The Simplicity Of His Love.

How he fell for you

dark content blogs dni

notes: so.....this exists now..... I'm not a Dottore stan I'm not a Dottore stan I'm not a Dottore stan why tf is this post so long I'm not a Dottore stan I'm very normal cries in agony

contains: dottore x gn!reader, enemies to lovers, set at the akademiya, jealous!dottore, cute nerd + evil gremlin energy

warnings: dottore is a little bit of an asshole at first

also feel free to join my genshin discord server

D o t t o r e

Honestly, at first you hated each other

Dottore was considered handsome and many of your classmates at the Akademiya had giggled when he was assigned as your study partner, teasing you about whether you two could become a thing

Which you always vehemently denied. The thought made you cringe visibly.

Truth be told, you weren't even an actual scholar at the Akademiya. You took a couple of courses there to qualify you for a job you wanted to do. It was something the prestigious institution offered, but didn't put much effort into. So assisting students like you in your studies and becoming somewhat of a tutor or mentor in your afternoon classes was what detention looked like for the students who were aiming to become exceptional scholars and researchers of the Akademiya.

And Dottore was no stranger to the concept of detention. He often took things too far, although he was never caught for some of the more illegal experiments he did.

So for a while he was assigned to spend his afternoons sitting next to you at your desk, listening to the professor explain topics he considered "too pedestrian for him" and attempted to help you with the practical tasks.

"Help" mostly consisted of belittling you and explaining things in a manner that meant to show off how much of a genius he was. He had little to no concern for the fact that you were a stranger to the subject and his elaborate explanations flew completely over your head. Who was he to care whether you understood what he was talking about or not? You knew the words he was using but strung together like that they didn't sound cohesive.

The most responsive and emotional you've seen him was the shock he expressed over things you didn't know yet. "What do you mean you don't know how to solve this??", he put his head in his hand and and buries his fingers in his hair, leaving it messy when he looked at you again.

A little bit aggressive while explaining. Literally does the task for you and is pretty rough on the equipment while he goes on a rant of "Now you do this.....and then that.....see, it's super easy."

He also puts his stuff everywhere. It's your desk in your lesson but somehow Dottore always arrives right when the lesson is about to start because he's come from a hectic session of lab experiments or outdoor research and he has his whole equipment in his backpack. And obviously this stuff can't stay squeezed into a backpack for hours so it's now supposed to be on your side of the desk.

You once accidentally knock a vial off the desk because he put it next to your arm while you were writing as it was one of the only spots on the table that were not already covered in Dottore's possessions. The professor had to calm a very agitated Dottore down.

Sometimes he just gently bulldozes your arms off the table with his elbows.

He's never intentionally hurting you but he does think being there is a waste of his time, that he's entitled to take up as much space and attention in the lesson as he wants to and that you probably loathe him as much as he loathes you. Being your tutor meant the less progress you made, the longer it would take for Dottore to be released of his duties.

One day in literature class you were introduced to a novel about a mad scientist. Of course Dottore would project on the protagonist. What he didn't expect was for you, when it came to the task of interpreting the novel, to understand exactly how Dottore was feeling. The curiosity that was never satisfied. The urge to transcend his limits as a mere mortal and learn how the world truly functioned from the perspective of the divine. The alienation from everyone around him. The fact that he struggled to perceive the people he interacted with as anything more than hollow shells. The inability to imagine them as conscious and alive as he was. He stared at you and was like oh...

You just sent him a questioning look, not understanding what he was thinking about before you proceeded sharing your theories about the work of fiction with him.

At some point he also started comparing you with the protagonist's love interest which was very suspicious considering the fact that you had absolutely nothing in common with the character in question. Yep, definitely projecting....

Literature class was one of the electives that Dottore had begrudgingly picked because doing some of these to "broaden his horizons" was mandatory although they had nothing to do with his usual research. Dottore, being as ignorant to other people and their feelings as he usually was, had a hard time with interpretation and writing about a character's emotional journey without making it sound like he was picking apart their neurological processes and discussing chemicals in the brain. In hindsight, he probably should have picked a different elective.

He also wasn't the best at actually presenting his research (the parts that the public was able to stomach at least) because he was too caught up in his own head, had the tendency to go on a tangent and just assumed that everyone would know what he was talking about.

Eventually he found that you were actually quite good at both of those things. He had gotten used to your presence so he thought he might as well make good use of it.

Dottore asking anyone for their opinion was quite the novelty.

He sometimes pouts when you criticize him because deep down there was a part of him that wanted to impress you. Why? He didn't know. Your thoughts weren't at all relevant to his time at the Akademiya and yet he found himself listening to them attentively as you helped make his presentation more palatable for..... literally anyone who was not Dottore.

You had volunteered to listen to him practice and he was wondering why you'd spend your time like this. Nevertheless, he gladly took you up on the offer and even invited you to his research presentation so you could once again see how brilliant he was. It was one of those events that were way fancier than they needed to be and so you had dressed up according to the occasion and scanned the lecture hall for Dottore, who was wearing a nice shirt and a vest and fiddling hectically with his notes. That's so typical for him, you smiled to yourself and shook your head a little.

When you locked eyes across the room, Dottore's first thought was "oh shit." Honestly your reaction wasn't that different. The two of you weren't used to stuff like,,,,, finding each other handsome or the mental image of kissing each other. Dottore actually takes this better than you do. He's just like "affection isn't real, it's all just chemicals in our brain, I can probably make something in the lab that will suppress this."

He greeted you nonchalantly and you chuckled. "You messed up your tie and your hair again." Your eyes scanned Dottore's somewhat disheveled appearance. He was always busy before events like these, always doing something and the stress and concentration made him subconsciously pull at his tie or run his hands through his hair way too often. It was a habit you had observed quite a few times when he arrived to tutor you. "Then fix it or whatever", he huffed and hoped no one was staring at him while you fixed his tie and his hair.

Hates how much he enjoys having your fingers in his hair. Literally angry at himself for liking this.

Although you didn't really understand the subject Dottore was talking about on the stage, you enjoyed listening to him and how confident and proud he looked. There was the usual arrogance he carried with him wherever he went but you could also catch a glimpse of genuine enjoyment on his face while he presented the results of his hard work.

He asks you later how you liked it and his heart skips a beat when you compliment him. Though, considering the tension that always was between the two of you, compliments were usually followed by a playful insult or a teasing remark.

Playful banter became your constant once both of you had begrudgingly accepted that the hatred you felt for one another had long since faded. You were often giving the other a challenging grin and Dottore loved this. He loved how witty you could be and how you retorted back confidently when he teased you. Soon enough you two had what one could consider several inside jokes.

Before he had realized it himself, he started seeing you as a person rather than a subject to study the same way he considered the whole world his experimental ground. Hell, he started looking forward to seeing you every day. Dottore had convinced himself that this was solely because he found you intriguing and he wanted to see how you'd react to different things he did or said. He was simply studying your behavior.

While he was usually agitated and annoyed when you didn't understand things or messed up in lessons, Dottore became more gentle in his explanations and tried to actually inspire some interest in the topic in you.

