#this is absolutely wrio’s fault | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

larkspyrr · 6 months

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chapter v — would i run off the world someday? (wc. 4.6k)

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Wriothesley ducked, narrowly missing your glove as it brushed across the peak of his shoulder. You withdrew, making a tiny, frustrated noise and narrowing your eyes. You shook out your fist before returning to the stance he’d taught you, poised to strike again, a viper with its fangs bared and glinting.

"Good," Wriothesley barked, flashing you a breathless smile during the momentary lull between swings. "Keep it up!"

A wild grin lit your face, your eyes catching an arc of golden light. You lunged again and Wriothesley sidestepped it with ease, weaving in the opposite direction of the coming impact. "I intend to."

"Get one more good hit on me and we'll call it a day."

You stopped abruptly, arms sagging to your sides. Your face fell, the very picture of disappointment. "Already?"

Wriothesley tilted his head, letting his arms relax a bit, fists lowering from his face. He spared a glance at the massive bronze clock ticking away overhead. "We've been here for over —"

He had barely enough time to register your sorrow morph into savage delight before you struck, gloved fist landing squarely in his gut. He recoiled with an oof.

You straightened up, stretching your arms and neck with a grin. Your training shirt lifted slightly more than was strictly proper with the motion but he was almost too busy trying to process that he'd been duped to enjoy it. Almost. "Never let your guard down, Wrio," you said coyly. You stretched your arms out in a wide arc on either side of your body, bring them — and your shirt — back down where they belong. "My teacher tells me that all the time."

Wriothesley laughed despite his sudden air deficiency, a surprised hand still pressed against the point of impact on his stomach. "I suppose he does, doesn't he? Wise and handsome,” he said, lifting a brow. “But that was a cheap shot."

"Nothing about me is cheap," you shot back with a wicked grin and a wink, knocking the breath out of his lungs once again, more effectively than any punch ever had. You looked at him as you descended the stairs, grabbing a towel off the side of the ring and throwing it over your shoulder. "Tea?"

“Of course."

He forced himself not to watch your departure too closely — he was a gentleman, after all, no matter what the sight of you in your training clothes did to him. He'd thought, that first day when you emerged from the locker room in black trousers and a loose-fitting shirt that covered your skin all the way down to your wrists, that you looked more beautiful than you had dripping gemstones and lace — that you looked radiant, powerful, in your element. That maybe this ruse had been a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea. That you’d be the death of him.

He still thought all of those things, from time to time. He was a perfect gentleman, of course. But no one could fault a man for admiring art. So long as he didn't participate in any heists down the line.

Or attempt to, anyway. Some art seemed quite resistant to being stolen, reinforced glass and thick screws in iron walls and armed gardes and he was absolutely fine with that because Wriothesley was a duke and would never disrespect art's wishes, especially when art had no intentions of ever marrying.

He felt perhaps the metaphor had gotten away from him a little.

In the weeks since you'd come to your arrangement, he had learned quite a bit, about not only the aristocracy and etiquette, but about you as well. Your relationship was unconventional, that much was certain, but nothing about Wriothesley's life could ever be called conventional, so he elected to roll with the punches, and Archons — you certainly kept the punches coming.

You stopped to pick up your dress from the basket near the locker room door, waving your hand at him as you slipped through and out of sight. Wriothesley released a catastrophic exhale as the door swung shut behind you and he was left, mercifully, alone.

He had expected a thousand different things from your attachment — not many of which falling under the umbrella of 'good' or 'easy'. He historically had a penchant for keeping people at arm’s length, not only for their own protection — but his as well. From the time he entered the Fortress for the very first time, young and shivering and wisp-thin, bloodstained and naive, traumatized and defensive, he'd had a knack for attracting trouble, from every corner of every nook, of every name and variety. It found its way to him like sharks to an open wound and all he could do to stop it was try not to flail and make it worse and hope that the shiver would pass him by.

As much as Wriothesley enjoyed companionship, he had to face the reality that he had to be particular with those he allowed into his inner circle.

He would never admit it out loud, but it was terribly lonely.

