kait 🩵

Sure, it was annoying at times, having to venture down to the fortress to see him, otherwise needing to wait for his journeys to the surface that rarely came. Yes, you hated how cold it was in there, the metal walls constantly radiating a chill that you could feel in your bones. Yes, you hated the inmates whose eyes would linger on your figure as a guard escorted you to the Duke’s office. Yes, you hated how stressed he was, how often you had to question whether it was a good time to visit.

But that chill was always quickly soothed by Wriothesley’s heated palms, cupping the sides of your thighs, and then up to your waist, his skin pressing warmth into your bloodstream all the way to your face. When you would tell him about the wandering eyes of the people in his prison, he’d have them in solitary within fifteen minutes, and those particular set of eyes would never be a problem again. And no matter how stressed he was, how little time he had for you, you always noticed the relief and comfort behind his gaze when you’d reach the top of the stairs.

He was a busy man. But, Archons, he loved being busy with you.

But he hated feeling like he was holding you back. Sometimes you’d talk about getting a place together on the surface, and it was dreadful for Wriothesley to know that even if you did, he’d seldom be there. He lived in the fortress during your time together, and even then, it never felt like he spent enough time behind his desk to keep up with the workload. You’d talk about trips, he didn’t have time. You’d invite him to your house every single day of the month, but he’d only make it a handful of times. 

You were the most important thing in the world to him. The only person he trusted, the woman he loved. And he felt cruel for shackling you to him of all people, a man who didn’t feel like he was fulfilling the role of what he knew you deserved. So despite your cries, your protests, your begs for one more chance as if you had done something wrong, he walked away.

If only you had known, you would’ve visited more. Spent more hours in front of a cup of tea in his office, finding entertainment in the wrinkle between his eyebrows that came out when he focused on whatever case came across his desk that day. You would’ve spent more time memorizing the swarm of scars planted across his body, you would’ve painted them and hung them in your apartment in The Court of Fontaine so part of him could always be with you.

If only you had known. That he’d leave. You’d have nothing left but the memories and a dreadful feeling, wondering if you could’ve eventually changed his mind with your choked reassurances. You’d be forced to look into your future and no longer see the blue in his eyes, the grey streaks in his hair, the scar under his eye you would trace with the tip of your pointer finger every chance you got.

This has been your reality for three years.

You haven’t seen him since a few days after the break-up, when you travelled down to his living quarters within the fortress to pick up your clothes and other belongings. You remember avoiding his gaze, trying to hold onto some of your pride by not begging anymore, and you knew you would if you locked eyes. You didn’t want to hear him tell you noagain.

He kissed your forehead before you left, and you sobbed the whole way home.

And now you’re on a date, with a man whose last name you don’t remember, who ordered a drink for you insisting you’d love it, and you had to hold down a gag when you sipped it and it tasted like dish water. He demanded you didn’t bring your wallet, but then complained about the price of the food you wanted, so you had to settle for a vegetarian appetizer that lacked as much taste as it did appeal.

And like every other time you’ve tried dating again, you’re thinking of Wriothesley.

You push him into the back of your head, forcing a smile. The man in front of you, first name Lewis, last name still a mystery, watches you with a sparkle in his dark green eyes, his blonde hair lazily styled to stay out of his face.

He hasn’t done anything wrong, but his gaze on you feels terrible. Like you’re entertaining someone you shouldn’t, like you’re a committing a crime by letting him get excited thinking of what you might let him do at the end of the night.

“So,” you start regrettably, clearing your throat and awkwardly tapping your full glass with your nail. Your forearms rest on the table, sitting in the middle of your side of the booth. Lewis is spread out on his side, resting his back against the corner that connects the booth and the wall. You think you’re supposed to find it hot, the laid-back attitude, but it sort of makes you feel dismissed. “You grew up in Fontaine?”

“Yeah.” 

You blink at his exhilarating response. 

Nod slowly. “Mhm. Me too.”

“Cool.” Lewis nods, licking his lips in a way that was clearly meant to be seductive yet again, but it just reminds you of a panting dog. Doesn’t exactly get you going. “You’re very beautiful, anyone ever tell you that?”

Yes.

You fiddle with your bracelet, holding your tight-lipped grin to appear polite and invested. It’s interesting how much more effort you’re putting in to seem absorbed when he’s the one pining to get laid. “Thank you. You look nice, too.”

“You think?” He cocks an eyebrow.

You nod dishonestly. You met this guy through a mutual friend who claimed he was the perfect guy to help you forget about your ex, even if just for one night. When she told you that, you figured this guy would be exciting. Have you on your feet and dancing or rambling your heart out so much that you wouldn’t have time to think of Wriothesley.

You were mistaken. What she really meant is that this guy would flirt with a plate of jello if it meant getting his dick wet. 

Maybe that could work, too. It might not make you forget, but a distraction couldn’t hurt, right?

You straighten your spine, looking at Lewis with a glint in your gaze that makes his face drop. “Do you want to get out of here?”

He smiles like he just won a first-place medal for something he didn’t even think he’d get bronze for. “Ha, hell yeah.”

-

What a nauseating mistake.

Your forehead is to Lewis’s front door, hands braced on either side of your body. You’re still dressed, Lewis grinding his erection against your ass with an arm swung over the front of your body, rubbing at your underwear with a lack of coordination that’s almost impressive.

You bite your lip out of annoyance. You’re not surprised by his lack of decorum, not waiting long enough to get you to his bedroom before jumping your bones, but not even the couch? Seriously? It’s seven feet away.

You reach down, grabbing his hand beneath your skirt and trying to guide him to your clit, so at least his ministrations, as unappealing as they are, actually do something for you.

He moves his hand back to it’s original position.

You want to die.

You feel his hot breath in your ear, a low chuckle making you feel uneasy. “What is it? Too much? You gonna come?”

You want to kill this guy, especially when you think of where you’d end up if you did.

You close your eyes tightly, sighing before turning your head to see him. “Stop.”

Lewis freezes. “Huh?”

You turn around, pushing him back and flattening your skirt with a defeated huff. You’ll try again next year. “This isn’t working. I’m leaving.”

Lewis laughs humorlessly, throwing his arms out. “You’re leaving? Are you kidding me?”

You look up at him, reaching back to open his door. He looks vastly confused, and there’s a hint of anger that makes you want out of here as soon as possible. 

You turn and set off down the hallway, your stomach dropping at the sound of footsteps in your wake. He’s following you?

“The fuck did I even do?” Lewis calls out, still trailing you as you take quick steps down the stairs. Your jacket is long forgotten on the floor of his apartment, and you’re actually thankful he told you not to bring your wallet now. Your only objective is getting out of here, your quick footsteps in sync with your panicked breathing. “Come on, stop being a bitch.”

The second you make it out of his apartment building and onto the streets of Fontaine, a hand comes down on your shoulder, and you yelp as you’re roughly turned around.

“What is your issue?” Lewis demands, closing his fist tightly around your upper arm. Pain shoots through you, more terror setting in. “You can’t just leave after getting me all worked up like this.”

You hold your ground despite the lump in your throat. “I can. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Fuck that.”

Your eyes pop at his demanding tone, and just when you think your next move is to scream, fight, run, a new figure separates the two of you, Lewis’s hand being abruptly ripped from your arm.

“Do you know her?”

Lewis scoffs. He’s entirely blocked off from you now, the new person’s form shielding you from his view. “Yeah, she’s the bitch who thinks she—”

“Wrong answer. Get out of here before I have you arrested.”

“Have me arrested? And who the fuck—”

The man grabs at his belt, pulling off a pair of handcuffs and spinning them on his pointer and middle fingers.

Wait.

Silence for a moment, and then you see Lewis bolt down the street from behind the man’s body.

You almost consider doing the same thing. You hold your breath when the man turns, holstering the handcuffs, and when he opens his mouth to speak, likely to ask something along the lines of are you alright, he freezes to mirror your expression when he processes who you are. 

He whispers your name like a question, as if contemplating that you’re real. You have to ask yourself the same thing.

You swallow, intertwining your fingers behind your back like you’re scared you’ll reach for him if you don’t. “Wriothesley.” You say, and somehow addressing him still feels as natural as it did. “What—What are you doing…”

“Are you alright?” He cuts you off, his tone alarmed, like it’s just now hit him what situation he got you out of. “Who was that?”

You sigh, dropping your head and shaking it. “That was—Uh, Lewis.” You awkwardly point in the direction your date ran off to.

“…Lewis?”

“We were on a date,” You tell him swiftly, but you hate to admit it. You don’t want to give the impression that you’re over him, God, you want him to know how he left you. You want him to know how he’s ruined you for every other man you’ve tried to let touch you over these past years. “Didn’t go very well.”

“I can see that,” he mumbles. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.” You shake your head, not bothering to mention the lingering pain where he had your arm in his grip. “I… Uh, thank you. For your help.”

“Of course,” his voice is low, almost sad. You know this is hard for him, too, seeing each other, and that fact almost angers you. How could he be sad? You could’ve been by his side every second of the past three years, he’s the reason you haven’t been.

And yet, he’s talking like he’s missed you.

How the hell could he feel that way?

You suck in a breath sharply. “What are you doing above the surface?” You ask, dropping your arms to your sides, and Wriothesley almost looks guilty.

He reaches up to scratch the back of his neck. He dresses the same way you remember, give or take a new tie and pair of pants. 

“I have a place up here now.”

A sinking feeling weaves into every inch of your body at seven words. For a second, you’re not sure you heard him right. There’s no way you did, right?

I have a place up here now.

He has a place up here now. In the Court of Fontaine, like you two had always dreamt of doing together. Something he swore he would never actually do when he broke your heart. Hell, it’s basically the reason he convinced himself to leave.

You stare at him, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. 

“Who is she?”

His eyes snap to yours. “What?”

“What’s her name?” You prod. “The woman that convinced you to buy a place. Tell me her name.”

He blinks a few times, looking beyond shocked at your accusation. “There’s no woman.” He insists, but you don’t believe him for a second. He always said his love for you was the only reason he’d even consider moving out of Meropide, so the only logical explanation for this is that he’s found a woman he actually treasures enough to go through with it.

You nod once, feeling the bitterness on your face and the sting of the tears welling up in your eyes. “Right.”

You haven’t even been able to find a man you like enough to laugh at his jokes, nevermind something like this. God knows you aren’t even capable.

Betrayal, sadness, regret, it all barrels into you at once, and all you can do to combat it is hope none of it is real. 

But it is.

You should’ve never gone out tonight. You think you’d rather have just never known. Hope may be paralyzing, but it doesn’t hurt. Not like this.

“Can I walk you home?” He mutters. His black hair with the silver streaks is the same as you remember it. How can be so familiar and not the same at all? “You don’t look well.”

Wonder why.

“Do what you want, Wriothesley.” You snap, turning and setting off down the street. His presence doesn’t disappear from your personal bubble, his large frame taking place beside you, matching your pace.

