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sugurouge · 1 day ago

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── lessons in lust... and love. wriothesley x f!reader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, smut, mdni: first time together, both are switches, body worship, praise, size difference

♱ word count: 5.8k

♱ synopsis: a late night visit at the fortress leads to the next step in your relationship as you show Wriothesley how nice the right touch can feel.

The Meropide Fortress never fully sleeps. Even in its most still hours, the valves continue to release pressure, the distant thrum of steam-driven engines echoes, and the low groan of water pushing against stone vibrates against the facade to orchestrate a mechanical lullaby. It is a place designed to contain chaos, but at night, in these quiet moments, it almost appears to be at peace.

Wriothesley's room, tucked deeper into the fortress than most would dare wander, is one of the few places not completely claimed by cold metal and shadows. The low amber lights all around shine softly, their warmth flickering across dark furniture and the sheen of polished steel of his gauntlets.

Currently, he sits alone at his desk, drowning in neatly arranged documents and the unfinished remnants of his workload. The aroma of Wriothesley's spiced tea has long since dissipated, and the pen in his hand seems frozen as it hovers above a page, while his eyes are glued to a sentence he tries to read for the fifth time over again.

However, it isn't the fortress or a troublesome inmate that occupies him tonight.

No. The penetrant little devil on his shoulder becomes reality as you step over the threshold to his private rooms, moving closer without hesitation.

Wriothesley glances to your fingertips brushing lightly along the edge of his desk as you approach, and he catches himself staring—as usual. Under normal circumstances, is Wriothesley good at control; discipline feels like second nature. But around you? Around you, his gaze has a will of its own.

Despite the futile battle, he wills his attention back to the papers, which are now lightly scrunched in his palms, even as you step into his space. His eyes lift briefly in response, momentarily flickering up to meet yours before staring down at the letters inked on paper.

But you saw it: You saw the way he had faltered, how, momentarily, his attention clung to the hem of your top for a second longer than necessary.

"Good evening," you speak casually, a quiet lilt to your tone that Wriothesley considers to be cute. Cute enough for a small smile to threaten his mask of calm.

"Evening," he replies with an, hopefully, even voice, though he clears his throat too quickly to maintain his act of nonchalance.

As you lean over to place an envelope, a folded report, something trivial, on the desk in front of him, you notice how Wriothesley's shoulders tense. The realisation leads you to trace the rings adorning his fingers, so soft, so barely there that it might be imagined.

"Still working?" Your question is laced with something between curiosity and mischief as you lean against the corner of his desk, glancing at his work with mock interest.

"Trying," Wriothesley murmurs, and fiercely refuses to look at you again.

He knows you are sitting on the edge of the desk, just in the peripheral vision of his eyes that are supposed to be focused on the report he is pretending to read.

Wriothesley tries to stay on the page, tries to ignore the swing of your legs as they dangle off his desk, but you see the flick of his eyes to your thighs, to your face, and then back to the desk.

"You seem tense, Duke," you can't help but tease. "Long day?"

He nods then, but his focus is elsewhere again—on the bare skin above your knee before he forces himself to stare back at the page, to the ink that has begun to blur.

"I'm fine."

It's cute whenever Wriothesley pretends to be unbothered. So much so, you want to tease him just a little more, you decide, as your knee bumps against his. You reach for a seemingly innocent paperweight resting on Wriothesley's desk, but nothing about your arm and leg pressing against his body seems innocent in return.

Steely eyes flit down to your legs, your waist, and then quickly back up as Wriothesley seems to stiffen from your touch. But you caught the glance and fail to hide the smug smile.

"Are you?" you murmur once your eyes meet. Your voice is lower now, your own version of a challenge.

Wriothesley opens his mouth, though the words feel too heavy on his tongue to slip past the muscle. Instead, you lead the conversation with a far too sweet tone. "You're distracted, Wrio."

