꧁𝐋𝐨𝐭𝐮𝐬꧂

As the shower water pelted his back, running down his body in hot rivulets, he nearly doubled over against the tile, his hand working his shaft in his fist. Heat permeated his neck and ears, and with a hot groan, he jerked himself faster.

It wasn’t unusual for Wriothesley to be haunted by wet dreams of you, his lover who was forced to rarely visit him in the Fortress of Meropide. It seemed that the longer he went without you, the worse these delusions became. He loved everything about you, and your body was no exception to this, but he still hadn’t expected to wake up with a raging hard boner and precum spattered all over his stomach.

He had to handle this quickly. After negotiating with the Iudex to open the gates to the Fortress once more, all three of you had settled upon today as the most favorable chance. Neuvilette had set an incredibly early arrival time for you, typical of the man, but certainly not unfavored by Wriothesley himself. The quicker you got here, the longer he’d get to spend with you. He had spent the last few months wishing for nothing more than the comfort of your smiling face.

Though it appeared his body had other plans.

“Ngh,” he growled, feeling his dick throb in his palm. “So fucking embarrassing…”

His mind was filled with images of your face, alright—but not your usual sunshine smile. He envisioned the way your eyes rolled back when you were close, the shape of your lips when they formed his name, wrung from your throat like a desperate plea. He thought of your neck, the smooth skin he loved to bury his teeth in, and how beautiful you sounded when you cried because of it. He could practically feel your body, tucked under his, and the slippery texture of your hot fucking insides—.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the sound of his working hand nearly overwhelming that of the shower water at his back. “I miss her so much.”

Gods above—he wanted to pin you to his mattress and make love to you until you were sobbing into his pillow. He wanted to feel every inch of you as you felt every inch of him, making you feel nothing but his undying affections for you. If you’d let him, he’d even curl his hands around that hair of yours, maybe give you a pull if you wanted it. He’d stuff you full of him, and you’d say, Wri, please.

Wriothesley’s arm slammed over his head, bracing his weight against the damp shower tile. Letting out hot, fervent pants, he stroked himself until his pleasure was blinding, his dick twitching so actively, he knew it was coming. Loosing a growl, he dug his teeth into his lower lip and practically mashed his forehead into the wall of the shower.

“Babe,” he moaned, feeling the squeeze of his tip, the stickiness on his hand. “I love you.”

It was unthinkable, that he could have an orgasm this blinding without you even being here. It was embarrassing, that he was talking like he was fucking you and not his own hand.

His shoulders heaved actively when he slowed his hand to a stop. Swallowing hard, he watched himself go limp in his palm.

Heat bathed his cheeks. In a low mumble, he said, “Behave, you horny fuck.”

Right when he thought he was safe, right when he turned to grab a rag to cleanse himself of the evidence of his sins, Wriothesley stopped in his tracks.

Thump!

Slow and terrified, Wriothesley looked down to see his horny friend, flush to his pelvis and ready for action yet again.

His jaw dropped like the hinges were broken.

“What the fuck?!”

It had been months since you last visited Wriothesley in the Fortress of Meropide. You had been preparing for this moment for weeks, ticklish in your belly and all too shy about it, though for reasons unclear to you. Perhaps it was the fact that you had to maintain secrecy in this relationship of yours—that bourgeoisie family you belonged to warranted a heightened level of discretion. If they knew that their beloved heiress was meeting with the Duke of Meropide under their noses, they’d probably attempt to board you up in the estate again. Probably force you on more “courting” dates with their array of potential “suitors”.

You loathed those dates, which you only attended in lieu of necessity. It would be too suspicious if you refused them all—your family would sense that you were seeing Wriothesley again. Many a time, they had claimed to you that the one mistake they made in raising you, was not teaching you to avoid men who smiled like foxes and acted like dogs.

