumbing at his slit to coax more pre out from it, using the glossy cream to lubricate you further as he slowly pushes his aching, flushed tip past the tight ring of muscle lining your entrance. there’s a lewd, wet pop that follows when he gets his bulbous head settled in between your sticky walls, and he can’t suppress the noise— something in between a groan and laugh— that escapes him.

“fuuuck me, y’hear that?” squelch, squelch, squelch. “haha, that’s my liquid luck.”

“uh huh, ‘s yours, daddy— ‘s all yours, i’m all youuurs,” your voice comes out as a sweet, broken keen, one that dizzies wriothesley and has blood flooding his cock.

“a-ah, you’re gonna be the death of me, i swear…” his breathing picks up as he shallowly thrusts himself deeper into your cunt— it hugs him like a vice— like it loves him, his cock, like it wants to milk it dry. 

and without warning, he sinks fully inside of you until he’s buried deep in your sopping cunt— it’s a perfect fit. where his oozing tip is pressed up snugly against your cervix, every ridge and vein hitting all the right spots that line your walls. 

you drawl out a pitchy whine of his designation at the sudden split of his cock, hiccuping on your breath as he leans his whole weight on you and pushes your thighs back to meet your chest until the backs of your knees land on his shoulders, hips gyrating to grind his pubic bone down on your puffy bud. it soothes the sharp tremors of pain ripping through your core, washing them over with waves of pleasure, and you can only arch your chest up into his almost instinctually, fingers finding his face to trace sloppy stars over high-set cheekbones. 

“daddy, daddyyyy, i wanna k-kiss…”

your boyfriend smiles adoringly in response, not ignoring the heavy throbs and twitches of his cock within your drooling cunt at how fucking stunning you look underneath him: pouty and glassy-eyed as you weakly tug him closer by the lanyard of his medal, all ditsy and limbs pliable like the sweet little baby doll of his that you are, head near empty with nothing but daddy, daddy, daddy on your brain.

wriothesley finds himself unable to do anything but indulge your desperation, brushing his lips against yours softly— once, twice, until he feels your velvety breath settle in his lungs, and then he’s left craving more. 

“ohhh, baby, so tight.” his hips begin to rock against yours, and with each drag of his fat cock along your gummy walls, a hot knot begins to boil in the pit of your stomach. 

your lips break free from wriothesley’s when his thumb finds your clit, feeling him trace his name over the sensitive nub, gazing up at him through your dumbed out doe eyes, tongue caught in between your teeth in a dreamy little smile. because he looks so handsome like this, so, so gorgeous with raven and sleet slicked back by his fingers and the small strands that bounce and fall and curl around the pinch of his brows— it’s like he’s made of stardust and moonshine and tufts of clouds from the celestial skies because your daddy’s just so incredibly beautiful that it give you such a strong kick, one that sends you toppling back into the deep end and has you drowning in his love.

“you won me this gold medal, what d’you wan’ in return? a ring? fuck— i’d give you the whole universe if you asked. put the fuckin’ oceans in the sky for you.”

an erotic mewl escapes you from how romantic he’s being and you’re almost certain he doesn’t realize the effect his champagne-kissed words have on you— your toes curl and hips grind up mindlessly into his, pussy throbbing on his cock when your clit brushes against the cream-frosted hairs at the base.

the hard clamp of your walls peels a low groan from him, head hanging low and medal gently slapping your cheek with each slow, deep stroke, “s-shit, you like that, huh? tell me what you want, sweetheart—"

“want your cum— want it inside— in here,” you cut him off with needy babbles as you bring his palms to your tummy, laying them gently over the love bites that scatter your flesh likes the stars scatter the night sky— an eternal reminder that you’re his. “please, pretty pleaseee— wanna make you a papa— mhnn!” 

and then he’s plunging into you deeper than ever before, cutting your words short, breaking them off into pitchy little pants as he presses his crotch flush against your messy, web-coated folds and swirls the tip of his dick deliciously over that one spongy spot where you’ve been needing to feel him the most.

“awh, you wanna make me a daddy? but i already am one, aren’t i?” he teases, runs his knuckles under your jaw and tugs on the plump of your lip with his teeth.

flustered by his words, you whine, shake your head petulantly and try to hide your face from him with the back of your hand. squeeze your eyes shut bashfully. melt his heart into icing and frost cupcakes with it. “nuh uhhh, you know ’s not what i mean…”

it’s staggering— how adorable you’re being for him, with your sweet pleas and darling little whines, he can’t help but huff out a growl through gritted teeth before leaning down to gather your lips in a kiss; it’s filled with so much love and so much fervour when he swallows your pretty cries with his tongue in your mouth and, fuck, he’s certain that even the mere thought of stuffing you full of his seed is enough to bring him down to his knees.

“perfect— you’re my perfect little doll, yeah? gonna make you a mother, gonna make you my wife, gonna make you the happiest girl alive.” 

and it’s all so much, too much, the thumb he has pressed flat against your tongue to pacify your sobs, the promises he washes your tears away with, the sound of gold thudding harshly against the canvas of the floor when he thrusts into you at a different angle— one that has the tip of his cock knocking at the sponge of your cervix in a way where your hips rock up into his own. “daddydaddydaddy, please, ‘m gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cuuuum—!”

“my sweet girl’s already fucked silly? got nothin’ but cock on your little brain, uh huh?”

“uh huh, uh huhhhh— wan’ daddy’s cock, wan’ daddy’s cum, wanna— mmph!”

your mindless babbling pulls a harsh guttural noise deep from wriothesley’s stomach, his vision doubling at the shaky lilt to your voice, at the manicured nails that dig into his biceps and claw red wings there— an eternal reminder that he’s yours. “oh, baby, that’s it, there you go— c’mon, be a big girl and cum all over my cock.” 

“n-no! nonono, wanna cum with youuu—” you cut him off with a sharp keen, wailing out when you feel him start to thrust harder, faster, pearls of your slick and his pre spluttering out to fall as dewdrops on your thighs. doing your best to wrap your arms around his neck amidst the jostles of your body, you pull wriothesley in closer, closer, until his lips meet yours and there’s no space for air between the two of you. 

he can’t help but crumble to ashes as you weep into the kiss, as you cling to him— it’s heart-wrenchingly cute how badly you need him. your slurred whimpers of, daddy, daddy please cum— wan’ it in me f’ever, remind him of just how much he loves you, so much, it reminds him that he is the only one for you in this timeline and every other, he is the only one that can ever make you feel this way— and, fuck, it fills him with a rush that he’s certain he’ll never find in anything else. the knot of fire that treads up his spine coils tighter on itself at the sound of your pitchy breaths and pathetic whines. 

it brings wriothesley to the heavens, and soon enough, he’s prattling on and tripping over his words just as you had been, drooling drivelling from his lips like a fucking dog.

