Mikaela🌷

He looks at you with that typical smile he shoots every animal or child he meets along your walks up above sea levels. It's his clumsy way at proving that he means no harm, that all he wants is to check in, as if finding you curled up in his office with tear-stained cheeks isn't something that entirely breaks his giant heart.

"You are allowed to sit on a couch," he says simply.

The silly reassurance, which is entirely unrelated to what you truly apologised for, causes a small breath that might almost be a laugh to slip past your lips. "I'm fine," you insist, even as your gaze drops stubbornly to your hands carefully held by his warm ones.

A long pause follows that stretches just enough for you to feel the weight of his support and patience, and when you finally glance up you find Wriothesley still looking at you with that same boyish charm that always manages to lighten your troubles.

"Mhm," he hums. That is all he gives at the moment while sitting down beside you anyway. The couch gives in beneath his weight, causing you to lean against his side whether you planned to or not. "You look like someone who has been arguing with their own thoughts for a while, you know," he says after a moment.

Your fingers tighten together in response, fidgeting nervously in a way that reveals your inner turmoil. "It's stupid."

"Most things that hurt people aren't." Wriothesley's answer comes easily, without hesitation though laced with a softness he always keeps for you. The steadiness of him makes your throat tighten all over again.

You avoid his gaze again as you fight the familiar frustration which builds behind your ribs. Those words of frustration that never quite form right, the feelings that seem too tangled to explain without sounding dramatic or ridiculous.

"It's just… a lot," you give way quietly. "Everything in my head feels loud all the time lately. And every time I try to talk about it I feel like I'm explaining it all wrong."

For a moment Wriothesley doesn't respond, not verbally at least. First, he lifts his hand to settle its familiar weight at the back of your neck and gently nudge your head up. "You're trying to explain it neatly, smart girl," he says affectionately.

His touch is warm and firm enough to be grounding but never demanding with his thumb brushing slowly against your skin in an absent, soothing motion that makes your shoulders loosen before you even realise they were tense.

"…Isn't that how you are supposed to do it?" A quiet chuckle leaves him at your hesitant question and a gentle shake of his head slightly dishevels his hair. "No."

Before you can question that answer, his hand slides up to cup your cheek and guide you closer until your shoulder rests against his chest. You find yourself giving in without hesitation, your arms moving around his middle to hug him tighter than he anticipated. It pleases him.

"Try explaining it badly instead," he murmurs into the crown of your hair. Wriothesley is excellent at that, at brightening a bad mood even as tears still cling to your lashes. The shaky laugh you exhale is muffled by his clothes as you cuddle closer. "That's terrible advice."

"Probably," he agrees easily, while the comforting pattern of his hand rubbing your back never ceases. "But you are talking now, aren't you?"

He is right. Somehow feeling his warmth and steadiness was enough for the heavy words to start coming. Not in a neat way, not with big words, the lack of your usual organisation and eloquency lost to the turmoil of emotions.

Fragments of worries and sadness, alongside every little thing that has been sitting heavy in your chest, are paired with the exhaustion of carrying too many thoughts at once without knowing where to put them. And Wriothesley? Wriothesley just listens. Every so often his thumb traces a slow line along your arm, or his hand presses gently between your shoulder blades like he is reminding you of his unwavering presence, until eventually the words run out.

You sag a little against him then as exhaustion dominates your body. At last, you are finally aware of how tired you feel now that the tension has started to unwind. "…Sorry," you mumble out once more, to which he only tightens his arms around you and effortlessly situates you to sit across his lap.

He looks up at you with nearly too much fondness, one might argue, as his chin comes to rest on your shoulder. "You apologise too much," he shoots back as a finger moves to lift your chin just enough that you have to meet his gaze. "You know, you don't have to carry everything by yourself," his thumb brushes beneath your eye then to gently catch the last traces of dampness there. "Not with me in your life."

You feel a softening in your entire body then. A sensation impossible to explain, neither neat nor jumbled. Love. So simple, so ridiculously difficult.

Wriothesley pulls you a little closer then, almost like he can guess the wanderig thoughts that may steal your mind from his presence yet again. So, he tucks you against his chest again while leaning back against the couch. His chin rests lightly on the top of your head then as he swiftly shrugs a blanket over your body.

"Stay here for a while," he murmurs before placing a kiss or two on your hair. "For however long you want. Whatever is waiting out there can wait a bit longer."

You run. Fire falls from a sky clogged with roiling black clouds, the miasma belching from a flickering, glowing fissure.

All around you, your neighbors and coworkers run with you, screaming, shouting.

Of course, next to you, is a beacon of calm in the chaos.

Wriothesley holds your hand, pulling you along. Both of your faces are covered, wet rags struggling to protect the delicate respiratory organs from the ash that falls like snowflakes to the burning ground. Despite that, you can see your lover’s eyes, intense and alert, but unpanicked.

The two of you hurry through the streets, ignoring the flame-licked houses you pass.

Ignoring the houses, that is until, a child’s cries come from one of the burning buildings.

