𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄.

#𝙷𝙴𝙻𝙻𝙷𝙾𝚄𝙽𝙳𝚁    .  .  .    private  &  mutuals  only,  headcanon  based  𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲,  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑙𝑜𝑟𝑑  𝑜𝑓  𝑡ℎ𝑒  𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠  𝑜𝑓  𝑚𝑒𝑟𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑑𝑒  of  genshin  impact.  nsfw  will  be  prevalent.  minors,  proshippers  &  personals  do  not  interact.  not  always  spoiler  free,  but  spoilers  tagged.  administered  by  saffron,  30,  she/they.  potentially  canon  divergent.

                            𝐢.  carrd.              𝐢𝐢.  memes.               𝐢𝐢𝐢.  headcanons.

@sourcewater: it has only been a week since then, and neuvillette’s thoughts wander more frequently as a result. an occasional glance at the ruby ring around his finger relieved him of all stress in this ever - changing world; lifts the burdens now shouldered in newfound position. their visits to one another became … different, but more profound. deeper did their yearning grow on days spent apart, and more intimate the hours went. it was everything he could ask for. the hydro sovereign slides his hand into wriothesley’s, quietly admiring how utterly perfect their rings look nestled next to one another. a slow lift of hand towards his face, then hydro - infused lips press to the duke’s finger —— lilac gaze burning with an intensity that compelled him to hold his beloved’s gaze. mine. mine. mine.

ㅤㅤㅤ𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐞   𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥   𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬   𝐨𝐟   the   ring   that   adorns   his   finger   -   wriothesley   feels   a   weight   with   it   -   the   impossible   heaviness   of   holding   the   heart   of   the   hydro   sovereign   and   great   iudex   of   fontaine   within   his   hand.   yet   the   duke   does   not   view   it   as   a   burden   -   nay,   it   is   a   blessing,   a   gift,   that   neuvillette   has   chosen   him   -   him   -   to   spend   the   rest   of   wriothesley's   life   with.   few   occasions   have   truly   filled   the   fortress   administrator   with   glee   -   but   that?   neuvillette's   acceptance   of   his   proposal   was   a   sort   of   elation   that   he   could   not   possibly   begin   to   describe,   or   fathom.   or   understand.   all   he   could   do   was   feel   -   and   for   once,   wriothesley   was   not   frightened   of   it.   

ㅤㅤㅤmad   wolf   as   he   was,   the   warden   bares   no   teeth   for   neuvillette,   only   watches   him   with   those   lunar   orbs,   a   ghost   of   a   smile   playing   across   his   lips   and   a   man   made   of   ice   softens   -   warm,   content,   loved.

wrio: do you require me to personally deal with a criminal?

neuvi: *stern wifely voice of wifeness* wr.iothesley.

@voileau: walks up behind wriothesley and leans forward — purposefully pressing the right side of his chest against the duke's back. a large hand hovers just barely over the man's hip. "what are you reading?" spoken directly into a fluffy ear: warm, brown eyes gazing down at whatever was in his hands.

           𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐞,   𝐢𝐬   𝐢𝐭   -   𝐟𝐨𝐫   𝐭𝐡𝐞   𝐝𝐮𝐤𝐞   𝐨𝐟   𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐩𝐢𝐝𝐞   to   be   caught   off   guard.   a   combination   of   over   a   decade   in   prison   and   lupine   hearing   made   it   difficult   for   anyone   to   sneak   up   on   him,   if   not   nigh   on   impossible.   but   wriothesley   was   entirely   too   guilty   these   days   -   guilty   of   letting   his   walls   drop   around   someone   who   fit   the   bill   for   'sent   here   to   assassinate   him'   pretty   perfectly.   and   yet,   the   warden   did   it   anyway   -   almost   as   if   his   body   wouldn't   allow   him   to   be   anything   but   relaxed   and   enchanted   in   michel's   presence   -   almost   as   if   that   despite   being   as   lethal   as   him,   he   saw   no   threat   there   -   only   warmth   and   comfort   and   a   want   to...   to...   what?   open   his   cage   doors?   it   was   all   too   philosophical   for   wriothesley   to   ponder,   even   if   it   was   a   tome   of   classical   natlan   literature   in   his   hand   that   he   was   trying   to   puzzle   through.   too   much   critical   thinking   was   bad   for   the   soul   sometimes.   

           strong   chest   bumps   against   his   robed   back   (   dressed   down,   at   the   desk   in   his   personal   quarters,   for   the   night   grew   long   ),   and   wriothesley   does   not   jerk   -   for   it's   michel's   familiar   scent   that   fills   his   nostrils,   ebs   into   his   bones,   and   he   can   only   sigh   as   he   turns   a   page.   his   ears   do   give   him   away   though,   fluffy   appendages   twitching   towards   the   fatuus   deep   voice   and   body   almost   leaning   back   into   him   on   reflex.   almost.   ❝   a   classic   natlan   love   story   -   though   there   is   a   bit   too   much   fighting   in   it   for   my   taste.   ❞   the   tome   clicks   shut   with   a   resounding   snap,   and   he   turns.