One time the two of you had to do a simple science experiment that Dottore had done countless of times. If different kinds of chemicals were poured onto a crystal found in the caves of Sumeru's forests, the crystal would glow in different colors and light up the room. The professor dimmed the light while Dottore guides your hand a little to make sure you don't spill any of the chemicals or hurt yourself in the process. You were wondering where the change of heart had come from. A month or two ago he would have shrugged had you dropped acid onto your legs. But now he simply hissed "Don't do that, do you want to kill yourself?" and carefully put the vial with the chemical you were holding aside

He quietly chuckled to himself at how fascinated you seemed when staring at the colorful spots the light of the crystal threw on the wall. He wondered when he had started to find moments like these endearing. He hated his growing affection for you. This was never something that was supposed to happen. Dottore was above something like falling in love and if he were to fall for someone, he thought it would be an exceptional genius such as himself. Yet here you were, turning out to be more than enough for him. If he already had to go through the hassle of dealing with his emotions and experiencing "love", he was glad it was you.

He only noticed he was smiling fondly at you when you turned your head towards him and gave him a smile back. Dottore was closer to you now than he had ever been. Your shoulders and arms were touching, you could feel his warmth and smell his fresh cologne. He eventually reached for your hand while staring at the crystal with a concentrated expression and you knew, were you to comment on it, he would push you away. So you gently rubbed his fingers with your thumb and the two of you stared at the colorful lights in silence. Needless to say things were very awkward when the professor turned on the lights again and the moment was over. Dottore was cold once again and excused himself, stating that he still had a research project to attend to and left the room. He just needs some time to process this.

Dottore's growing feelings for you show in subtle ways. How, during events everyone who's taking classes at the Akademiya is invited to, he chooses to sit next to you and talk to you even though his esteemed colleagues are literally right there. How he's always looking out for you, sometimes gently guiding you away with his hand from people who were about to bump into you. The way he started giving you more space and finally shared his thoughts and knowledge with you without complaining all the time. How he'd bring you a coffee or a hot chocolate from a nearby vendor when it was a cold morning. Sometimes you'd bring food to share with him as well but Dottore is an incredibly picky eater so his responses vary from "Oh, thank you" to "Gross, how can you eat something like that?" even though he had never tried the food

Dottore's plan was to just keep you around because he found his time with you amusing and eventually once he's had enough, his feelings would fade away and he could move on with his life. Or cook something up in his lab after all. Unfortunately for him, Dottore was jealous.

He had noticed you had been spending quite some time with another student and you were doing things together many people would consider a date. People had assumed the two of you were a couple, much to Dottore's distaste.

Dottore would often ask you how you had spent your day and huff when you mentioned this person. He'd comment on how he hated people like them and always seemed to imply you had terrible taste. On some days he'd see you and say something like "How's your little romance going?"

"We're not dating but I do wonder why you keep asking that", now it was your turn to give him what was commonly referred to as a "shit-eating grin" and Dottore internally adorned his brain with every curse word in his vocabulary. "I just think you could do better is all. I don't get what you see in them", he tried to play it off like it was his usual arrogance talking but Dottore was a little hurt and he hated how you could make him feel like that. He felt more and more backed into a corner when you, contrary to his expectation about how this conversation would go, kept inquiring about his reasons for acting like this.

"I'm just spending time with a person I like. Why do you keep commenting on that? Why does this bother you so much?", you didn't back off. Dottore clenched his fists and subconsciously avoided eye contact. A hissed "Kiss me and find out" slipped out under his breath before he could stop it.

He was still processing the mess he had gotten himself into when you snaked your arm around his waist and pulled him closer. When your lips met his, his kiss was uncharacteristically gentle at first. Like he was unsure what to do. For now he was just enjoying the sensation and confirmation that you were finally his. He gently caressed your cheek before sighing and kissing you back more passionately, almost desperately, as he had denied himself to feel the way he did for you for too long. He gently nibbled on your lip and held you tightly in his arms.

When the kiss ended, Dottore pulled you into his chest, holding the back of your head with his hand. You buried your face in his shirt and ran your fingertips along his back. Dottore thought about how he could get used to this.

You looked into his eyes with a grin on your face. "Not. a. word", Dottore warned you which made you chuckle.

You simply sank back into his arms and let him hold you for a while.

Dottore takes a long time to warm up to you. He's still sometimes cold and passive and he wasn't ready to put a label on your relationship yet. Affection was mostly initiated by you, although you could tell when he craved it because he'd get a little grumpy and impatient. He enjoyed your touch, even though he didn't dare admit it yet. But with time Dottore opens up more and more to you. He becomes more attentive and affectionate eventually. He just needs time.

dreams come true

[art cr: @343_sashimiiiii on twt]

sub xiao x sub adeptus! gn reader ft tentacles

SUMMARY = inspired by an inazuman manga, you and xiao make use of your powers to summon a tentacled cyptid in your dreams...to have sex with of course

WARNINGS = smut, penetration (reader receiving), oral (reader + xiao giving), tentacles, bondage, dacryphilia, double penetration, overstimulation, reader calls xiao their "poor little bird" once, dream sharing and then dream fucking, both reader and xiao gets fucked by tentacles and then the tentacles make them fuck each other, their relationship is very wholesome they just fuck a lot too :)

W/C = 2k

A/N = i burnt the midnight oil for this please be proud of me :( also thank you to @vermillionbun for betaing <3

TAGS = @edenialucas, @huboi, @nejibot, @lovediluc, @yumixxn, @teallapril, @xiaoflwrs who asked me to tag her (you fucking whore)

The ability to bend and manipulate dreams is not a skill unfamiliar to adepti. But it is a skill you have long forgone in favour of your other adeptal arts. Thankfully, your partner has much experience in the art. If you could just convince him to–

“Outrageous. We are adepti. Our duty is to use our abilities to protect Liyue and its inhabitants. To use those abilities in such a sacreligious manner–”

“Would be perfect! Just think about it, Xiao! All those slimy tentacles…groping and touching every part of your body…so long and bulbous…filling up all your holes…”

You rub your thighs against each other as you conjure up that image in your head, while Xiao furrows his eyebrows. Although he would ask himself how in Rex Lapis’ name someone with your carefree personality became an adeptus, he already knows the answer to that. Having fought alongside you in the Archon War, he has witnessed firsthand your dedication and your steadfast attitude, purging enemies of the Great Lord of Geo with your weapon in tow. Truly, the ferocity in your eyes was a sight a behold, a terrifying side of you that made monsters cower in terror.

And this…is another side of you.

Ever since the Lord of Geo handed his control of the nation to the Qixing, you decided to acquaint yourself with mortal customs and activities, although your interest led you to questionable territory. Particularly, a type of illustration-focused literature known as manhua; which is a compelling concept in itself, worthy to capture the interest of an adeptus. The baffling part is that all the books that you have collected…are from the erotic genre.

Out of curiosity, Xiao once picked up one of your books and flipped open to a random page, only to find a detailed drawing of a naked couple having sex on a beach staring back at him. The worst part is, you weren’t even ashamed when you returned and found out that your s/o had discovered the true nature of your hobby, even pulling him down to sit beside you as you rambled on and on about the contents of your favourite books, all while Xiao fought — and failed to — suppress the red overtaking his face and ears.

He couldn’t look you in the eye for a week after that.

He eventually grew accustomed to your strange interest and upon your suggestion, started using your books for inspiration in sexual activities; though everything from the novels in that area has always been proposed by you.