He says your name. 

You ignore him.

You hold down the tears. Right now he thinks you were just on a date, he probably thinks you do that regularly. He probably believes you moved on just like he did. He doesn’t deserve your tears. He doesn’t deserve to know that your shattered heart has been waiting on the day where he finally comes to his senses, a day that will never come.

He didn’t even come see you. You didn’t even know. How long has he been spending his mornings before work somewhere above the surface? How long has he been bidding farewell to the guards at the end of each night, smiling to himself as he thought about what was awaiting him at a place he called home?

Who is she? What about her could you not compare to?

You walk faster, but Wriothesley has no problem keeping up with your pace until you eventually find yourself on your porch. He stays on the stone walkway, yet you can still feel his eyes pinned to you.

He says your name again, quietly, desperately. Against your better judgment, you turn to him.

“What does she have?” You command, and you despise how broken you sound. How defeated you seem, how desperate you are to know what you were lacking. “What does she do for you that I didn’t?” You point to your chest angrily.

“It’s you.”

You narrow your eyes, watching him closely as he ascends your porch steps to stand across from you. “What?”

“You’re the woman.”

You knit your eyebrows together, the action making you realize that the tears you’d been desperately holding in have started to stream down your face. “What are you talking about, Wriothesley?”

He sighs, leaning back against the railing. Your eyes trail him, noting his body language. His chest is rising and falling slowly, and there’s a tightness to his jaw like he’s clenching his teeth. His eyes flit around your shared surroundings, searching for something solid to focus on other than you. You haven’t seen him this nervous since the day he told you he was in love with you.

“I made a mistake when I called it off,” he starts. “I know I did.”

You tilt your head, your bottom lip jutting down in a silent cry. It should feel like a victory, him admitting that, but it doesn’t. “I would’ve—”

“I know.” He whispers. “I know you would’ve. You would’ve kept coming down to the fortress every single day, sitting with me even when I couldn’t offer you my attention. But I didn’t want you to make anymore sacrifices for me, and it didn’t cross my mind that I owed a few sacrifices of my own.”

You listen intently, eyes locked on him.

“About eight months after I broke up with you, I really started to realize how much I messed up. I thought I was doing the right thing, but even after so much time, I still wasn’t confident in the decision I made. I wanted to make it right, and I started by hiring some help in the fortress and buying myself a house in The Court of Fontaine.”

Eight months after.

Over two years ago.

You shake your head, confused. “Why didn’t—”

“I tried,” he cuts you off. “I did. The day I got the keys, I came straight here, to your house.” His eyelids are heavy, nearly concealing the blue irises that you used to stare into for hours on end. “And you were here, outside.” He nods his head to the front lawn. “With… Some guy. He was kissing you.”

Your heart plummets.

You remember that guy. Vaguely. Even his first name is lost to you now, but you went on a few dates. He was your first attempt at trying to get over Wriothesley. The whole ordeal lasted a total of two weeks, if not less, before you realized that you still didn’t have eyes for anyone except The Duke.

He thought you moved on. That you fell in love with someone else. In eight months.

“Wriothesley.” You almost sob.

“It’s not your fault, I just thought—”

“Wriothesley.” You close the distance, putting your hands on the sides of his face. Your voice drops to a low whisper, tainted with the same regret you used to pray he felt every day. “Oh Gods.”

He looks down at you, swallowing. His voice is rough. “I take it you broke up.”

“I was never with him,” you correct, and his face twists. “God—I was just trying… You really think I’d be with someone else after eight months?”

He blinks. “You weren’t dating him?”

“No,” you say quickly. “God, that was probably the last time I spoke to him. I haven’t—” You pause to catch your breath. “It’s still you. It never wasn’t, Wriothesley.”

You can only decipher the look in his eyes because you’re feeling the same exact way.

Two years. Two years you’ve been waiting on each other.

You could’ve had him back two years ago. Had the life you wanted, above the surface, holding him at night, having breakfast with him in the morning.

He exhales shakily. “Are you serious?”

Your bottom lip quivers, one of your hands sliding to the back of his neck, the other still cupping his face. “You should’ve—” Your voice cracks. “You should’ve came back. Even if I was with him, I’d drop everything if…” You trail off, biting down on your lip.

“You’re right,” he whispers. “I should’ve.”

You choke out a breath as his hands find your waist. “I’m so sorry.”

He lowers his eyebrows. “For what?”

“I can’t believe you thought I was with him,” you say. “That I could love someone else, especially that soon…” You slide your hand again, from his nape to his collar, where you squeeze.

Wriothesley shakes his head. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

You frown, your gaze dropping to his chest. You have so much to say to him, so much to ask him, so much to mend. It feels like there isn’t enough time in the world to sit him down and dissect every thought he’s had since the day he left, but it’s the only thing you want to do.

You peer back up.

“Will you come inside?”

-

You place a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of Wriothesley. You’re quick to note his body language, the way he sits up straight, intently focuses on your movements with genuine intrigue, and not just a hope to get in your pants. 

There were times that, while holding all these other men to a standard Wriothesley set, you had to ask yourself if it was all as good as you remembered it, or if it was just something you fabricated in your grief.

But, no. He’s everything no other man could ever be. Even now, you can tell how well your memory has served you. 

You sit down beside him, soaking in the way he leans down and picks up the cup to take a small sip before placing it back on the saucer. It’s almost domesticate, almost familiar. A dangerous thing to want to get used to. His jacket is discarded on the hook by the door, and he’s stripped other extraneous accessories. His attempt at getting comfortable fills you with a fragile optimism.

“Wriothesley,” you whisper.

His eyes meet yours, and within a millisecond you have his full attention. There’s a longing in his blue eyes, and you want to mend the pain that caused it. The pain that three years worth of misunderstandings caused you both.

He moves closer to you, and the closeness, the intimacy, you only just got control of yourself, and you want to sob again.

“I missed you so much,” you tell him, and you have to focus on anything but his face to maintain control of your voice. “I’ve thought of you every day, I can’t tell you how many times I considered just showing up in the fortress, to see if you’d turn me away, or if you’d change your mind, maybe even just give in to one more night together.” You furrow your eyebrows, your lips staying parted through your short pause. “I hated not knowing how you were feeling, if you regretted it, if you missed me, too…”

He says your name, gently, almost like a coax, and it successfully draws your gaze to his.

“I know,” he says, voice just above a whisper, and it’s such a simple thing, but it’s validating. It lifts a weight off your back, knowing that he understands, not just because you’re telling him, but because he’s been dealing with the same thing. The same way you’ve been waiting on him changing his mind, he’s been waiting for you come back to him. 

He’s provided you a freeing amount of clarity already, a delicate hope blooming deep in your chest, but you still have so much to ask.

“Have you…” You hesitate, adjusting yourself on your couch that suddenly feels rock solid. You’re still in the outfit from your dumpster fire of a date, a skirt veering on the shorter side and a long sleeve tight enough that you feel physically restrained with your quick heartbeat and laboured breaths. “Been with anyone else?”

You don’t know if you have the right to ask, but you want to know. It’s a miracle in itself that you two found each other in the first place with how demanding his job is, or was, but his options have since broadened. You wonder if missing you was a good enough reason for him to ignore that.

“Not really,” he answers easily, like he’s not shocked by your curiosity surrounding the subject. “I went on a blind date that I was tricked into and a blind double date that I was also tricked into. That’s it. Can’t confidentially say I remember either of their faces, so I don’t know if that counts as being with someone in any capacity.”

No. He hasn’t.

He hasn’t had his hands on another woman, and their hands haven’t been on him.

You gulp, flattening your palms over your skirt. “You’re making it sound like you were waiting around for me,” you say, only half-joking.

He chuckles. “Well, that’s not untrue.”

You flush, forgetting how to use your voice well enough to muster a response. 

“You?” He murmurs, his gaze dropping to look you over before settling back on your eyes. His body is turned toward you, one arm propped up on the back of the couch, his hand ghosting awfully close to your head. “I know you’ve been on dates, but…”

“I haven’t had sex with anyone,” you answer, and you’re pleasantly surprised that you were able to make a coherent declaration. “I tried. I thought that it would help with moving on, if I just bit the bullet. But I was never able to go that far with anyone.”

You feel the heat of Wriothesley’s stare, unrelenting and leaving a weakness behind in your limbs.

“How far did you go?”

“They’ve… Um…” You think about Lewis’s front door. “Touched me. But I never liked it very much, and always ended up asking them to stop. It just felt…” There’s a million words for it. Their hands made you feel dirty, undervalued, and out of place. But above all else, “wrong.”

He exhales slowly. “Wrong,” he echoes.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Wrong. For a lot of reasons.” What they were doing, who they were, why they were doing it.

“Did any of them make you come?”

You nearly choke at his bluntness. You stare at him with wide eyes, expecting him to backtrack and apologize for being so bold, but he just watches you as he awaits an answer he seems to believe he already has. 

“No.”

Wriothesley frowns. Like it genuinely upsets him to know that you’ve gone so long without anyone taking care of you adequately. You’d be lying if you said that reaction wasn’t enough to make you dizzy.

He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he starts, and his face suggest the words feel bitter on his tongue. Not because he doesn’t want to apologize, or believes he shouldn’t need to, but the statement just doesn’t seem sufficient. I’m sorry that we lost years together. I’m sorry about how easily it could’ve been prevented.

You pull your knees onto the couch, folding your hands together in your lap.

“I’m sorry for all of it,” he continues, voice gentle. “I just… I love y—loved you so much, and I wanted better for you.”

“I didn’t want better,” you whisper. “I wanted you.”

Wriothesley bites his gums, dropping his head in defeat with a long sigh. “I know. I felt the same. It just seemed like the right thing, to let you go, hope you would find someone who had more to give you.”

You press your lips together. “I didn’t.”

He offers you a slow nod. “I know you didn’t.”

“He doesn’t exist,” you continue. “This person you made up that could ever be better for me than you are.”

A weak smile tugs at his lips, curving up on the side of his face where his scar is. “Didn’t you do the same thing?” He offers with a cock of his head. “Thought I was up here for another woman.” His arm that was slung over the back of your couch shifts, his fingers absentmindedly starting to twirl loose strands of your hair. “There hasn’t been a single woman other than you.”

You want to tell him there hasn’t been a man other than him, even though he already knows that isn’t true. It feels true—No one came close to him. There might as well have been no others. 

“There hasn’t been a man like you,” you decide to say. “Someone who—”

“Got you off?”

You blush. “Partly.”

He nods, his eyes pinned to where he fidgets with your hair. Even this touch, no skin, no real connection, makes your body feel warm. “What else?”

You exhale shakily. “Someone who makes me laugh.”

“Mhm.”

“Who cares about what I have to say, who listens to me when I speak, who remembers the little things.”

You bet he still has everything you’ve ever told him committed to memory.

“Keep going.”

You lean into his touch, his knuckles grazing the side of your head. “Who knows how to touch me.”