People relied on him. No one ever asked him to take the role after the previous administrator fled—he chose to fill it, opening the doors to the office and taking up the mantle while he still wore his production overalls. He took it, so it was his duty to take every responsibility that came along with it seriously. He knew that it would mean sacrifices; that it meant never truly belonging to the overworld again. But when he thought about it, had he ever belonged there anyway? Not even since he was first sentenced, but before? Perhaps even from the day he came to be, had he ever truly belonged?

Determination, cowardice, obligation, fury. Righteousness. Loneliness. The cocktail that made Wriothesley who he was and guided his every move left little room for anything else, his own desires be damned. And when his home and his people were threatened, he knew he’d find a way to overcome, as ‘overcome’ was what he had always done, through hell or high water or whatever primordial miasma or sunken cities existed in between.

He'd hoped you would be the key. He'd expected you to be a pawn; a convenience. Perhaps another obligation, another surefire trouble hounding him, hot on his heels. He'd expected you to maybe renege on your word; to call off the ruse or fail to rise to the occasion. He'd expected you to end up being just as cold, critical, and capricious as the rest of the court had led him to expect from one of their own. He'd expected you to confine him to a singular, stifling box lined with the barbed wire of perception, to treat him like dirt — or worse, to treat him like a duke.

He hadn't expected to find a friend. But friendship was easy with you, as everything was. Easy to bare a tiny shard of his soul, easy to laugh, easy to walk by your side and feel like maybe he belonged — somewhere.

Easy to want.

And if he had to remind himself from time to time that you were off-limits — for his sake as well as your own — well, that was no one's business but Wriothesley's.

"Not gonna change?"

He snapped to attention at your voice, seeing you'd returned, as lovely and perfect and put-together as though you'd never been in the ring at all, never left bruises in the shape of your fingers on Wriothesley’s skin. Your hair once again fixed back away from your face, all the little flyaways that made his pulse jump tucked back away where they had originally been. Jewels dangled in front of your exposed collarbone, still flushed from your shower. Your head, tilted in confusion as you looked at him still standing on the platform, covered in sweat, undignified and slack-jawed.

"Ah, sorry, I was, uh. Wrapping up," he said haltingly. "I'll only be a minute."

You smiled at him, unsure but trusting, and nodded, looking for all the world out of place against the backdrop of splintered wood and battered dummies and limescale.

Wriothesley pushed down his want to a place where it couldn’t reach him, and turned away.

"This is unexpected," Wriothesley said, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes from behind his desk. He hadn’t even gotten to his morning tea yet; you’d entered his office unannounced about as soon as he’d dropped into his chair.

You folded your arms in front of your dress — which, today, was an enchanting sea green with mesmerizing eddies of opalescent pearl. He stared at them blankly, tired eyes following their swirling path as he searched his brain for answers that continued to elude him.

"You were aware there was a ball today, were you not?"

He frowned in sleepy concentration. "I was,” he said slowly, recalling your words the last time you’d been by, a few days previously. You’d mentioned it in passing over tea, while explaining to him the differences between various silverware and what they were used for in polite society. He was pretty sure he knew the differences on a fundamental level, though the reasoning behind so much specificity still evaded him, as much about ‘polite society’ eternally did. “But —"

"There are still be a number of balls we must attend together,” you interrupted. You tapped a heeled foot against the bronze floor of his office. “To keep up appearances, as you well know."

He sighed. "And I take it one such ball is happening today?"

"Indeed it is." You tugged at the sleeve of your dress absently, angling a slow smile his way.

He rubbed a hand over his face before eyeing you warily. “And what is the occasion this time?”

“It’s a two-parter," you said cheerily, beatifically, an expression which immediately filled him with a sense of dread. You daintily sat on the edge of his desk. He sent up a quick prayer to whatever Archon might be listening to give him strength. You crossed one leg over the other, the action causing the fabric at your thighs to bunch slightly. Wriothesley's fingers twitched. "The ball itself follows a performance happening today at the Opera Epiclese. Some tragedy or other. It would be wonderful if you could accompany me, which —"

"Which is why you are here to bother me at the crack of dawn," he finished.