           angling   his   body   upwards,   the   duke   catches   the   curl   of   his   lips   against   michel's   own,   breathing   out   the   most   relieved   of   sighs   at   the   sensation.   warm   frame   tilts   into   him,   and   wriothesley   turns   around   fully   so   he   might   wrap   his   arms   about   the   younger,   pulling   him   against   his   body   to   nose   at   his   jaw.   he   knows   michel   is   nowhere   near   as   touchy   as   he,   so   wriothesley   always   allows   the   spy   the   opportunity   to   pull   away   on   his   own   terms.   still   -   sometimes   the   duke   can't   help   but   sink   into   his   presence.   ❝   you   were   gone   longer   than   usual   this   time.   did   something   happen?   ❞   he   mutters   softly,   glacial   eyes   warmed   in   the   low   light   of   his   bedroom,   but   the   translation   is   obvious:   i   missed   you.   are   you   hurt?   

@dualisume: " is there a tea you can recommend~?"

           𝐢𝐟   𝐨𝐧𝐞   𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭   𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞   𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝   𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐲   a   month   or   so   ago   that   the   the   (   former   )   hydro   archon   would   be   standing   in   his   office,   requesting   his   opinion   on   teas   (   of   which   he   had   many   )   he   probably   would've   punched   them   in   the   face   for   wasting   his   time.   then   again,   fontaine   had   changed   as   quickly   as   the   weather   for   them   -   in   no   small   thanks   to   @sourcewater's   mercurial   moods   of   course   -   so   he   supposes   it   was   now   no   longer...   out   of   the   realm   of   possibility.   still,   even   wriothesley   can't   hide   his...   well,   surprise.   and   wriothesley   is   never   surprised   these   days   -   but   he   supposes   the   plight   of   mortals   was   to   be   just   that.   there   really   was   no   such   thing   as   'never'   for   them,   especially   for   furina   de   fontaine   and   all   she   had   given.

           it'd   been   going   on   for   as   long   as   he   can   remember   now   -   but   he'd   never   really   noticed   it   until   recently.   maybe   it   was   because   the   entirety   of   neuvillette's   authority   had   been   returned   to   him,   but   regardless   -   the   past   few   times   had   been   visceral   enough   that   wriothesley   knew   it   was   time   to...   say   something.   over   the   years,   using   his   vision   had   come   to   him   as   easy   as   breathing,   and   though   he'd   learned   to   fight   without   it,   hadn't   really   even   started   mastering   it   until   his   sentence   at   meropide   had   ended,   wielding   cryo   alongside   his   fists   was   a   simple   matter.   it   was   the   perfect   element   for   wriothesley   too   -   sharp,   dangerous,   frostfire   hot   and   unforgiving   in   the   face   of   everything.   he'd   used   it   recently   before   coming   topside   to   visit   his   lover   -   a   small   spat   that   needed   settling   between   some   prisoners   -   a   few   frost   accented   punches   had   evened   them   out,   and   then   he'd   been   on   off   -   whistling   with   his   hands   in   his   pockets   all   the   way   to   palais   mermonia,   much   to   sigewinne's   chagrin.

           now   -   wriothesley   was   used   to   neuvillette   being   handsy.   and   he   didn't   mind   in   the   slightest.   but   he   had   not   expected   to   be   accosted   the   second   he'd   entered   the   room,   the   vishap's   eyes   dilated,   his   coat   (   and   vision   )   falling   to   the   floor   with   claws   that   had   figured   out   the   clasps   a   little   too   quickly.   there   was   something   wild   about   his   lover   in   his   moment,   something   utterly   untamed,   and   even   wriothesley   doesn't   have   the   strength   to   push   him   off   (   not   that   he   wanted   to   ),   as   the   iudex   has   him   pinned   to   the   rug   and...   and...   was   he...   nibbling   on   him?   the   duke   can't   help   but   laugh   -   both   disbelieving   and   startled,   as   hands   curl   lightly   against   neuvillette's   silvery   tresses   in   an   attempt   to   upend   his   head   from   where   it   had   been   buried   near   the   warden's   throat.   ❝   jeez,   scales.   it's   barely   been   48   hours.   what's   gotten   into   you-   ❞   a   free   hand   blindly   gropes   out,   feeling   for   his   discarded   coat,   grabbing   it   by   the   attached   vision,   to   tug   it   closer   to   them   both.   ❝   sorry   i'm   late,   there   was   a   scuffle,   had   to   break   out   the   ole   icefist   -   monsieur   neuvillette,   are   you   scenting   me   right   now?   ❞