He hums.

“How to please me.”

Now he’s cupping your face. 

“How to love me.”

Your chin. He’s closer now, you’re not sure when he shifted, but you could swing your leg over his and be in his lap in one quick movement.

“Who took the time to learn these things.” You don’t stop. His face is close now, his breath and yours meeting, but he’s intent on listening to every point you make. “Who…”

You trail off. Your eyes are pinned to his mouth, and Gods, he’s so close. Your house is only illuminated by a dim lamp you flicked on beside the couch, and the moon pouring in through your open curtains. You can smell his cologne, the same scent that welcomed you on his sheets during so many early mornings. The warmth radiating off of him doesn’t leave a lingering chill, neither is it so much that you feel a burn.

Everything about him was crafted to tend to each and every one of your individual needs, your wants, the impractical ones, the filthy ones. Now more than ever, you can’t believe he ever thought that someone else could fill that void.

“Who?” He prods.

Your hand comes up, fisting the front of his shirt, and your nose just barely swipes against his. 

“Someone who’s you.”

Wriothesley tips your chin up, encouraging you to bring your eyes back up to his.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, like he’s praying that the two words mean enough to keep you this close. “I’m sorry that I took all of that from you. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you,” he murmurs. “If you let me.”

The only response you can muster is a nod, desperate enough to ignite a small smirk on a face. 

“I think I know where to start.”

Then he’s kissing you.

Your hands dart to the sides of his head, sliding into his hair and grasping. He lifts you into his lap, one arm curling around your lower back and the other cupping the side of your face.

It’s hurried, desperate, but there’s no real rush. Just a need verging on animalistic. His lips move against yours as if he’s taking time to relearn the shape of them, and hell, it doesn’t take him long to find a rhythm that feels like two puzzle pieces falling into place.

You murmur his name, not to ask for anything, just to ground yourself.

He hums affirmatively, as if helping you remember that it’s him. Not Lewis. Not any of your other unfulfilling dates you’ve been on.

You’re getting properly taken care of tonight.

His palm cups your nape, holding your mouth flush against his. You wait until your chest constricts before pulling back for air, and Wriothesley begins to trail kisses over your jaw, down your neck, immediately tending to a sensitive part of your neck by sucking and biting.

You whimper at the feeling, your hips pressing down against his instinctively. Your fingers curl tighter in his hair, resting your cheek on his head. “You remember.”

He pulls back, just a bit, soothing a bite with a swipe of his tongue. “How I forget something I’ve recited every day?” He tugs his head from the crook of your neck, and you drop your forehead to his. “I’ve thought of this, thought of you, every moment without fail. Ever since that day.”

You slide one hand under his shirt, just to rest it on his midsection, have his skin on yours. You listen to the melody of his confession, and it works to soothe the cracks in your heart, while simultaneously building that primal need entwining deep in your stomach.

“My own face has become nothing but a place your hand used to sit, my name nothing but a word you used to say.” He kisses you, quickly, like he needs your lips against his like oxygen in his lungs in order to continue. “How could I forget how to make you feel good, what draws those sounds from your lips?” 

He uses his arm slung around your hips to pull you forward, rocking against him again. You purse your lips, a whine barely breaching the air between you.

“I still love you. Not for a second did I stop, I couldn’t. I can’t.”

“Wriothesley,” you breathe.

“I love you,” he mumbles, diving back in to trail kisses up the side of your face, across your forehead. “I love you.” 

“I love you,” you say back, and you mean it.

He groans, and then he’s standing. Your legs circle his waist, and your mouth finds his again almost magnetically. He doesn’t need you to stop, he easily navigates to your bedroom like each step is natural.

He leans over the side of your bed, bracing a hand behind your head as he slowly lowers you to the mattress. He squeezes the sensitive nerves on your waist, and when your lips part in a whimper, his tongue darts out.

He licks into your mouth, like he’s trying to swallow you whole, or fuse your beings into one. Anything that keeps you here, and you want him to know it’s unnecessary, that there isn’t a thing that could rip you away from him again. Not him. Not the Gods above. You’re not letting him go.

His fingertips descend agonizingly slow, dipping under the hem of your shirt and tugging. His knuckles glide across your skin, and you moan into his mouth.

“So needy,” he murmurs, reverence coating his rough voice. “My poor girl. No one around who could take care of her. For so long.” He leans back, watching himself as he lifts your shirt higher, just below your breasts. “My baby deserves so much better than that.”

You can’t speak. You don’t even bother trying.

“Can this come off?” He asks.

You nod swiftly. He doesn’t waste a moment, guiding your arms above your head so he can peel the fabric off your body. You arch your back once he’s tossed it aside, giving him access to the clasp of your bra as he smothers your chest in lazy kisses.

He snaps the clasp open, pulling the straps off your neck and getting rid of that, too.

“Fuck,” he grunts. 

You hum. “Did your memory serve you well?”

“Nothing my mind could conjure up compares to this,” he tells you, and you roll your bottom lip into your mouth at the tender words. “You’re perfect. The only flawless thing to come out of this nation. This world.”

He palms one of your breasts and dips down to take your other nipple in his mouth. Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of the wet warmth enveloping you. You grasp at the back of his shirt, pulling roughly. 

He pops his mouth off your nipple, grinning up at you. “So impatient.”

“I’ve waited long enough,” you reply breathlessly.

He cocks his head at that, leaning up until he’s kneeling on your bed with your thighs thrown around his hips. He curls his fingers in the bottom of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift movement. 

The scars. God, the scars. You didn’t think you would ever miss them. They made you frown at one point, knowing the pain Wriothesley endured to earn them, but after sitting him down and having him explain the tale behind each one, you stopped feeling that way. They weren’t reminders of losses, they were reminders of victories. And you loved how each of them brought him closer to the day you saw him for the very first time.

You lean up, quickly flattening your hands over his lower stomach. They roam upwards, pausing at each discoloured line to trace the marred skin. You’re sure you could do so just as accurately with your eyes screwed shut, but you want to see him. 

He lets you continue your silent exploration, head tipped down to watch your careful movements.

“Anything new?” You murmur.

“None,” he responds easily. “Couldn’t risk it.”

You look up at him. “Risk what?”

His gaze meets yours. “Something happening to me before I got you back.”

You exhale shakily, sliding your hands to his face and pulling him back down to the bed with you. “I’d appreciate it if you kept that up. The whole not-risking-your-life thing.” 

He smiles at that, pressing a quick peck to your temple. “Anything for you.”

His mouth is on yours again, not wasting any time now before swiping his tongue past your lips. You take it greedily, meeting him with the same amount of vigour, but it’s not enough. You want all of it back, everything you’ve missed out on.

You push up, grinding yourself against the front of his slacks. He grunts against your lips, reaching one hand down to steady your hips, and you squirm defiantly and pull from his mouth.

“Archons—I’m trying to take my time with you,” he complains, but there’s no real strictness in his words.

“I told you I’ve waited enough, Wrio,” you repeat. “So have you, and I want you.”

Your words draw a chuckle from deep in his chest. “I’m supposed to be making up for two years of absence here, baby. I don’t want to rush.”

“I don’t feel very made up to,” you grumble, and you grind up again when his grip on your hip finally loosens.

“Gods, you’re killing me here,” he groans, but concedes, meeting your action by rocking his hips forward. You can feel his bulge straining against his slacks, meeting your clit through the thin fabric of your panties. You reach down, hooking your fingers in the waistband of your skirt and tugging, just wanting less between the two of you.

Wriothesley is quick to assist you, leaning up just enough to help pull the skirt all the way off before tossing it to join the existing pile of your shared clothing. 

He looks down at you, inadvertently biting his lip as he takes in your appearance. You feel a little shy with his heated gaze drinking you in like this, eyes narrow with arousal and fists opening and closing like he’s resisting grabbing hold of you. It never used to make you nervous when he’d look at you this way, but you don’t take it as a bad thing.

“Wriothesley,” you say quietly.

“I could stare at you forever,” he mumbles.

You smile, cupping your hands on the sides of his neck. “That’s sweet. However, I’d prefer something more… Physical.”

He chokes out a laugh, tilting his head and meeting your eyes. “I can do that, too.”

Yes.

Wriothesley presses a kiss to your chest, trailing down the middle of your body until he’s right above your underwear. They’re a bit fancier than what you’d usually wear, only because you were anticipating someone seeing them, even if you weren’t thrilled about that before. 

You couldn’t be happier now.

Wriothesley tucks the tips of his fingers under the hem, fidgeting with the red fabric. “He see these?” He questions, voice barely above a mutter.

“No,” you answer, and it’s true. He touched them, but didn’t see them. 

“Did he touch you?”

You swallow, contemplating lying to him and saying no, but the last thing you need right now is to be dishonest. “He did.”

He cracks his neck, saying something indiscernible under his breath.

“He didn’t make me feel good,” you add. “That’s why I left.”

Wriothesley knits his eyebrows together. “Poor thing.” He presses a kiss to your hipbone. “I’ve got you now.”

He hooks his fingers in the sides of your underwear, tugging them down to the middle of your thighs and pausing only to groan at the sight of you. He’s quick to pull them the rest of the way, leaving you entirely bare in front of his face.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he notes, which makes you whine and flush. “Did you get like this for him?”

“No,” you answer quickly. “I didn’t for any of them.”

Wriothesley grabs your thighs, guiding you open for him. He kneels at the side of the bed, like he’s worshipping you. You wouldn’t say that’s too far off. “Good.”

He licks a stripe up your slit, and you gasp at the initial sensation, the warmth, the lingering reminder in the back of your mind that it’s him. You slide a hand into his hair, not tugging or guiding, just resting. He hums approvingly at the way you can’t help but reach for him.

He takes your clit past his lips, sucking gently, experimentally. He pulls back when you moan, a wicked grin planted across his lips. “You taste even better than I remember.”

You sigh. “You’re so crude.”

He chuckles, and you can feel his breath against your cunt when he does. He slides one of his arms under your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder and grabbing your hip to hold you still, entirely at his disposal. 

You’re aching for him, immediately trying to grind up against his mouth when he finally dives back in, but his iron grip keeps you still. He groans against you, his tongue toying with your clit in a way that’s as much teasing as it is consuming. 

“I missed this so much,” he says, and you can barely make out his words over your own panting. “Did anyone else do this for you?”

You shake your head, not even attempting to speak. Your need for him is getting to a point of suffocating, your cunt clenching around nothing every time he touches you, every time he speaks. 

“Fuck—Good.” His hand that was on your hip flattens over your stomach, his thumb darting out to rub your clit with coordinated strokes. You shudder, breathlessly moaning his name. It spurs him on, his head dropping and his tongue swiping over your fluttering hole before dipping inside.

Your fist closes in his hair, your tongue swiping over your bottom lip before you bite into it. He pushes his tongue deep into your channel before retreating entirely, sucking your clit back into his mouth firmly and clutching your hip once more.