It was insulting. Wriothesley had never treated you with anything other than immense care. The fact that he had a criminal record, that he was a member of the working class and not from some high-up noble family—that was what your parents despised about him. Were Wriothesley as influential as the founding families of Fontaine, your family would accept him in a heartbeat.

You’ve talked to Navia about it, during meet-ups for tea above the surface. Though she, too, had heavy expectations on her back as a fellow aristocrat, she could never propose a solution that would work for you. That was no matter, as you certainly didn’t expect her to be able to, but you couldn’t help but worry that you were starting to bring her down with your hopeless musings. It was a difficult subject to approach with others, so you often kept it to yourself.

It hurt, to long after him like you did. But when you were in the Fortress, entangled within his loving arms, you could almost forget the unbearable weeks of tension.

So when you saw him, standing there waiting for you in the entrance corridor, you immediately broke out into a smile.

“Wri!”

You practically flew into his arms—or so you had thought. Before you could hug him, he reached for your shoulders, stopping you in your tracks. He was grinning, but something about that expression looked terribly strained.

“H-hey, Mademoiselle,” he said, his face pink. “It’s good to see you again. How have you been?”

He gave your shoulders an encouraging squeeze. You gawked at him, but when you heard the whispers of the Fortress employees around you, you immediately relaxed. Maybe he was just embarrassed, too shy to go hugging you in front of all of the inmates. That made sense, even if you were somewhat bitter about it.

“I’m good,” you told him, giving him a fond smile. “How have you been, Wriothesley?”

“Great,” he said quickly. “Hey—why don’t we talk in my office? I’ll make you some tea.”

“O…kay,” you answered, blinking. “Sure. Can I say hello to Sigewienne first?”

“Uh, sure. I’ll just wait for you in the office.”

You raised an eyebrow. Wriothesley took your hand, pulling you along beside him as he trucked down the hall. It was odd that he wouldn’t look at you, and odder still that when your eyes rolled down the length of his torso…

“Why are you wearing a shawl around your hips?”

“Hm? I…always wear one.”

“Wri. I’ve known you for years.”

“It’s…a new trend. I’ve been trying to pay more attention to things like that these days. Can’t let the kids beat us, you know?” He shot you a strained grin.

“You are the last person in all of Fontaine to care about trends,” you laughed. “Why does it feel like you’re hiding something from me?”

“I would never do that,” he blurted, but he wouldn’t look at you. “You’re overthinking it, babe, really. Um, anyways.” He released your hand, standing before the pathway that diverted to his quarters. Rubbing the back of his neck, he said, “I’ll…wait for you here. Get your tea ready for you.”

Before you could even answer, Wriothesley was practically running away from you. That shawl around his hips (which you acutely realized was yours) swished with his every movement, until both it and he disappeared behind the grand golden door.

How strange.

Entering the infirmary led you to your favorite melusine medic—little Miss Sigewienne.

“Oh, Mademoiselle!” Sigewienne exclaimed, her face brightening at the sight of you. “You’re finally here!”

“Yes, finally.” You grinned. “I wanted to drop by and say hello. How have you been, Sigewienne?”

“I’ve been fine,” she replied. Her eyes turned to the door when she asked, “Where is the Duke?”

You sighed. “He’s hiding in his office.”

“Oh, no. That’s not what I was hoping would happen…”

You raised an eyebrow at that. “What do you mean, Sigewienne?”

“Well, I’ve been observing the Duke for quite some time now. He tends to get extremely anxious around you, so I was hoping I might be able to concoct him a cure. His heart rate routinely soars past an acceptable limit when he’s around you, and I wouldn’t want him having a heart attack because of it.”

That sounded like Sigewienne alright—analytical and practical. Though at times, it did feel more like she was maintaining her garden rather than aiming to assuage the ailments of others.

“If he’s avoiding you,” Sigewienne said, “then maybe the tea didn’t work.”

“The tea,” you echoed.

“Yes. I shared my concerns with one of the inmates, who suggested I try a calming blend of tea with a dash of honey. According to him, this special honey has properties of revitalization that work exceedingly well for human males, and helps them avoid awkward situations.”