“shiiit, all those pretty fuckin’ sounds you make, h-hah, gonna make me cum, baby— you want that? wanna make daddy cum? want his seed so deep inside ya? yeah, ohhh, i know you do, c’mon then, milk this fuckin’ cock, ’s all yours.”

and so, you moan and whimper and cry out for your daddy, goaded by his words and his cock moulding your cunt to the shape of him, toes curling and tapping helplessly over his shoulder, your orgasm flying through you from head to toe. “fuck, fuck fuck, daddy— ‘m cum’ng— cummiiiing, daddyyy—!”

it’s nothing short of endearing, how you clutch at the nape of his neck and whimper in the junction of his neck, little incoherent mumbles falling onto deaf ears. because when you cum, wriothesley cums too, seeing white, a strangled whine ripping from his throat when tiny squirts push past your hole where the creamy base of his cock sticks to your cunt and thick ribbons of his milk paint the walls of your womb.

your heart dances with wriothesley’s when they meet on the tip of his tongue, his nose brushing against yours with so much delicate care and a boyish chuckle pushing past him when your hips swirl in cute little motions to catch your clit on his pubic bone, grinding up and chasing his cock to keep it plugging you full. “wrio.” 

it comes out as a sniffle, and he can’t help but blush at the small pout you send his way. 

“yeah, princess?” he moves back to pull out of you, but your legs slip down from his shoulders in between his arms to wrap around his waist, ensuring his full length is kept inside your stuffed hole.

“if you move it’ll all leak out,” you whine, pitchy and puerile, “don’t want it to— wan’ it to stay in me forever and ever…”

his seed as a sliver of him in your tummy, a sliver of his love kept in your body until the end of time— his head falls forward into your neck where he can only bring himself to huff out an endearing laugh and repeat your words, “forever ‘nd ever, huh…?”

“mhm… forever ‘nd ever ‘nd even after that.”

you tug on the medal’s lanyard to prompt him to meet your gaze, absolutely cockdrunk and bambi-eyed with your bottom lip tugged coyly into your top teeth— wriothesley knows that look well, you cheeky little minx; and you giggle when you clamp down around him once more, coaxing another tiny rope of milk from his slit, evident by a sharp moan that escapes him mid-breath.

“you’re killin’ me, sweetheart.”

he's dizzy— either from all the alcohol or the intensity of his high or a mix of both, but he still manages to bar you to his chest with two steady hands against your back and raise you both so that you’re sitting upright on the floor, and you cry out at the shift in position, at how his cock is nestled so incredibly deep inside that you swear you can feel him piercing your womb.

and it’s a sound that so sweet, so tooth-rottingly sweet, because wriothesley can’t help but mutter out small proclamations of his love as he lays them all over your face, can’t help the excruciating ache in his limbs and muscles and the uncomfortable twist and turn of his organs because, archons, he loves you, he loves you, he loves you.

“gold looks good on you, wrio,” you whisper, cheeks burning with warmth and popping like corn from how wide your smile is, from the accidental tickle of his fleeting touches.

you’re floating— high on his love, floating higher, higher, until you’re swimming in the oceans he put in the sky for you, the waterfalls up in the clouds. 

the loss of his touch brings you back down to earth— his fingers are sticky, sweet and salty with drying champagne and a mix of your releases, but he could care less when he removes the medal from his neck and hangs it around yours, carefully laying the gold flat on your sternum, right above your heart.

and maybe he jumps the gun a little when he rubs your ring finger and searches for something that’s not there— his soul fanning across your face in sweet breaths when he starts thinking about white picket fences and a little angel with his hair, your eyes, his nose, your smile— the most beautiful blessing of all.

“well, i think it looks better on you.”

do u evr hate a character so much you wnt to write the most unabashedly horny smut for them . bcos i do ♡ anw hehe :3 tusm for readin ! ! ‎٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و i hope u liked dis n' it made u just as flustered as i felt when writing ⭐️ pls consider commenting ﾉ reblogging if u enjoyed aaa ( =v= ) it wld make mi so happie yayayayyy ! !

𝐑𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐬 - 𝐍𝐞𝐮𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

pixie says: i got him i got hydro daddy so here’s some celebration fluff ft my babies the Melusine’s.

Imagine Neuvillette coming to you, a small box in his hands and a Melusine skipping alongside.

You had been close to the Iudex for a very long time, two of the eldest beings in Fontaine. The Hydro Dragon and the leader of the remaining Naiads were bound together by fate - spirits and embodiments of the nation’s elements. Although he posed now as the Chief Justice, as you as a florist - you maintained that friendship from all that time ago.

However, his arrival at the beach you would always sit on after work with his small companion, Liath - you recognised - was unexpected. The fact he knew where to find you was enough to set your heart alight.

“Madame Y/N, please do excuse our interruption - I hope we are not intruding?” Neuvilette asks, poised as ever.

“Nonsense, Neuvilette. Come, sit. Hello Liath, how has your day been?” You say, patting the space your large cloak has been spread out on the sand.

Liath immediately pulls Neuvillette by the hand and they sit down beside you, the Melusine immediately climbing to sit on the man’s lap and the soft smile on his face makes your stomach feel warm and fluttery.

“I’m afraid I must ask for your assistance, it appears a skill of yours has eluded my talents. A skill in which Liath is currently searching for.” He says.

“Oh? How can I help?” You smile, turning to sit facing them.

“Liath came to me today, mentioning how much she admired the style you wore your hair in several days ago - however, I am not well versed in the art of braiding.” He says, face extraordinarily serious for a man asking for braiding advice.

“Oh well that is something I can help with! You want your hair to be like mine, Liath?” You ask, patting her small hand.

She nods and turns to Neuvillette who passes her the box on his right. Her small hands present the blue box tied with a blue ribbon to you and you unravel the bow to find a ridiculously excessive amount of hair clips, bows, ribbons and bands laying underneath a silver soft bristled hair brush.

“I was not entirely sure of what accoutrements you would need for this endeavour, Madame, so I collected everything I could think of. I do hope the brush will suffice, it is my own.” The man says, resting his cane against his leg as Liath crawls from his lap into yours.

“This is more than enough, I could braid the hair of every Melusine in Fontaine with all of this!” You smile.

“Can you do my hair like yours, please? The one long plait with a big ribbon at the end?” The darling on your lap asks.

“Of course, sweetling. Monsieur, sit closer - I will teach you how to do this in the event I’m ever occupied.” You say, patting the space beside you, to which obliges and shifts to sit at your side.