This is just one of those cases. Upon learning of your newfound interest, an old acquaintance from across the ocean sent you books from her publishing house — apparently they go by the term manga in those parts — claiming it may come in handy. A few days have past since then, bringing you to today, with you shoving a book about an erotic love story between a tentacled-monster and a girl and begging Xiao to make the story a reality. Or close to reality.

“Your ability is adequate to form such a dream.” Xiao crosses his arms. “I don’t understand why I need to be involved.”

“Because it would be a nice bonding experience, don’t you think?” you insist. “Come on, it would make our sex life more interesting! And I can tell by that look in your eyes that you’re curious.”

Xiao scoffs. “Preposterous.”

“Oh well,” You shrug, laughing. “I won’t force you if you really don’t want to. Sex is supposed to be fun and it’s no fun if you’re doing it reluctantly.”

Fun…

That concept would have been lost from his mind eons ago if it wasn't for you; you who always pestered him, you who would bring him almond tofu and other human cuisine. Food which he would have instantaneously turned down if only it wasn’t made by you. You, the adeptus who welcomes change and dives headfirst into it. You, the person he would suffer through another millennia’s worth of torment for, just to protect your blinding brilliance. He takes one more look at the book in your hands as you skim through the pages, recalling the soft smile on your lips after the first time the two of you had intercourse together, the bliss that washed over him and cleansed his soul just for that one moment.

“It baffles me how you would find amusement in such an obscene thought.” He wets his lips, thinking of the vivid image you had described to him and the matching illustrations. “But I would like to know more.”

Your head shoots up. “You… you really want to try it? You really don’t have to force yourself if you aren’t interested…”

“You said it yourself didn’t you?”

You tilt your head.

"And I can tell by that look in your eyes that you’re curious."

Oh.

Oh.

“Xiao!” You jump into his arms. “I love love looooove you so much!”

The yaksha grunts, trying to suppress the glowing pink blossoming at the apples of his cheeks.

—

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes again is an empty cavern. He awoke on a circular platform surrounded with water, thankfully with you beside him, just like the both of you imagined. You stir awake, gasping upon realising that your plan worked. “We did it, Xiao! We did it!” 

He stares at the scenery in awe, before tensing up at the feeling of movement under the water. A lone tentacle spews out of the water, greeting the both of you. You step forward, beckoning the creature closer. It rubs against you and you laugh, returning the gesture with a kiss. Xiao takes slow steps, approaching the creature with the stiffness of a startled cat. A tap on his shoulder forces him to whip his head around, particles floating to form his spear, when he realises it’s just another tentacle. It backs away, whimpering.

“It senses your nervousness, Xiao,” you say. “Relax, I told you that this is supposed to be fun. We’re both in control.”

Heeding your advice, Xiao awkwardly pats the creature. After some hesitation, it nuzzles against his hand, wrapping itself around his arm to the exposed skin on his bicep. The texture is slimy yet comforting. No surprise there, since you imagined the slime to have a calming effect when the both of you did the ritual. Just to ensure that the experience would be smoother.

More tentacles pop out of the water, surrounding the both of you. Xiao holds his breath as they wrap around him — around his legs, waist, arms — and hoists him several feet off the ground. One of them smears his crotch with its slime, another climbs up his chest to play with his sensitive nipples. Amber irises dart to you in panic, widening at the sight of your aroused expression as a thick tentacle moves in and out of your mouth while the others peel off your clothing. He watches one of your legs being pulled up and you choke as a phallic-shaped tentacle penetrates your hole. In this dream, it doesn’t hurt as much as it normally would and the excessive slime provides enough lubricant for the pleasure to undermine the pain.

Xiao’s attention is brought back to himself at a sound of fabric ripping. The tentacles waste no time in toying with the newly exposed area, smothering his pristine body with stickiness. A smaller tendril circles the base of his bare cock, stroking it to hardness. The adeptus’ body shivers, unable to withhold the soft moans coming from his mouth.

Most adepti either have high sex drives or have little to no desire. Xiao happens to fall in the latter category; until you pursued a romantic relationship with him, of course. As such, thousands of years without receiving or giving any kind of intimacy made his body — especially his nether regions — especially sensitive. He couldn’t stop himself from cumming immediately the first time you gave him a handjob, and even after sleeping with you for so many nights, he has to use his entire willpower to stop himself from ejaculating right then and there.

A light caress at his tip nearly sets him off, forcing a gasp out of him that is immediately silenced by another cock-shaped tentacle filling his mouth. Xiao struggles to take it in at first, so it waits for him to get adjusted. The adeptus gives himself a second to quell his nerves, breathing in through his nose before he begins sucking on the appendage. The size is…a lot to take in — literally and figuratively — and he couldn't help the tears forming in the corner of his eyes. It's long too, the shaft-like part of it hitting the back of his throat with little to no effort. How in Rex Lapis’ name are you able to take this thing so easily?

Still, Xiao does his best; spurred on by the tendrils toying with his dick and your muffled moans echoing through the cave. The yaksha has to restrain his gag reflex when the appendage in his mouth starts picking up speed. The contrast of the cold tendril and his hot mouth feels intoxicating, not to mention he is literally ingesting that calming enzyme mixed into the slime. In the midst of the lewd noises and the pleasure, his brain turns into mush and he barely registers the thick fluid gushing down his throat. He coughs as the tentacle retreats, viscous white spilling down his chin.

Xiao hears coughing beside him and he turns to see the creature has moved the both of you next to each other. Instinctively, the two of you lock lips, tongues intertwining and exchanging the monster’s cum through your mouths. Archons, he didn’t realise how much he misses your lips. If his arms weren’t bound at the back, he would have reached out to hold you. The two of you part, and you stare into Xiao’s cat-like amber irises; sharing a longing gaze as your chests rise and fall with exhaustion. The moment is interrupted when the tentacles shift the two of you again. This time, Xiao is underneath you while your legs are lifted up to your chest. 

“Wha– oh!”

A cry — yours, his or both, he wonders — resounds off the walls as you were slammed down on Xiao’s cock, before being lifted up and slammed back down again, over and over again at an inhumane speed. Hot tears stream down Xiao’s cheeks, overstimulated by the sudden euphoric cruelty brought upon by the creature. He tosses his head back, delirious at all the sensations he’s experiencing. The wet tentacles on his body, your tight hole clamping down on him so earnestly, his dick ploughing inside your deepest parts. It feels too unreal. 

Just like a dream. 

“X-Xiao! Xiao!”

He hears your calls for him in the sea of lust, hidden beneath the other vulgar moans and sloppy sounds. 

“(Name)…!”

He can’t take it anymore. The intimacy and pleasure of the moment completely overtakes Xiao's mind and he unravels at that moment, gasping as he gives all of his precious cum to you. Spurred on by his orgasm, you squeal as you tighten around him, reaching your climax a few seconds after. Xiao heaves, trying to catch his breath while the tentacles shift the two of you back to the ground. The moment they return back to the water, your body collapses on top of your lover

“(Name)?” He panics.

“Hnnn…it’s okay, I’m fine,” you assure him. “Just tired.”

Xiao calms down immediately, and wraps his arms around you. “Let us return.”

—

“Hah…that was fun!” you yawn, stretching your arm. “Let’s do it again some other time.”

It’s like the tiredness in your body vanished the moment you woke up in reality — you look even more invigorated that before — while Xiao could barely even move, only managing to grunt in response.