“...This inmate,” you said slowly. “He gave you the honey?”

Sigewienne nodded. “I wouldn’t have accepted it so easily, had he not told me he often uses it himself. He mentioned something about how it was natural for human males to exhibit difficulties with women in their lives from time to time…and said that a dash of honey is all he needs to spur his confidence.”

The gears in your brain were clicking. Wincing, you asked, “This inmate…he didn’t happen to be an older, middle-aged man, did he?”

“That’s exactly correct,” Sigewienne answered. “How did you know that?”

You smiled awkwardly. Things were slowly starting to make more sense here—the shawl, the way he didn’t want you to hug him even though you hadn’t seen each other in months. How he fled to his office, abandoning you instead of clinging to your side like a puppy, the way he always did. It seemed that somehow, unknowingly, he had become the victim of a well-intentioned gift by a misguided stranger.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep Wri waiting.” You smiled, lifting your hand in parting. “Don’t worry about him, Sigewienne. I’m sure he’s quite alright.”

“If you say so, Mademoiselle. Please let me know if he requires medical attention during any point in your stay.”

You chuckled. “Sure thing, Sigewienne. I’ll do just that.”

For some reason, you were sitting beside him with a smirk on your face, your dainty little spoon stirring your tea as you laughed under your breath.

“…What’s so funny?” he asked, ignoring the flames bathing his cheeks.

You smirked, your eyes twinkling with mirth. Rather pointedly turning your gaze down, you said, “How long do you intend to keep that pillow over your lap?”

He stiffened. “Just…bracing my arms on something. That’s all.”

You giggled.

“How long do you intend to keep it hidden from me?”

He felt like he was sweating. Obstinately, he muttered, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You haven’t touched me once,” you said, laughing. “Don’t you think that’s a little odd, Wriothesley? At this point in the day, you’re usually asking me to sit in your lap while you handle your paperwork.”

“You can’t do that,” he said quickly. “Definitely not that.”

“Why?” Your smug grin set him ablaze. “Is it because you’re afraid I might feel something underneath me?”

Ah, fuck. Not like he could ever keep a secret from you to begin with. Still, when you pulled the cushion off his lap, his fingers instinctively grabbed for it. You didn’t pull hard, but he immediately relinquished his grip when you gave it the slightest of tugs. He was a fool for you through and through, and he would be remiss to treat you otherwise.

“My shawl,” you murmured, your palm upturned.

Awkwardly, he stood. He felt your eyes on him as he unwrapped the long sheet of fabric from his hips, the back of his neck burning when you extended your palm to retrieve it. Slowly, Wriothesley pressed it into your palm, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow.

“Sit down,” you said softly.

Immediately, he obeyed. You shuffled closer to him, and he could tell where your eyes were at. As if his biology knew that its perfect fit was just centimeters away, it throbbed in his pants.

Your hand touched his thigh. He nearly jumped out of his own skin.

“How long has it been like this?” you asked.

“I dunno,” he blurted. “Well. I guess I do, actually…since this morning. When I woke up.”

“Oh, my,” you said, sounding genuinely surprised. “You’ve been hard this whole time…?”

God, he really didn’t want to admit it to you—that he had jacked himself off to the memory of you three times straight trying to contain it. But knowing you, you’d get so concerned about him that you might force him into the infirmary over it.

“I…handled it,” he said awkwardly. “A few times. Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Your fingers grazed over his thigh, stroking up and down. Softly, you said, “I think you just like me.”

“Of course I do,” he answered, his eyes following the trace of your hand. “But I’m not ever like this because of it.”

You laughed under your breath. Leaning over to his ear, your hot breath tickled his face when you murmured, “I’m not sexy enough?”

Your hand slid over the bulge in his crotch as you spoke. He grunted, feeling heat spread through his face as he watched your delicate fingers trace the shape of him. Blinking rapidly, he said, “It’s not that you’re not sexy enough. You…definitely have that part covered.”