Wriothesley stops in his tracks, scanning your surroundings for the voice.

When he sees the child, he tenses, glancing between you and the trapped child.

“Y--”

A tear slips down your face unbidden. “Do as you must. Just… try to come back to me.”

  Wriothesley pulls his rag down around his neck and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. No matter how you try to convince yourself otherwise, it feels like goodbye. “I’ll do my best. Wait for me at the evacuation point?”

You nod, cupping his face. “Be careful.”

You turn and continue running, feeling the chill of a cryo vision flaring to life. Several yards from your parting point you can’t help but stop and turn, only to see the love of your life disappearing into structure just moments before it collapses into burning rubble.

“Wrio. Wrio. Wriothesley!”

The sound of his name whimpered mere inches from his ear, startles Wriothesley out of a sound sleep. Without thinking he reaches for his vision and gloves, only to realize that you’re still deep asleep, eyes twitching violently behind your eyelids while tears seep from behind your eyelashes.

Wriothesley reaches for your shoulder, intending to shake you gently awake, when you scream his name and bolt upright. 

“Y/n, y/n. Y/n, please look at me.”

The warden shifts, trying to place himself in your line of sight. You curl in on yourself. “No. No. Wrio is gone. Wrio is gone. Can’t be real.”

Wriothesley groans, running a rough hand through his hair while the other sets his vision just behind him. He lets cryo energy coat his hand--not enough to be freezing, but enough to shock you into the moment--and touches your shaking fingers.

The moment Wriothesley lays his fingers on yours, his touch gentle but too cold to be anything but real, your eyes snap to his face. Your breath snags in your throat as the events of your dream speedrun through your mind, culminating in the last image of your lover’s disappearing frame. You gasp, again and again, trying but unable to force air into your lungs. 

Despite the warm bronzes of your shared room in Meropide and the metallic humidity that never seems to abate, the sensation is identical to the ash that clogged your dream-self’s throat.

“Wrio…” You rasp, pleading at him with your eyes.

“Y/n, duchess. Hold on.”

Wriothesley slides out of bed, tosses on his vision and coat, before lifting you in his arms, carrying you down the stairs to his office and setting you on a well-worn couch brought from the overworld. 

You continue to hyperventilate.

He hurries around the room, setting on the music you listened to prior to bed and starting a pot of tea. When everything is settled, he kneels in front of you.

“Y/n. Look at me.” Wriothelsey’s voice, while gentle, takes on a tone of command that you can’t ignore.

Your eyes meet his gray blue ones. Gone is the wary intensity from the dream, replaced by soft, wavering concern.

“Breathe, duchess. In, one two three. Hold it. Out, one, two, three.”

He runs you through the exercise recommended by Sigewinne many years before when his own nightmares ran him ragged, using the cool touch of his vision to center you in the moment.

Ever so slowly your breathing calms.

“Are you with me, Y/n?”

“Wrio….”

“Can you tell me what you hear, love?”

You think for a minute. “Music. We… listened to this last night.”

“Good girl. What do you feel?”

“Your hands are cold.”

“Good.”

Just then the pot starts to whistle. 

“Can I finish making tea?”

You are slow to nod, but when you do, Wrio leaves your side to finish the task. He brings back a mug of tea--fancy cups are useless in a situation like this, if you ask him--making sure your hands are steady before handing it to you and pouring one of his own.

As you take slow, careful sips, tears slip down your face and you start sobbing.

Wrio sets both cups to the side. “Can I hold you? Or do you need space.”

“Please, please. I thought you died. You did die. You left me, you left me.”

The Duke pulls you into a tight embrace, hating every shudder and desperately wishing he thought he were warm enough to give you the comfort you deserve.  “I’m here, duchess. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“But you would. If it were a child, you wouldn’t hesitate.”

“Can you start at the beginning? I can’t tell you the truth if I don’t know what I left you for.”

You stumble through the details of the dream, often pausing so Wrio can soothe re-surging panic. When you’re done, he lays his head on yours. “I would think, my lovely duchess, that I would have a plan for such an eventuality. And that you would--either bravely or foolishly--follow me in.”

“I--maybe. I don’t know. It hurt so bad. Watching the building---”

“Sshhh.”

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Wriothesley shushes you and shifts your head so your ear lays over his heart.

“Do you hear that, duchess? My heart beats and so does yours. I know it’s scary, but it was just a nightmare.”

“I know. I was still so scared.”

“And that’s ok. I’d probably be terrified if you did the same thing.”

You look up. “You would?”

“You’re my duchess, duchess. You think I’d just see you off like that?”

“You’d follow me.” The words are a statement, not a question.

“In a heartbeat.”

The two of you stay there for several long moments, the sound of his heartbeat easing the last of your tension.

It isn’t long before you yawn.

“Tired again, duchess?”

“No one sleeps well running from volcanoes,” you grumble, shifting so that you’re comfortably curled in the Duke’s lap.

“I wouldn’t think so. Do you want to go to bed?”