“Aww my poor little bird…” you coo, kissing your lover on the cheek. “Was it too much for you?”

“Ugh…because I was the one who had to stabilise that dream,” he mutters, shooting a half-hearted glare.

You laugh. “Okay, okay. Did you have fun, though?"

“...Hmph, I suppose.”

“Good.” You smile, kissing him again.

synopsis: It doesn't matter which name he chooses to go by; even after 500 years you will call him Zandik. Even after decades, the two of you will be tied by an invisible string. Years come and go but somehow the two of you continue to argue about the same philosophy. He calls this thing a blessing, you call it a curse.

pairing: dottore x gn! reader word count: 5.3k warnings: time jumps, domesticity hints, mentions of hickeys, dottore is complicated and so is your relationship, ngl reader kind of faruzan coded with the curse, proofread but while skimming.

i. spring

The first time he meets you, he finds you annoying.   Laughing about it comes so easy now even if the memory is around five hundred years old, but, back then, on the very first day that you sat down next to him – he undoubtedly found you annoying.  

While answering to the name Dottore, he would never say he got attached to any particular season in the year. Every true scientist knows that change is the only permanent thing because it helps them shape and mold new creations. Chasing after change meant chasing something eternal even back then when he was simply Zandik.  

Yes, he answered to the name Zandik. His classmates as well as fellow researchers from other darshans knew him. There was a certain genius that always showed itself. It was admiration that followed. Those who wanted to partner up with him or those that simply wanted a glance from him; it was a certain privilege he could leverage. But he also had unspoken rules and one of them you decided to cross.  

Everyone knew that when Zandik was inside the library with more than 9 books in his hands, nobody was meant to approach his table. It doesn’t matter how many people were intended to use it; a certain sense of ownership existed. If you wanted to get on his good side, you would not bother to approach him when he was deep into theoretical research. When someone did, they would get a tense jaw, a lowered gaze and red eyes that glimmered. It doesn’t matter that everyone called him handsome, in those moments he was simply scary to look at.  

He thought that this spring day would prove fruitful in answering his passionate research question. He laid down his materials; he was enjoying sketching and reimagining a new model when out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone with a Haravatat uniform approach his table.  

Surely it was a mistake on their part. He placed his hand on the bottom corner and was about to flip to the next page when his hand stayed hovering above the corner he wanted to keep pristine. You were lucky he didn’t grab the delicate paper in between his fingers because he could have risked denting it when you saw down.  

You sat down? At his table? When he had not 9 but 13 books in front of him and his personal materials? Haravatat students did have a certain repertoire for being particularly annoying he remembered. Others found them either too bubbly or too quiet; they were known for their ‘specific’ behaviour, loud debates and their emotional connection to languages. Zandik could respect the few individuals that actually were valuable there but he could not respect someone breaking one of his rules and distracting him from his own research.  

His jaw was already tense but it fell open when he turned his head in your direction and realized you had no shame. Typical of a Haravatat student.   You sat there on the chair diagonally from him; your legs were crossed, your head was leaning against your hand and you were looking directly at him. The book in front of you couldn’t even be used as a cover up.  

It was closed.  You were staring at him.  You felt no shame when he turned around.   God, were you annoying.  

If he wanted his peace back, he would have to make it by chasing you off. To chase you off, he would have to engage with you.   He placed his hands on the either side of his book, he leaned in slightly to get a better look at you. Animals did this all the time – they showed signs of hostility. Humans, as the ultimate animals, were no different. Perhaps this would be enough to activate you own instincts and chase you off?  

… 

It wasn’t.   You were still looking at him.  Analysing him.   You were after something.  

“What do you want?” Just because you were here, it didn’t mean his voice would change. Your presence should have no effect on him similar to that.   He was hoping you would answer fast but you just continued to look at him. Then, you uncrossed your legs in a frustrated motion and you shook your head. How annoying.  Just what was it that you wanted? 

“I will not ask you what you want again. Leave if you have nothing to say.” 

That seemed to strike a nerve. Because for the first time in a long time, someone glared at him. You crossed your legs again and scowl was on your face in a matter of seconds. How animated; how easy you were to read like a creature. You approached his table. You looked at him; so why were you annoyed now?  

“Listen, I don’t have a lot of time to entertain your foolishness what-” suddenly, your hand stretched out and your index finger was pointing at him. 

“You!” How dare you point at him? His jaw grew tighter and his shoulders tensed. You had not right for this.   “You! What does it mean to be human?!”  

…   Excuse you?   His shoulders fell down and he leaned back with laugher. Not only were you annoying, you were absurd. Who does that to anyone? Who does that to him?  But sure, he supposes he could entertain your little question. His laughter stops and he straightens up.  

“To be human means to chase change.”  

That is what he has been doing all his life. That is what brought him here. Why do you blink up at him like an unimpressed mushroom boar? Is his answer not good enough for you?   You stand up and pick up your own book.  

“So disappointing. I thought a genius everyone mentioned would give an answer not underlined on chapter two. As if chasing change could mean being human. Do you really think change is something you can catch? Absurd.” 

He wasn’t absurd.   You were.   How dare you act like this? How dare you simply turn around with a bigger scowl on your face and walk away from him?  

You didn’t even give him your name and you dared to accuse him of being absurd? Haravatat students will always be so odd. And did you have to do it in a full library so everyone would get a front row ticket to your theatrical show?  

Ah yes, Dottore is sure even when reminiscing.   You really were annoying on the first day he met you.  

ii. summer

“Can you believe he actually implied that she was ugly and then got offended when she dissed him proving she overheard it? And now, suddenly, mister ‘I am rich and your family is poor’ is disappointed because she won’t marry him?!” 

Perhaps never wanting to find out your name would have been more beneficial to him? If he only dubbed you as ‘that-one-library-weirdo', he wouldn’t be listening to this right now. But, Zandik compares it to the months when he hadn’t know you and he realizes doing his experiments in front of this giant machine was more lonely back then.  

The grass and the night sky, a small flutter of the wind that made the corners of his papers turn up; it suddenly feels more full...this place that you share. Somehow, he found out your name and general passions from other students. Then, when you approached him in the library table again without saying anything, he allowed that too; furrowed brow and all.   Then, the two of you had to acknowledge one another in the hallways with a head nod, or a small wave or an occasional ‘hi’ uttered softly.   He isn’t quite sure when and how the two of you started sharing a few notes, sitting next to one another in the same elective the next semester or even going out for food and drinks.  

He once said it was odd and you told him that is the whole problem with his philosophy. Change just happens; you cannot catch it as it unfolds. You said it would always be that way because humans functioned for eons with it. You said he should think of it as a natural law and he would have, had you not decided to suck on the straw of your drink so loudly the hair on his head stood up.  

Still, this was a welcome change to him. He tends not to dwell on it too much; after all, those thoughts were your job.   Yes, he let you sit in the grass next to him while he fixes up this machine.   Yes, he didn’t completely tune you out.   And, yes, he might have told that stuck-up blonde man in his darshan that you were in fact not single. It isn’t like lying and manipulation were out of his character; Zandik swore he would get what he wants and reject anything he deems unworthy. That blonde man whose name he didn’t even bother to remember was unworthy of you. Simple as that. Nothing more.  

For the first time since he was a simple child, Zandik felt like he had made a genuine friend. Having to share a table with the two of you both annoying him would have been torture.  