Your fingers, soft and tracing, turned a touch harder. You gave him a salacious rub, and his breath hitched because of it. His fingers curled around your wrist with the intent to stop you, but when you rubbed him through his pants just the way he liked, he let out a strangled groan.

“I think I know what’s happened to you,” you murmured. “Sigewienne told me that an older man offered her some honey for your tea. She was concerned about you being nervous, and it seems that the inmate misunderstood what you were nervous about.”

“What?” he asked, his brows furrowing. “Are you saying someone…spiked my tea?”

“That’s what it seems like, Wri.” You batted your eyelashes at him, smiling ever so innocently as your hand moved in ways that were anything but. “Why did you feel the need to hide it from me?”

“It’s been months,” he answered, his eyes trained on your fingers as they split around his bulge, his hand curling into your forearm. “I didn’t want you to think that the first thing I want when I see you…is to sleep with you.”

You let out a pensive hum.

“Is that…really such a bad thing?”

His breath caught in his throat. Looking down into your eyes, which were shying away ever so slightly, he felt his heart pound in his ears.

“I’ve missed you,” you said softly. “I’ve also missed the way you make me feel. I…wouldn’t mind it, Wri.”

He gawked at you, speechless. As heat flooded every inch of his face, you brought your hand away.

He almost wanted to pull it back. But when he followed that hand of yours, it went to your hair, tying it at the base of your neck.

Wriothesley gulped so hard, he felt like he was drowning. When you dropped to the floor before him, he pushed himself away until his back was flush to his sofa, his words coming out rushed as he babbled, “There’s really no need to do that—.”

You smiled up at him, your lips resting against the shape of him in his trousers. Sweetly, you asked, “You don’t want me to?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were hot. When you pulled his belt undone, he felt powerless beneath your touch.

“Oh,” you said, your eyes widening when he sprung out of his briefs. “Hello there.”

“Babe,” he answered, his ears burning. “You’re killing me.”

“But I haven’t even started yet.”

The way your warm, soft fingers curled around him had him losing it already. Dribbles of precum spewed actively from his tip, but you certainly didn’t let that stop you from rubbing his shaft up and down. As he watched you, the most elegant woman he knew, soil your soft fingers with his thick precum, he felt as though he might lose it right then and there.

“...You’re sensitive today,” you said with a smile.

He pressed his hand to his lower abdomen, responding with a shudder. How interesting, that the only chills he ever felt were brought on by you.

When you lowered your head, Wriothesley felt like you were moving in slow motion. Your lips parted, your glossy pink tongue slid out through them, and when that hot, wet sensation caressed his tip, he groaned.

“Fuck,” he whispered, his hand balling into a fist.

Your lips closed around him, and with your tongue rubbing the underside of his shaft, you slowly lowered your head. Wriothesley could hardly look at you—you were far too erotic—and as the caverns of your hot mouth sucked around him, he worried, for a moment, that he might forget to pull out.

He didn’t like making you swallow it. It didn’t feel very romantic. Though he supposed he didn’t like making you suck his dick either. That certainly wasn’t romantic. You were a noble lady, one who deserved a tender touch in bed. He could hardly face your parents to begin with, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to look them in the eye ever again if he started your date off by fucking your throat.

Ah. His hips were moving.

Your hands curled around his thighs. The way you looked up at him through your lashes told him all he needed to know.

Shit, he really didn’t intend for things to turn out like this. Sure, he had envisioned the fist in your hair and the tears down your face, but that didn’t mean he wanted things to start like this.

“Sorry,” he said, standing before you now with your ponytail in his grasp. “Sorry, I…fuck, that’s good.”

The way you stroked his hips up and down was reassuring. He listened to the croak of your throat as it filled his office, his breath coming out in hot, sharp pants. You closed your eyes, resigning yourself to his rhythm, and he moaned.