“Mmmm. No. Not right now.”

“If you say so.”

Despite your words, it’s not long before both of you are carried off to dreamland.

Ever burdened by work, he finds himself needing more of you in his life. Yes, he keeps pictures of you in his office. (You'd have to convince him not to plaster your face on the ground and the ceiling) Yes, he keeps a fresh bouquet of your favorite flowers in a vase. (He used to not care for such things until he saw how you loved the way they bloomed)

Yes, Wriothesley cannot get enough of you.

Even on the days where he couldn't catch up to his breathing, when the floor seemed to move even when he was standing still. He found himself drumming your heartbeat into the palm of his hand. Bump-Ba-bump. The rhythm was second nature to him.

But no matter how many reminders he had of your presence, nothing compared to the real deal.

You in your entirety, and you in your smallest form. Some night's he'd swear to kiss every cell of your body so you'd always have his love be apart of you.

Each time you'd smile back at him, maybe even tease his insensible fantasy. He swears he becomes the happiest man alive.

Your nighttime routine is rarely completed without some form of memento from him. He'd write sticky notes in your favorite color with caring words (and occasionally a sticker from one of the melusines)

Even after you drifted off to sleep, by the late times he returns to you, he returns to his home. As soon as he could, he'd lay there in bed with you. His hand rested on top of your palm, as the valley in between your fingers served as his hand's resting point.

His grip would always be loose, swearing that the frost of his vision would crawl onto his fingertips, stirring you from your slumber.

And no matter what, he would always sleep with his head facing yours (his so-called solution to sleepless nights). The barriers of personal space seemed to bind themselves together. So don't be surprised when he wakes you up, cupping your jaw.

He'd always say that he needs to see the most soul before he sets out for the day ahead of him. His course voice would tell you that you could fall asleep again, hoping you wouldn't see how his cheeks rose with mirth when you would be the first thing he wakes up to.

All in all, he thinks of you as the beginning of a new dawn, and the end of a long day. He wouldn't have it any other way.

I didn't want to write dialogue.. can you tell?

Not proofread ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ), I'm used to writing x fem readers, If something seems implied that reader is fem please reach out to me so I can fix it 🙏🙏

Resting your head onto his shoulder you sigh blissfully, puffing out a small cloud of warm air. The fluffy-looking firs, tall pines and naked larches are flashing past in a magical gleam of snow-covered branches; you think you see two grayish squirrels chasing one another on a tree on your left.

“Oh, little minxes. A couple of seconds later and that snow could’ve ended up on our heads.”

You giggle at the young man’s comment, taking your gloved hand out of the sable muff and reaching to adjust the hat with earflaps (which he once again refused to tie under his chin) on his head. Before you can retrieve, a bigger hand clad in mitten wraps around yours and brings it to the chapped pale lips. As if spellbound you watch him press a tender kiss just where your ring finger joins the palm - right where the engagement ring is hidden under the thick material.

Now it’s hard to tell if your cheeks are rosy from cold or the swirling emotions.

“A little bit more and we will be in Morepesok,” he says softly, deep pools of his blue eyes staring back at you adoringly. “I can’t wait to share the news with ma, pa, sisters and brothers…”

You know he’s written them a letter right after you said ‘yes” to him, too excited to wait. So excited in fact, that he couldn’t sit still in expectation for the response, so he solicited an impromptu week-long vacation with the help of Pulcinella, and here you are, on your merry way to his home village.

“I can’t wait for that too,” you smile, leaning up to peck his nose, eliciting the same smile from him. “But I worry a little - will they be happy for us? I mean, that it’s me who you are going to marry?”

“Absolutely!” He nods enthusiastically and you have to readjust his hat again. “They all love you very much, I promise you. And if I am being completely honest, mom and Tonia did keep asking me when I intended to make you my wife during the last couple of times we visited.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was already planning a proposal at the time - didn’t want to spoil it by accidentally letting my tongue loose.”

It’s hard to believe that this man is one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers. Childe is surprisingly good at separating his work and off work behavior, turning into a completely normal, maybe just a tiny bit unhinged, young man as soon as his family is involved. You know he’s built this facade to keep them and you away from harm, but you also know it comes from the heart as well.

“Then I can only hope we can bring the female members of your family to the capital soon - I want them to participate in the wedding dress shopping.”

You are immediately gathered into a tight embrace and your laughter is smothered by the fur on his collar. Yes, he is the Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, Tsaritas’s soldier, Childe… But in moments like this he is just Ajax. Your Ajax.

His parents’ house meets you both with the quiet creak of the gates, the barking of two big fluffy malamutes outside, the clink of the horseshoe against the wood on top of the front door, the warmth of a well-heated inside and a bit taller than the last time you saw him Teucer, who runs full speed at his big brother, practically tackling him.

“Big brother is home, big brother is home!”