You pointedly ignore the hammering in your chest when the breeze wafts his scent toward you: sea salt, fresh air and something cool and calming.

You begin to brush the Melusine’s hair, soft gentle strokes removing any tangles and easing a path for the style.

“So you just gather hair as you go along, make sure you have three strands - and you overlap them like so, see? If it’s tighter, it will last longer - however I find if they’re too tight it tends to give me quite the headache so I’ll do it nice and loose for this little angel.”

Neuvillette watches your fingers weave through the silky strands and deftly manoeuvre it to your will - or rather - Liath’s will.

“And ta-da!” You say, securing the soft pink ribbon at the end.

Liath reaches up and feels her hair, before looking at the small compact mirror you produce from your bag and smiling.

“Oh thank you so much! I look almost as beautiful as you now! Papa - doesn’t it look pretty!” She spins toward the man beside you.

“Beautiful as a pluie lotus, dearest.” He responds.

“I’m going to show Sedene!” She scampers off toward the Palais, leaving you with the Iudex.

Somehow - this became routine. Every day, Neuvillette and Liath would show up to your spot on the beach, or your florist as it rains - and you would fix the hair of the Melusine. However, the second day - Sedene joined too. Then Aeife, then Elphane, then Blathine and soon you had a gaggle of giggling Melusines decorating each others hair in a chain of styling.

“Madame Y/N?” Liath asks about a month into this newfound tradition.

“Yes, sweetling?” You say, finishing up her hair as she turns to curl into you.

“Are you our mama?” She asks, yawning and nuzzling into you.

At this, the Iudex snaps his head from the newspaper he was reading across from you.

“Would you like me to be?” You ask the cuddled up bundle.

“Very much so. You do our hair, and take care of us if we’re not well and give us kisses. And since Monsieur Neuvillette is like our papa - and he thinks you’re beautiful and he feels a lot of love when he looks at you then that would make you our Mama!”

The Melusine has no idea what she’s said.

You snap your head to look at the hydro dragon.

His eyes are wide, newspaper held tighter in his grip as he looks between you and the little gossip.

“Does he now? Well, then - I suppose I am your mama, if you would allow me the pleasure.” You smile, settling a blanket on the sleepy child.

As she drifts off to a well deserved nap - the man turns to you.

“I do apologise, Madame. Liath - I did not expect her to be so free with her words. If my presence makes you uncomfortable I shall take my leave immediately.” His horns seem to droop slightly, and the sky turns a little bit greyer.

“Well - someone had to make a move. After all, I have been waiting for 700 years.” You smirk, shifting to stand and lay Liath on the armchair of your apartment above your shop.

Neuvillette snaps his head to you.

“I - 700 years? That was when -” The man stands up and walks toward you.

“When we met, yes.” You take his hand and pull him to your kitchen - where you can speak without volume concerns.

He looks at you as if you’ve grown another head.

“I have been in love with you since the moment I stormed into your old home with intention of befriending the mighty Sovereign of Hydro.” You laugh, taking your hand and placing it on his cheek to which he subconsciously leans in to - every touch starved ounce of his body singing in delight.

“A Melusine revealing my love for you wasn’t quite my intention, yet I fear my lack of romanticism would have impeded any attempts made by myself.” He says, and you huff a small laugh at him - never giving himself enough credit.

“Yet, as we are here now - I’ll do my utmost. You have enchanted me, body and soul, from the day a young Naiad flung open my doors. I’m sure you’re reasoning for keeping these feelings to yourself are similar to mine - you were far too precious and integral to my life to allow myself the risk of you no longer being a part of it.” He says, stroking a long finger across the rise of your cheek. You agree with him, voicing the same opinion that he was far too meaningful to you to potentially lose, yet you figured he felt for you about 50 years ago - but thought it best for him to figure it all out by himself rather than moulding things for him - given his nature and responsibilities. You can see a trail of shimmer on his lower lashes, this sweet, oh-so sensitive man. You wipe the beginnings of tears from his eyes.

“Hydro dragon, hydro dragon, please don’t cry.” You smile, seeing him grin down at you and the mirth in his eyes lights your heart.

You tilt your head up to him and he cups your face with his large hands.

“May I kiss you, my darling girl?” He asks in the gentlest voice imaginable.

“Please.”

His soft lips press to yours and you feel as if you’re floating in the purest, warmest most divine pool of water as the clarity of kissing your love sets in. The kiss is gentle, romantic and full of pent up longing - the soft swipe of your tongue across his lower lip makes his hand grip tighter on your waist as you wind your hand into the silky white hair cascading down his back.

He pulls away, both needing a reality check - he looks at you as if to ensure you’re real and you smile at him, pecking his lips once more.

“I love you, Neuvillette.”

“I love you, dearest Mate of the Hydro Dragon”

“And we love you both too!”

The cheerful, loud voices of 3 melusine’s make you both jump as they appear at your door - boxes of cakes and sweets in their arms.

“Liath! Wake up! Papa finally kissed Mama!”

Cerberus.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley x Fem!Reader.

Genre: AU. Fluff. Some smut.

