caution on that last one though, if you use it when he’s in the wrong headspace he’ll take it to heart and turn on you, (and you can’t even ask him what’s wrong because he’s such an asshole about it). but! more likely than not, speaking down to him like that will make his head go all fuzzy.

i put (both) on humiliation because he also enjoys talking down to his partner, and he speaks in such a sweet tone while doing it too—faux sympathy is his bread and butter. if his partner is shy he will not allow them to close their eyes or turn away from him, he is going to force that eye contact—“see? all embarrassed for nothing, what a ridiculous angel i’ve saddled myself with”/“ah, ah, ah, open those pretty eyes”, breathless as he mumbles ‘wow’ and says: “oh, lovely, you look so stupid looking up at me like that” but he follows it up with gentle kiss and a pinch on your cheek for good measure.

in addition to talking down, a hundred percent likely to mock his partner’s moans and whines if he’s really feeling it… which he is no place to do because he’s even more pathetic-sounding but whatever… call him out on it and he’ll deny, deny, deny!

sadomasochist.... woah, whaat who said that!

also incredibly vaguely touched on before (one line or so, blink and you’ll miss it), but adores being even a bit hurt by his partner. scratch him, pinch him, pull his hair, overstimulate him (that’s a biggie, it’s genuinely the only reason he’s into overstimulation, the sting). asphyxiation, specifically being done to him, gives him that same gratification. a bit of a sick thought, but i think the knowledge that you hold even a smidge of his life-force in your hands makes him feel dizzy and his heart swirls. ‘specially if you treat him gently afterwards, run a hand through his hair and slowly move your hand down to reach his cheek, thumb stroking it kindly—swears he falls in love with you all over again. he’s not likely to feel genuinely threatened by his partner, even if they’re a bit… off (or at least not super threatened, maybe just a bit. ha. reference to a draft?)

anyways because of that, and the fact that he knows he can probably just throw you off if he struggles enough, he’s not actually scared at any point. would he be open to feeling a bit scared? i think so. take the risk. scare him.

back to the old points: between overstimulation or edging/orgasm denial though i think he has a preference for overstimulation simply because likes seeing his release on/around his partner. if his partner is interested in overstimulation he’ll return the gesture, but if they’re not he won’t push too much. maybe just a little, just enough to elicit some begging. maybe a tear or two.

segue into dacryphilia. my favourite!!!!! i fucking love talking about it. half of his reasoning for being so obsessed with his partner crying is sweet, and the other half is… less sweet.

half of it is because he views it as his partner opening up completely. eyes are the window to the soul and tears are the purest form of vulnerability, or he believes that at least. it’s a non-verbal way of saying you love him. the other half of it is because it gives him such a fucking power trip knowing he reduced his partner to tears accompanied by quick words and sniffles because your mind can’t muster up anything else. feeds into his ‘only me’/‘you’re his special person’. do not take this away from him by saying you just cry easily. will take it as a challenge and after he’s done with you, he’s going to ice you out until you apologise.

It would be another hour of scanning through portraits of women who looked nauseatingly serene, lace adorning their collarbones, hair fitted high with delicate charms and a single curled strand perfectly placed. Still, nothing could quite compare to you. You hadn’t been promised to a suitor yet, your mother had been trying to put it off to the best of her power—not that your father particularly minded. He, along with the majority of the people, viewed you in the purest light.

Wilbur thought that was absolutely laughable.

Of course you were an angel, absolutely darling with your shining eyes and soft-spoken, polite self. Lace ribbons and elegant charms putting a finishing touch to each tousled braid woven into the rest of your hair, beautiful and seemingly effortlessly done despite the hours the maids spent every early morning perfecting. He knows. He’s gently undone each and every one before and snickered at the knowing reaction of your lady-in-waiting the next morning. Sworn to secrecy, she wouldn’t tell the king and queen for fear of treason. He recalls the first time he witnessed the ways your eyes widened, nearly pushing him away and gripping onto the hem of his waistcoat.

It was a dear, closely guarded, memory of his.

Wilbur had no business exposing you to the impurities of man as he had, but he couldn’t quite help himself when you had handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“I thought children were born from a woman once married.”

Your mother repeated the same lie she had since you first learned to speak, but your curiosity led you to believe otherwise. He’d been across the room, picking apart a small shortbread cookie that had been laid out for afternoon tea. He was mindlessly listening up until you said—

“‘Via said they came from something called sex.”