“Wriothesley, oh Gods,” you whimper, your back lifting off the bed. His other hand moves from pinning your thigh open to instead find your hand, intertwining your fingers with his own.

“I got you,” he reassures, voice thick with his own arousal. 

Your breath hitches when he releases your hip to probe your cunt with the pads of his fingers, and all it takes is one encouraging roll of your hips for his thick digits to press inside of you. 

He continues working at your clit, and the added sensation from his fingers dragging along your inner walls before curling in the perfect way has the tightly-wound coil in your stomach beginning to unwind.

He doesn’t falter, especially not when he recognizes the signs of you quickly hurling toward your peak, hungrily lapping at your cunt with the desperation only a man who has waited could possess. He suddenly pulls his mouth back without slowing his fingers thrusting and bending inside of you. “Come on,” he tempts. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

He gives your clit one more hard suck, and you come apart for him at his demand. You cry his name, tugging roughly at the dark strands of his hair and squeezing his hand in yours. Wriothesley works you through every wave of your orgasm methodically, rhythmically rolling your sensitive clit under his tongue.

He grunts when you slacken against the mattress with his name still quietly falling from your lips. “There you go, such a good girl.” He gently takes your thigh off his bare shoulder, placing it back on the bed. “Did so well for me, just like you always have.”

You coax him back to you by reaching out to him, and he’s quick to put himself back in your embrace, your arms thrown over his neck and his mouth pressing against yours. You groan at the taste of yourself on his lips.

“Gods,” he says, voice muffled against your mouth. “I love you. I’ve loved you, I love you.”

“I love you,” you murmur, your heart aching at his tenderness, the affection and desperation in his strangled voice. “I want you so bad, Wriothesley. Please.”

“My needy girl,” he murmurs fondly, and then he snakes his hands around your body and hoists you into his arms. Your legs circle his waist, and he only holds you up long enough to readjust you, pulling back the covers of your bed and laying your head down on the pillow. “Want me to take care of you?”

“Yes,” you nod, exhaling, your voice choked from the intensity of your recent orgasm. Still, you don’t feel even remotely fulfilled. You need all of him.

Wriothesley kneels above you, and you watch with hungry eyes as he unbuckles his belt with one quick motion of his hand.

“You’re gonna be good for me?” He coos, continuing to undo his pants with one hand while the other trails up the side of your shuddering thigh. 

You nod again, resisting the urge to reach up and tug his cock out for him. Wriothesley tosses his belt aside, stepping out of bed just long enough to entirely strip his pants and boxers, freeing himself. He’s somehow bigger than you remember him, or at least he looks that way.

Your mouth waters as he grabs his wallet from the pocket of his pants, fishing out a condom before getting back in bed.

“You okay, baby?” He checks up on you even though you couldn’t be more obviously ready for him.

“Yes,” you respond eagerly, half-lidded eyes tracking him as he positions himself on his knees in front of you. You watch as he rips the condom open and rolls it onto his cock, hard and begging to be buried deep inside of you.

“I’ll be gentle,” he soothes, leaning over you and kissing your cheekbone. “It’s been a while, yeah?”

You nod, meeting his eyes when he pulls his head back. “Yeah.”

He braces his forearm beside your head. “Have you done anything by yourself?” He asks, wondering if you’ve really gone years without anything satisfying.

“Barely,” you answer quietly, your hands finding his shoulders. “No one else could make me feel good, and I could only make myself feel good if I thought of you.” He curses at that. “And I didn’t think I should.”

He shakes his head. “You have no idea how happy that makes me.”

You laugh once. “Yeah, take it in, Wriothesley. You have ruined me for every other man.”

“You don’t need any other man.” He retorts quickly, dropping his head until his lips ghost right over yours. “Not anymore.”

He kisses you. Slowly, and it’s more than just that. He’s promising you, devoting himself to you all over again, and this time, you get to relish in the feeling of any doubt for the future whisking away.

He reaches between your bodies, and you gasp in his mouth at the feeling of the head of his cock pushing against your fluttering entrance. He rocks forward, just the tip pushing inside of you, and he swallows the whimper that emerges from your throat greedily. He holds your thigh open, keeping you spread as he keeps pressing deeper, your walls stretching to accommodate him.

“Wriothesley,” you moan.

“I know—Fuck.” He grunts, pausing when he’s halfway in to give you time to adjust. “I know, baby. You feel perfect.”

You clench around him at the praise, and he chokes at the feeling of you trying to tug him deeper. Your nails sink into his skin, leaving crescents behind as he chooses that moment to bottom out in one fell swoop.

You cry out, your neck arching against the pillow and your jaw unhinging. Archons. You had forgotten how right he felt. For years, you’ve been drowning in a weird, dreadful feeling of everyone else being so wrong. It was the only word you could ever conjure up for how those men made you feel. 

Wrong.

Nothing has ever been less wrong than this.

“Never go again,” you beg, wrapping your arms around him and tugging his face into the crook of your neck.

Wriothesley barely draws back before thrusting back in, filling you to the brim. Your walls ache around his thick cock, but it’s a good pain, a dull pain that’s already fading. Your legs encircle his waist, heels digging into his lower back. “I’m not. I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

You whine, clenching around him again like you’re physically holding him to that promise. He takes this as an invitation to pull back again, nearly exiting you entirely, then he fills you again in a slow thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. He turns his face into your neck, finding that same sensitive patch of skin and sucking a mark into it as he repeats that same long, deep thrust. 

You rake your nails down his back, feeling the dents of the existing scars under your fingertips, and it’s a weird comfort to know none are new. It’s like you were never apart. No new stories, nothing physical that serves as a reminder how long it’s been since you had each other in this way.

He gradually increases the pace, filling you over and over again, each snap of his hips against yours more intense than the last. You writhe beneath him, the joint sensations of his cock stretching you open and his teeth nipping at your skin coming together to send shockwaves through your veins. You feel everything, every ridge of his cock dragging through you, and it’s bordering on overwhelming. 

He pulls his head back, his forehead falling to rest against yours as he easily maintains a bruising pace. “I can’t believe I ever walked away from this,” he grumbles. “Away from this face. This woman. This—This fucking feeling.” He presses forward hard, seated as deep as possible. “I’ll make up for every minute.”

He’s making solid progress.

He continues to rock his hips, pressing his mouth to yours to swallow the desperate sounds emerging from deep in your chest. You cling to him, using his form to anchor yourself and not drift out of the moment for even a second. You soak in every single grind of his hips greedily, murmuring in his ear how amazing he feels when he takes you like this.

Wriothesley’s hand slips down the front of your body, finding your sensitive clit and rubbing firm circles. You let out a broken cry, squirming as the added stimulation has you quickly barrelling toward another high. 

He shushes you, kissing you tenderly as he angles his thrusts to give you more than you think you can handle. You scream out, one of your hands having to drop to cling to the sheets as your body rocks forward with every push of Wriothesley’s cock. Your headboard slams into your wall, and you’re sure your neighbours will file a complaint about the noise, but you can’t find it in you to care. Not when you’re so close to tipping over the edge—

You’re laying beneath him in a daze, barely able to discern the sound of him spurring you on, encouraging you to let go for him. All it takes is a few more thrusts for you to obediently follow through, squeezing his cock as the most harsh orgasm of your life crashes over you in near paralytic waves. 

“That’s it,” Wriothesley encourages, breathless as he fucks you through your climax, rapidly chasing his own release. Despite the exhaustion tugging at your limbs, you press your hips to meet his hurried thrusts, angling them to let him in impossibly deeper.

He groans, his hand retreating from your clit to instead slip beneath your body, pulling your chest flush to his as he spills into the condom, cursing in the midst of rough gasps. The sensitivity makes it feel like your nerves are on fire, but even if you were confident in the current ability of your vocal cords, you wouldn’t complain.

He finally stills inside of you. He now has you caged in with a forearm on each side of your head as he catches his breath, allowing you to do the same. You fight the tiredness, the need to curl up against his chest and let the world fade away, to watch his face as he pants. His eyelids are barely fallen shut, lips parted, sweat beading down his forehead.

He’s beautiful.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” you whisper tiredly.

Wriothesley chokes out a laugh, opening his eyes. “I really didn’t make my presence known?”

His presence is still known. 

As if on cue, Wriothesley slowly begins to pull out of you, rolling the condom off his softening cock and discarding of it in the trash can beside your bed. He smooths his hands over your thighs, gently soothing the muscles with a soft massage. “Are you alright?”

You nod lazily, glancing up at him, and you’re sure there’s hearts in your eyes. Either that or birds circling your head.

“Feel like you’ve been taken care of?” He teases with a smile, rubbing your hipbone with his thumb before reaching over the side of the bed and retrieving his boxers.

You nod again. “Even if I didn’t, I don’t think I could stay awake for another round.”

“Eh, I could keep you up.” He quickly pulls his boxers back up, and then he’s on you again, smothering your face in firm kisses. You smile, bold and real. 

“I’m here,” he says. “Right here. I’m real, and I’m not going anywhere.” When he reaches your lips, he slows, savouring the taste and the feeling of you. “You did so well for me.”

And suddenly, the future isn’t scary anymore, because it’s not lacking him. The man that made you believe in soulmates, in there truly only being one person out there for you. And he’s your one person. And you’re his.

You smile then, and he draws back to return the gesture at the sight of you. “I can’t wait to see your place,” you tell him. His place above the surface.

He chuckles, kissing your cheek and rolling over with you in his arms, settling you on his chest. “I can’t wait for you to live there.”

“I saw you getting a little carried away,” Varka manages a laugh, despite the fact he also pushed the limits of his impressive tolerance enough to feel like he’s balancing on one foot. “Here, let me walk you home.”

You peer up at him, contemplating. His blonde hair is a mess, sticking up in all different directions, and his face is flushed from the alcohol. His heavy jacket seems to have been discarded somewhere inside the pub, like he was in a rush to get out.

Did he follow you?

You blink. He probably just wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, ever since you first arrived in Mondstadt, the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius was one of the first to offer you a warm welcome. He had just returned from his expedition in Nod Krai, and after all the time he spent away, you coined it as him being excited to introduce someone new to a place he loved so dearly. His home, which was slowly becoming yours, as well.

He would always rush you to join him for a drink, train with him, anything that kept you close.

It would be a lie to say you didn’t develop quite the liking for him. Everything about him was magnetic to the most literal definition of the word. He drew people in as a natural consequence of being himself, people like you especially.

Who would you be to say no?

“Alright,” you agree. “Do you remember—”

“Yeah, I know where your place is. Come on, then.”

He comes up beside you, placing his hand on your lower back to guide you away from the pub, the celebration inside still roaring with life. The touch of his rough fingertips against the soft skin your shirt exposes spreads a warmth all the way from the top of your head to the tips of your toes, but you feel it most prominently in your lower stomach.

“Thank you.” You breathe out, grabbing the side of his shirt to help yourself balance.