A/N: Extremely long headcanon for the Wriothesley simps. I’d consider this SFW because smut part is not too detailed. Inspired by this post.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is downright intimidating with a commanding presence. You are skeptical of your parents’ choice, especially about choosing an ex-Duke for your bodyguard. You have absolutely no idea how they convinced him, but you have been assured nonetheless he will be extremely capable of protecting you.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley kept his introduction short. “Wriothesley. A pleasure to be working for you, mademoiselle.” He says he’s a former prison warden who decided to change his line of work because he wants to enjoy basking under the sun. And as it seems, being the bodyguard of an illustrious noble, who unfortunately has a lot of malicious eyes on her, is just perfect.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley whose frame is much bigger than yours, only adds to your worries. You are well aware that a form like his comes with the requirements, but whenever he towers over you while surveying your surroundings, you’re just glad he’s on your side and not the enemy’s.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is diligent even when he’s on a break. You had the chance to observe him train - swift jabs, taut muscles, body sweaty, and breathing heavy from the intensity of his routine. Your bodyguard throws in one more punch and the training dummy is instantly frozen and covered in ice.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley who notices your presence and throws a smile your way. Your heart instantly drops and you turn around to leave. Once you’re far enough, you press your back against a wall to steady yourself, well-aware of hard your heart is pounding now. It’s because he caught you, that’s why. Yeah. That’s it.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley who is always behind you even when you do your shopping. Other nobles and Fontainians end up staring. All sorts of rumors naturally come up from him being your lover to him holding you hostage.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is always instantly in front of you with a protective hand hovering over your frame whenever someone approaches you, even a kid. He knows you’re thinking how over-the-top that is, but he only replies with, “You can never be too careful.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley becomes furious when he realizes the dirty tricks of your enemies. One goon attempted to throw a whole bottle of primordial seawater your way, and your bodyguard is quick with his reflexes, pulling you behind him and punching a straight to hit the bottle and freeze the contents which eventually break into as ice on the floor.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley sets his eyes on the perpetrator and sprints with a speed you didn’t he was capable of. He catches the assassin in no time, easily pinning the enemy on the ground like a rag doll.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley who handcuffs the culprit and drags them to the Gardes and reports the crime committed. They comment how he still acts like the Duke and he just says, “Nah, I’m a bodyguard now.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley who you notice has a wound just below his eye, some glass shards must have cut him when he broke the bottle. You sit him down to dress the wound despite his protests of, “It’s just a scratch.” But a wound is a wound and it can become serious if it gets infected.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley has his eyes trained on you as work. You will yourself not to get affected and focus on your task, even though your hands are starting to shake and you feel your ears getting red.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley unfortunately notices you and holds your hand still. “Relax.” He smiles, but that only does the opposite. Way to give yourself away. He must know by now how much he affects you.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley allows you to continue once you’ve gathered yourself. You inspect his face further to check if there are other wounds, only to end up tracing the scar under his other eye.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley utters, “Underwater sea monster.” And you have a puzzled look on your face. You proceed to trace the scars on his neck, and he whispers, “Also underwater sea monster.” Your fingers move to his forearms and his gaze follows. “All of these are from an underwater sea monster.” And you direct your gaze at him, sensing jest in his words.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley laughs, canines showing after he tells you, “Hah, just kidding!” You look at him incredulously. “If you can joke around like that, then you must be all right!” You say as a cover up, when in truth your heart is already hammering against your chest at your close proximity with him.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley holds your wrist to keep you in place and look you in the eyes. “Thank you.” He says smiling softly at you, and you cannot hold back anymore so you lean in to press a kiss on his cheek, underneath the wound you treated.

Bodyguard!Wriostheley is frozen at your actions, a surprised look on his face. “I’m the one who should be thanking you.” You can feel your face heating up and you avoid his eyes. “Just doing my job.” He says, his expression unreadable. You suddenly hope the ground to swallow you whole, thinking that you might have gone overboard.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley accompanies you to a ball organized by the hydro archon. You are one of the honored guests for your contribution to Fontaine’s technology, and naturally you have several eyes on you. Your bodyguard is hyper-focused, scanning everything and never letting anything get past him, even though you told him to enjoy the night.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is immediately shielding you with his body when he sees a man approach you. “Mademoiselle, I was just hoping to ask you for a dance.” The man, seemingly an aristocrat from abroad, says as his mouth forms in what seems to be disgust. “And I would appreciate it if you could tell your guard dog to stand down.” You grit your teeth at the insult and you step forward, ready to defend your bodyguard’s honor. “How dare you—”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley who raises a protective hand over you, interjects in a dangerous tone. “That’s right, I’m her guard dog. And if you try anything funny, I will not hesitate to maul you to pieces, so bad, that no one else will be able to recognize you.” He naturally looms over the noble, who now seems to be cowering in fear. “Tch, whatever. You’ll pay for threatening me!”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley crosses his arms in amusement, taunting the other man further. “Heh, so you have a reason to be threatened then?” The noble retreats but leaves with a warning, “We’re not done!”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley whose eyes immediately soften when he turns his attention to you. Your hands wrapping around his arm to remind him not to cause a scene, especially not in front of Furina. “Are you all right?” His voice is full of concern as he turns his body to you to block your view of the man who disturbed you. “You shouldn’t have let him call you that.” You sigh in irritation.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley merely chuckles at your words. “That’s the only sensical thing he said. I don’t mind being called your guard dog. I’m entirely loyal to you, after all.” He declares as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lightly hit his arm, your face heating up. You hope he would stop teasing you in such a crowded place.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is quick to snatch the champagne glass from your hand and shatter it on the ground, startling several guests and catching the attention of the hydro archon. But everyone witnesses how the liquid fizzles and dissolves a part of the wooden floor. “Attempted murder!” Furina gushes and orders everyone to stay put.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley throws a dangerous look at the direction of the man, who responds with a contemptuous gaze before slipping away successfully. Your bodyguard scowls, but ensures to stay with you for now to keep you safe from any other attempts that may occur.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley places his coat around your shoulders as he escorts you home. You can’t help but cry from what transpired: the near-death experience, the embarrassment of causing a scene, and the fear that some organization wants you dead all come crashing at you.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley guides your head slowly to his chest, silently telling you to go ahead and release the pent up emotions you have. The gentle strokes on your hair only pushes you to cry out further, but the thumb wiping away your tears and the warm lips on your forehead eventually calm you down.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley carries your tired, sleeping form to your room. He slowly sets you down on your bed and then ensures everything is secure before leaving you to rest.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley peers over your shoulder as you read the paper from the Steambird one morning. The gigantic headline is no doubt the talk of the town and will be sensational for a while. “Assassin who attempted murder on the renowned Fontainian noble, arrested!”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is smug, yet you notice the dark circles under his eyes. You proceed to read the paper indicating how the headquarters of your enemy has been infiltrated, all lackeys including the mastermind beaten to a pulp, and a recorder containing a narrative of all their crimes, including their location was conveniently sent to the Chief Justice’s office. Before the crack of dawn, the entire organization has been taken down and each member has been sent directly to the Fortress of Meropide.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is obviously feigning innocence as he sips his morning tea. “Yes, mademoiselle?” You keep staring at him without a word, your silence a clear indication that you know who’s responsible for everything. He grabs the newspaper then proceeds to cover his face by spreading out the pages. “They made you cry.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley is probably resting after pulling off his agenda. He deserves it, yet you pace back and forth in front of his door because sleep decided to evade you that night. You’re worried he’s gotten hurt so you contemplate on whether to knock or not, afraid you might disturb him.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley opens the door suddenly that you ended up squealing. “Did you know I’m here?” You ask, noting how he’s dressed down with a sleeveless shirt that perfectly shows off his sculpted arms and a pair soft slacks. “It’s hard to ignore your footsteps.” He says, voice raspy and he rubs the sleep away from his eyes. You feel guilty now that you find out you did disturb him. “Sorry.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley chuckles quietly at you. “Did you need anything?” He asked and you are prompted why you are there in the first place. “I wanted to check if you’re all right. I can’t sleep unless I know how you’re doing.” He blinks at your words and grins. “I’m all right, mademoiselle. Please go to sleep. It’s improper for a lady to be in front of a man’s room at this time of night.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley only ruffles his hair when he sees you with determined eyes. It seems like you won’t believe him when he tells you he is unscathed. “I still want to see.” He sighs and lets you in. “Go ahead, check.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley unabashedly pulls his shirt over his head and turns his back on you. Your heart instantly goes haywire, but you’re the one who wanted to find out that he’s all right, so you step forward to inspect him for fresh wounds.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley twitches when your fingers make contact with his skin. “Does it hurt?” You ask immediately pulling your hand away. “No, I’m just…Does that put your mind at ease?” He asks, turning away. His ears have begun to turn red. “Not yet. Turn around.” You say but he remains still as if he didn’t hear you.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley flinches when you repeat your words, but obediently does as he’s told. His eyes are cast to the side when you pull the shirt away from his torso. No new wounds nor bruises anywhere, just old scars. You end up tracing the ones on his neck that extends down his chest before your palm presses over his heart. Ah, so it’s beating just as hard as yours.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley holds your hand, his skin flushed. “I told you I’m all right.” He states in a low voice and you nod in agreement. “Will you be able to sleep now?” He asks as he turns away and puts his shirt back on. “I’m not sleepy.” Your eyes are on the ground, head a bit dizzy from how everything seemed to have gotten warmer than usual.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley tells you to sit down, and you watch as he brews you tea. “This helps me calm my nerves whenever my adrenaline is high.” He sets down a cup in front of you and watch as the steam rises from it. It smells nice. It was only then that you then notice the variety of blends that he has on his cupboard.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley stays up with you until you yawn and express that the tea worked. “It’s time for you to sleep.” He says and you agree. He follows you thinking you’ll be walking to the door, but you plop down on his bed and he panics. “You are going to get me in trouble, mademoiselle.” He states as he kneels down on the bed, preparing to carry you to your room.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley almost crashes on top of you when you lock your arms around his neck. “Your bed smells just like you.” You murmur and he doesn’t know what to do anymore. “Please, let’s get you back to your room.” You turn your body to the side in protest. You hear him sigh and he leaves you alone. You roll over only to see him walking toward the couch.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley finally sighs in defeat when you forcefully try squeeze in with him on his couch, which barely accommodates you and him. His arms are in the air as he watches you make yourself comfortable by throwing an arm over his waist and settling your head under his chin and against his chest. “Mademoiselle, I’m not a good man, you know.” You barely register what he said and before you succumbed to sleep, you respond, “Ironically, that’s what a good man would say.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley couldn’t decide whether he had the best sleep or the worst. Your body is against his, every soft bump and every curve within his reach. His hands have settled on the back of your head and on the small of your back, the scent of your shampoo is intoxicating him.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley watches you sip the same morning tea as his. Your eyes are still half-closed as you lean against the counter, your warm drink lulling you to sleep instead of waking you up. You can feel the weight of your bodyguard’s eyes on you that it makes you feel overly conscious. “Sorry, did you not sleep well?”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley approaches you then pulls the teacup away from your grasp to place it on the table behind him. “Please forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He lifts you up then sets you down on the counter, his hand quickly settles under your jaw, his arm snakes around your waist, his crotch presses against your core, and his lips firmly slots on yours. He drinks you in and you respond with just as much fervor, your hands frantic on his nape and in his hair.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley has his lips on your jaw then proceeds to nibble on your neck. He moves your sweater to side and bites on your shoulder to leave a mark that you can’t help but moan directly in his ear. You feel him harden against you and that’s when you decided. “Bed, now.” You order him and his forehead drops on your shoulder, a heavy breath escaping him. You sense his hesitation so you crane his head up and kiss him again to coax him. “Are you sure?” He inquires against your lips, his hands now languidly rubbing your thighs. “Yes.”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley sets you down on his mattress and kisses you fervidly, only stopping to remove his clothes. In seconds, he has you bare underneath him and he spends his time worshipping every inch of your body, ensuring that he brings you pleasure again and again before he fully claims you as his. You whimper once he finally does, your lips chanting his name, and he has to remain patient to keep himself from hurting you. All the while he keeps pressing soft kisses on your face and neck as he whispers repeatedly how good you feel. He sends you over the edge several times until you and him are completely spent.