“You’re so good at that,” he whispered, fingers squeezing your hair. “You’re okay?”

You nodded, your hands stroking his thighs again. Wriothesley nodded, if only to himself, and stifled another moan.

Gods above, your throat was tight. You had struggled with this when you first tried it, but you had been insistent on learning how to take all of him. It wasn’t that big of a deal to him—he’d rather you sit back and let him do the hard work—but you had argued that if he was able to eat you out, you should be able to suck him off. He was nothing if not a lovesick fool for you, so he had let you try and try until you finally became proficient.

Though it really, truly, didn’t matter to him, he couldn’t say he regretted it. Not when his pelvis was flush to your lips, his cock buried in the warm confines of your throat, and you let out a lovely sounding moan because of it.

Your hand reached back for his. You curled your fingers around his fist, squeezing it tighter around the base of your hair.

He closed his lips, breathing heavy through his nose instead. Slowly, he pulled your hair a touch harder.

You moaned again. He guided your head back, gently, before pushing it forward. The way you pushed against his grasp told him you wanted him to do it faster.

Fucking your throat was not how a gentleman went about welcoming his lover back into his longing arms. Yanking you back, shoving you forward, slapping his pelvis into you so hard that he saw stars, was not how he had intended to receive you. But fuck, if it didn’t feel good.

“Babe,” he hissed, his nose scrunching, teeth gritting together. “You wanna swallow?”

You nodded.

“Fuck. Okay, then.”

He let out a sharp breath, pulling your head as he whipped his hips forward. It was rough, it was forceful, and it was far too much, but you continued to stroke him with your reassurance. As his cock twitched inside your throat, pumping semen down the length of your pretty neck, he moaned, “You’re such a good girl, babe.”

Your hands squeezed around his thighs. Concerned, he immediately withdrew from you.

You gasped when he fell from your lips, sucking in a deep breath of air. He noticed the streaks of mascara running down your cheeks, and immediately fell to the floor to cradle your face.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, running his thumbs under your eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “You’re always so apologetic,” you laughed. “I’m fine, Wri. You know I cry when I…”

You trailed off, your gaze shifting to his left. Smiling still, you nuzzled further into his touch.

“Huh?” he asked with a blink. “You…you came?”

You bit your teeth into your grinning lower lip, and ever so shyly, nodded.

“Wh—? But I didn’t even touch you.”

“Yes you did. My hair?”

“Oh. I didn’t realize you liked it that much.”

“Now I’m embarrassed,” you whispered, closing your eyes.

“No, no, don’t be,” he replied, laughing. “Honestly, I’m kinda impressed. Good job, babe.”

He pressed his lips to your cheek, and you laughed against him. Turning your mouth to his, he more than happily let you kiss him, tasting the sweetness of your mouth mingled with the musk of him.

Thump!

Slowly, quietly, Wriothesley withdrew from you. Slowly, quietly, you both turned your heads downwards.

He was hard again.

He smoldered into flames, and you let out a lilting laugh.

“Don’t look so worried, Wri,” you told him fondly. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Nah, that’s…I can handle it this time.”

“I think I can handle it better.” Your eyes twinkled as you stared up at him. “Besides. It’s been a while since you bent me over your desk.”

Laughing, he replied, “Yeah, it…sure has.”

It had been a while since you last felt like this.

“W…Wriothesley,” you said, your voice as strained as the rim of the desk clutched in your fingertips. “Pull my…hair.”

One of his hands was fixed to your shoulder, gripping you firmly as his hips rocked into yours. The hand clenched around your ponytail tightened, and as your neck stretched backwards, you felt the curl of your toes into your heeled boots. Wriothesley fucked you hard and slow, filling you the brim with him with each eager thrust, and as your eyes budded with tears because of it, you whimpered.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice rougher than usual.

“Yes,” you whispered back, nails scratching against the cedar of his desk. “Wri, pull harder.”