Ajax joyously laughs, somehow managing to take off his coat and dropping it to the colorful carpet at the front door before hoisting the exclaiming boy into his arms. Kicking off your felt boots to step from the anteroom, you watch with a smile as he squeals when your lover presses his cold cheek to the warm smaller one, squirming in the strong arms. 

Not a minute later more of his siblings appear, closely followed by their mom - freckled, with her ginger with gray hair tied in a thick braid and an apron thrown over her green dress, the woman smiles brightly and, letting her children surround their brother, walks to you with arms spread, ready to embrace you.

“Mother, my clothes might be cold,” you try to warn her, but she doesn’t listen, hugging you anyway.

“As if it can affect me! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, my dear. How was your trip? Are you tired, hungry? I’m almost done with lunch, and in the meantime I can ask my husband to throw in the firewood and heat the bathhouse for you two.

“It’s very kind of you,” you smile, wrapping your arms to give her a hug in return. “But I think we’ll wash up in the evening - I really doubt Ajax’s sibling will let him go in the following couple of hours.”

Before she can say anything, a tall, wide man appears from the other room. His beard and hair are gingerly brown with gray too, thick brows naturally furrowed. By the rosy cheeks, the remnants of snowflakes melting on his hair and the choice of clothing you guess he’s just returned to the house through the back door - probably after chopping wood.

Upon lowering his gaze to you, his facial features smooth out.

“If it isn’t my son and a dear soon-to-be daughter-in-law!” His gruff voice booms across the house, immediately redirecting everyone’s attention to you and making you blush. “I knew Ajax was too impatient and would rather come to visit and bring his fiance along than wait for a response letter.”

As he moves to greet you properly and help with discarding the outer clothes, you notice your gingerhead whispering something to his siblings, to which they giggle and throw glances at you. Catching the gaze of your lover, you lift an eyebrow, as if asking ‘should I be concerned?”. But he only shakes his head with a smile and ushers everyone to the dining room.

However, the curiosity is getting better of you, as throughout the evening you keep catching the glances, watch Tonia whispering something to her mom, and the woman giving Ajax a ‘really?’ kind of look, but with a fond smile, and then his dad slapping his back with a boisterous laugh, saying something along the lines ‘I was the same way with your mom too’.

So you confront him once you are left alone in the room.

“Hey, foxy, what’s going on?”

“Hm?” He lowers the blanket that he’s just tucked inside the duvet cover and reaches for the sheets. “What do you mean, bunny?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing,” you put one of the pillows down and reach out for the other as well as the pillowcase. 

“And what’s that ‘whatever’ I’ve been doing?” You don’t miss the sly smile finding its way onto his face. You huff.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The man hums, tucking the edges of the sheet between the mattress and the bed.

“Nothing you should worry about. I just asked them all to practice a little.”

“Practice?’ Cocking your head, you throw both pillows onto the bed. “Wait, did you start planning something for the wedding?”

“Not quite. Rather for after it.”

Confused, but intrigued, you step closer when your lover sits down and beckons you, being dragged into his lap a second later. Blue eyes look at you in an unspoken fascination, as he leans forward to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth, prompting you to loosely wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Since we are getting married, I deduced that it would be only right for my family to call you my wife. Thus I asked them to get acquaintanced with the term, so they could start doing it as soon as we are pronounced husband and wife.”

You blink at him once, twice. After the third time you exhale, shaking your head, but the lift of your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by your fiance.

“I should’ve known you’d pull something like this, I am not even surprised, let alone mad. But they could just keep addressing me by my name. Plus your siblings already call me ‘big sister’ and your parents made me an honor of acknowledging me as the ‘daughter’. It won’t change much.”

“But it will!” He pouts and you can’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek. “You will be my wife and I want everyone to help me show it! Does it bother you though?”

Looking into those uncharacteristically begging eyes, you really can’t deny him his little antics. Not like you were going to in the first place.

“No, no, I don’t mind, love. Honestly, it's very sweet how excited you are. Makes me look forward to it.”

“Yeah?” Look at him, smiling like a satisfied cat, who's had too much sour cream for its own good. His embrace tightens on you a little.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes as Ajax enjoys the many kisses you pepper to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, grinning, boyishly eager for more.

“Do you think I should ask the whole village to do the same?”

“Ajax, no.”

Nuevillette

“Mother, do you mind helping me a little? I can’t reach over there…

“I’d be delighted, my dear.”

Neuvillette watches with a fond look as you put the tea cup down and stand up to walk closer to Verenata and assist her with whatever the potion maker needs. Your figure is ethereal, clad in the finest fabrics, flowing with every step and gently dropping as you crouch gracefully to hoist the melusine in your arms. From above the rim of his silver goblet the Hydro Dragon can't tear his eyes from the way one of your many “daughters” wraps an arm around your neck and reaches up, while the corner of your lips, which he can see from his position at the table, is turned upwards.

“Mother is so kind and patient,” Laume says just a step away from Neuvillette’s chair. When the man turns his head to look at her, there is Flo standing too.