Bodyguard!Wriothesley asks you if you would take a walk at gardens of the Opera Epiclese with him. He says that it’s to clear your mind and to get a breath of fresh air. He rarely requests anything from you so you agree, much to his delight. He offers his arm and leads you to a fountain, away from citizens. “Mademoiselle,” He begins, uncharacteristically sounding nervous. It’s the first time he’s like this around you. “I asked your parents if I can protect you for the rest of my life.” You instantly come to a halt and remain rooted in your spot. “Do you mean…?”

Bodyguard!Wriothesley walks ahead of you then turns to face you, taking both of your hands in his before dropping down on one knee. “I asked for your hand in marriage.” You gasp as he reveals a box containing a beautiful diamond ring. “Will you allow me to keep protecting you?”

—PORTRAITS | WRIOTHESLEY

so, it turns out wriothesley has a thing for painters (he just has a thing for you). cw. f!reader, reader hails from liyue, just fluff

wriothesley really is content with his life. he's happy with his job, he's fortunate to own a small area away from the prison to relax whenever he needs to, and he's perfectly satisfied without a partner. no, he’s not brimming with that bursting vitality that once proved him to be incredibly youthful and he’s not as boisterous as he used to be, but he’s certainly not old either. he knows he's aging; he has to pluck a stray gray hair from his black locks every once in a while and he has to work out a little bit harder, but he honestly couldn't care less about it. it’s something everyone and everything goes through, so why should he be racing against the clock of time?

that is, until his guards start gossiping.

he's not sure when exactly the mood of the prison started shifting, but at some point along the way, guards started getting bolder with their statements about him, and “archons, the duke is so responsible!” started to turn into “isn't the duke a little too old to be without a partner?”, and it turns out that he actually doesn’t do that well under scrutiny because he finds himself wondering the same thing.

the melusines tell him that he needs to get his portrait taken—since he lives in the fortress, there aren’t many families that are willing to marry their daughters to a man who has never made any public appearances. although he's not completely sure if he wants to follow the courting rules of royal families in fontaine, surely the melusines know more about casual dating than he does. first impressions are extremely important when it comes to proper courting of course, and he needs to look his best for a future prospect after all (with his face, the melusines agree that he should have no trouble finding one).