The slow blink of his eyes is near comical. Wriothesley seems… surprised and a little caught. "What?" That's all he can reply before a huff of defeat is exhaled through his nose.

"You're distracted," you repeat as a smile curls the corners of your mouth. "Is something on your mind, Wriothesley?" you repeat, slower this time, while tilting your head.

For a moment, he seems lost in your eyes, your smell, his thoughts before finally "Just work," follows as an attempted explanation.

"Mhm… I see. Must be very complicated, then, if you keep looking at my legs instead of the report."

Colour rises to Wriothesley's cheeks, and for a solid second, he seems lost. And then… he laughs, sheepish, the sound rings low and warm in his chest. "Caught red-handed."

The mood is light, enticing, and leads you to feel emboldened. So, you reach out and lightly tap the corner of the page he still hasn't turned. "Maybe I should help you focus, then."

And before Wriothesley can answer, before his brain can catch up, you slide onto his lap. Your knees are now resting on either side of his thighs, with your arms draped loosely around Wriothesley's neck. He stiffens like he's been struck before his hand lifts from the arm of the chair to lightly settle on your waist.

"Is this alright?" you murmur close to his ear.

"…Yeah," Wriothesley assures, though it comes out in a breath. "Yeah. It's more than alright."

He feels warm beneath your hands; all solid strength under fine clothes, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as you shift closer.

"You're so warm," you say softly as your fingers move along the line of his neck. "It feels good."

However, a response eludes Wriothesley; his attention seems fully occupied with the depth of your eye colour while he fully relishes the tingling sensation of your fingers brushing through his hair.

He feels putty in your hands, almost too sensitive and responsive for you to believe he is used to this sort of attention. So, the question slips out before you know any better: "Have you…" though, something makes you hesitate.

Perhaps it's the way Wriothesley's hand clenches slightly at your waist or the soft crease of his brows as his gaze drops to your lips.

"…Have you ever done this before?"

He doesn't answer at first. Instead, he appears to consider his words while his eyes explore the fine structure of your neck and shoulder, then the hollow of your collarbone.

"Not…" he starts, and his voice is a little quieter, reluctant perhaps. "Not like this. Not with someone I…" love, is what he would like to say, but it feels a little premature for that.

So the sentence ends unfinished, and you take it upon yourself to guide the conversation as you lean your forehead gently against his. "It's okay," you promise. "You don't have to say everything all at once."

"I'm not very good at this," he admits then, his laugh soft and dry, barely a sound. "You probably guessed that already."

"I guessed you might be a little shy," you respond while cupping his cheeks like Wriothesley was your most treasured prize. "That's not the same as not being good at it."

He leans into your touch as if he's been starved of it. In response, your thumb strokes along the line of his cheekbone, and you enjoy watching his eyes flutter slightly at the contact.

"I like that about you," you add in the scant space between your lips. "That you don't try to be someone else. That you feel shy, that you blush."

Wriothesley makes a small noise, half protest, half embarrassment, as a self-deprecating smirk tugs at his lips over his own helplessness.

"I mean it," you fight back while squishing his cheeks. "It makes me feel… like you let me see something no one else gets to."

That stills him. His hands, which have been resting so lightly, now grip your waist with more certainty as the papers lie forgotten on his desk. "You're not teasing?"

"No." You promise while leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. "I'm telling you the truth."

He exhales like he's been holding something heavy in his chest, as though relief has just flooded his lungs. "Then I'll try," Wriothesley agrees softly and already shivers from the sensation of your fingers curling into his strands.

"Let's start slow. Like this," you whisper a second before you kiss him—lightly, sweetly. As if there was all the time in the world for lovers.

And for once, there is. With Wrio holding you close, it appears like nothing else really matters. His arms are a firm circle around your waist, and you feel how tightly his composure winds beneath his skin. Every muscle is tense, every breath careful.