“Yes, and she is so beautiful,” the other melusine sighs, clasping her hands together. “And she always brings us such nice and comfortable clothes…”

“Monsieur Neuvillette married a wonderful woman,” a couple more melusines nearby agree and there is a warm and fuzzy feeling takes place in the Judex’s chest.

Marriage… Such a beautiful concept humans came up with to validate the union of two. It begins with the wedding - a day full of happy tears and blissful smiles, shared vows to be together in sickness and in health, sweet claims of love and promises of joyful life ahead. Then this very life begins and for beings like you and your husband it’s a long, but welcome trip.

You’ve been claimed by each other for quite some time before the more ‘mortal appropriate’ ritual, and the melusines - the wonderful creatures Neuvillette once took under his wing - were aware and happy for your relationship. And it was actually their idea to hold a wedding too, once Sigewinne naturally asked how the two of you planned to introduce your bond in civil words to humans.

And it was their initiative to start calling you “mother”. With your actions you quickly became one for them anyway, and the girls actively sought your company when it was possible. Thus, such tea parties at the Merusea Village as today are a common occurrence (besides, you always welcome them because it's a great opportunity to dig your husband out of the pile of responsibilities he tends to bury himself under).

However, lately Neuvillette started noticing that when he heard the word leave the girls’ mouths, a strange feeling began rising in his chest. Even though not quite familiar with the concept of jealousy, the Judex was sure it was not the case - he loved when the melusines called you that. So, he could not really put his finger on why the action caused such an indescribable reaction.

He decided to observe. On his walks throughout the city, the man seeked the sights of parents with children to attentively listen and watch while leisurely passing by or stopping at the shopping booths to linger on the scene. He was quick to note that the interactions were hardly different from the ones between you and the girls - kids would call for their mothers in all the same tones: when happy, when asking for help, when seeking comfort and many other typical occurrences he’d seen a handful of times before.

What really caught Neuvillette’s eye was the way the parents behaved. And soon his focus shifted to the married couples instead. As reserved as the nobles seemed to appear, the ones in love still managed to slip a murmured ‘my dear’, or ‘beloved’ or ‘my sweet [Name]’ in their speech. All the things the Hydro Dragon was all too used to call you too, relishing in the image of your loving smile and joyfully crinkling eyes as you responded in kind.

But it is like a waterfall pours on him when a week later, after that tea party where he once again sunk deep in thought, a keen pointy ear makes out a simple word in the crowd.

"Wife"

Male’s heart flutters. The understanding quickly dawns on him, even more so when his eyes find the couple on the other side of the road, - it was no simple term to introduce the partner to the third party. No, the tenderly spoken word was used by that man to address his lover, to softly draw her attention to him, to remind her he is happy she is holding such a position in his life…

At least that’s what kind of puzzle pieces together in Neuvillette’s head. The couple is long gone, yet he is still standing there, hand resting on the handle of his cane and eyes staring into space.

He starts to remember all the sweet names he called you, each and every one stored in his memory with the heart-warming images of your reactions. There are all kinds of those: my love, my pearl, lizzy (affectionate from ‘lizard’; you used to tell him that dragons are just big lizards and it kinda stuck), kisses-stealer, fairy-tail nymph… The man is surprisingly creative with his words when it comes to you.

Sure, he calls you his mate, quite often too, but to his chagrin it has never occurred to him that he could call you ‘his wife’ too! It’s so simple, so absurdly logical, yet it took him weeks to figure out.

Humans are truly fascinating.

When Neuvillette returns to his office in the Palais Mermonia you are already there, lazing on a sofa with a bunch of papers, in which your husband guesses the script of probably another upcoming play of Furina. And judging by the more than a half pages turned you’ve been waiting for him for a while.

When the door closes and the cane disappears in the myriad of sparkling bubbles, you lift your gaze, and a smile immediately lights up your lovely features.

”Neuvi,” You speak softly, getting on your feet and leaving the script behind, “I hoped we’d depart on the afternoon stroll together. So imagine my disappointment when Sedene told me you had left just ten minutes ago! Oh, I knew I’d be late if Lady Furina had kept me for another minute, yet I still hoped I’d be on time…”

As you are approaching him, the Judex remembers the melusine’s words upon arrival: “Mother waits inside”. This makes all his previous thoughts resurface, and when he meets you half-way and reaches for both your hands to place a kiss to the back of each, Neuvillette has half a mind to try out his new discovery.

“Our Archon enjoys your company a lot, and, knowing you, you are not really mad,” you roll your eyes playfully, tiptoeing to peck the tip of his nose, murmuring a quiet ‘hush, let me be a tiny bit indignant’. “And I’d be honored to keep you company for the evening stroll,” and then, after a little pause of hesitation, he adds, “wife.”

He watches as the previously present smile on your face grows even bigger, but after a couple of seconds starts to fade slowly, eyes squinting a little bit to stare at him in hardly-concealed curiosity.

“What was that?”

“What was what, dear wife?”

“This!” As if to emphasize your words you point your finger to his mouth, and it’s Neuvillette’s lips’ turn to curl in a small smile.