so here he is, waiting patiently for the agreed painter to find their way down the fortress; he’s nervous to meet you, how could he not be? every person who steps foot into the prison comes from a different background with contrasting experiences that led them to where they are now, and yet, most regret coming down whether they're a prisoner or not—how would a famous painter hailing from liyue think of him? he doesn't know much about liyue (hell, he doesn't even remember much of what fontaine is like), only that its culture is far different from the little he does know. he doesn't want to be a bad host (it's been a while since he's even hosted somebody anyways), but he understands that the cold steel walls that surround the prison make it hard for someone to feel welcome, especially in comparison with liyue's vast mountains and open air.

and then he sees you.

the elevator couldn’t possibly trap your beauty from behind its rusted metal and corroded screws but then the doors open and you turn around and, oh, you’re quite spectacular, aren’t you?

you have your paint set in one hand and a backpack that he assumes holds your canvas slung over one shoulder, your eyes wide and your mouth agape as you step down the stairs, taking in the blue sea and steel walls surrounding you. your outfit matches you and your hair frames your face ever so effortlessly—he wonders if all people from liyue are as eye-catching as you are. you walk down the stairs like you're a god itself, coming down to greet the mortals that you rule.

then, you do something unexpected.

his skin feels aflame when you tiptoe and your head nears his. you kiss the air right next to his ears; one, two, and fuck, you might as well be kissing his skin directly by how your warm breath fan at his cheeks.

"'m sorry," you smile sheepishly when you pull away, "i heard that was a customary thing in fontaine?"

you're flirting with him.

wriothesley can see through people an instant, he is a warden afterall, and your face was far too close to his for far too long, not to mention the confident smile you don as you stare up at him, your hand on your hip as you smirk.

how dare some painter have the gall to flirt with a man who's hired her to paint his future wedding picture? and how is he infinitely more attracted to you because of it?

he can hear his guards whisper gossip from the entrance and he feels his face getting redder, bowing his head down to hide his embarrassment before he leads you to the scenic room where you're to paint him.

the painting goes fine, he thinks.

he can't stop looking at you, not with the way your lashes flutter when you so much as blink, not with the way you curve your lips when you make small talk, not with the way your wrist flicks ever so gracefully when your brush moves against the canvas, painting out the freckles that dot the skin under his eyes.

you talk about your rise to fame in liyue, he talks about his infamy in fontaine. "there's no way they hate you," you snort, "i mean, look at you!" he thinks your eyes flicker up to his more often than you need to—that your eyes travel up and down the veins on his arms and linger at the tie hangs loosely at his chest, but he's not complaining.

you finish a few hours later, and unfortunately, he's just not satisfied when the painting.

"...can you redo it?" he feels bad when your face falls in disappointment (somehow, even your disappointed face is attractive), "it's the scenery! i just don't think...the sea is flattering on me?"

it's a shit excuse, he knows that he's surrounded by the sea at all times, but he's not in the right headspace to think of something smarter.

"oh! alright," the smile on your face returns, "where would you want it?"

anywhere with you.

"maybe above ground? there's a beautiful café up there that we could visit, and i'll pay you again, of course."

"...right." you nod, the cogs in your head turning (is he really—?), "...and i'm sure you will be paying for the food?"

"i am a gentleman."

how dare some warden have the gall to flirt with a woman whom he's hired to paint his future wedding picture? and how are you infinitely more attracted to him because of it?

"it's a date, then," your smile grows wider, and his heartbeat grows faster when you reach your hand out to him, "i imagine i'll see you soon, then?"

he can't help but linger his lips on your skin when he kisses your hand. he's a noble man to his core, but who is he to refuse when your eyes grin at him so enticingly?

he wonders if you can feel the pulse that threatens to escape his heart, the fire that burns in his chest at the thought of seeing you again. he can hardly wait.

"soon, m'lady. very soon."

something tells you that if everything works the way you hope it will, wriothesley won't need another painting again.

genshin knew what they were doing when they made wriothesley 'cause what the fuck.

♜ wriothesley and his big hands.

slightly suggestive in one paragraph, but romantically so :3

covered in callouses and scars, one wouldn’t imagine wriothesley’s hands to be a symbol of anything all too romantic. but he is nothing if not gentle—when it comes to you, at least.

the iron fists that he uses to keep the fortress of meropide under lock and key are the same ones that rest on your waist to find comfort, the same ones that tug you close at night, the same ones that cradle your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

his hands are rough and scary. his hands are the softest things you’ve ever felt.

he is incapable of consciously doing anything that would bring you harm. he has only ever laid you down—gently, carefully—kissing you, worshipping you. he wants to be able to see your face no matter what; he wants to be able to hold it no matter what. he wants access to all of you—he wants to be intimate with you.

wriothesley is a big man, but it has never scared you. he has done things less than desirable to land himself in a place like the fortress of meropide, but it has never scared you. his hands are rough; his hands are big; his hands are covered in blood—but it has never scared you.

the scars that run down his neck, stripe his chest, crowd his arms: you trace each one with your fingers—your small, soft fingers—and he shivers as if you possess a cryo vision of your own. your untainted, un-calloused hands touch each intersection and cluster of healed wounds with absolute fascination, listening so intimately to the stories tattooed on his body by his own spilt blood, as if the stretched skin were the grooves on a record, your little hands the needle on the player; as if by tracing these grooves, the memories recorded in their wake would unfold.

just as a music player reads the language of its disc, you have the unique understanding of the language on wriothesley’s skin.

he secretly prides himself that he is able to protect you. that he alone can provide you the comfort and stability you desire—no other man. it is wriothesley, even with the sutures that litter his body, who has the privilege of being yours, and of having you as his own. to you, his scars are not a measure of his worth. his scars are not some separate, unfortunate feature that you are merely excusing in order to love him, no—they’re included in the contract. they are a part of what it means to love him.

the gracious nature of his authority commands respect from anyone who knows his name—and there is no man who does not. he is greatly loved by all, and he is greatly feared by all—but not by you. they love him for what he does; they love him as the man he presents himself to be in small, carefully crafted fragments.

yours is the privilege to love him as a whole, and it is yours alone.

so how are we feeling wriothesley nation (i still dont know how to pronounce his name) (also reblogs are appreciated because i’m just getting started here)

gift wrap - wriothesley x reader (2.7k)

you're just so excited to show wriothesley your newest purchase - but the duke can't help but think it would look better on the floor.

cw: not sfw, minors dni. reader is afab and wears a dress, corset, stockings, etc, but no gendered terms are used. reader is implied to be chubby. soft dom wriothesley, pet names 'sweetheart, pretty baby'. reader keeps calling wriothesley 'your grace'.