He chuckles lowly. “No need to thank me. Protecting you is my job.”

You look up at him. “Your job, huh?”

“I…” He laughs again. “As Grand Master, I mean. It’s my job to protect everyone in Mondstadt.”

You nod, and the motion makes you feel like there’s an angry ocean storming in your skull. You can't recall the last time you drank so much. “Right.”

He readjusts his hand, his thumb slipping just below the hem of your shirt. You bite your lip, leaning against him for support as a hazy feeling weakens your limbs. You urge to press your thighs together, just the presence of him in combination with your alcohol-induced state making the softest of touches feel euphoric.

His own next breath is noticeably more nervous than the ones before, and he has to move his hand to the sensitive nerves on your waist to keep you steady. 

“Varka…” You push against him again.

He doesn’t say anything.

Soon enough he’s guiding you up the steps of your porch, and you’re unlocking the front door with unsteady hands while he leans against the railing. You glance at him. His chest rises and falls quickly, and he keeps his eyes low like he’s struggling to look at you. Something is on his mind.

“Those last few drinks setting in?” You croak, getting the door open and pushing it forward, the cold air from inside the house hitting your skin.

“Uh—” His eyes snap to yours. “Must be.”

“Come inside for a minute,” you offer, and just hearing the invite spill from your own lips feeds into the arousal already settling in your body from his touch. “Have some water before you walk back. It'll help.”

He considers it, biting his lip. “I appreciate it, but I shouldn’t.” He shakes his head. “Someone else might need a hand…”

“It’ll be fine for a minute,” you push, and Varka’s light blue eyes, half-lidded from intoxication and something else, stay locked on you. “I insist.”

He sighs, nodding slowly in surrender. “Alright. Just for a moment.”

You’re quick to step inside your small but cozy home, Varka following closely, his footsteps heavy against the floorboards. He lets the door fall closed behind him. The only light comes from a dim lamp on the kitchen counter, and you don’t bother with flicking any others on as you hurry over and grab a bottle from your fridge. Your head pounds, begging for a moment of rest, but the rest of your body begs for something else much louder.

Varka meets you in the barely spacious room. When he gets close enough, you can feel his warmth spreading through the chill of the room. 

“Here.” You hand him the water.

Your wonky world manages to center as you watch his large hand unscrew the cap. You roll your bottom lip into your mouth subconsciously, studying the way his biceps flex as he lifts his arm, the way he holds the rim of the bottle just above his mouth, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows…

Varka doesn’t miss the way you throw one leg over the other and clench your thighs, or the way your eyebrows pinch together when you do.

He certainly doesn’t miss the way your eyes stay on him the whole time.

He steps towards you, and just when you think his chest is going to press against yours, he stops. He reaches past you, putting the bottle on the wide kitchen counter you lean against.

“Thank you.”

Your eyes wander as you mumble something that can barely be discerned as a you’re welcome. His shirt is tight around his rigid body, but it’s nothing compared to the way his pants contain a noticeable bulge.

You whisper his name, and it comes out sounding like a plea.

Varka clears his throat. “I should go now.”

You say his name again, your hands reaching out to clutch the sides of his shirt.

This time it’s him saying your name, but instead of a plea, it’s a warning.

You ignore it.

You tug him closer, and only his sheer strength and finely honed self control stops his body from pressing against yours. You look up at him, eyes glossed over with need, hands sliding to his hips.

“I know you followed me out of the pub.” You rasp, one hand trailing up his chest. Varka’s breath hitches, and he braces a palm against the counter right beside your body. 

“I told you,” he whispers, “I saw that you drank too much. I needed to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m not the only one who drank too much, Varka.” Your hand continues its exploration, tangling up in his hair and tugging, forcing him to keep looking at you. Even in your drunken state, he looks beautiful. “You’ve barely been staying upright yourself. You think I haven't noticed?"

His jaw clenches.

“Stay,” you beg, pulling his head down further. “Just for a little longer.”

He swallows. “You’re—”

You press your mouth to his, effectively cutting him off. Both your hands are in his hair now, holding him close. He stills, everything from his movement to his breathing, and right when you think it might be better to pull away and let him leave, his hand is on your hip.

He kisses you back hungrily. His large form pins you to the counter, and when you struggle to grind your needy core against his bulge, he hoists you onto the surface. You lock your legs around his waist, your skirt hiking up, moaning in his mouth at the first real feeling of pleasure when the tent in his slacks rubs against your clit through the thin fabric of your underwear.

“Varka,” you whine. 

He swallows the sound, one of his palms cupping your face as he eagerly presses his tongue past your lips.

“Two minutes,” he mumbles.

You nod in agreement. Two minutes of this, and then he goes back to the pub.

You slide your tongue over his, tasting the regular booze on his breath. It’s addictive, and you yearn to get even more drunk than you already are on nothing but him. 

Varka’s hand closes around your hip to help you along, rolling your hips against his. Your desperate sounds are drowned out by each other’s lips, nothing but the lewd noises of your mouths and rustling fabric filling the otherwise dead silent house.

You throw your head back to breathe, which Varka takes as an invitation to start kissing and sucking at your neck. You tug at his nape, rocking your hips, feeling the way your arousal is soaking through your underwear. You wonder if he can feel how wet you are for him, if there’s a damp spot forming on the front of his pants from you desperately dry humping his clothed cock.

The alcohol makes every small bit of stimulation feel more intense, but your body still begs for something more.

“I need more,” you whine. “Just a little more… A few more minutes, Varka, please.”

He growls against the warm skin of your neck. “Two more minutes.”

His hand dips between your bodies, hooking two fingers in the hem of your underwear and pulling them down your thighs, just enough to expose you under your skirt. You moan in anticipation, bracing one hand on the cold counter top behind you and keeping the other slung over his shoulders.

The pads of his fingers find your clit, and the sound that emerges from deep in your chest is one of utter relief. He starts to draw slow circles, pulling his head out of the crook of your neck to watch the pretty faces his movements elicit. 

“Is this good?” He asks hoarsely, his forehead pressing against yours as he begins to rub your clit faster.

“Yes, oh Gods, Varka!” You close your fist in his hair, head tilting back. “Ah… Please don’t stop.”

He suddenly pulls away. Right when you think he’s honouring his word and your two minutes are up, his digits are replaced with his thumb, and he’s instead nudging your fluttering hole with the pads of his fingers.

“Oh. Yes, Varka…”

He grunts, capturing your lips again as he sinks two fingers inside of your cunt.

You whimper against his mouth, rolling your hips onto his hand greedily. He fills you to the second knuckle, still circling your clit with his thumb. The overload of sensations makes you feel like you’re ascending to a different realm. The pleasure coiling in your lower stomach, the smell of him, the taste, everything.

He drags his fingers across all the right places inside of you, curling them against spots that make you see stars.

Varka groans at the way you clench around his fingers, flicking his wrist with more vigour. “Taking good care of you, am I?”

The pleasure binds tighter, your toes curling, knees squeezing his hips. “Yes, yes, sir.”

“Oh—Fuck.” He steadies your hips, forcing you to stay still as he tips you over the edge. You cry out, back arching and eyes squeezing shut as stars appear in the void. You chant his name like a prayer, and he works you through the orgasm eagerly.

His hand retreats from between your legs once you start to come down.

You whine, sitting up properly and grabbing at his shirt. Your mind couldn't be more fogged thanks to the alcohol and recent orgasm, but you still hold him tightly. “No, don’t go.”

His sighs your name, shaking his head like he already knows he’s lost whatever game you’re playing with him.

“I’m supposed to—”

You reach down to palm his bulge, and he groans out through gritted teeth.

“Two more minutes,” you say, kicking your panties the rest of the way off. “I want to feel you, Varka.”

His eyes meet yours, and the look he’s giving you is the kind of dangerous that has you dripping on the counter below you.

“I’m not asking you to fuck me,” You plead, starting to unbuckle his belt with haste. “Just want to feel you for a second.”

He warns you by saying your name firmly, the authoritative tone making you feel weak.

“Just a little, Varka. Just for a second.”

He doesn’t make any moves to stop you when you pull his belt out of the loops and toss it aside. You unbutton and unzip his slacks, pulling them and his boxers down just enough to let his cock spring out.

The size of him is immediately intimidating, but you ignore it and take the base of him in your palm.

Varka grips the counter with both hands, caging you in, fists turning white.

“Just a little, okay?” You meet his eyes.

His gaze flickers between your face and his cock in your hand.

“Just a little,” he agrees, voice thick with arousal. He pulls your hand off of him, tugging you to the very edge of the counter by your thighs and lining himself up with your cunt.

You’re both panting, watching closely as he nudges your folds with the thick head of his cock. You bite into your lip to conceal a whimper.

You gasp together when his tip pushes inside you. Even just this much causes a small ache to start sprouting deep in your stomach, but even that slight pain is the most pleasant thing you’ve ever felt.

“Varka,” you cry, putting your hands on his shoulders. 

He’s intently staring at where he’s barely pressed inside of you, his cock twitching in anticipation and his swollen lips slightly parted in pleasure.

You lift your hips, trying to urge him deeper, but his hand snaps to your hip before you get the chance.

“A bit more,” you murmur.

Varka inhales sharply. “I can’t—”

“Just a bit, let me feel you.”

He grunts, staying still for a beat before finally pressing another inch of his cock inside of you.

Maybe it’s the way you moan his name, or how your pussy clenches around him, tirelessly trying to tug him in deeper, but Varka snaps.

“I can’t.” He breathes out, bracing both his hands on your hips. “I can’t. I need—”

“It’s okay,” You assure him swiftly, and you drop back to hold yourself up on your forearms. “Take it, Varka. Take—”

He bottoms out in one quick thrust.

You scream, your back hitting the counter as the wonderful swirl of pleasure and pain makes your body entirely succumb to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it barely sounds apologetic as he starts to thrust in and out of you at a quick pace. 

All you can do it take it, arching your back to accommodate him as he fucks you with everything he has. His hips slam against yours with enough force to bruise, and you just sputter out incomprehensible pleas for more. You squeeze and gush around him, making him groan your name.

He bottoms out with each thrust, making sure you feel every single inch of him dragging against your inner walls. He pulls the most beautiful of noises from your chest, each one fuelling him to pound into you with even more force.

“Good girl—So good.” He huffs, voice hoarse, but you barely hear him as you make the shift from alcohol drunk to cock drunk as he drives into you over and over again. He’s filling you up so good, pinning your hips to the counter to keep you in place as he gives you exactly what you were begging for.

Varka grunts, retracting one of his hands to start rubbing your clit as he keeps fucking in and out of you with brutal force.

“Varka!” You squeal, trying to snap your legs shut, but his body planted between your thighs keeps you wide open for him.

He laughs lowly, trailing off into a raspy moan. “Now you want to run?”