"Precisely," you confirmed, expression light and impish. "I wanted to make sure you didn't have other plans. Plus, I knew you'd have a harder time turning me down after I made the journey all the way down here."

Wriothesley sighed again. Defeated. You were right.

He’d spent the night dealing with a possible issue among the inmates — some scheme or other George had brought to his attention before it could come to pass, a warning passed along the other day in a surreptitious walk-by, the skittish boy disappearing back into the crowd before Wriothesley had even noticed the letter stuffed into his palm — but after a night of searching alongside a few other trusted staff members, had been unable to find anything amiss anywhere within the facility.

He’d suspected it would be the culmination after months of mutterings about something nefarious at play, rumors and tips promising enough that the absolute radio silence the night before had only increased Wriothesley's worry of what such a conflict would entail. Not to mention who and how many could possibly be involved. The challenge in learning more about such details did not bode well for their origins. Rumors spread like wildfire within a prison — unless there was someone you didn’t want to know you’d been talking.

Wriothesley was, as a result, nowhere near being in a physical or mental state to deal with the aristocracy’s games on that particular day. Frustrated and exhausted, he was fairly sure it had been a miracle of human will that he managed to drag himself to his office at all.

But it had been a while since he’d been inside the Opera Epiclese, and he supposed fewer curious eyes would be on him in the darkness of the audience chamber.

Plus, you would be there.

“Fine,” he grumbled, reluctantly getting back to his feet. He dropped his pen back to the desk where it clattered, a mascot for his own inner turmoil. “Just give me a bit of time to get ready and we can depart.”

You shot off his desk excitedly. "Oh, we have time! It isn't until this evening," you said. Your eyes were eager; an expression he was getting too know a little too well. He already knew the next words that would come out of your mouth. "I figured we could squeeze in a training session beforehand."

He laughed quietly, the sound quickly transforming into a yawn. "Of course you did."

“Also,” you said, holding up a silk-clad hand with an apologetic smile. “Today, I will help you select your attire.”

Wriothesley bristled. “What was wrong with my attire last time?”

“Oh, it was perfectly fine, if you were attending as a prison warden," you said carefully, one eyebrow delicately arched. "This is an opera, Wriothesley, and we are going to be attending arm-in-arm. I need to make sure you look the part.”

Wriothesley’s face fell. He was almost too tired to ask... but he had to know. “Is looking the part going to be uncomfortable?”

Your smile was wide and innocent. He didn’t believe it for a second. “Oh, absolutely. That’s a vital part of the experience.”

Arriving in the overworld never got any less disorienting, no matter how many times Wriothesley ascended from the depths to the Opera Epiclese, passing by centuries of despair and decay and brine. But finally, at last, the sun made its appearance high overhead, unimpeded by the sea, and he was above ground once more.

He fidgeted, adjusting his sleeve. You were right. The suit you had picked for him was uncomfortable.

He looked good, though.

And when you scanned him head to toe with an appraising eye before declaring he looked ‘very handsome’, well, he decided then and there that maybe he’d have worn anything if it made you think that. He was a simple man.

Wriothesley spared one more longing glance at the entrance to the Fortress before he descended the steps into the Fountain of Lucine courtyard, into an ocean whose waters he still didn’t understand, vibrant bursts of color, diamonds and champagne and violins and titles. You, on his arm, looking as though you had not a worry in the world. He was feeling strangely reminiscent of the night of your meeting. Proud to be the one you chose to stand beside.

It didn’t make the experience any less dizzying, of course. He marveled once more at the sheer force of the glittering, suffocating display and the legions of people who looked so at home in the midst of it, so in contrast to how Wriothesley felt with his stomach on the floor. He felt the same as he had as a boy, when he looked out of the viewing windows at the end of the ferry and into the vast Fontemer, living and breathing just ahead — close enough to touch, but separated by an impenetrable wall, forever separate from the shimmering iridescent fish who swam by with no regard for Wriothesley at all, wide-eyed and so, so young.

He realized too late that he had begun to hold your hold arm a little more tightly to his side. If you had noticed his moment of weakness, you didn’t say a word, smiling and offering a polite greeting to an acquaintance as you passed by.