“It’s something I hoped to discuss with you,” his gloved fingertips soothingly brush over your knuckles and soon your hand is clasped into his, as the man leads you both back to the sofa. “You see,” he starts when you sit down, “I am fascinated with the notion hidden behind the word ‘mother’ the melusines like to call you. That’s who you are for them both in reality and in terms. I’ve made some observations, and figured that sometimes humans in marriage also use the…familial terms to address one another. It seemed lovely to me and I wanted to try it out with you. What do you think?”

You hum in thought, replaying in your head the way Neuvillette spoke to you twice. It is hard to explain, but you somehow immediately see the appeal and understand why your lover got hooked on it. Seems lovely indeed. You wonder, what if you…

“Will you tell me more about those observations on our evening stroll, husband? Ooh, it does sound wonderful!”

Mark him stunned, but for a moment Judex grows speechless. The violet depths of his eyes swirl with adoration as you clap your hands gleefully, and he knows, that from now on your everyday routine will never be the same

“With pleasure, wife.”

Pantalone

Dancing snowflakes are slowly descending in their tender waltz and are gleaming like the tiniest of gems in the streetlights’, enveloping the already magical winter capital of the Cryo region in a solemn atmosphere. The white cover of the ground is crunching with every step of a passerby and every wheel rotation of the fancy-looking carriages, while the street is a jumble of fur coats and heavy military overcoats, finally breathing life into the afternoon-quiet city.

It’s a wonderful evening, too marvelous to spend it at home, too enchanting to miss the new ballet at the Bolshoy Theater, the true accumulation of the Tsaritsa’ nation’s nobility and intelligentsia. The wonder of Snezhnayan architecture is both the place to rest and enjoy the purest form of art and home to many gossip circulating in society. Some fresh and just hours old, some ancient and undying, like the topic of the Ninth Harbinger’s lovers.

Lord Pantalone is well-known and often-praised for his contribution to the Snezhnaya’s economy, along with extending the Fatui influence all across the Teyvat. But also he is quite famous for the women he appears in public with. It’s always someone new, it’s never the same one as before. Different shapes, different hair, different style - it is impossible to guess the raven-haired man’s tastes. However everybody knew - the Harbinger never entertained the company of the ladies who made attempts to catch his attention. Those ladies themselves say as much.

The Regrator’s companions never open their mouths, never utter a word - at least not when there are people around. There has never been a single name, never a remembered face - all women wear the mask covering the upper half of it, concealing the identity of yet another lucky choice of the rich man. 

Never the same woman - always the same mask.

This evening does not disappoint the gathered crowd - lifting their gazes, directing attention to the Harbinger’s personal box, they once again see the notorious mask. The long fringe of wine-red hair is coquettishly framing the ever-lasting piece of leather, similarly flaming lips are tugged in a haughty smile - as if the young lady doesn’t realize that once the night is over, she’s going to be discarded like many others before her. The dress according to the latest fashion trends and the beautiful garnet necklace do not surprise the audience anymore - even known for his love for replacements, Lord Pantalone dresses his partners royally.

The man himself has chosen yet another black costume, with a dark burgundy shirt hidden underneath and bird-shaped garnet brooch on the left side of his chest. Multiple beautiful rings catch the light when he lifts his gloved hand to adjust diamond-shaped glasses, before turning his head and addressing something to his tonight’s escort. She boisterously laughs, saying something in response, but even if attendants tried to strain their ears, they wouldn’t hear anything so far away. Even harder it gets when the third ring of the bell echoes across the theater chamber and both the Harbinger and the woman are forgotten, until the performance is over.

So no one sees when the ring-decorated hand reaches for a smaller female one, fingers sliding under the chintz-covered palm, thumb immediately reaching to tug on the hem of the glove, so the thin cool lips could press against the small patch of bared skin. A glimpse of a smile is what Pantalone gets when you glance at him with amusement playing on your lips.

Always the same mask, never the same woman, huh? 

Pride has long slithered into your heart, yet it still lifts its snake-like head every time your act of decisiveness succeeds, happily hissing. Every time it’s a test of your skills, a gamble with the eyes of ones around you, and every time you hit the jackpot, leaving the people guessing, staying the only one in possession of the banker despite the speculations.

As long as Her Majesty Tsaritsa is aware of your existence and the place you occupy next to Pantalone, you are free to do anything you want with his reputation relationship-wise. And he allows it, because should you desire the whole world - he’ll throw it to your feet like the cheapest trinket. One would say it’s because he is prideful too - he knows it’s because he loves his wife.

Loves to the point of entertaining the masquerades she stages whenever the two of you need to appear in public. It plays wonderfully into his possessive nature and desire to keep his precious beautiful wife to himself and helps with the enemies - “changing the ladies” minimizes the chances of putting at risk his one and only. Not like many know of you in the first place.