The face your mother made, paired with the sudden stop of the cello from the cellist in the corner of the room might have been the funniest thing he’d ever witnessed in his twenty-something years of living. She’d immediately hushed you and oh, poor you, eyes darting all across the room to find some form of help from your stressed mother, huffing and exclaiming the absurdity of your cousin—“Just what are they teaching her in that blessed home of hers?!”—and all Wilbur could do was laugh. He’d received the same shushing for laughing and an additional reminder of his age and to be ‘proper’ around his impressionable sister, and then a sharp smack to the back of his head when he’d rolled his eyes.

You were hardly a child. You had been the center of several heir and marriage discussions before. Others had spoken about your virginity, and yet you were barred from discovering such a concept even existed. Such a pity, your future husband likely wouldn’t grant you a fraction of the joy you deserved.

Mother was hell-bent on reminding him of his position in regards to the people, of course, but always commented on his position as your older brother too. His legacy is yours and every action he takes trickles down to you. Naturally, when his mother reminded him to be proper around his ‘impressionable little sister’, he had to do something about it, no?

It was too much of a risk to allow some other man—a man who cared not for you but for your title, a man who would lust over your innocent frame rather than cherish your wit and intellect, unable to see beyond his own desires. Wilbur himself was a man, he’d felt same way over nameless shes and hers he’d encountered in the gardens or below in the servant’s quarters. He understood better than his mother what was good for you.

How could he do anything but aid you in your journey in self-discovery? Especially after hearing your hesitant and frustrated noises that same night as he walked by your quarters.

You moved so fast that night, picking up the stray sheet resting on your dresser faster than he could blink to cover yourself. He recalls laughing quietly, asking why you hadn’t simply pulled your night dress together tightly; only the first couple of buttons were undone.

When he closes his eyes to sleep he still remembers so clearly how you clutched the sheet tighter, stammering a slew of unconvincing and impolite shouts for him to get out. So unladylike, he teased. Mother would have a field day if she’d heard you that night.

Although he’s sure she’d be scandalised if she knew what had transpired the rest of that night.

“Wilbur?” You interrupt his reminiscing. He hums, still partially gone.

The moonlight peeks through window, white-tulle and blue-satin curtain grazing the floor, candlelight bouncing off the silky surface. It illuminates the side of your face, drawing his attention to your eyes, you gazing at him with all the love left in the world. You’re leaning against the post of your bed, feet bare against the scratchy carpet, nightdress tailored fittingly to compliment your features as you had asked for. You were particularly excited when the new batch had arrived, he remembers. You had been scolded for your unrefined behaviour. Wilbur thought it cute—something very you.

He finally speaks, suddenly remembering the situation and his place, twirling a loose ribbon he had been in the middle of undoing. “I hate the way Mother restricts you so,” he says, tugging you closer by the waist until his face is nicely suited against your cheek. Loose strands and baby hairs tickle his face. “You have so much to offer her—the world—and she reduces you to a delicate flower.”

Your hairs perk up, a chill making it’s way through your body as he speaks. His mouth is dangerously close to your ear, the two of you almost cheek to cheek. Your body’s already anticipating what comes next, and you can’t help but throw a snide comment his way.

“Me delicate, while you still fear the smallest of bugs and cry for Mama to fix you up with the most eligible bachelorettes.”

He laughs and you can feel the smile, his lips curling upwards. “Bugs are the most frightening thing! They hide in the smallest crevices and bite you.” He pinches your neck.

You fake-cry out, turning your head to meet his eyes, noses brushing against each other as you both grin. “The worst pain imaginable! A bug bite!”

This side of you he wishes more people were interested in, that they would see beyond the title of princess, the darling maiden who even as a child had the world cooing at her clumsiness and reading proficiency, (even if the latter always was always mocking and followed by a hopeful exclamation to grow out of it). You were more than a pretty ornament to Wilbur.

Awkward silence replaces the quiet laughter, and he takes the opportunity to examine your expression, index tracing your jawline. With the same finger, he slowly guides you into a kiss and he brings he other hand to cup the back of your head. It’s gentle but you can hear the possessiveness lining every breath before connecting your lips again, each kiss lasting far longer than it should judging by the gasp that follows and glimmer than coats his lips. (And yours, you assume).