“No, no, don’t stop!” You arch your neck, one of your hands flying down to rest on his lower stomach, pushing even though you have no real desire to keep him out. “Varka, I’m so close…”

“Go on,” he encourages, hitting the perfect spot inside of you that makes you slur his name. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

At his command, you cry out and come undone around his cock. He keeps pumping inside of you for a few more strokes before pulling out with a groan, jerking himself off until he spills onto the front of your shirt.

You breathe heavily, going limp against your kitchen counter. Varka tenderly reaches under the hem of your shirt, carefully helping you strip it while he shushes your exhausted, hazy whines. If you were tired leaving the bar, there aren’t words for how spent you feel now.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, guilt coating his voice like he’s coming out of whatever state he entered when he fucked you. “Fuck—”

“No, no.” You whisper, sitting up. You cup his face with two hands, fighting through your exhaustion to kiss him, and this time, he returns it gently, his arms fully encircling your naked body. You pull back just enough to see his face. “Will you stay?”

He grins, his nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

How you’d gotten tangled up with him was a mystery to even yourself. An old tale of someone you once held close getting locked up in the warden’s quarters, and for every visit, you found yourself less excited to see them, and instead, Wriothesley was the face you anticipated seeing within those cold, metal walls.

He took quite the liking to you himself. Eventually, you only started showing up for him. And he’d keep you held beside, beneath, or on top of him until the sun came up. Until his name was one you could remember better than your own, and only then would he let up, hold your face in his calloused hand and plant firm kisses all over the surface of your spent body until he soothed you to a much-needed sleep.

The things that initially drew you to him, you saw in Varka, too. The selflessness. The subtle longing in his eyes, one that can only come from prolonged hope held tight even after a life filled with betrayal. A look you wanted to mend. A hope you wanted to fuel.

Then there was the shape of him, the sheer mass of his biceps, a physical strength sculpted beautifully from battle. Broad shoulders, sharp expression, rough hands with the shocking ability to be so gentle when they want to be. When you thought of him, sometimes it was hard to remember who it was on your mind.

Varka or Wriothesley.

You made the most of Varka’s visit. You spoke to him whenever you got the chance, and every so often, something would slip past his lips that sounded an awful lot like flirting, but he’d always cover it up with a cough, a lighthearted joke, or blame it on his habit of day-drinking. He was a gentleman, after all.

For weeks, you were caught between your exploratory conversations, vivid fantasies, and suggestive encounters with Varka during the day, and your deep talks, mind-shattering sex, and worshiping touches with Wriothesley at night.

Guilt caught up fast. Were you betraying your established-non-established relationship with Wriothesley by letting someone else infiltrate your thoughts in the most improper of ways? If Varka lost his self control, finally took your shorter skirts or sultry looks as an invitation to let up the gentleman act for one night, would you even be able to face Wriothesley again after?

Maybe he’d never have to find out. Varka surely had no clue that no matter how much he got you worked up during your interactions, you were getting more than adequately taken care of either way. If you got the chance to have your way with Varka during his visit, it could be your one moment of selfishness. He would have to return home eventually, anyway…

The idea seemed a lot more probable when you were sure they would never cross paths. Varka had no business in the prison, and Wriothesley rarely had reasons to come above the surface. You always went to him, besides the occasional date he’d take you on in The Court of Fontaine, none of which had overlapped with Varka’s vacation so far.

Until you were getting coffee with Varka early one morning, and you were both handed your own respective invitations to a grand party taking place the next night, the event planned by Miss Furina herself, with assistance from the Iudex.

Your heart dropped when you realized who else would 100% be getting an invite, even more when Varka invited you as his date, even more when you said yes, and as if it couldn’t get worse, Wriothesley wasn’t one to give you a break from his antics in public places.

“Shit.”

-----

“Might I say, you look beautiful tonight.” Varka compliments, offering you his arm when the two of you step onto the venue’s property. You scan the area before taking him up on his offer, hand wrapping around his bicep. “Not that you don’t always.”

You smile, letting him guide you up the stone walkway leading up to the stairs. Music blasts from inside, and every familiar face makes you swallow a gasp, though none have been who you’re worried about thus far.

Maybe Wriothesley wouldn’t care. It’s not as if you two had conversations about exclusivity. For all you know, he could have other partners. Plenty of them. He could be with one right now.

It, so selfishly, makes your heart drop to imagine that might be true.

“Maybe you’ve never been this sober looking at me before,” You joke, which makes Varka cough out a laugh that heats your skin with a warmth you’ve known about once before this moment.

“Well, booze makes you have more of an appetite. Perhaps we wouldn’t have spent so many lunches together otherwise.” He peers down at you as you two walk along, neater than usual blonde locks falling in front of his forehead. You urge to lift a hand, gently swiping it away, and then you imagine tenderly rubbing your thumb over the X-shaped scar on his cheek.

The same way you do to the scar under Wriothesley’s eye...

You clear your throat. “That would’ve been quite the shame.”

“I’d say so.”

Varka opens the door for you, mumbling something about knightly-duties, and you step into the venue.

The world stops spinning, and your throat goes dry.

You spot him. Well, his back. The Duke is talking to some people you barely recognize as guards who work at the Fortress, his hip against an unoccupied table and a glass of some alcohol you’re sure he doesn’t enjoy planted in his left hand.

“Hey, you okay?”

You turn your head so fast you almost get whiplash, forcing a smile when you see Varka’s concerned face, one of his hands pressed against your lower back. “Yeah, I’m fine. We should…”

You pause, stealing another glance in Wriothesley’s direction, and you grip Varka’s wrist hard the moment you see him start to turn around. “Go! Let’s go!”

You drag him to the left, ducking behind a large group of people to hopefully conceal yourself from the Duke’s view. Varka chuckles from behind you, planting a hand on your hip and helping you navigate the crowd in the direction of the bar. “Someone’s real excited to get me drunk.”

“I could give you every ounce of alcohol in here twice and you’d barely be tipsy, Mister Grand Master.”

He groans. “You and the formalities.” You reach the bar, and you swing your head back to try and spot where Wriothesley was while Varka takes a seat on a stool. “And you underestimate a knight’s tolerance. Three times, at least, if you want to see me tipsy.”

You spot him. You can see his side profile from this angle, in the same spot as before, talking to one of his guards with a half-smile planted across his handsome features. Varka being dressed the most formally you’d seen from him, that was no surprise. But the Duke—He cleans up nice for such a high-profile event.

Gods, you wanted to take that suit right off…

You turn back to Varka. You’re standing close enough to his seated body that he could easily take you by the hips and drag you between his knees.

“And if I want to see you drunk?” You answer finally, teasing.

He smirks, and like you have some kind of third eye, he takes your body between his hands and pulls you between his spread legs. “Ah, well, a man can get drunk off a lot of things.”

As if your heart wasn’t beating fast enough, it speeds up even more, and you flatten your palms against his chest. You peer down at him, and the lust in his eyes is contained very poorly, like he’s in a fight with himself still trying be a gentleman.

You hum. “And what’s your tolerance in that territory, Sir Varka?”

He takes a deep breath, his voice coming out deep and tortured. “For you, I might already be too far gone.”

You’re so close now that you can feel his breath on your lips, and your surroundings seem to fade into nothingness for a moment. Your palms are pressed against his shoulders now, but his heart is still pounding enough that you’re counting the beats in your head.

His mouth ghosts over yours, and right when you think he might finally snap, a booming voice snaps you right out of it.

“Hey, I had no idea you would be here!”

Your head flies up.

Wriothesley is about six feet away from you, squeezing through the crowd to get to the bar. However, his eyes aren’t on you. You’re not sure he even notices you—He’s walking right up to the bartender.

Oh shit.

“Ah, Your Grace!” The bartender greets, and Wriothesley takes a seat at one of the stools with a growing smile. “It’s nice to see you above the surface.”

“You too.” The Duke retorts politely. The bartender must have been an inmate at Meropide at some point. The conversations drags on, but you’ve ducked down enough so Varka’s seated form can conceal you from the only other man that has ever had the effect on you that has currently caused a noticeable dampness beneath your dress.

Varka’s breath hitches before falling into a low laugh. “Scandalous. However, I don’t think—”

“I’m not—” You quickly confirm, heat overtaking your cheeks. You are technically knelt in front of his lap right now. In public. With people everywhere. One of the closest being the last person who needs to find you in this incriminating position. You straighten up a bit. “I have to run to the bathroom.”

“Do you want me to come with—”

“No, no. That’s alright. I’ll be quick.” You swiftly shoot down, still needing him to be a human shield as you turn towards the bathroom sign found in the far left corner of the venue. You stay as low as you can without looking crazy, and you slip into the hallway and out of sight.

You raise a hand to clutch the chain of your necklace, leaning your back against the wall and using the empty space to catch your breath. Varka and Wriothesley are currently seated about five feet away from each other. How are you supposed to return and not get both of their attentions? You told Wriothesley you weren’t even going to this thing, because you knew he’d ask you to join him, and this predicament is complicated enough.

You hoped he wouldn’t go without you as a date, but date or no date, he showed.

Perfect.

You’re suddenly terrified of hurting him. For him to have to find out you not only lied about not coming, but you also came with another man…

You truly like him so much. Everything about him has enchanted you since the very first time his icy blue eyes met yours, the first time you heard his voice, the way he would laugh and mutter out half-hearted apologies when you scolded his common jokes about his own mortality or his past. A past he opened up to you about with a vulnerability you had only seen before in yourself, and that was when you were with him.

You never wanted to hurt him, but Varka… You like him too. So much, and every bone in your body wants to see where this thing with him goes. And it’s stupid that you got yourself in this situation, that you weren’t transparent with both of them ever since Varka arrived in Fontaine.

Now look where you are.

“Fuck,” You curse, putting your hands on your forehead. “Archons.”

You turn, using the wall for support and slipping into one of the single-person bathrooms. You turn the lock, taking quick steps over to the sink and putting your hands under the tap, letting the warmth soak into you and calm your nerves a bit. You dry your hands, fix your hair, and try to think of a way to get out of this.

You could sneak over and very quickly pull Varka back into the crowd, and bring him somewhere you can only hope Wriothesley has no business being. You could seduce him, convince him to get you out of here as soon as possible so…

So much for calming down. You pick at the fabric of your dress, feeling the way your panties have suctioned to your cunt from all the places your mind has gone tonight.

You unlock the bathroom door, slipping back into the hallway. Maybe you could find a familiar face and have them talk to Varka for you, have him join you somewhere else?

That could work. You slip out of the hallway, back into the main part of the venue, and you spot Varka at the bar. His head pops up, and he locks eyes with you.

Wriothesley isn’t behind him. You didn’t anticipate him moving spots.

Varka nods. Oh Gods, is he gesturing you over? You—

Something wraps around your wrists, and before you can react, you hear it.

Click.

You’re tugged back into the hallway as you gasp out, the front of your body being pressed flush against the cold wall, and something, someone, is pressing against your back, your cuffed hands pinned under them.

“Adultery might not be a crime, but it is very, very, frowned upon.” The warmth against the shell of your ear comes before the voice.