It’s a win-win arrangement for you as well - there is still an opportunity to cling to his arm, to use his expensive cologne, to play with the rings on his fingers and sneakily make out in a dark corner where no one can see. To be tugged into his lap in the carriage on the way back to his mansion, to have his long fingers undo the strings of the mask, and once the piece of leather falls onto the floor, have the palms slide down the sides of your neck, swiftly fiddling with the heavy necklace, only to let it be, the caress the shoulders, pushing the sleeves down… 

…to leave them at the elbows and grab your arms to push your back into his chest as the warm lips press to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder.

And what if you’ve lost your name in the process of this disguising? Having been an actress a long time ago made you used to it. But isn’t it fun to come up with the new ideas for your next performance? Your husband gifts you way too many dresses and jewelry sets - you must find use to all of them! He now has to simply spend a bit more on the wigs and makeup to fit each combination of fabric and gems.

“Did my wife have a pleasant evening?” The velvet voice of the man behind you caresses the ear and you meet his gaze in the full-size mirror in front of you. Amethyst eyes sparkle in the bedroom light and you smile coquettishly, red lips stretching seductively.

“Did she? How could I know?” You tease, reaching to your back to undo the corset, just to be stopped by his hands, fingers digging into the dozens of strings. “And don’t you know, Mr Harbinger, that it’s very offending for the woman, when the man speaks about another lady in her presence?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he muses, tugging a bit harsher on the ties and making you gasp, “that my dear wife can be jealous of herself.”

“When you know her poorly. Tsk-tsk, what a bad husband you are.”

Pantalone laughs behind you, shaking his head at your untrue words, and you reach to your head to remove the fiery wig. By the time Pantalone is done with your corset, you are done letting your naturally beautiful locks down, sighing in relief from both the released ribcage and hair roots.

The dress, having lost its vital support on your body, falls to the ground next to the wig and quickly becomes forgotten as you two step away from the mirror.

Your husband is still mostly clothed, having only eased out of his coat and unbuttoned the jacket, so you busy your hands with tugging the black article off and then reaching for the gleaming tiny buttons on the shirt. Your figures bask in the warm light of the room as you continue undressing the man - your eyes concentrated on the expensive fabrics, his - on the lovely expression of your face.

“But if you must know,” Pantalone raises his brow, when you look up at him, a much sincere and tender smile lighting up your visage, “your wife loved the evening very much.”

And that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Fingers tangle in your hair, you harshly inhale, and his lips are on yours. Lipstick is smudging, your fingers accidentally catch the silver chain, and his glasses get slightly askew, but it doesn’t matter. His wife loved another thing he’s done for her. The banker’s day has ended in a great profit.

Wriothesley

Fortress of Meropide is a huge metal labyrinth of floors and corridors, where noise is never-ending even in the late hours of the night. The metal box which is the Duke’s office however, is constructed to mute the annoying sounds or else the one inside would have a very hard time concentrating.

Usually, even the ruckus happening outside and the clanking of the heavy machines underneath can’t sway Wriothesley’s attention if he has his mind set on doing the paperwork, even something as boring as bills. Today, however, the man has caught himself multiple times glancing at the clock he’s hung up a couple of years ago - there is no way to tell the time all the way down underwater, true, but it serves him a greater purpose. It helps him count hours and minutes before you arrive.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days when you take a half of the day off to come down to the Fortress to meet up with your husband. You both quickly realized that traveling back and forth together in either of the directions (fortress or home in the city) would be way too inconvenient. So, you improvise by visiting him throughout the week a couple of times and then he comes home to properly spend the weekend, having learnt to delegate his responsibilities to the most trustworthy guards. So far you’ve been extremely pleased with the arrangement, and the Fortress’s crew have learnt your face by heart to not cause you any obstacles in reaching your beloved’s office.

Today, nevertheless, something must’ve gone wrong. Pale blue eyes are practically drilling the minute hand of the previously mentioned clock, watching it moving further and further from the tiny 10-minute bar, which should’ve marked your appearance at the top of his stairs. And he gets it, everything could’ve happened, something as trivial as the queue at the pastry shop that might’ve gotten longer today, but when the delay surpasses the half-hour mark, the warden puts his fountain pen down and follows it by the creak of the chair legs on the metal floor.

As he descends down the stairs - each clunking under the heavy soles of his boots - a fleeting thought of you stopping by at the medical bay first is immediately brushed aside - his office is right on the path of entering the Fortress’s main body, and you love your husband too much to let him sulk in his longing. 

When he pushes the colossal doors open, eyes instantly start searching the area ahead of him. However, nothing unusual is spotted - two guards are standing at the front of his abode, not even flinching at the unpleasant scraping noise the metal makes; a couple of inmates are walking past them, bowing their heads right as they see the appearing the figure of their warden - Wriothesley simply nods and sends them off with a flicker of his hand; then there is Monglane’s desk with its irreplaceable owner. And no trace of his beloved wife.

Closing the doors behind him, Wriothesley comes up to the guards, inquiring if they’ve happened to see you. Getting a negative response, he hums and starts walking forward, to the corridor leading to the elevator, not bothering with asking the very same questions to Monglane.