You couldn’t part from him even if you wanted to, his hand firmly placed on the nape of your neck. Goosebumps return, emanating from the same anticipation as earlier, only this time was stronger. Your nerves always increased tenfold at this part, even now, after so many times and practically becoming a routine for you two. Something deep inside of you ached. Something shameful, a twinge of fear, stirred which penetrated your entire being at the same instance that his fingers nudged your the end of your dress up, tugging your undergarments slightly—just ever so slightly—for his fingers to reach their embarrassingly wet destination.

He chuckles when you jump at the contact, knowing he pulled your from a deep thought. Wilbur calls your name sweetly, asking if something was wrong. (It’s half-teasing, half-earnest).

The debilitating feeling starts to hide away again, tucked behind the overwhelming thrill of indulging your own desires, and doing it so openly. Hearing his voice, albeit cocky tone, hushes the voice and an ill-timed affection of brotherly love, a chaste kiss to your temple, soothes your anxiety.

He dips his middle finger deeper into your wetness, not quite pushing through the barrier but teasingly nudging. He wonders if you had touched yourself before he had walked in on you running your hands across your waist and inching towards your thighs. I’ll ask later, he thinks to himself. Maybe during the duke’s dinner so he can laugh at your embarrassed expression.

And Wilbur knows you—knows that you need extra time to get worked up enough until he can lie you down and truly start fulfilling your wants. When he softly thrusts his fingers, curling them and watching your face scrunch up as you try your best to quiet your moans lest anyone else see the appalling scene unfolding in the dim room. He knows the face you make when you want to return the favour, too self-conscious to ask yourself. His sister is one of the bravest people he knows, but more than anything he understands you’re too new to this kind of pleasure and experience to see yourself as he does in these moments.

You’re in an admittedly awkward position, slightly hopped onto the bed’s footboard and legs spread just enough for your own comfort and he traces your clit, kissing down your neck, wishing he could leave a mark without risking putting you through an intense bout of chastising.

It’s wholly unfair. That he must be taken away from you soon someday and you him, without even the slightest consideration for either of your thoughts on the matters. Doomed, he says to you. You don’t pay it any mind, focusing on every small movement he makes and the feeling of his lips trailing down your collarbone, saliva leaving a wet and sticky residue that’ll linger for days even after bathing. Until the next time you find yourself in the same position.

You bring a hand to tug at his brown locks, thumb stroking his scalp, a tell-tale sign you need more from him. He’s happy to oblige, letting you hop fully onto the footboard and playfully fall backwards onto the bed. Wilbur holds your hand throughout, smiling when your back hit the plush mattress with a thump!, and he holds on while he rounds the corner of your bed to get to the side, only breaking contact when bedpost stops him.

He sits up on the bed, head resting against the headboard and his arms open, inviting you to lay next to him. Eagerly, you practically jump into his arms, snuggling into his side and pressing a kind kiss to his stubbly jaw. It’s easy to fall back into an intimate state after a short, giggly pause and messy kisses.

It’s a small shock when he pushes a second finger in, but he makes quick work of it, throwing you back into a blissful state. You adore the way his fingers feel inside of you, when they reach places you didn’t know possible and when he rubs at your clit, tender hands working to ensure you crumble. It’s embarrassing how easy you do.

A few minutes go by—Wilbur purposefully avoids overstimulating the bundle of nerves, the first time he didn’t and you couldn’t look him in the eye for an hour because you were just so ashamed of how little it took—and it only takes a few loving words whispered into your ear and Wilbur’s entire focus on your release. He nudges your head to face him and brings down his lips to meet yours, biting down on your lower lip just enough to draw blood, lapping it up. Your cry is muffled by his mouth, but he knows you’re finished because of the way you tug on his shirt, pulling him in closer (if that was possible). You don’t let go any time soon. He doesn’t mind.

Wilbur holds you tight every time, tonight no different, and he hums a calm tune until you come down from the high. He thinks too much, he knows, but tonight as he hums your favourite lullaby he starts thinking it might be a good thing he can never fully have you. It would be a stain on the bloodline and the most shameful notion to disgrace any respectable kingdom. You’re his vice and it would destroy him to see you with a man who’s not half the person you are, but he supposes it would be a fair, though cruel, lesson in virtue.