“Wriothesley,” You whisper, breathlessly. “I—Adultery?” Is he serious? “We’re—”

He shushes you. “However…” A beat passes, just long enough for one of his hands to slide to your hip and squeeze hard. “Lying to law enforcement, that is a crime.” His head drops, his breath now ghosting over your exposed shoulder. "You said you weren't coming."

Your stomach churns. “I—I didn’t… I’m sorry…”

“How well do you think sorry holds up in court, baby?”

Your eyes flutter closed, forehead pressed against the wall. “Not well.”

“Clever girl,” He praises, and your hips press back against his almost instinctively. All it would take is one person to round the corner, and he could be locked up in his own prison for public indecency.

That’s when you remember.

Varka. He was standing right there, he probably saw—

You’re swiftly tugged off the wall, forcing you out of your head. Wriothesley keeps his hands just above your elbows, your wrists still bound behind your back, and he leads you all the way to the end of the hallway toward a staircase you didn’t notice before.

“I could bring you to get checked in,” He speaks, his otherwise rushed movements more careful as he guides you up the stairs. “Keep you locked up in the Fortress with me. Wouldn’t that be fun, baby? Just me and you, all the time?”

Yes.

You reach the top of the stairs, and he’s not done speaking as he continues to pull you along. “I would never have to be done with you. But the Fortress, I think I like you too much to stick you there.”

Huh?

“But what kind of warden would I be if I didn’t punish those who have done wrong?”

Oh. 

“Have you done wrong, baby?”

“Yes,” You gasp out.

As Wriothesley drags you along, he sticks a hand out to check every door. Most are locked, but finally, he comes across one that isn’t.

You’re pushed through the doorway, and an arm wrapping around your waist catches you before you fall forward. Wriothesley pulls you to a couch off to the side of the room, which appears to be someone’s office, and sits you down on his lap. Your back to his front.

With your hands still pinned behind your back from the handcuffs, you manage to find and palm his bulge through his slacks. He groans, his feet snaking between yours before spreading, forcing your legs open wide. 

You gasp, and one of his hands grip your chin to force your mouth to his, swallowing the sound. You whimper, hips grinding against nothing as he leaves his free arm swung over the front of your body.

You moan his name, desperately, urging him to touch you as you’re left completely at his disposal.

He grins against your mouth, and just then, you jump at the sound of the door creaking open and slamming shut.

We’re caught, you think, snapping your head forward, expecting to see the panicked, mortified eyes of one of the other guests, likely whoever this office belongs to.

The blue hues staring back at you are far from what you expected.

Your throat goes dry. “Varka.”

He shrugs his suit jacket off, slowly stalking over to the couch. Wriothesley’s hand is still wrapped around your chin, and he forces your head back to press his mouth to your ear.

“What was the plan? You were going to hide from me all night?”

“And I was your shield of choice?” Varka continues, the smirk on his face and the tone of Wriothesley’s voice suggesting neither them are as upset as you feared they would be. No, this, what they’re actually feeling, didn’t even cross your mind.

They must’ve spoken when you ran off to the bathroom. Surely Wriothesley spotted you all cozied up between Varka’s knees, and used the bartender as an excuse to get close enough to confirm his suspicions. You storming off was the perfect opportunity for him to figure out what was going on.

Honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

You shudder, Wriothesley’s hand that isn’t gripping your face moving to your hip. He pulls your dress up, scrunching it around your waist, leaving your soaked panties on display. You whine, and his thumb circles your hipbone in a comforting, encouraging, gesture.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” You mumble, talking to Wriothesley.

He chuckles. “You bet a lot on that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, baby.” He shoots down, his lips finding your neck, and you moan when he bites down. “But you could’ve just told me.”

Your eyes find Varka as he drops his suit jacket on the armrest of the couch, and the lust he was working so hard to keep control of earlier, he seems to have fully let loose now. The look in his gaze is so maddeningly erotic that you try to snap your legs closed just to get some friction, but Wriothesley’s feet keep you spread.

Your eyes fall closed, head tipping back against Wriothesley's shoulder. “I didn’t want you to be upset.”

He laughs once. “I might’ve been a little upset.”

You lean up enough to be able to crane your neck to see him.

“But I’m not,” He finishes quickly. “Not now.”

You turn to Varka.

He smiles. “Neither am I.”

You slowly relax against Wriothesley’s chest again, rolling your bottom lip into your mouth and biting down. He hums approvingly, and your eyes trail Varka’s movements as he approaches you.

He drops to his knees between your legs.

You gasp, and Wriothesley is quick to steady you with one hand on your hip, the other resting gently around your throat.

You understand their plan now.

Varka’s hands find each of your exposed legs, rubbing up and down the warmed skin like he’s committing the feeling of you to memory. You wonder if he does this a lot. He has quite a few years on you, more than Wriothesley does, but the stories he loves to tell you always suggested a lack of time to get laid.

“You alright?” Varka mumbles, dropping his head to kiss up your inner thigh, approaching the apex that is in desperate need of either his or Wriothesley’s attention.

You nod. Part of you wants to stop him just to have him tell you exactly what conversation led to him and Wriothesley coming to this consensus, but, you know how to pick your battles, and staying silent feels like a notable win.

You moan when he presses feather-light kisses against you through the embarrassingly soaked fabric of your underwear, his tongue darting out to apply gentle pressure to your clit. You choke out his name, bucking your hips and dropping your head back. Every movement is curious as he learns the workings of your body in the presence of someone who probably knows how to get you off better than you do.

“So greedy,” Wriothesley murmurs, biting your earlobe. “Wanting both of us so badly. Was I not filling you up well enough, baby? Is that it?”

You rapidly shake your head, which makes him laugh lowly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Varka’s fingers hook around the waistband of your underwear, and Wriothesley frees one of your feet just so Varka can tug them off before holding you open again. Your hands start to work at his bulge again, even though the pressure of being pinned between two bodies is starting to be numbing. He groans, pressing his face against your neck, and before you can relish in the sound, Varka is pressing his face against your bare cunt.

You moan out, back arching as he quickly begins to lap up at the arousal the two of them have already contributed to. One hand rests on your thigh, and the other holds down the hip that Wriothesley isn’t already attending to. You’re completely vulnerable to both of their pleasurable antics, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Varka,” You nearly cry, and Wriothesley is quick to swallow the sound with his own mouth. You can barely reciprocate when Varka wraps his lips around your clit and sucks gently, but the Duke doesn’t seem to have any complaints, greedily drinking up every sound that emerges from your throat.

“Shh…” Wriothesley coaxes. “Don’t want anyone to hear you, do you, baby?”

“Mmm… No.”

“That’s right,” He praises, pulling your bottom lip between his teeth and biting gently. “That’s a good girl.”

You whine, forcing your mouth against his again to try and muffle your sounds as Varka hungrily eats you out. His tongue swipes over your fluttering hole before dipping inside, making you choke. Wriothesley’s calloused hand is now wrapped firmly around your throat, holding you in place. 

You’re so overwhelmed with the sensations, the shock, the reality of the situation. You went into tonight anxious that these two men would come within 20 feet of each other, and now they’re both eagerly pleasuring you with no signs of anger or sadness. If anything, the thought of working together to make you come apart seems to be spurring them on, Wriothesley’s cock hardening beneath you every time Varka elicits a high-pitched moan from deep in your chest, and Varka working more tirelessly at your pussy when he catches a glimpse of Wriothesley’s hand clutching your throat.

Whether its competitiveness or something else entirely, it’s working out in your favour.

Varka’s hand retreats from your thigh, and you gasp when his rough fingertips trail over your hole, clenching around nothing. He sucks and nips at your clit with less fervor as his eyes flit up to watch your face when he dips his middle finger inside of you.

“Oh,” You exhale, barely getting the word out as Wriothesley’s hand tightens around your throat. He cranes his neck to watch your face, studying your reactions.

Varka’s finger drags along the inside of your cunt, in and out, his tongue still lazily circling your nerves. You whine, hungry for more, and he picks up on that quickly, a second finger pressing into you.

Your back arches again, your position shifting as your bound wrists lift to rest somewhere higher, and you now have the option to shamelessly grind back against Wriothesley’s cock.

And you do.

The thrust of Varka’s digits are slow and experimental at first, his eyes still pinned on you, the heat of his gaze urging you to press back against Wriothesley’s crotch. The Duke’s hand that was on your hip travels to fully wrap around your waist, helping you along as he gasps and groans right in your ear. Varka chases the desperate movements of your hips with newfound vigor, curling his fingers against your spongy walls and flattening his tongue against your clit.

Wriothesley’s tongue dips out to drag along the shell of your ear. “Close, baby?”

You nod, chasing Varka’s mouth and arching your neck enough that the top of your head grazes the fabric of the couch Wriothesley sits on. A lewd mixture of both their names keeps emerging from your throat, like your mind can't register which one of them to thank for this feeling.

The pads of Varka’s fingers find the perfect spot inside of you, abusing the patch of nerves until you’re gushing around his fingers, hips retreating and grinding firmly against Wriothesley, who nearly chokes.

Varka keeps lapping at your clit through your orgasm, only pulling away when you whine and squirm at the overstimulation. He’s quick to resort to trailing kisses upwards, to the hem of your dress which is still bunched around your waist.

“Uncuff her.”

Wriothesley grunts. “Sit up for me.”

You do, panting, leaning forward enough that Wriothesley can access your cuffed wrists. Varka takes this as an opportunity to steal his very first kiss from you, and you hum at the taste of yourself on his lips.

His hand grips the back of your neck, still on his knees in front of you, and you feel like you’re being worshiped as his tongue desperately dances with yours. You hear the soft click from earlier again, and Wriothesley tosses the cuffs aside before gently massaging your wrists until the numbness subsides. He leans forward enough to gently bite your shoulder. 

“You okay?” He mumbles, one of his hands finding your clothed ribcage and resting it there comfortingly.

You nod, pulling back from Varka, a string of saliva connecting your lips. He groans loudly at the sight, reaching down to adjust the crotch of his slacks. You lick your lips.

“Good,” Wriothesley says, sliding his hands under your dress to tug it the rest of the way off. You put your hands up to assist him, and he throws the garment over the arm rest to join Varka’s coat. “Because you’re not done yet.”

Thank the gods.

Wriothesley tugs you to your feet, and you barely even have time to process the change of position before your chest is pressed flush against the cold wood of the desk. 

“Careful,” Varka scolds lightheartedly, coming up beside the desk to tenderly stroke your hair. You angle your head to look up at him, his knuckles grazing the soft skin on your cheek. He looks utterly enchanted by the fucked-out expression on your face. It’s the same way he looked at you when he came to get you at the start of the night and saw you all dolled up for him.

“I know what she likes,” Wriothesley remarks.

Competitiveness.

You can’t pretend you don’t find it really hot.