“Do you like it?” You twirl in front of Wriothesley, making sure that the full dramatic effect of your new gown is not lost; that Wriothesley is able to see every ruffle, every carefully embroidered rainbow rose, every neatly tied bow. It’s a complicated confection of a dress, and you had delighted in sending missives to the dressmaker with every new idea you’d had, your measurements carefully taken by the Duke himself--

(“Tighter!” You’d urged, the tape measure around your waist. Wriothesley had huffed out a noise that might be fondness and might be exhaustion. 

“You’re not going to be able to breathe in it,” he’d said, but he’d pulled the tape more snugly even so. 

“I’ve got a new corset coming,” you’d told him. “And you’re not going to complain about it showing off all of my assets, are you?”

Wriothesley had paused. 

“ . . . No,” he’d said, and he’d shown you the number on the tape for you to rush off and scribble down before it went out of your head). 

“So,” you urge him, coming to a stop in front of him and striking a pose you hope is effective. You certainly feel good in it; the new corset underneath, and the new chemise (silk and trimmed with exquisite lace) and the new stockings and new shoes all working together to make you feel like the most exquisite flower in the garden - not that such a thing is hard, in the Fortress of Meropide. “Do you like it?”

Wriothesley rests his chin on his hand behind his desk and motions you over with the other, beckoning you to come closer. You eagerly follow instruction, and he reaches out and tweaks one of your ribbons, his expression not changing. 

“So this is what you’re spending my Mora on?” He asks you. You pout at him, and the tension breaks - he lets out a gruff bark of laughter. “Yes, yes, sweetheart. I like it plenty.” 

You beam at him, and he shakes his head, an expression as familiar to you as your own hands playing across his face - an attempt to be tough and maintain his reputation, tempered with his inability to say no to you and his tendency to break whenever you exert the slightest bit of pressure on him. Nobody else could say that they have the Duke of the Fortress wrapped around their finger the way you do. 

“It’s not the only new thing that arrived in the mail room for me today!” You chirp at him, and his eyes go dark as he remembers you chattering idly in bed next to him about all of the other fripperies and fancies you were having made. 

Nobody would accuse Wriothesley, normally, of excess in anything but the amount and variety of teas that he orders for himself. Unfortunately, when it’s you beside him, fluttering lashes and sighing and pouting and saying “Your Grace, please” . . . he has a lot of willpower, but he’s not made of stone. 

“I take it back,” Wriothesley says, taking a sip of the fragrant tea resting on his desk. It’s supposed to calm him before bed, but he’s no longer feeling sleepy at all - not with the promise of what might be beneath your gown calling to him. “I’d like it much, much more if it were on the floor.”

“I only just put it on--” You say to him, teasing, batting your lashes - and Wriothesley places the teacup down and puts his fists upon his desk. That dark cast in his eye does not abate, and he uses a voice that means business when he opens his mouth again; 

“Now.” 

You know what that tone means. You take a shuddering breath, and then say to him, your own voice wavering;

“I’ll need your help. Sigewinne helped me put it on . . .” As you speak, you turn slowly, showing the row of buttons down your back - they’re helped along by both ribbon lacing and hooks and eyes, and you can practically feel Wriothesley’s displeasure emanating off of him as he surveys them. 

“Blasted thing,” he grumbles to himself, and you hear the heavy footfall of his boots as he stands up and comes around the desk to be closer to you. You gasp as strong, work-roughened hands grab you by the indent of your waist and haul you bodily closer to him. “Why make this so complicated?” 

Despite his grumblings, his fingertips are tender as he undoes the first hook and begins to work on the small satin-covered buttons.

“I ought to just rip it off you,” he breathes into your ear, breath hot against your neck. “Save me all of the trouble.”

“I just bought it,” you repeat, helplessly, as the Duke deftly reaches the lacing at your hips, and you feel the gown fall from your shoulders. His lips press against the nape of your neck. “Th-that would definitely be a waste of Mora--”

“Anything that ends with you naked,” Wriothesley murmurs, “is not a waste of anything.”

“Your Grace--”

He chuckles roughly at the title, hand reaching around to pull your face towards him. Standing there in chemise and corset and stockings and heels, aware that you would be most embarrassed were anyone to walk into Wriothesley’s office looking for an audience with him, you are nevertheless helpless to do anything but let your lover draw you into a kiss as deep and hungry as there’s ever been. 

Teeth dig into your bottom lip and you whine into his mouth, as Wriothesley’s calloused hands trace the shape of you. Where the corset makes your waist smaller, your hips all the rounder, the swell of your chest as ripe and heaving as it can be. 

“You know,” he breaks the kiss to say to you, his voice dropping semitones with every syllable, his throat clogged with want. “I’m a simple man. I don’t need my gifts to be in fancy wrapping or anything; you could walk in here in brown paper and string and I would devour you just as eagerly . . . But,” and he cracks a grin, his teeth bright and sharp and wolfish. “Well. This makes a man re-evaluate.”

He squeezes the globe of your ass through your chemise and you whine, your hands coming up to rest on his chest, fingertips curling about the lapels of his waistcoat. 

“Still,” he slides his hands up, and deftly, without even looking - like a master criminal, a master thief - you feel your corset lacings loosen, and then the beautifully embroidered garment is falling from you too and you feel your chest, freed from the stricture of the corset, spill forward to fill out your chemise. “It’s hard not to prefer you . . . au naturel. You don’t need the ornamentation, sweetheart. You’re the nicest thing to look at down here for miles. In fact, every time I catch one of the inmates looking at you I wanna punch them out myself.”

“I like it,” you whisper, helplessly, because your stomach is rolling pleasantly and your head has gone light and fluffy like cotton wool, egged on by the palpable lust in the Duke’s voice as he slowly strips you of your accoutrements. “I know I don’t . . . need to . . . for you . . .”

Wriothesley’s fingers on your chin, smile on his face as he kisses you again, gentler this time. 

“As long as you know,” he murmurs, sweet as honey. “The day I don’t want to throw you over my desk and fuck your pretty little brains out the minute I see you, call the Chief Justice and have the idiot tried and incarcerated for impersonation.” 

He does this, sometimes; says the most vulgar things whilst sitting in his luxurious office, his title obvious in his regal bearing - and every time, it does not fail to make you wet. 

“This, though . . .” He tugs at the lace hem of the chemise; the fabric clings to you, the true shape of your body without any need for whalebone and ribbons. “Ooh, I daresay you can keep this on.” 

“What are you going to do to me, Your Grace?” You ask him, your heart pounding in your ears - or perhaps between your thighs. You feel a little too out of sorts to locate it properly. 