You sink deeper into his hold and he loses his train of thought, choosing to relish in your presence rather than mope over impossibilities and inevitablilities.

you hear the familiar click of the front lock opening, followed by a sigh and door slamming shut. you resist the urge to roll your eyes at the noise, all too used to the sound of one his oncoming tantrums. you miss wilbur, you remind yourself.

a few steps up and one turn around the corner and wilbur’s standing in front of you—you, sat with the most innocent look in your eyes.

“jesus christ,” wilbur takes a few steps back, hand going up to smack his forehead and resting there. “what the fuck are you doing here.”

he looks annoyed, but you expected as much. you don’t falter, offering a small smile. “i missed you a little bit, wil.”

it doesn’t look like he believes you, but you continue. “i thought i would come by and check on you after one of your practices.” you see a hint of concern in his eyes, but it goes as quick as it comes.

you aren’t expecting it when he makes his way over to you, quickly grabbing your arm and yanking you off the couch. “get out,” his eyes narrow, pulling on your arm to drag you to the door. he only makes it a few feet until you try to tear his hand away.

it’s a slight struggle, his grip tightens at first and he scoffs, pulling you harsher as he lays into you. “you have the nerve to break up with me—” you hit his chest. “don’t you fucking hit me—you leave me in the dust, but you’re the one who comes crawling back—”

you cut him off with a slap to the face, effectively surprising him long enough to get him to release you. you stumble for a moment before settling, straightening yourself and standing in front of his hunched-over self, palm cradling his cheek.

wilbur clears his throat, standing up straight slowly, hand glued to the same place your hand touched moments ago. his eyes meet yours and he calls your name. you apologise, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

you wait for him to follow up, eager to hear his voice again, but to your surprise he turns on his heel and starts to walk towards his bedroom. you follow, fingertips sliding across the wall until you stop behind him, dead center in his room.

not much is different, you note, a few new pictures plastered on the wall above his bed and a new blanket hanging off the edge of the bed, but the clothes adorning the already messy floor are all ones you’ve seen before.

you’re too busy scanning his room to hear the flick of a lighter, but there’s no mistaking the smell. he’s in his desk chair and waving you away before you get a chance to open your mouth. “you know i hate that.”

a long exhale. he’s holding the cigarette between his index and middle finger, tapping it, careful not to shake it too strong, other hand rubbing the bridge of his nose. “really?” he says, sarcastically. “i had no idea. i thought the months of you constantly nagging was you begging for more.”

he’s doing it on purpose. asshole.

“‘cause i loved waking up in the middle of the night while you flooded my lungs with that shit.” you mumble, clasping your hands in front.

that gets a laugh out of him.

wilbur spins his chair to face you, cigarette-holding-hand accusingly pointing towards you. “you’re a fucking nutcase, you know that?” the end of it flickers mockingly. “as if you weren’t all over me the second it was out.”

you blink. it takes a moment for his words to sink in—the fact that he was taunting you all while waving the smoke around, the end of it withering slowly, bits and bits of ash dropping. when they do, it takes less than a second for you to take the three steps to stand in front of him and smack it out of his hand.

his reaction is immediate, a hand to your chest and a hard shove. it’s not hard enough to knock you over, but it’s a surprise nonetheless and you stumble back further, gathering your thoughts. you’re not looking at him, but you can imagine the exhaustion on his face.

he takes a deep breath. “can you please just go.”

cautiously you approachhim, seeing if he’ll look up. he doesn’t, even when your shoes are directly in his line of sight. you take the opportunity to bring your hand to his head, raking your fingers through his hair. he lets you.

wilbur calls your name and you hum, appreciating the brief moment of compliance, (especially after just being shoved away). “how’d you know i had practice just now, angel?” you still.

your hand’s moved off him as he looks up, eyes meeting yours, waiting for the inevitable lie.

the first time he’d noticed your nasty habit was the very first time you met. lying about the most minuscule things if you believed it would benefit you, or as you had put it later, the one and only time you had ever admitted to any wrongdoing: ‘bring a smile to his face’. your cheerful tone, accompanied by a nervous smile, left a pit in his stomach.

if he thought about it for too long, every word you spoke reeked of a script—premeditated with every line delivered anxiously, terrified of being perceived outside of the little bubble you’d crafted.

for once, you went off script. he yelps at the sudden feeling of your hand tangled in his hair again, forcing his head back down to stare at at the floor. he wraps a hand around your wrist, nails digging into it. not that it deters you completely, though you soften your hold, returning to gently combing the brown locks.