Varka barks out a laugh, flattening his palm over your head, sliding down your back and snapping open your bra clasp with skill. Guess that rules out your virgin theory, though you were already skeptical about that. Like, look at him. “And what does she like?”

Wriothesley grabs your waist, lifting you enough that Varka can pull off your bra. The second it’s off, each of them are palming one of your breasts with an equal amount of need. “She likes to be a real good girl,” He answers, taking your nipple between two of his fingers and exhaling shakily at the way you whine his name. “She likes to take everything I give her. Don’t you?”

“Yes,” You moan out.

He rests you down again, his palm pressing against the middle of your back to urge you to arch it. He kicks your ankles, opening your legs.

“Might as well demonstrate.”

The familiar sound of his belt unbuckling makes your knees weak, and Wriothesley continues to shrug his slacks off one-handed so he can steady your hips with the other. You're sure the desk beneath you is already majorly coated with your sweat, and you're so aroused that the evidence of such must be dripping.

Varka’s heavy footsteps circle the desk, and you turn your head to watch him as he drops down in the desk chair. You whine, grabbing the side of the desk closest to him, and he smirks before reaching out to engulf your hand in his large one, rubbing your pulse point with his thumb.

You hear Wriothesley’s slacks hit the ground, and then you feel the head of his cock nudging your cunt, and you already greedily try to suck him in by pressing your hips back.

“So needy,” Wriothesley scolds, but there’s no real distaste in his voice. You know he wants it just as bad as you.

“Yes,” You agree shamelessly. “Please.”

He bends over your back to trail kisses down your spine. “This is supposed to be a punishment, mind you.”

You desperately try to push your hips back again. “This feels plenty punishing, Your Grace.” 

Wriothesley laughs at that, leaning off of you, and you can feel him line his cock up with you again.

“I think she’s been very remorseful,” Varka adds, voice thick with his own arousal.

You nod in agreement.

Wriothesley sighs, one hand on your hip and the other sliding up to your shoulder. 

“Very well.”

He presses half his length into you in one firm thrust.

You sob, squeezing Varka’s hand and pressing your forehead to the desk. You’ve taken him so many times, plenty just like this, bent over his desk at Meropide, but he’s just so thick that you’re not sure your body will ever fully adjust to the sheer size of him.

Wriothesley shushes you, leaning down to kiss your shoulder as he slowly begins to slide further in, inch by inch. “There—Fuck.” His head falls forward. “Taking me so well. So good, baby.”

You clench around him at the praise, and he grunts before bottoming out in one more fell swoop.

His weight is relieved off your back, just for his hand that was previously on your shoulder to tangle up in your hair and tug your head back. You moan, ass grinding back.

“Greedy,” He notes again.

Hell yeah, you were.

He pulls nearly all the way out, until just the tip is left inside of you, and then he presses all the way back in to the hilt.

You nearly scream, biting down on your lip to muffle yourself. You’re suddenly aware of all the voices floating into the room from downstairs, the event still roaring with life, and how the shaking desk along with your desperate moans might quickly paint a very clear picture of what’s going on in here.

As if reading your mind, Varka unwraps his hand from yours and instead grips your chin, his thumb pressing against your lips. You take it in your mouth, closing your teeth around it and swirling your tongue. He grunts at the sight, and you catch a glimpse of him palming himself through his pants.

The effect you have on him makes your body greedily clench around Wriothesley’s cock, and the sensation urges him to begin thrusting inside of you. He sets a steady pace, every ridge of his cock dragging against you in the best of ways.

You cry out his name, muffled by Varka’s thumb shoved in your mouth. One of your palms press flat against the wood as you arch your back to accommodate the Duke’s deep thrusts, and the other wraps around Varka’s wrist.

Wriothesley uses his grips on your hip and hair to repeatedly pull you to meet his thrusts with force, and every nudge of his cock deep inside your cunt makes you see stars behind your eyelids. He chokes out small praises, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you are for him, his own way of reminding you how much it matters to him that you let him have you like this. Even with his rough treatment, he's always made sure you know that you're the only person who could ever get him worked up like this.

And you thought, for even a second, that he could’ve been fucking someone else. You would laugh if you hadn’t lost the ability to do anything except murmur pleas incoherently. 

You’re a complete mess, and the sight of you coming undone is something unlike anything either men have known before. The way Wriothesley fucks you has you convinced you’re going to fuse with the desk, and seeing how needy and pliant you have already grown for when Varka gets his turn with you… His cock is begging to be freed from his slacks, and if he weren’t brought up with the selfless and patient values of a knight, he would’ve shoved Wriothesley clean out of the way if it meant getting inside you sooner.

Wriothesley angles his thrusts to hit that spot inside of you he knows gets you, and the way you’re drooling and mumbling around Varka’s thumb has him even closer to tipping over the edge with you. His hand drops from your hair, circling your stomach, and his forehead drops to your shoulder as his thrusts stutter. His grunts are desperate, and the occasional needy whimper-like sound that you evoke from him makes your nerves feel like fucking fireworks.

“Good girl,” He gasps out, his hand around your body sliding down to circle your swollen clit with two fingers. You choke, tilting your head back, wanting the closeness, and he picks up on that when he smears kisses across your shoulder, your cheek, a lewd yet tender action as he spills inside of you at the same time you gush around his cock, screaming against Varka’s hand.

He fucks you through your orgasm, panting heavily against your skin.

Varka gently pulls his thumb from your mouth, letting you slacken against the desk.

“Wriothesley,” You murmur.

He leans off of you. “You did so well.” His palm rubs up and down your spine in a comforting gesture. “You’re such a good girl, baby.”

You manage a lazy smile as he slowly pulls his length from inside of you, cursing at the way his release immediately begins to spill out. You suppose you would’ve had to bring that up to Varka before the two of you had sex either way, that you and Wriothesley rarely bothered with protection.

You were sure he could tell now.

Wriothesley pulls you up, spinning you to face him and cupping your face. He kisses you tenderly, and you grip his arms and hum.

“Okay,” He says gently, pressing a few more kisses to your collarbone and chest. You watch as he redresses his boxers and slacks, and then he spins you towards an inviting face.

“Come here, sweetheart.”

You approach him on wobbly legs, and Varka brings you down to straddle his lap when you reach him. You clutch the neckline of his dress shirt, and he kisses you slow, eyes half lidded, like he’s analyzing you again.

“Tired?” He teases.

“Drunk?” You retort.

“You think I’ve had time for booze?”

You slide your hands down to rest on his sides. “The other drunk.”

“Oh—Fuck, sweetheart, I’m wasted.”

You grin, and then you reach down to start undoing his belt. He grunts, letting you unbuckle it and pull it out of the loops. Wriothesley leans against the wall next to the chair, and he just watches you.

The look on his face, you're sure he’ll be up for another go once Varka is done with you.

You're never getting out of this office.

You toss the belt aside as Varka hastily lifts his hips to tug his pants and briefs down. His cock stands at attention, precum dripping from the tip that you so desperately want to lap up. It’s definitely a little bigger than anything you’ve taken before, but you anticipated that. Wriothesley was the biggest man you’d ever seen in your life until you saw Varka.

“You sure?” He murmurs, leaning forward to kiss your neck. “If you’re tired, sweetheart…”

“Quit being such a knight,” You mumble.

“Yeah. You’re making me look bad.”

You glare at Wriothesley, and you can only guess that the smirk that appears on his face is because of how non-threatening you look right now. Fucked-out, tired, and still desperate for more. 

You push up on your knees, taking the base of Varka’s cock in your palm and pumping him slowly. His hands squeeze your hips, grunting and thrusting up into your hand. You bite your lip. 

You position yourself above his throbbing erection, and you gasp when his tip gets caught in your oversensitive cunt. You’re so overwhelmed already, not sure how much more you can take, but the Grand Master seems to be an impressively patient man.

He slowly helps you lower yourself down, every inch of him stretching you open with such a good ache. Your hands grip his shoulders, and you feel Wriothesley’s eyes on you… You might pass out.

Varka’s hands on your hips guide his cock deeper into you until you’re seated, taking all of him.

“Good girl.” He cups your face, forcing your gaze to meet his. His blue eyes are glossed over and so full of need, and you want to give him everything he seems so depraved of. “Just take it easy for me, sweetheart.”

You nod, lifting one of your hands and gently touching the scar on his face with the tips of your fingers. His eyes are locked on your face, your parted lips, your half-lidded eyes, the absolute fucking mess of your hair…

“Fuck.”

His fists close around your hips hard enough to bruise, and then he’s lifting you up just to force you back down on his cock. You sob, falling forward, and all you can do is cling to him as he starts to bounce you up and down. His groans and your moans blend together, and you thank the gods that his knightly patience finally snapped.

He ruts up into you, chasing a high he’s been craving ever since he first saw you. You try to keep your face buried in his neck, but you’re abruptly pulled back by a hand in your hair.

When your eyes fade back into focus, Wriothesley’s cock is in front of your face.

So, like a good girl, you drop your jaw.

He curses, using his grip on your hair to push your mouth halfway down on his cock, and he eagerly strokes the base with his free hand. You suck around him, moaning and drooling to create a view that might be doing more for him than anything else.

Varka steadies your hips, instead just thrusting up into you instead of bouncing you up and down. You try to focus on getting Wriothesley off, too, but when Varka’s thumb pokes out to rub your clit, you’re immediately a goner.

You go mindless, just a crying, moaning mess as you get fucked through your third orgasm. Soon enough, Varka’s head falls back against the chair with a heavy groan, releasing inside of you to join what was left of Wriothesley’s seed. Speaking of which, only a few more pumps have Wriothesley coming in your mouth, and with the last of your strength, you seal your lips around him and greedily drink it all down.

“Shit.” Wriothesley pulls from your mouth with a pop, and you fall against Varka’s chest with heavy breaths. Varka uses his hold on your hips to gently lift you off his cock, pulling just his boxers back on before settling you more comfortably against him.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, face turned toward his chest, and he strokes your back.

Wriothesley gets redressed before coming up beside you and tucking your sweaty hair behind your ear. He nods to Varka.

“How close to here are you staying?”

Varka’s arms wrap around you, and he sits up a bit. “Let’s go. Grab her dress.”

---

The next time you feel even slightly awake, you’re lying down in the middle of a double-bed. The sheets beneath you smell like a newly familiar scent, and the large shirt thrown over your body smells like one you’ve known for months. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes and yawning.

“Hey, lay back down.” The mattress dips to your right, and you look down to see Wriothesley, settling next to you and pulling the covers over you both.

You obey without hassle, tiredness still pulling at your limbs, and a dull ache resting between your legs. You know you aren’t doing anything tomorrow. Or today?

“Varka cleaned you up, you’re all good, baby.”

You hum, curling into his chest contently. Just then, the mattress dips again on your left.

“She awake?”

“Not anymore, I don’t think.”

You’re too exhausted to share the state of your semi-consciousness, especially when another comforting warmth presses against your back, and you're now sandwiched between two soothing forms.