He answers by lifting you up, uncaring of how much you weigh - all of that time in the Pankration ring has made it so you barely ever see him break a sweat, regardless of what he’s doing. The only time you’ve ever really seen him sweating, he’s been above you, eyes fever bright, hips pistoning in and out of you, veins prominent on his scarred forearms as he caged you beneath him. You find yourself deposited onto the edge of his desk, and then Wriothesley is fumbling with his trousers and slotting himself between your thighs. 

“Another time,” he says to you, in between rough kisses and bites to your lower lip, your earlobe, your throat. “I’d take my time with you, sweetheart. Get on my knees, use my tongue on you until you’re nice and wet and trembling . . . Really taste you. But . . . Ah.” He heaves a wistful sigh. One of his fingers slides into the top of your stocking, twanging it against the fullness of your thigh where it pinches just enough to drive him wild. “S’taken me too long to get you out of all of that nonsense, and now . . . well, I’m only flesh and blood.”

You gasp out his name as you feel something slap against your thigh, slick and hard and hot. You can feel his shaft pulsing even now, and you let your eyes drift down to see Wriothesley’s impressive length in his fist, tip flushed purple-red with want, a bead of silvery precome dripping onto your new stockings. 

His other hand carefully drags the strap of your chemise down, urging you to shrug it off your top half - and then your chest is free, your nipples hardening in the cool air, the soft bounce of them being unrestrained making Wriothesley unconsciously lick his lips.

He’s still fully clothed, but for his cock, and the knowledge of just how exposed you are - thighs spread wide to allow him space between them, chemise pushed down to below your breasts and up to above your hips. Anyone who walked in on you right now would see how shameless you’re being for the Duke of the Fortress, and you could not care less. 

“At least you’re well-behaved,” Wriothesley grunts, pinching your nipple with one hand - the shock goes through you, straight to your cunt. “You’re wet, sweetheart. Ah. You want me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” your voice comes out a soft little whine. You can’t think straight; his cock slaps against the outside of your cunt, your slick mingling with his precome, the head barely brushing your clit. 

“Can’t hear you,” he says, smiling down at you. “These old pipes get loud this time of night, y’know. Downside to the whole underwater fortress thing.” The calloused palm travels over your breast, over your collarbone, brushing your throat with the lightest of touches until he’s gripping your jaw firmly in his hand. His thumb brushes over your lips, gently pressing down on the lower one until your mouth opens for him. 

Your tongue shyly probes at his thumb, and you see a spot of colour high on his cheeks. 

“Say it again,” he says, though from the crack in his voice you can tell it’s taking all of his self-control to wait. Through the thumb in your mouth, you say to him, all want and need and soft panting;

“Please fuck me, Your Grace.”

“Good,” Wriothesley praises you - and then, he presses his hips forward and his cock catches on your opening and you lose the ability to do anything but let him push forward, opening you up. 

The hand formerly on his cock comes to grip onto your hip in order to act as leverage. Your eyes roll back into your head, your lips closing about his thumb so you can suckle on it as a distraction to the sting of being opened wider than your body thinks it can handle. It’s an almost-sting, not-quite-burn - Wriothesley’s thick length almost too much for you to bear, bullying itself inside of you and almost making the channel of your cunt mould to the shape of his. His tip bullies further and further into you, and he grits his teeth and lets a low guttural groan fall from his mouth. 

“Shit,” he grunts. “Always forget how tight you are. Ought to fuck you more.”

He spends every night inside of you that he can, and plenty of lunchtimes and ‘afternoon tea breaks’ too - but you’re not sure Wriothesley could be satisfied even if he had nothing to do all day but fuck you. His stamina is something to be marvelled at. You’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve been beneath him, whimpering out as he filled you with another round of his come, that you don’t think you can take any more - and every time, Wriothesley has soothed and kissed and cajoled - and every time, you’ve been left so full of his release that you feel it leaking out of your cunt and onto the bed sheets as Wriothesley turns ‘just one more’ into ‘just three more’. 

You wrap your own arms around his neck, fingers tangling into the mass of his hair, and let him set the pace as he always does. 

Thrust comes after fast, hungry thrust - Wriothesley is as merciless in this as he is in all things, though you know from experience he has it in him to be tender, when things get too much. Right now, though, he has no time for tenderness - you helplessly suckle on his thumb, grateful for the distraction, as Wriothesley snarls and grunts and teaches your body to take him with every squelching cant of his hips. You feel your own slick drip down your inner thighs to make a mess of whatever it is you’re perched on, and you hope Wriothesley wasn’t working on any important paperwork when you’d flounced in here to show off your newest wardrobe addition. 

The beautiful dress you’d waited to be delivered lies in a crumpled heap on the floor, though, and it seems far less important right now than the growing ache between your legs - the tension that builds with Wriothesley’s groans. You can’t breathe. You can’t do anything, as Wriothesley notices how you react and shifts his body just so, so that his cock batters against a sensitive spot with every fast-paced thrust he fucks into you. Your fingers twist deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, drool escaping your mouth and trickling down from around Wriothesley’s thumb. 

“You close, sweetheart?” Wriothesley murmurs. “Come on, pretty baby. Are you gonna come for me?”

You nod, dazed, and as Wriothesley presses a kiss to your forehead that’s as tender as his fucking is brutal, you feel your body contract and then explode into a hundred pinpricks of light. It’s a sharp kind of pleasure; an explosion of sensation that starts between your thighs and travels into all of your fingers, all of your toes. Sweat beads on your forehead and you whine out unintelligible drooling noises as your vision goes white in sparks of electricity, your cunt pulsating around Wriothesley’s length as he slows his thrusts just enough to let you crest over the hill of your orgasm. 

When you come back down, aftershocks of pleasure still making you tremble and shudder, Wriothesley’s cock is still inside of you. There’s a twist to his lip, an amused little smile. 

“Good?” He asks you, voice rough. You nod dazedly. “Good. There’s a reward for looking so fucking pretty in everything I buy for you.”

He pauses.

“Now. Are you gonna give me a reward for spending all my hard-earned Mora on you, huh?”

You blink at him, your eyelids syrupy thick. As the final waves of your orgasm ebb away, and your heart slows to a rhythm that no longer worries you, you’re once more made aware of just how hard Wriothesley is inside of you. How his thighs are flexing with want; the mess of his hair, his clothes in disarray. 

You lock your thighs about his waist, pulling him closer in. 

“Of course, Your Grace,” you murmur, your tongue heavy. Wriothesley lets out a chuckle, another kiss bestowed upon your forehead as he murmurs into your hair;

“That’s what I like to hear, sweetheart. How about we order you three new dresses tomorrow?”