The new mechanical part needs 5 screws. One. Two. Three. 

“Zandik, are you listening to me?” 

Four. 

“Yes, yes – I don’t know why you called that man a ‘standard’ of romantic literature if he acts like that.” 

The fifth one. The last one is always the worst.  

“I don’t have time to explain that again. I have something more important to tell you.”   “Mhm.” 

If he could just get it to fit right and make this work, he would be at the end of his experiment. Just a few more twists and- 

“I am leaving Sumeru tomorrow morning.” 

He halts. The screwdriver stands still not having finished the mission assigned to it. Something inside the machine cracks and for a second Zandik wonders if that noise came from inside of his own body. Shouldn’t he be mad? Upset? This is the first time you’re telling him about it. Wait, if so, it must be a silly trip that is meaningless and so insignificant you forgot to mention it.  

“Oh, are Haravatat students setting up camp somewhere again? Your darshan really likes to have bonding experiences.”  

Zandik continues to twist the screw; the machine failed but he will see this through to the end. Looking up at you when he already knows the answer from the silence that settles between the two of you would show his weakness. Zandik has no weaknesses anyone knows of. Zandik has a prideful disposition he will keep up regardless of what happens.  

“It is just me...remember how I said this romantic book is fascinating? I didn’t mean the romance of it; I meant the ruins that are described only briefly. They’re too detailed to not exist somewhere in Natlan! I am sure of it! I got permission to make them my thesis. Isn’t that great?”  

You never talked to him about your thesis plans. He was forced to listen to 5 hours of why the female lead’s arrogance was important in the novel but he wasn’t privy to something more intimate of your plans.  

He didn’t tell you much about his childhood and judgments of his villagers or classmates. He didn’t reveal anything significant about himself but...that library table was his intimate space which he allowed you to occupy. Nobody else.   And this place? Do you know how meaningful it is to him? To his dreams and aspirations as a researcher? Do you know how many nights he spent on the grass you are sitting on right now just trying to get his research to work? And, if it didn’t, the hours he spent hoping and cursing at the parts?  

Zandik suddenly felt cold towards you. He let you inside these intimate spaces and what did he let in return? Less loneliness? The two of you clearly didn’t connect as human beings. What does he know about you? He knows the way you write in the margins and the shapes you’d draw on his papers, he knows the way you talk when passionate – how he has to take one step to the left when you start debating a syntax issue unless he wants your outstretched hand to hit his cheek – he knows the annoying sound you make when drinking from straws; fuck, he even knows the patterns to your walks.  

Was this what you truly meant when you said humans cannot catch change? The fact that just now he realized how much he knows about you yet not enough to have predicted this?   The worst by far, is that he cannot find it in himself to yell at you for how he feels. He can’t yell at you for not knowing this... He knew that everyone travels for their thesis, so, he should say he expected it.  

You don’t need to know how he thought the two of you would travel to the same place but with different research objectives. Still, what else can he do besides let you go?  

He looks at you. Finally. But you wish that he hadn’t. This is an expression you’ve never seen on him before; an expression that makes leaving such a hard task even when you rely on not saying goodbye.  

Zandik sometimes reminded you of stoics; the way he would take every failure and success as equal opportunity without getting derailed. But, only now do you see his red eyes glow; the way they’re looking at you while hardly blinking – like he is trying to remember as much of you as possible to carry with him.  

You never could have guessed how right he was; how even that millisecond meant remembrance that haunts.  

The two of you don’t say goodbye that night. You wish each other luck and promise to compete on who can finish their thesis faster.  

Neither of you do.  

Zandik gets expelled for how obsessive he becomes.   And you get lost to time. Lost to Natlan.  

The last news Zandik hears about you does not come from any of your letters – they were only three after all. He hears from the Matra that you rushed inside a ruin and were lost forever. 

The word forever always had a special ring to him; that was the first time he hated it. If you were lost forever, he would simply be better than you. He would live forever and make sure to do everything he wanted. Ample time leads to ample rewards.  

Zandik, when he changes his name, abandons everything that grounded it. He throws away your letters and he throws away you. Only he knows what was harder to discard.  

iii. autumn

Dottore sometimes has to stand inside of his own lab to admire his work. The vastness of it and all the success and trust he has as well as the fact his clones are more advanced than ever; it all proves just how right he was. And just how wrong they were. 

Turning down a genius and trying to stop his advancement? Foolish.   Those people in the village that ostracised him? Insignificant. As well as their offspring that he never saw.   Only a few people had what it takes to contribute true research to this world. And they were lost or boxed in or stopped by something so trivial as the academia or governments.  

He stands above it all. As the ultimate showcase of unrivalled genius and absolute freedom. Nobody asks him what it means to be human anymore. They don’t consider him such; and every single day he slips down the path of being something that cannot answer that.  

His test subjects often shout about humanity and how he has none. He wonders if they realize how it means nothing. Seeing humans struggle and break does light up something in him. And he decided to chase that long ago.  

“Lord Harbinger.”  

He stays silent. Lord Harbinger is a title he refuses to answer to. Why should he turn his neck to the same words his inadequate colleagues do? If the person calling him doesn’t immediately correct himself, they know what happens next.  

“I mean, Doctor!” Good. Humans knew how to adopt quickly after all. He finally tilts up his neck towards the man. He takes off the mask covering his face just so that his subordinate could see the glare.  

“What do you want?”  “Something very odd is happening in quarter 7, section 31!”  “Odd? I didn’t even experiment in there recently and nothing important was placed there from my machinery.”   “We have no idea what is happening! There is a glow but no smoke or fire or anything else. We only thought it would be right to notify you.”  “A glow you say? Ah, perhaps it is a jinn lamp where a weak soul of older days slumbers. We did place the gifts of those nobles from all over Teyvat there. I told Pierro I don’t need them but he insisted I should keep them.”  

He twiddles with his pen.  

“That section is insignificant to me. I hold no care about it at all.” He takes a deep breath. If only it was section 37 instead. There, he was working on an experiment involving lay lines and ghostly souls. 

“Either way Doctor, the light just keeps on growing and we are afraid it will expand to other sections. What if one of the nobles turned against us? What if-”   “Shut your mouth, I will go. No matter how many times I look for capable people, they never meet my expectations.”  

Dottore gets up from his chair but with no zest. He saw bottles like those of jinn all the time years ago. The only thing less exciting about seeing one again are the white hallways he has to walk through to get to the room. The underling follows behind him, scurrying like a bug. Cosmically insignificant. To think that this bug’s energy will one day get the same treatment as those ghostly souls that actually matter.  

He opens the door and sees a bright blue light. There is no imminent danger. Perhaps the being inside this lamp recognized another presence inside the room and they are reacting to it? He shudders at the thought of having to deal with another ex-lovers pair that vowed revenge on one another.  

Dottore walks over to the source of the light. He cannot see the centre of it. It gives off a warmth however. And he wanted to roll his eyes at the way his subordinate shakes. But, his curious nature could never lay dormant for a long time.  

He realizes that he feels warmth from it, but his insignificant bug feels chills. Whatever this is, it could come in handy for his experiments that require temperature changes.  

Dottore reaches to grab it.  

“We tried that before Sir! Nothing changed!” 

Sir again. Not Doctor. The same second mistake cannot be forgiven.   Dottore’s hand grabs at the light core. He expects the feel and the weight of a marble.  