The moment your lips leave his, he looks at you as if you have stolen gravity itself. You feel the weight of that gaze, heavy and uncertain. However, Wriothesley's hands won't move, fingers lightly pressing into your hips with his thumbs occasionally moving whenever you shift.

"And here," as you let one hand trail down to his. The leather feels good against your skin, the warmth and solidity of his rings a stark contrast to the soft give of your flesh.

"You're allowed to touch me like this." You guide his palm to your thigh until its weight settles warm atop your skin.

"But you're so—" He stops his protests because he realises how his body reacts on its own. His fingers flex, squeezing your thigh until the smallest sound escapes you, a shaky exhale that sends a thrill of excitement through Wriothesley's frame.

Though the most satisfying part is how you behave. How you don't shy away but lean in until your nose brushes against his. "You feel how I react?"

So, you move his hand slowly, letting it glide along your leg until his palm cups the curve of your ass. The way his breath hitches is telling: Every little sigh, every shift of Wriothesley's eyes between where he touches you and your expression—it is like watching a man discover warmth for the first time.

"Your hands are big," you murmur without any shame, no, there's only curious desire swimming in your gaze. "Rough. They make me feel small." You slide his other hand to your waist, under the edge of your shirt, before you continue, "Use them."

Wriothesley draws his knuckles along the delicate skin there, hesitantly at first, then with more confidence once even he can feel the goosebumps his touch causes on your skin. It's unconscious how he leans in until his lips ghost near yours again, silently asking for another kiss.

And you? You let yourself settle more fully into his lap in response as the tip of your nose nudges against Wriothesley's, your breaths warm and skin-prickling as they meet and mix.

Every sensation, every reaction grounds and excites him; you both, to be exact. This moment isn't frantic; there is no tearing and tugging, no mindless hunger. It is quiet, smouldering, a slow thaw of walls built years ago and once deemed unclaimable.

But as your lips brush along his jaw, near the corner of his mouth, Wriothesley thinks that maybe it is time to surrender himself to someone who wants to cherish him the way you do.

"You're so responsive," your murmur tears him out of his simpering thoughts. He lets out a short, helpless laugh before humming a tone of agreement. "Just with you."

It is then that you finally reward him with another kiss. But this time, Wriothesley deepens without hesitation; his lips move against yours with a new confidence, firm yet measured. As if he realises that he is finally allowed to be greedy with someone.

Wriothesley's hands move from the outer curve of your hips to the dip of your waist, back again to your thighs, where he squeezes gently, experimentally, until you finally reward him with a soft moan in response.

"That… felt good, hm?" Wriothesley murmurs between your mouths, lips painting the words into yours. This way, he can even feel them stretch as you smile.

"Very good. Do it again."

He does. And this time, he adds a caress up your side, along your ribs, and savours the shaky inhale as your back arches into his touch.

"You're beautiful like this," he whispers, almost like he doesn't mean to say it out loud.

"Say more," you demand quickly, because he is not the only greedy person tonight.

His brows knit together then, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as a spark seems to flicker through his eyes. "More?"

You nod in response as you subconsciously mirror his amused expression. "I want to hear you tell me nice things."

Momentarily, he seems lost. Not because he is overwhelmed by the situation, but utterly absorbed with you. With the way you look at him, with the sounds you make because of him. And then, shy yet brave, he confesses, "I like the way you look at me..."

Your heart throbs at that; you feel the thump heavy in your chest as the emotions you have yet to confess seem to run amok. So, you try to rein them in, try to focus on the lust rather than the other scary word that begins with an L.

"Mh? Like I want you?" Though you leave Wriothesley no chance to reply, as you already chase his lips. You kiss him slowly, taste the way his confidence falters and returns. With each passing second, Wriothesley leans into you more surely. He touches your face with both hands, cupping your cheeks, thumbs brushing along your skin. His hands are so big—capable of violence, and yet they hold you like porcelain.

"I want to learn every way you want me," he murmurs, ridiculously effortless.