He hadn’t even noticed he was being guided until you came to a stop by a flowerbed, identical to the one he had first approached you at, weeks ago. This time, the look on your face was kind, understanding, lacking any of the boredom and resentment of that first evening. Looking at him, as opposed to staunchly away.

His heart pounded.

"Wrio," you said, your mouth curving into a gentle smile. You paused, a bare breath of a moment, and then reached out to adjust his tie for him, your knuckles brushing gently against his throat as you fussed over it. He swallowed, wanting yet unable to look away from you, close enough for him to kiss, if he wanted to.

He definitely didn’t.

Archons, was he fucked.

You finished adjusting his tie before patting it down, straightening out his coat, fingers curled around each lapel. You let your hands rest on either side of his chest, apparently content not to move them just yet. He hoped desperately that you couldn’t feel his pulse thundering beneath your palms.

"Ready for the show?" you asked, eyes bright and playful.

A question which Wriothesley knew had two meanings. A question to ground him. He exhaled, willing a wave of tension to drain out of his shoulders. He lifted his free hand to give yours a squeeze, just above his heart. A small number of neighboring attendees watched the gesture raptly, gossiping mouths hidden away behind their hands.

"With you by my side," he said with a lopsided smile, "I'm ready for anything."

Wriothesley had always liked the opera. He had even when he bore a different name.

As a boy, when he would hang out around the Fountain of Lucine to pluck out stray mora that the other children hadn’t gotten to yet, he would cling onto the soft, warbling notes that radiated from the opera house’s shuttered doors. The boy would relish the sounds of the plays — tragedies, comedies, romances. He’d savor the voices clear as a Fontainian spring. He’d delight in the orchestras, telling a story together in perfect harmony, painting a landscape upon the blank canvas of his adolescent imagination.

He would find a quiet corner behind some flowering bushes to sit and close his eyes and dream. Sometimes, the boy would just appreciate the gift he didn’t have any mora to buy or any right to steal. Sometimes, if he was feeling brave, the boy would let himself imagine the voice of a mother he’d never known, singing to him from somewhere forever out of his reach.

After a while, whenever he went to the Opera Epiclese, the boy would forget to check the fountain at all.

After the boy who went by a different name was taken in by a host family, the faceless voice in his mind was replaced by the voice of a woman who smiled warmly at him and drew smiles in mustard on his sandwiches and gave him friends — brothers and sisters, bright, beautiful spirits — and he didn’t have to imagine anything at all. She and a man, a mother and a father, a bewitching duet, cradling his lonely soul and giving him a song of his own to fill the empty spaces in his heart. And for a while, the boy felt like maybe he wouldn’t have to close his eyes in a dark corner to dream anymore.

Until the man and the woman betrayed the boy and the song in his mind went silent, ceasing beneath the violent whip of a conductor’s cruel hand. The boy hadn’t gone to the Opera Epiclese to hear the singing since. In fact, the first and only time he had been at all was to stand trial for their murder.

He'd barely had any interest in music after that at all; until one day when he had marched into an administrative office to find a rusty old gramophone sitting on the desk, dusty and silent and dead.

He’d pulled out a record he found in a nearby drawer and fiddled with the device until it played an unfamiliar piano tune; crackling in protest but alive. He almost always let it play now while he worked. A new song for a new name.

You shifted at his right side, your arm pressing against his own, and the boy was brought back to the present, sitting in a high-backed, elegant seat in a darkened opera house he hadn’t been back inside since he was convicted, a lifetime and an identity ago.

A young woman stood center stage, head to toe in shimmering sapphire, illuminated from above by a singular spotlight shining unforgivingly at her from somewhere in the dark catwalk. She sang of the Oceanids, a haunting, reverberating melody which ushered the audience through her sorrow and loss, her dark eyes glittering with theatrical tears.

She brought her lament to its conclusion, eyes shut, manufactured tears sliding delicately down her cheeks at last, a finely manicured hand pressed demurely to the swell of her chest. Her voice echoed and waned before coming to its inevitable conclusion; the chamber’s silence reigning supreme for only a moment before an applause far too polite to have properly encompassed the appreciation for the performance spread amongst the audience. The singer curtsied low, the curtain falling and obscuring her from view before she rose once more.