But it completely disappears.   Dottore’s face drops as does his excitement. The poor underling has no idea he will suffer for both his own actions and the fluctuations of Dottore’s moods.   The room is pitch black again. There is no sound coming from anywhere. The other subordinates ran off because they thought the light was dangerous. Dottore clicks his tongue in realizing he will have to replace them all again.  

Then, the bug behind him shrieks. He can hear him tumble onto the ground and run off as soon as he gets up. What a fool. He is yelling at the top of his lungs. Perhaps pulling out his tongue should teach him to be quiet.  

When Dottore turns around, he feels warmth engulf his body. He digs his heels into the floor to stop himself from moving. He hears a sound he hadn’t heard in years.  

“Zandik? I-Is that you?”  

He can hear your voice. He can hear you call out that acursed name. Why are you here? Why are you on the floor, hunched over and kneeling?  

“Zandik?” 

Stop saying that! Stop it! He can feel his right hand shake; he can feel his heart beat. Worst of all, he can hear the things the other clones are saying about this memory. It is becoming a part of the collective. He can hear the collective hope and heartbreak.  

“That is you. Isn’t it?”  

Your voice is so weak.  

“I haven’t answered to that name for 200 years now.”  

He cannot find it in himself to say anything else. The other clones are creating a ricocheting cacophony inside his brain. He should have thrown out more of his humanity. Didn’t he burn those letters? Why is he suddenly remembering lines from them? Why is one of his clones crying?  

“200 years..?” he can hear the bewilderment in your voice. When he looks down at you, he can see the tears in your eyes. You are afraid; they no longer hold any light.  

He kneels down and touches your shoulder to calm your shaking body. Only then does he get hit by the ugly revelation that you are laughing but there is no sound. You look like you are breaking in every sense of the word; he never managed to drive his test subjects to these limits where they would lose everything at once.  

He clicks his tongue. He shakes your shoulders with a grip that makes you yelp. Only then do you actually begin to cry. He takes it. He takes this breakdown over the utter lack of humanity you displayed before.  

“Zandik I-I"  “Dottore. My name is Dottore now.”  

He says it even if he is sure you can’t actually hear him. His voice can’t reach out to you even if he is kneeling down next to you, embracing you as a surprise to himself. You’re crying into his shoulder, slobbering and hiccupping.  

You ask him what it means to be human again.   He cannot answer you. He became something else.   You say that you aren’t sure about it anymore. That hurts more than his own lack of an answer. You should have come back in a different way. You should have come back pointing a finger at him, yelling to him about his choices. Maybe even yelling at him for not looking for you. Not like this. Never like this.  

Only when you faint in his arms does he notice the cuts and bruises on your body. For the first time since he changed his name – Dottore decides to treat someone like a real doctor. His subordinates have to live with that – seeing the ruthless harbinger who terrorizes them show some care. Command it even.  

It isn’t natural. It shouldn’t even exist. Seeing humanity from a man like that makes them question everything. He goes into your room 5 times a day, doesn’t let anyone else do anything besides keep guard. And then, in between those visits, he tortures children and experiments on them with poison and toxic remains. He gets blood all over his coat and then puts on a new one when knocking on your door.  

They can’t fathom it. It simply shouldn’t exist. And they start avoiding that door; because pretending like it doesn’t exist and pretending like their master is only ruthless makes it easier to live. 

And when you do wake up – it is impossible to ignore how their master’s humanity makes itself known. 

iv. winter

“You know I quite like this little habit of ours.” Dottore’s voice reminds you how wrong your predictions were. Since he came back earlier from Sumeru than you bet on, you now owe a large sum of mora to a certain banker.  

“I was not aware that it was a habit. You just come here whenever you please.”   “There is something to come to. Be a dear and fetch another tea cup for me, would you?” Typical him. Only he would be able to say such a line; implying that whatever this was between the two of you reminded him of a home.   But, even if you click your tongue, you get another tea cup and pour him some. At least you can remember your own humanity when your cold hands touch it and suddenly warmth seeps through. As a child, you loved to do it. You would put your hands in cold rain on purpose just to feel this simple warmth. You have a habit of taking off your gloves when drinking tea, he keeps his on. He has a habit of sitting next to you in the same way he did all those years ago.  

“Now, let me engage in ‘pure bragging’ as your lovely lips like to put it. Are you ready to hear of Sumeru again and just everything that I accomplished?”  

Something tells you not to give him that satisfaction. So you put the cup down and point a finger at him.  

“You’re more human now, Zandik.”  “How many times must I tell you not to use that name?”  “Until you figure out a way to go back into the past and change the name on your birth certificate to Dottore, and then glare at me in the library like you did when we met – I will continue to use it. That is your true name after all. Erase all records if you will, but I will remember it.”  

He doesn’t think about bragging anymore.  

“That library just looks more grand now, the people calling themselves researchers are anything but that.”  

You can feel when he dangles a hook in front of you. Taking it would give him far too much satisfaction.  

“He cried, you know.”  

He grips the handle.  

“I felt it, no need to mention it.”  “The youngest one, the one I was most fond of, cried when you killed all of them.”  “And some swore revenge. Are you trying to get me to focus on the feelings? You probably are, you’ve been annoying since the first day I met you.”  “And you still haven’t realized you cannot chase change. Tell me, were you surprised when she asked you that? Were you hesitant? Aren’t your clones proof of everything you ever wanted?”  “It is a shame you hadn’t gone with me.” He deflects it. “The archon would certainly like you. She too, kept asking about humanity and the lines I crossed.”  

Your tea has gone cold by now. Zandik always had a way of distracting you for longer than you’d like. 

“And were your answers to her something I would approve of?”  “You said I seemed more human now, is that not enough for you?”  “I am glad to see only one version of you now. I will take that as a start.”   “Unbelievable, by a stroke of luck which you call misfortune, you were granted even more time than me but you hate it.”  “We always differed in our definitions. I wasn’t blessed with this, I was cursed. I entered those runes to learn more of humanity but I was punished by my eagerness to lose my own.” 

He has to roll his eyes. 

“Just because you were blessed with so much time and can make a legacy like myself, it doesn’t mean you are no longer human. Would you like me to take you to see all those monsters? Perhaps some of my own research experiments?”   “You forget I am free to leave this place whenever I wish. And, neither of us have legacy.”  “Speak for yourself. You left and came back all those years ago because you said you hated me. Yet, here we are, drinking tea like always.”  “I came back because I was jealous of true humans.”  “And I pity you for being jealous of inferior creatures.”  “And I pity you for thinking you will ever leave a legacy that is fond of remembering.” 

“Careful there, your hateful gaze might make me forget you love me.”  “I don’t love you.” 

Dottore leans back in his chair and he laughs.  

“But you do. That is what proves your humanity. Always paradoxical and complex, disagreeing with my actions but realizing I am perhaps the only human that relates to you. We call the same thing by different names; but it won’t change either way.”  “I just don’t know why I came back to you from that forsaken ruin.”  “Should we call it fate?”  “You gave it an abstract name? Does it still bother you that you never found a way inside?”  

He places his hand over your own on the table. He looks at you, now knowing that the two of you were right not to exchange goodbyes that day. And you relax. There is always a memory that triggers when he is next to you, there is always that realization that he knows you as much as you know him. You share time now but you shared it all those decades ago. There is something to come back to; there is someone that remembers, calls out your name and responds to the one that leaves your mouth.  