“lucky guess or something.”

because wilbur loves you, adores every inch of you and when he comments on your body every word is true. it’s true, and it’s overwhelming, how much he throws at you every single time. if you had half a mind you would note how obsessive, all-consuming he is.

but what harm could it really do when your eyes glimmered so lovingly at him as he kisses tear stains and caresses your thigh.

‘my pretty angel’, ‘what would i do without you?’, ‘incredible, you’re so beautiful’, ‘so perfect for me, lovely’

the first time he ever leads you to his bed, it’s nerve-wracking the way his eyes trail across your naked self even if it’s gentle the way he tears your clothes from your body. “so pretty,” he coos. “can’t believe i get to be yours.” his nose pokes yours, laughing quietly before pulling you in for a kiss.

you nod, “can’t believe i get you either…” you whisper.

loving touches and kind words ease those same nerves, and his hands guide your own to remove whatever clothing he had left. it’s an act that mimics the release of control, lets you feel in control alongside him rather than under.

when he sinks into you, he groans and nestles his face into your neck right hand stroking your cheek, shushing your pained whines as he pushes inch by inch and relishes the stinging of your nails raking down his back.

“will… so much—it’s– you’re a lot,” your words come out strained and your voice shakes.

wilbur lifts his head to meet your eyes, offering his usual dopey grin. his hand pauses, thumb drifting over to part your lips. there’s so much love in your eyes; the absolute trust you have in him makes his heart melt. “so cute, you’re okay, i got you,” a slow pull back and a harsh, quick, thrust. “you’re perfect,” he mumbles your name. “just mine, no one else gets to see you this beautiful—my sweet angel.”

the closer you are, the more he emphasizes how his you are, completely and utterly his. return his praise and he’s the happiest man who’s lived. doubt runs deep in his veins. he thrives on the sex-addled compliments you cry at your most vulnerable.

he grabs your arm and drags and pushes you into the closet, right by the front door you had just tried to leave through. he’s dead quiet and ignoring the way your words shifted into trembling apologies for having pushed him so hard and the way you grab at his wrist, trying your hardest to pull away from him in the few seconds it took to move you. he locks the door from the outside—a design flaw— and holds onto the doorknob tightly, pressing himself against the door. he could hear your crying even clearer.

“will?” your voice shakes. “why.. why’d you… i’m sorry, uhm, please open the door. wilbur?” he was so quiet. he just needed a moment away from you. that was understandable.

wilbur who leaves you in that dark, enclosed space for hours that day, sat up against the opposite wall and drumming his fingers against the carpeted floor. occasionally he would leap to grab at the doorknob when he heard you shuffle.

you’re not sure why your boyfriend won’t open the door, you’re not sure why he’s not answering, and you’re not sure what he wants. you gently hit your head against the door, over, and over, and over. “wilbur…” you say, “please, please, let me out, please.”

you repeat the plea a hundred times over, every time as futile as the last. and it was a silly argument, he’d gotten upset over a friend messaging you and you were dodging every question he asked, opting to make a jab at his ego instead.

wilbur who doesn’t let you out until that night when finally, finally, you apologise the way he wants. there’s no hints, he doesn’t speak the entire time and lets you wallow in anxiety. he says he didn’t mean to make you feel that way, he just needed some time to himself.

when he opens the door, you’re sitting on the floor and he notices how your eyes are gleaming with tears. you notice how he looms over you; he looked more like a silhouette the way the hallway light hit his back and almost blinded you. you hadn’t been able to see more than the specks of light that filtered through the door cracks in hours.

you’re ashamed of the way you flinch when he kneels in front of you, half-expecting him to push you again—oh, but you made him do that, right?—because he’s your dear boyfriend who loves you more than anything. there’s no reason to be scared of him, even when his eyes are digging into you so harshly. you apologise again, hoping they soften.

they don’t.

but he caresses your face and wipes your tears with his thumbs, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead, and when he calls for you, his words are laced with all the affection in the world.

“i’m sorry, i was mean, wasn’t i?” he strokes your cheek, and presses his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “don’t say that ever again.”