With every passing minute, especially while waiting for the elevator, the man starts realizing how impatient he is growing, if the tapping of his foot and crossed arms are not an indicator enough. Even with just one day apart, he’s missed you so awfully much, your adoring smile, your soft voice and cute little giggles, that he feels rightfully robbed since you are not yet in his embrace, showering his face with kisses and then whining pretentiously because he’s forgotten to shave once again. Sometimes you swear he is not a big bad wolf, but a mean huge hedgehog.

He almost stomps inside the cabin the second its doors slide open and pushes the button to the reddening of his fingertip. It is a long trip up to the next level, and he admits he’s tugged on his leather straps wrapped around his arms a couple of times, but Archons, how little it all matters, when, exiting the elevator, he finally hears such a familiar voice. Your voice.

Your husband’s legs carry him like they obtained a mind of their own, following the full of amusement lilt he knows can belong only to you, just to come to a halt next to the wooden boxes piled up on the side of the path. 

He can see you, quite clearly, adorned in a cute pair of pants and a shirt, shoulders covered in a crocheted shawl - always ready for the cool air of the Fortress, yet looking so comfy, that Wriothesley can't help but desire to tackle you to the sofa in his office and cuddle this instant. And he would've done just that, if the conversation you've been having didn't catch his attention.

“No, it's wrong again. It's not Britney, it's Brytnneigh.

“But you are saying the same thing!"

"No, it is not B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It's B-r-y-t-n-n-e-i-g-h."

"Slower, please."

In the second voice the warden easily guesses a new guard that has just been employed a couple of days ago. He remembers signing the papers his weekend substitute brought him on Monday. Wriothesley also remembers how the man swore that he’d passed on to the newbie all the information and training he needed to know. But, it appears, he forgot to mention the most important thing…

“Did you make sure to write my name with two N’s?” Your voice is laced with hardly concealed mirth, and, though he can’t see the face of the guard talking to you, your husband is sure the poor young man looks quite miserable.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I did.”

“Wonderful, but it’s ‘madame’, I am a married woman after all. But no worries, I am flattered you think I look so young,” Wriothesley shakes his head with a silent chuckle. He adores you so much, but maybe it really is time to stop your little play of a new inmate, or else he’ll surely have to call for Sigewinne to check on the poor guard.

“And your last name, madame?”

“I am Brytnneigh Deirdrophnea de Troistêtesloup. Do you want me to spell it for you, dear?”

Yes, he really should stop you.

Before you can open your mouth again, you see in your peripheral vision a figure moving. Upon turning your head slightly, you are graced with the sight of your beloved husband, walking towards you with a quirked thick brow, and crossed arms. All you can do is sheepishly smile, waving at him.

“O-oh! Duke Wriothesley, Sir!” The guard behind the registration desk immediately jumps to his feet, squaring his shoulders and saluting at the arrival of his superior.

“At ease, young man,” Wriothesley nods, stepping even closer, practically invading your personal space, icy blue eyes looking at you unblinkingly. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much, Mr Warden,” your eyes crinkle in the corners, a sight so infectious, that the man’s lips turn into a small smile. “Just a cute old me, ending up in the Fortress for Archon knows what time.”

“M-madame!” The guard exclaims rather loudly, that even your husband turns to look at him. “Even if it's not your first stay here, you shouldn’t be taking liberties with the Duke!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Wriothesley raises his hand. “She is no longer your headache-”

“Hey!” You elbow his side to the bewilderment of the guard. In his shock he doesn’t even reach for his weapon.

“-I will personally escort this troublemaker inside. And cross out that abominable name out, would you? It’s not her name.”

“It’s not..?” Now Wriothesley really sympathizes with the guy, he looks utterly lost.

“It’s not. But,” a big scarred hand gently cups you under the chin and turns your head more properly towards the guard, “be sure to remember this adorable face very well for the next time. You’ll need that to let her in and out.”

“...out?”

“Yes, indeed. This woman is my wife.”

As the elevator doors slide close and the cabin starts moving down, you turn to Wriothesley and throw your arms around his wide frame, face burying into his chest.

“Are you proud of me for coming up with such a long and difficult name in a single thought?”

“Oh, for sure,” strong arms circle your waist and chapped lips press to the top of your head, “I bet you would be hard-to-catch if you were a criminal. But why did you decide to play such a prank on a poor man?”

“Well… I just wanted to see his face when he found out that I am the wife of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. Another reason is that there was no guard who knew my face and I doubt he would’ve believed my word. I just got creative with the way of making him summon someone else. You simply got here before anything could happen. Plus, it’s good to keep them on their toes with a job like that. Besides, I did apologize and praise him for his patience.”

At that Wriothesley just sighs and then chuckles, raising one of his hands and threading his fingers through your hair, pressing your head even closer to his chest. He is not even feeling iffy about the lost half an hour of your time together anymore. Because you gave him an opportunity to introduce you as his wife once again.