Some invisible and intricate connection always existed between you. And, you could leave, you could stand up at this very moment and travel to wherever you wish. But, you would lose that. You would lose the feeling that someone knows you and you’ve always believed that to be know is to be loved.   People learn old languages because the love those that came before. Humans have a habit of desperately clutching onto their humanity even if it is smaller than a grain of sand. And, if you must, to keep yourself grounded and to stand there until he realizes his own mistakes and humanity – you will hold onto him. It has to be worth it in the end. There has to be a reason you share his existence and were teleported back in front of him on your knees.  

You just hope it means something grander that will constitute your own legacy. 

v. evermore

That night, he traces the hickeys he left on your neck. It is one of the few times he takes off his gloves so that his human skin meets your own.  

“Ask me again.”  “I will not ask you for another round.”  “No,” he clicks his tongue, “ask me that question.”  “Are you aware that you are more obsessed with humanity than me, oh doctor? Laughable.”  “Just ask.”  “Fine. What makes you human?” 

He moves his hand down to your waist and pulls you closer to him. How could he ever ask you to use the name Dottore when his eyes have been the same all these years whenever he looks at you? You don’t get a chance to marvel at them for too long, he buries his face in your neck.  

“You. Having you here keeps me human. Sometimes I think we were destined to be together.”  

Nobody else knows this side of him. And in your opinion, selfish as it may be, they don’t deserve to know. 

“Oh, is the genius doctor now speaking about fate and destiny? What grand words you use. We weren’t destined to be together, we were doomed to be together.”  

There you go. Ruining a romantic moment by reminding him how differently the two of you look at this situation you’re in.   He groans. Perhaps you will come around one day, even if it has been 300 years since your return. What matters is that you returned to him by fate and by your own choice after travelling.  

“Hey! Zandik, bite my neck one more time I will force you to sleep on the couch.”  “If we were indeed doomed to be together, we might as well make the most of it and – are you trying to bite me back?”  “Your teeth were always annoyingly sharp!”  “And the noises you made 500 years ago when drinking are still annoying to this day.”  “That’s it. Go sleep on the couch, I don’t want to look at you right now.” 

a/n: legit this is so self indulgent cus it is how I imagine my relationship with this red flag would be. it isn't really toxic it is just philosophies not matching up. dottore is too fond of humanity without realizing it and i will make him suffer for it. reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. hope dottore anon likes it.

Fighting against it

You had decided to try to put up a fight this time, even though truthfully you enjoyed it. As the specialized tentacle pressed against your lower lips you closed your legs tightly. It stretched and reached for your somewhat hidden pussy. Tentacles grabbing either leg. You tried to raise both legs, but it held your left leg down and allowed your right to go up. Pussy open in a different way than just spread legged. The specialized tentacle slid deep inside you, stretching you on it's thickening length until it was about the size of your forearm. The rest of its length was swollen with internal lumps in a series down it. Each knot swelling the girth of the tentacle to a third again its diameter, skin stretched and distorted around them. You could feel the thin tip of it pushing against your cervix, pressing, probing, pushing inside that hole too. It slid in easier than you imagined it might. You could feel it swell inside your cervix, opening you in ways you had never been opened. Something creamy and white was dripping out of you around the tentacle. You weren't sure what it was, but you felt compelled to keep it inside you. Your fingers wrapped around the tentacle and pushed the thick fluid back in your body. Every drop back where it belonged; inside you. It rippled inside you. The creature's come had always had an aphrodisiac effect when it has used you before, but this was different. Before, it had made you desperate to please it; your body working harder for it than any human lover. Trying to impale yourself with it, choking on it, fucking it hard with your ass and pussy. Trying to get it deeper inside you. This time though it made you feel loopy, easy to open. Your mind too. Simple and greedy for it, unconsciously thrusting your body at it. The bulges in it began moving now. You could feel them enter your pussy, sliding up inside until it rested against your cervix and slowly started pushing inside it as well. Another gush of fluid ran down your leg and you felt it push past your cervix. The next one arrived shortly after. After the fourth one you could see your belly swelling. You could even see the tentacle sweeping back and forth inside you, depositing egg after egg. It felt good to have it so deeply inside you and you lost count of how many eggs were in you. It was like being fucked slowly but being full of cock the entire time. So many eggs were in you that you could see dimples on your belly. You could push them around with your hands but you really just wanted to feel the foreignness of being completely filled.

What do you all want me to write? I’m on vacation, so if i get some good ideas, i might write a little more ^ ^

Feel free to drop an ask!!!

NSFW!! 18+ ONLY !!

「 CWS : 」 GN reader w/ ambiguous body. Wrio likes to please. size kink (less on the reader's size, more on how big Wriothesley['s dick] is). Slight dacryphilia. Love ♡. Praise. Creampie.

Wriothesley who lives for hearing you sob in pleasure when he stretches you out on his cock. He loves to hear you gasp his name with tears streaming down your cheeks, lips parted and skin warm under his fingers. Who laces his fingers with yours and presses kisses to your knuckles with one hand, all the while he fucks himself hard and deep inside you.

Wriothesley who loves to see you fall apart with his name on your tongue. Who lives for seeing your eyes roll back into your skull whenever he thrusts so deep, he thinks that his shape might be carved inside of you forever. Each time you gasp his name brokenly, a mantra of pleasure form your mouth, he just fucks into you harder, rougher, desperate to see just how much he can mess you up. All while he whispers sweet words and declarations of love in your ear.

Wriothesley who praises you for being so good for him, for taking every single inch of his cock like a good little sweetheart, even though you're so damn tight that it takes three fingers to stretch you out beforehand. Even though he knows you're half-way dumb on his cock, he still likes to ask you who's making you feel good, whose cock you're being stretched out on, and he preens whenever you never fail to whimper his name.

Wriothesley who fucks his whole length inside you and holds it as deep as it can go,just so that you can feel the stretch— feel the way the head of his cock bumps against that one part of you and has you whining and whimpering that he's too deep, but you never try to push him away and you even pull him closer against you with your legs around his waist. And his heart fucking soars when you squeak, "'love you, Wrio," without him even having to ask.

"Mhm, that's right baby— you're so good for me, yeah? Letting me stretch you out like this, taking every inch even though my cock is too big for you. You want more, baby? Want me to cum inside of you, hm? Want me to fill you up and keep you warm? Well, whatever my sweetheart wants, my sweetheart gets."

the little things ft. nanase haruka

⤷ sometimes haru can´t help but wonder f you wud be better with someone else, someone... less boring.

⊱♥︎ is the free! fandom as dead as a ghost town? probably, do i care? not at all, i have been watching the last season and this little thing came up, i have many feelings about haruka nanase.

Haruka wouldn’t necessarily call himself boring, but if put side by side with his friends he could. He doesn’t have Asahi’s boldness, or Nagisa’s bubbliness, or Kisumi’s way of making anyone feel welcome, much less Rin’s ease to break the ice stating that even while having a girl’s name he is a boy, and of course he is far from having Makoto’s wit to start a conversation with any topic. 

And after the first awkward stage of your relationship breaks, the one from the first 3 months give or take he begins to worry about it in a way he simply didn’t care about before. 