"You don't have to get it right all at once," you reassure, but guide one of his hands to your chest where your heart beats steadily beneath. "Just be here with me."

That convinces him to kiss you again, soft and slow, again and again until nothing but your desire for another leads this dance. Your hands curl around the back of his neck as his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in deep as the kisses turn hungry.

You feel him grow bolder with every passing moment. How his knuckles now graze along your collarbones, down your sides until he can effortlessly grip the undersides of your thighs. Every reaction you give, every breath, every sigh—it all seems to entice him to be even more shameless.

As if Wriothesley himself is surprised by the way he can make you feel.

His arms remain around you loosely, holding you in this position of power as you cage his frame in. And it seems you refuse to let him catch a break, not when you instead can explore how much harder his heart can drum against his chest. Your lips part from his, and your uneven breaths brush warm and uneven breath across heated cheeks.

"You make me ache, Wrio." The sultry praise whispered against the shell of his ear causes Wriothesley to groan quietly. "I do?" He responds in a similarly hushed tone while his lips move along your offered neck to leave faint kisses of adoration on your exposed skin.

You can't hide the soft chuckle tumbling past your kiss-swollen lips as you lean back to cradle his face once more. Though this time, your eyes roam over his features with nothing but fondness. "Yes, you do." The reassurance flows effortlessly as you see the vulnerability in his gaze.

Wriothesley isn't used to being this exposed, and you can see the instinct to retreat flickering behind his eyes, even as his hands remain firm on your waist. So, you lean back a little further as you let your fingers comb through his hair to distract him, to lure him down deeper into this exciting rabbit hole.

"Come with me," you coax with a certain confidence. Your fingers lace with his as you slide off his lap and guide him slowly to stand as well.

He follows you towards his bed, which suddenly feels rather large, a little daunting now that you are about to take this final step. You take a step back and tug gently on Wriothesley's hand until he stands in front of you, nervous yet grounded through your touch.

You try to be mindful of his body, his strength, and his restraint. But the way his arms lock around you, pressing you flush against him as if letting you go might dissolve this moment, makes it clear that Wriothesley can and will handle you.

His hand trails along your spine, pausing momentarily before his palm presses firmly against your back to bring your body flush against his own. He towers over you, cocoons you in his embrace as strong fingers curl into the fabric of your top, to hold you tighter and tighter in his arms.

His body radiates heat beneath yours, trembling slightly from nervousness, before a long breath fans over his neck as Wriothesley nuzzles into you.

"Are you okay?" you murmur while letting your hands move along the width of his shoulders and through the short hairs at his nape. He doesn't answer immediately, but his eyes meet yours to tangle in a dance of emotions that seem impossible to convey with words.

Then he nods slowly and confesses: "I just… I want you."

The sheer honesty, the look of longing, and the fact that Wriothesley finally lets go of the restraint he seems so accustomed to, fill your heart with pride and lead you to stand on your toes to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"Then have me," you reply just as honestly. "Let me take care of you tonight."

With this, you reach for the hem of his vest and begin to undress him slowly. Button for button of his dress shirt is followed by another kiss on his chest until your fingertips can glide along skin and scars, but not yet push the garments off Wriothesley's shoulders.

Instead, your touch leads down his arms until you can unwrap the leather straps around his wrists, peeling away layer by layer. Your thumbs circle the ridges of his knuckles before bringing one hand to your mouth to pause for a kiss or two. As if to praise the weight of responsibility these same hands carry day after day.

Only then do you move on to finally push the garments off his body and expose his upper body to your, rather curious, eyes—Wriothesley notes with a smirk tugging at his lips. Though that smug look doesn't last long, since your unfiltered touch over his muscular frame causes a shiver to wrack his body and a breathless chuckle of realisation to escape his lungs.

He basks in the sensations of your lips trailing from his collarbone down across his chest, slow and languid as you kiss each and every scar you find, each dip in his skin.