Wriothesley clapped politely alongside them until the throng began to rise and make its way back out of the venue in orderly rows, like hundreds of affluent ants.

“I didn’t realize you were such a fan of the opera, Wriothesley,” you were saying from his side. You hummed thoughtfully. Eyes on him, even in the dark, even as the lights slowly returned to the opera house. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so attentive.”

“I’m a very worldly man,” Wriothesley said smoothly. “But I’m afraid you must have not noticed yet, my lady. I am far more attentive when it comes to you.”

You snorted, a quiet sound—one of his favorites—meant only for Wriothesley’s ears, and he smiled, suddenly feeling rather warm. You tapped your finger on the back of his wrist as you stood. “My father is just ahead. We should stop and say hello.”

Wriothesley nodded in agreement, allowing you to tug him in the direction you had indicated. His eyes finally found your father in the crowd, talking to a squat, older man he didn’t recognize.

“Hello, darling. And hello, Your Grace,” greeted your father as you and Wriothesley approached. The Viscount turned, a flute of champagne in his left hand, half-drained and sloshing with the rotation. His cheeks were pleasantly flushed, his smile friendly and open. He was steadier on his feet here than he had been at the previous ball. He was dressed impeccably. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine, my lord,” said Wriothesley earnestly, dipping his head. He nodded as well to the other man, who returned the gesture in kind.

The Viscount grinned toothily. “I do hope my daughter isn’t giving you too hard a time.”

Wriothesley chuckled, looking at you as you gave your father an unimpressed glare, arm still tucked in the crook of Wriothesley’s elbow. He didn’t have to work too hard to appear fond for the benefit of watching eyes. “Of course not, sir,” he said at last, tearing his eyes away from you to return his gaze to your father. “In fact, your daughter’s company has been the highlight of these past few weeks.”

You made a startled noise. “Oh, stop it,” you said hurriedly, cheeks coloring ever-so-slightly. “You’ll make a lady blush.”

Wriothesley smiled, hopelessly endeared. “It seems I already have.”

“Hush, you.”

Your father beamed, eyes darting between your pout and Wriothesley’s smile, wrinkling even further at the corners. “Nonetheless, you have my gratitude for looking after her,” he said, and gestured to the man still watching patiently at his side. “Your Grace, this is Lord Paquette. He’s an old friend of mine. Paquette, this is Wriothesley, the Duke of Meropide.”

The other man bowed shallowly, form perfect, nearly mechanical in its precision despite his apparent age. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley smiled tightly, swallowing down the usual nerves that gripped him when meeting a new person who almost certainly knew his past — and held his precariously positioned future in their hands (and in their vote). “The honor is all mine, Lord Paquette."

The man smiled and turned his attention to you, still watching the exchange with a careful expression. “It’s nice to see you as well.”

Wriothesley could feel you relax a little as you smiled at the older man. “And you as well, my lord. How is Gerard? Still in Sumeru?"

"He's well, thank you," he responded absently. He turned his attention back to Wriothesley. “How did you find the performance, Your Grace? Have you seen Mademoiselle Genevieve perform before?”

Wriothesley felt a twinge of irritation at his dismissal of you; could have sworn he felt you stiffen at his side. He tried to ignore it for now. “This was the first I've heard of her," Wriothesley answered honestly, managing a polite enough expression. "Her performance was very moving. It's been… quite a while since I’ve been to the opera.”

Your father smiled sympathetically. Lord Paquette looked very much the same as he had before.

Wriothesley didn't think he was a fan.

“Say. We’d love to have you join us on our next ride, Your Grace,” said the Viscount.

"Oh, yes." Lord Paquette offered Wriothesley a conspiratorial grin. “It's a nice afternoon for some of us gentlemen to get away from the missus for a bit. You'll understand one day, I'm sure."

The Viscount snorted indignantly, and suddenly Wriothesley knew exactly where you got it from.