He was always hesitant about doing anything he thought might hurt you. You appreciated that, truly, but at the same time, you wished he wouldn’t worry so much. You only ever asked of him what you wanted, not what you thought he would want in your stead. It just so happened that your desires were nearly always perfectly aligned.

You knew he liked keeping that hair of yours in his fist, pulling you so hard that you felt dizzy. You knew he liked the bite of his nails through your skin, the pierce of his teeth into your neck as he rammed into you so hard, your insides devolved into mush. In the early mornings, when he thought you were still asleep, he’d brush his fingers along those love bites of his, tender and sweeping across the length of your bruised skin.

“Ah,” you said suddenly, your voice rising an octave. His pelvis snapped flush to yours, and in an encouraging moan, you said, “Wri, I like that.”

“Babe,” he said, sounding awfully strained. “Go faster or keep it like this?”

He gave you too much control, but the love behind his intentions was clear as day. Blinking tears from your eyes, you answered, “Take me how you want, Wriothesley.”

His breath hitched behind you. The shift in his speed was gradual at first, but after a solid few strokes, you were whining his name, your hands gripping the desk for dear life as it shook and rumbled beneath you. Wriothesley’s breath was quick and heavy, sending a cool sensation of cryo across the length of your spine. As the repeated smack of his hips to yours overwhelmed each and every one of your senses, you moaned, “Wriothesley.”

“Sorry,” he said, like he always did. “Babe, you feel so fuckin’ good. I can’t—ngh—I can’t help myself.”

He would hear no complaints from you. No, the only words that would spew from your mouth, as they dripped with your hot saliva, were more, Wriothesley, more.

“You want me inside?” he asked. “Or outside?”

“Inside,” you gasped, hands scrambling across the ridge of his desk. “Cum inside me, Wriothesley. Please. And pull my hair—!”

Your voice spewed fervent, feathery moans when Wriothesley tugged your head backwards. Something about how rough he was with it, how he didn’t apologize this time—had you cumming before you even realized. You were rife with overstimulation when his nails dug into your shoulders, and as you listened to him groan behind you, you desperately whimpered, please, Wri, please, Wri, please—.

“Oh, fuck,” he hissed, fucking into you so hard that the desk legs wailed against the floor. “Babe, you’ve gotta take it.”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, Wri, please—.

“Ngh,” he breathed, slapping his dick into you one last time. As it pulsated inside you, lively and twitching, Wriothesley murmured, “Babe. Good job.”

“Wriothesley,” you slurred, your eyes blurred by hot, pooling tears. “That felt so good.”

He released your hair, and you slowly pressed into the desk. Wriothesley leaned over you, his dick still buried inside you, and pressed the softest of kisses to the back of your neck. You reached your hand backwards, grasping a fistful of his soft hair, and encouraged him to kiss you harder.

At the base of your ear, he sucked hard enough to leave a mark. One of his hands slid over top of yours, his fingers curling into your joined fist. Tenderly, he said, “I love you.”

You smiled amidst your tears. “I love you too, Wri.”

“…Let’s get you cleaned up,” he said softly. “Does that sound okay?”

“Of course.”

He helped you stand, and the way your legs trembled beneath you made warmth flush your cheeks. Wriothesley certainly noticed, but rather than mentioning anything, he gave you a fond smile. His hands grasped both of yours, holding you steady.

“Want me to carry you?” he asked.

With a nervous giggle, you nodded. “That would probably be for the best.”

He laughed under his breath, pulling you forward. After pressing his lips to yours, he murmured, “I’ve got you, babe.”

…Thump!

The sound interrupted your shared giggles. Wriothesley looked irrationally pale, his blue eyes stark wide. You glanced down, and at his pelvis, his dick stood flush; throbbing, shimmering with you, and dribbling with precum all over again.

You gave him a nervous grin. He looked like he’d rather die than stand before you.

“What’s one more time?” you whispered.

Wriothesley laughed awkwardly.

“Yeah…what’s one more?”