A gentle pressure against his hips guides Wriothesley to sit at the edge of his bed, where his eyes widen once you kneel between his legs. "Sweetheart," he starts, though his voice is uncharacteristically frail as you run your hands up his thighs, then to the waistband of his pants.

And you? Well, that innocent look you shoot up while seeking permissions makes it impossible for him to do anything but nod all too willingly.

One by one, you undo the fastenings of his boots until they are off. The click of his belt being unbuckled follows suit, and soon Wriothesley shifts as you tug down the fabric of his pants.

With his body nearly exposed, you take your time. Worshipping every part of him; touching, kissing, tasting from his hipbones up to trace the defined lines of abs with your lips.

He can't do much more than drown in the pleasure. His chest heaves lightly from the deeper breaths Wriothesley started to inhale as his fingers grip the sheets for moral support. Yes, yes, he has been with women before. But none of the women allowed him to be vulnerable, to receive attention, to feel … in love.

So this moment is humbling in a way he had expected ever since he started fantasising about being this close to you. And yet, here he was, a panting mess with pink ears and dilated pupils because of your hands ghosting along his thighs. His hips twitch slightly when you press a lingering kiss to the space just above his waistband.

"Lay back," you encourage while glancing up to his face.

He obeys and watches as you crawl onto the bed, stabilising yourself with his outstretched hand until you straddle him once again. The weight of your body over his seems to ground him, until you cup his face and kiss him again, deep and tender, with your tongue flicking gently against his. That's when he finally moans into your mouth.

You let your hands roam, exploring the contours of him, fingers drawing idle patterns on his skin. Wriothesley exhales your name as curiosity finally leads his hands to find purchase on your waist and hold you firmer against him.

"Can I touch you?" Nothing but a rasp of his usually strong voice.

You nod as you offer him a reassuring smile and begin to guide his hands however you wish. "I want you to."

That's when his fingers slide up, tentative at first, as they travel under the fabric of your clothes to lift them until you can take them off.

His eyes devour every bit of skin like it was his first time seeing a body as divine as yours. It's almost too flattering, the way his eyes roll back once you reach behind to unclasp your bra. It's automatic how his hands come up again, more confident, and far hungrier this time, to cup your breasts.

His thumbs brush over your skin, tentatively flicking over your nipples and ultimately leading him to sit up until his face is pressed into you, lips moving hot and wet over the swell of your breasts as he tastes you. Wriothesley sighed into your skin, as if he didn’t even realise how much he needed this, you, until it was given.

Your soft and breathy moans are music to his ears, coaxing him to gently nip on your skin and fondle your breasts firmly until your noises grow louder.

"You sound so pretty," he praises without a moment of hesitation while his kisses trail along the line of your neck. His touch roams along the side of your breasts to your back, your waist and your hips. Each destination is greeted with a squeeze that conveys his desire.

"Can I touch you more?" Wriothesley asks with a roughened voice while already pulling you down until his head rests in his pillows and you're squished against his chest.

After having the air knocked from your lungs, your laughter is light and your eyes seem to shine in amusement as you try to shift atop his lap. Which is, by the way, near impossible due to how firmly Wriothesley holds you pinned against him.

"Anywhere you want. However you want," you breathe, and immediately his touch and gestures fog your mind.

Wriothesley's hands trail along your spine before his right palm settles at your lower back, pulling you closer and pressing your chest to his, teasingly squeezing your breasts against himself along the way.

The movement draws your body even nearer, and your hips naturally meet—eliciting a soft moan from your parted lips. His nose grazes up from your neckline to your jaw, where he presses a soft kiss to your cheek before effortlessly cupping the backs of your thighs and flipping you over until you meet the mattress.

"Tell me if it is too much," he murmurs as his lips brush against your own. The kisses he scatters across your skin are slow yet passionate; some barely graze your senses, while others are paired with gentle suckling that leaves your head spinning.