"Oh, I very much doubt that. There are scant few places I'd rather be than by her side," Wriothesley said easily, turning his best devoted smile on you. Your returning smile was dry and humorless, a tiny private eye roll just for Wriothesley's benefit. Wriothesley looked at Paquette, then your father. "But I'd be honored to join you all for an afternoon."

"Oh, how wonderful," said the Viscount, clapping Wriothesley on the shoulder. "I will send word once we have a date set.”

“Thank you, sir. I will be looking forward to it.”

"Take care, Your Grace," the Viscount called as he departed, amicably greeting no fewer than three separate people before he was even out of earshot.

Lord Paquette watched him go, turning back to face the two of you once more. He smiled at Wriothesley and then at you, nodding his head. “And I actually would like to speak with you as well at some point in the near future. I have some business I think you’ll be interested in.”

Wriothesley watched you hesitate, glancing at your father’s retreating back before returning to Lord Paquette, who waited patiently for your response. “Me?” you asked incredulously, head cocked. “Not my father?”

“Precisely,” he said ambiguously, already looking detached from the conversation, eyes wandering over the rest of the crowd. “We will speak then, my lady. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you, Lord Paquette,” you said slowly, an uncertain tint to your voice.

With that, Paquette left, disappearing into the crowd. He had left his own champagne flute behind, standing empty and neglected on the stone ledge ringing the courtyard. Wriothesley found that he could breathe a bit easier without the added scrutiny of the older gentleman, exhaling slowly.

“That was odd,” you said, pulling your arm from his and leaning against the ledge. Your eyes were narrowed analytically as you scanned the rest of the attendees. The ball was getting going in earnest, violins making their reappearance, servers darting around with startling agility amidst the crowd, balancing mountains of champagne and hors d'oeuvres on the trays held precariously aloft in their hands.

Wriothesley hummed in agreement, moving to lean against the ledge at your side. “That sort of thing not happen often?”

"Someone having business with me, of all people?" you said dubiously. "No, I can’t say it does. Should be interesting, at least. But he probably just intends to ask me to marry his son, having not even consulted him about it, if I had to wager a guess."

Wriothesley was quiet for a beat, lost in thought.

“So,” he drawled finally, the vowel long and drawn out. You quirked an eyebrow at him curiously. “Riding?” he prompted.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “My father would just like for you to come riding with him. You should be honored. It means he likes you," you explained. “It’s something they do often in the warmer months. An age-old tradition for the men of the court to go frolic in the fields for a few hours and talk about fishing or gambling or whatever it is they talk about out there.”

Wriothesley blanched as realization finally dawned on him. “Like on a horse?”

You look at him deliberately, lips curved with amusement. “Yes, Wriothesley. Like on a horse.”

“And you can’t come?”

“Traditionally speaking, no, I can’t come.”

He swallowed thickly, a sharp pang of trepidation seizing his chest. “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Well, then,” you said brightly, ruffling his hair as he stared on in horror, seeing nothing in particular. “There’s a first time for everything. I suppose we have our next lesson laid out before us.”

Wriothesley’s eyes snapped to yours. “We’re going riding?”

“Yes,” you said. You flicked a sly look at him out of the corner of your eye as you turned, weaving your arm back through his. ‘Like on a horse’.”

a/n: wrio: haha it's totally fine to be actually attracted to the person i am pretending to be attracted to. just physical attraction. totally normal. nothing to see here

i have been really looking forward to this chapter. it’s more character study than plot but after this, we get into the real thick of things :) honestly i could spend 200,000 words just ruminating on this guy's character and potential past. i want to put this man under a microscope. hoyo give me more challenge!!

also, to answer a question i got in a comment and a couple DMs - no clorinde/wriothesley will be happening here! i avoid writing/reading love triangles like the plague because they do not spark joy for me, personally. in here, wrio and clorinde are just good friends! clorinde has other prospects <3

i have been bad about naming songs from the titles, this chapter's title is from 'runaway' by AURORA

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wrio #wrio x reader #genshin #genshin x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin x you #genshin imagines #reader inserts #reader insert #lark.writes #🌊

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