He finds it odd, new. The past year he has been so confused and then hesitant to take your friendship from just that to a relationship that he never really thought how things would be once you were together. 

And it’s been bothering ever since he accidentally heard a conversation you had with a friend last week when he went to pick you up from the library. 

“…But seriously, what do you two even talk about?” She laughs, and you laugh with her. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say more than three words together”.

“You just haven’t been lucky then, but don’t worry about me, Haru is plenty interesting even when he is quiet”.

And your answer eases him, and yet he can’t help but be bugged about it in an intrusive way that shows up even when he is trying to eat. 

Right now you’re lying next to him. Your feet are on his lap and his are next to your hips. Sitting on opposing sides of the couch you’re both reading. He can see you’re really focused by the way your brows have furrowed. 

Is this really what you’d like to be doing right now? It is Friday night and even if he has practice tomorrow morning, you don’t. 

“Do you wanna do something else tonight?”

“Mmm?” Your eyes lift from the page with a curious look headed his way. There’s always something in the way you look at him, so openly and intensely yet kind and soft that has him nearly blushing.

“I was just wondering if maybe you wanted to go out or something…”

You smile, hand reaching for his calves and softly massaging the hard muscle. “Not really, do you want to go out?”.

“Not really”.

You laugh and put your book down on the floor while snuggling into the armrest. He inadvertently moves to give you room to accommodate yourself.

“Do you wanna watch a bad movie and order take out?” You ask.

Haru smiles, softly and  nearly missable from the untrained eye. 

Sometimes Haru worries you’re gonna get bored of him, he frequently quotes his grandma as a source of wisdom, he eats nearly the same stuff every day and he is obsessed with water. 

If only he knew those same particularities are such a big part of why you fell in love so quickly, why you went to bed dreaming of the day where you would be bold enough to tell him how you felt. Except he had beat you to it.

Sometimes he worries you’re gonna get bored of him, but fortunately right now his biggest concern is what kind of mackerel dish he’s gonna get for dinner.

『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity. 

DING DING DING 

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium. 

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf. 

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!” 

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.  

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it. 

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe. 

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.  

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you. 

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.  

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.  

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching: 

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!” 

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy” 

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss. 

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.” 

“Then why is this happening?” 

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.  

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice. 

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.  

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily. 

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life. 

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest. 

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect. 

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished. 

“Hm? Who’re you?” 

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.” 

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this. 

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly. 

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you. 

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked. 

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist. 

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.” 

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.  

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.” 

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.” 

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?” 

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours. 

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.  

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.  

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this. 

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear. 

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.” 

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response. 

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.  

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.  

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring. 

“Wriothesley! Times up.”  He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you. 

“Two minutes.” 

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.  

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.  

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe. 

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest. 

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.” 

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line. 

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads. 

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette. 

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand. 

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.” 

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you. 

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand. 

 “No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy. 

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.” 

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.  

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.” 

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him. 

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze. 

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips. 

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips. 

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction. 

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl. 

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile. 

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence. 

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head. 

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair. 

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone. 

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle. 

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant. 

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face. 

“Why are you being annoying-” 

“Who were you talking to” he chides.  

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.” 

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.  

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.” 

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.” 

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel. 

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word. 

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners. 

 Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course. 

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone. 

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face. 

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you. 

He promised. 

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address. 

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again. 

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.  

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.” 

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly. 

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse. 

“What? I don’t know.”  “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”  

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response. 

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.  

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy. 

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-” 

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-” 

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab. 

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-” 

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”  

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes. 

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-” 

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.  

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there. 

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts. 

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.  

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds. 

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside. 

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.  

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask. 

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid. 

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face. 

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:  

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”  

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body. 

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology. 

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.  

“So, um.” 

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably. 

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts. 

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes. 

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.  

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you. 

“Sorry. For what I said.” 

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit. 

“You know I didn’t do it, right?” 

“I know.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“I know.” you reassure.  

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention. 

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy. 

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours. 

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house. 

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw. 

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge. 

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom. 

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness. 

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.  

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.  

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “ 

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.  

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.  

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.  

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks. 

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance. 

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want. 

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can. 

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest. 

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.  

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.  

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?”  he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.” 

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.” 

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

Masterlist !

⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ YOUR LOVE IS SO ORDINARY.. ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅

≧ ≦ JJK masterlist ≧ ≦ PLACEHOLDER masterlist

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More coming soon ^^

the simplicity of his love.

Softie!Megumi x Reader

summary: everyday life with Megumi

WARNINGS: downbad Megumi ꒰ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ꒱꒰ᐢ. ̫ .ᐢ꒱

Word count : 500 (I.... somehow wrote exactly 500 words...? I think essay writing's been starting to have it's toll on me (╥﹏╥)....)

a/n: I haven't posted in a few months, so please take this that i scrapped together in an hour as a apology. It somehow feels so much better than the one I spent hours on, though.....

I've been diagnosed with a few blood issues, so I've been in and out of the hospital for a while. I'm on more meds, but I'm now back to writing again....!!!! Thank you for your patience!!!!!

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

Despite the fact that he’s almost always busy, he still goes to the florists’ every month. He’s been there so much, in fact, that to make it easier for him, the old lady that worked there would always leave the flowers he always bought outside, so he wouldn’t need to trudge all over the store, trying to find those damned pink flowers you liked so much. 

He bids farewell to the old lady again with a curt nod, making sure to leave an extra big tip this time.

He gently plucks a single flower out from the bouquet and makes sure to drop it into a vase by his bed once he gets home so that he knows to buy you new flowers once the one in his vase starts to wilt. 

He won’t admit it, but whenever he starts to miss you, he gazes upon that singular stalk sitting in his blue vase. It starts to remind him more and more of you, the way that the flowers bloomed and even the way the flower smelled - you’re constantly plaguing his mind. 

He loves you, and he loves you so much.

You’re the only flower he cares for, the most beautiful, the most delicate,the most precious, your touch is like a heavenly blessing to him and your eyes have that soft feel to them.

He’d be lying if he said that it wasn’t starting to affect him. Your scent is starting to linger in his house, in his living room, on that book you’d grabbed absentmindedly while he was in the shower, on his pillows and sheets you had insisted “felt way softer”. He looks at you with that same soft gaze, one that was filled with love and respect.

He didn’t appear to others as a softie, because that was only for you to see. A special side of him that he had kept behind closed doors, doors that only you can open.

Period pain? He’s already shown up to your door, drenched from the rain, bags of painkillers, snacks and heating pads in hand. 

You’ve called him at 1am again, muttering something incomprehensible about your nightly cravings of mac and cheese? I know, he says over the phone, voice still groggy. He tells you about a whole bowl he left in the fridge while he was at your house. 

You got sick? He leaves behind everything that he had been doing, and rushes to your apartment with medicine from the pharmacy and homemade chicken noodle soup. He raises a spoonful of the soup and you swallow it all, nuzzling your face into his hand. He sighs, feeling how warm you are, but doesn’t protest. Everything is silent as he gently runs his fingers through your hair, watching it ripple like a waterfall. No words were being exchanged, but the concern in his eyes spoke more than words could’ve ever.

“Ughh. I love you so much.”

“....you’re just trying to stall from taking your medicine again, aren’t you…..?”