His exploration is slow, yet so, so self-indulgent as his eyes roam your figure with wide-eyed curiosity of a man who hasn't allowed himself the indulgence of softness in a long time. You let him take his time, moaning softly when his fingers graze over your hips, your thighs, the curve of your ass.

Until his hips settle between your thighs and part them fully. Nestled between, Wriothesley grinds against your soaked panties, low groans escaping him despite his effort to hold them back. To hide how badly he needs you. But he silences himself with your lips again, like he’s drowning in your taste.

"You feel so good," you confess as your nails track the flexed muscles of Wriothesley's back, moaning softly upon the promise he indulges you with.

"You’re driving me insane," he admits breathlessly, perhaps as a silent plea, since it leads your touch to reach for his briefs and slip underneath. He is panting, hands fisting the sheets as you kiss a line down his neck and chest.

You stroke him slowly, applying just enough pressure to make him seek out more as his hips buck into your hand. His body is so responsive, so desperate. Every sigh, every moan coming from Wriothesley makes your core throb with want.

"That sound…" You cut him out of his reverie, and for a moment, he can only blink and stare at you before he deems himself able to do more than just moan into your skin.

"What?" Wriothesley inquires in, what seems to be, confusion while studying you.

"I love that sound. Your moans. Don't hide them from me," you then confess with a rather flustered expression of your own.

Wriothesley shifts, holding himself up with one arm, the other free to roam. "I won't hide them then," he concedes while his fingertips trace the shape of your arm, following the dip of your collarbone, over your chest and stomach.

You guide his hands, his mouth, teaching him where you like to be kissed, how you like to be touched. He kisses down your body, trailing his lips across your breasts, your stomach, your thighs, until your back arches and your moans fill the room.

"Tell me what you need," he whispers, before biting softly into your lower lip, to bring you back to him and respond. "Just you," you mumble, with a newfound shyness now that Wriothesley looms over you.

Wriothesley smirks against your neck, kissing down its side as he finds a spot that drives you wild and lingers there—his tongue tracing and teasing the sensitive skin.

You try to swallow your needy sounds, but the pressure in your chore won't fade. In an attempt to regain just a shred of control, you slide your foot along his calf and let your lips brush over the shell of his ear with a soft whimper.

"Don't stop…" You whisper, as your nerves and want tangle together. In response, Wriothesley shifts lower, fingers gliding over your stomach and sliding your panties. His fingertips draw closer to where you need him most while his lips leave kisses on your belly, occasionally biting or sucking as your fingers card through his hair.

"Pretty thing…" he murmurs under his breath, eyes trailing slowly over every inch of you. Then, he kisses you again, and again while squeezing one of your thighs, then spreading your legs before slipping between them once again.

You feel his cock straining against you, and you can't help the whimper of his name that escapes as your hips grind against him, fingers digging into his sides—shamelessly urging him to give you more.

His touch ghosts across your body until he reaches your hands. Here, Wriothesley ends up playing with your fingers for a moment before he brings them up to his briefs for you to take them off.

You feel the soft press of lips to your forehead while rough fingertips find their way between your thighs to tease your clit and spread your arousal until… Until the stretch of two thick fingers makes your toes curl and your moans fall free. Wriothesley pumps them gently, slowly working you open while your foreheads are pressed against another and your moans fan his lips with their sweet lust.

"I'll go slow, okay?" He mumbles—to which you hum as Wriothesley already guides one of your legs around his waist, then the other, and lets the head of his cock drag through your folds, coating himself with your need.

When he pushes inside, it feels as though everything stops for a moment. Your walls stretch to accommodate him, and your voice rises with moaned pleas while the delicious sting of your nails digging into his skin causes goosebumps to spread over Wriothesley's back.

This might be even better than the fantasy of you he indulged in.

"God… you feel incredible," he groans low into your neck as he bottoms out.

He moves, slow at first, with his lips resting lightly on your temple. The stretch and burn soon dissipate into pure bliss, allowing you to move your hips and meet his thrusts. One of your hands rests on the back of his neck to pull Wriothesley even closer, craving skin-to-skin contact as you breathe out praise for him.

"You're doing so well." Your moans, whispered against his neck, make him tremble. You leave a trail of soft love bites there, and when your walls clench around him, he shudders.

He moans your name as his head dips to rest on your shoulder, allowing your scent to cloud his mind while he loses himself in the moment—the feeling of him inside you, your whines and pleas, and the way your body feels so entirely perfect against his own.

That is, until you tighten and pulse in a way Wriothesley hasn't yet anticipated, enticing him to give in if he were a weaker-willed man. Instead, he pants a breathless chuckle and litters your neck in kisses, mumbling a roughened "Relax for me," as his hands move over your hips and squeeze your ass.

Then he unwraps your legs from his waist and pushes them to part a little wider, allowing him more room to thrust into you harder. His moans grow louder while his fingers find comfort in the soft flesh of your thighs, grounding him from the pleasure your body provides.

Your eyes roll back in response to Wriothesley hitting your sweet spot with each deep thrust as you try to withstand the nearly overwhelming pressure his body packs. A cry tears from your throat, and your back arches instinctively now that your orgasm is approaching dangerously fast. "Wrio—Wriothesley!" you gasp with a reeling mind as you realise just how easily he had taken control over this situation.

The promise of wanting to take care of him is long forgotten. Instead, your barely present focus is stuck on the view you're spoiled with: Wriothesley looks devastatingly beautiful like this, slightly flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest, while his brows are drawn together from the effort of holding back. Salt-and-pepper strands frame and cling to his features while he is insistent on giving you pleasure.

"You close?" he breathes out then, with his own release drawing near. And as you nod, as you whine and writhe, he really can't resist but use the rough pad of his thumb against your clit. "Then let go, mh?" He practically purrs in a voice unlike any you have heard before, velvety smooth and smug as he coaxes you to give in.

The wave of pleasure washes over you before you have a chance to respond. Drowning you from head to toes in tingly excitement, and as you fall apart. Your voice rises to high, near-breathless moans as you climax and leave Wriothesley no choice but to follow.

He nestles himself fully inside as your walls pulse without remorse, milking him for all he is worth until no clear thought remains inside his brain.

A comforting stillness settles over the room, save for the sound of your shared breathing that turns from ragged to slowly steadying. Wriothesley rests his forehead against yours once again as his arms wrap around you with an almost desperate gentleness, as though he could tuck you into his chest and keep you there forever.

You're still trembling faintly, breath catching now and then as your body recovers, and he holds you like you're his most fragile. His hand sweeps along your side, slow and grounding, and then stills when he realises how fast his heart is racing.

It's thunderous; loud enough, he swears, that you might hear it if you leaned in just a little closer. And then, right then, it hits him. Now that Wriothesley lets his eyes flutter shut and the weight of the moment sinks in: He's so deeply, hopelessly in love with you.

He shifts then, until he is settled against the mattress with you resting beside him, your cheek pressed against his shoulder while his free hand brushes your hair from your face. His other arm tightens around your waist, and he exhales like he's been holding it in for far too long.

"I—" He starts, but falters as the words appear stuck in his throat.

You shift slightly, just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze with a softness that tells him you already know what he is about to confess.

Which is why he allows himself to fall.

"I love you."

It's not a whispered secret, but a proudly spoken truth. Though, before you can speak, he leans in again and kisses you—not urgently, not hungrily, but with the aching tenderness of someone who has finally given in to what he has known all along.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead to yours once more and smiles faintly. "I think I have for a while now," he adds quietly, "but I didn't want to scare you off."

His heartbeat hasn't slowed, and he doesn't think it will—not when you're looking at him like that. Not when you're still here, arms looped loosely around his neck, like you were never planning on letting go either.

#srb

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