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“Wrio? Are you here?”
Lumine’s voice echoes hollow on the stone walls and shining brass of Meropide, insulated warm and safe against the boundless water to all sides.
As she crests the stairs to his lamplit office, a low groan was her only answer; the administrator’s dark head propped against a fist as he pored over endless stacks of paperwork.
“Unfortunately. At the rate things are going tonight, I’ll be lucky if I ever get to leave my desk.”
She hesitates, feet faltering at the top of the staircase. “Should I come back, or…?”
Wriothesley looks up at her then, affectionate light in his tired eyes. “Come, now. I always have time for you, Traveler.”
Lumine tries to ignore the pleased flush of warmth she felt at his words, tries to flatten out the involuntary quirk of her lips at the way his piercing eyes look her over.
“Well…don’t get ahead of yourself. I have a small favor to ask you.”
His dark brows slant, interest coloring the lines of his face. “Oh? Even better.”
Now she definitely has to work at hiding her reaction, at the way talking with him is just so easy — and yet not, all at the same time, neither of them seeming to say what they really wanted.
Her fingers close around the small vial in her dress pocket, pulling it out before holding it up to the light. Turning it every which way, so that the reflected colors dance off the touches of metal along the walls.
“Verenata…gave me this. She needs more test subjects for her potions.”
Wriothesley laughs long and low, his lips tilting attractively against his cheek. “Verenata’s at it again, huh? What does this one do?”
“That’s the thing,” Lumine hedges. “I don’t know, and she doesn’t either. All she said was ‘let’s see what happens.’”
His light eyes narrow on the vial in her grip, one hand tugging on that mussed head of hair. Her own fingers twitch in response, wondering — would it be soft, twining through her hands?
“Alright,” he says slowly. “Why not, I suppose.”
She tries not to react to the way their fingers brush together as she hands over the vial, a spark of warmth from the brief contact. If he notices, it doesn’t show.
“Well, here goes nothing.” With a wry smile he tips the vial back, grimacing at what must be an interesting taste — if Verenata’s other concoctions were anything to go by. She always takes advantage of these stolen moments, when he’s busy, when he’s not looking; eyes skimming the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his loosened tie drapes around the long lines of his neck.
One second passes, then ten…Wriothesley taps his pen against the desk, regarding her with a weighted look.
“How do you feel?” For whatever reason, she’s anxious — both for his answer, and the way he’s staring her down.
His eyes flit down her frame briefly before returning to meet hers, brows furrowed in thought. “Hmm. It didn’t taste particularly great, but I don’t feel anything.”
For a long moment he says nothing more, and now that her excuse to come see him was over, she’s at an impasse.
“Well…thanks,” Lumine finally begins. “I appreciate the help, I’ll let her know.”
Reluctant, she turns to leave. There’s still no response from him, so she fights the urge to look back at where he’s propped against his desk; forces her feet to move towards the stairwell instead.
Only to be stopped in her tracks at the pained noise he makes in his throat, a sudden intake of breath from somewhere at her back.
“W-wait.” His hand wraps around her arm, large and warm, touch a searing brand on her skin. “Something’s not right.”
A wave of panic grips her at his words, at the raw heated undertone of his voice. Whirling around to face him, Lumine takes him in; a flush blooming across the bridge of his cheeks, eyes wide, that familiar light blue but a slight ring around dilated pupils. A very different suspicion takes root, then — he doesn’t look ill, he looks-
“Wrio? What is it?” Her fingers ghost against his forehead, already burning hot, sweat beginning to bead along his hairline. She doesn’t want to meet his gaze as her fingers make contact, but he’s so close all of a sudden. Right up in her space, solid and warm, towering over her short frame. Against her better judgment she inhales deep, a spicy scent that could only be his filling her lungs.
“I don’t know,” he gasps, an almost agonized groan. “Sorry. I’m sorry.” And his lips are on her neck, then, that rumpled mass of dark hair tickling her cheek as he licks a long stripe up to her ear. There’s the blunt pain of teeth pressing into her skin seconds before he soothes it with the molten heat of his tongue, a low rumble from deep in his chest vibrating into hers.
Gasping, Lumine digs her nails into the cloth of his shoulder, muscle and bone a solid wall that she grips onto for dear life. Mind swirling as the feverish heat of his body melts against her, thoughts flickering in and out like dust in a ray of sunlight. And then it hits her — the potion. “The potion. It’s the potion,” she pants.
To her dismay, he wrenches his body away to hold her at arms’ length, her skin already missing the warmth of his. “Trav- Lumine,” he breathes. “You should leave. I’m sorry.”
She should. She should leave, return when they’re on equal footing — but her body freezes in place, unwilling to walk away. “I…I don’t mind, Wrio.”
His eyes blow even wider, regarding her with equal parts frenzy and wariness. “You deserve better, Lumine. You don’t have to do this for me.”
“I don’t mind. Well, no…I mean,” she grapples for the right words, desperate to keep him right here. “I want this.” The last part is a whisper tickling the air between them, almost a plea.
His grip tightens on her arms, large frame shaking with the strain of his fraying control. “You’re not just saying that?”
Lumine shakes her head, no — taking a deliberate step towards him to make herself clear. “I trust you.”
The fingers of one gloved hand slide into her hair, fisting the strands into a makeshift ponytail before arching her neck to the side. “I’ll be sweet the next time, I promise.” He crowds into her again as her eyes fall shut in pleasure, mouth sucking a hot path over the rise of her collarbone. “Right now…I just need you.”
She finds herself effortlessly lifted and pinned between him and the door, stone and smooth metal biting into the bare skin of her back. Teeth nip at her chin, and then — to her delight his lips are on hers, so much softer than she’d imagined they’d be. Wriothesley kisses her like he’s starving, as if he’d waited ages for their skin to meet. Still, there’s a small voice in the back of her head that wonders — is it the potion, or his real feelings?
Even as her musing persists, she can’t help but moan as his hips grind against hers in motions both desperate and agonizingly slow. The feeling of his large frame pressed to hers is almost overpowering, yet his fingertips clutch her body like something precious, something to be kept safe.
Whispered words against her lips that she can’t quite make out, seconds before she’s hoisted up by a single muscular arm banded around her back. “You smell so good,” he mutters, and then his large hand is gripping at the waistband of her bloomers, maneuvering her to slide the frilly white down her legs. From the corner of her eye they go flying somewhere off to the side, and then nothing but darkness — her eyes slamming shut as two fingers track through her heat, skimming over soaked skin to press her open.
Her hands are everywhere they can reach, flitting over every surface she’s ever wanted to touch; the fabrics of his clothing, the cool metal of various chains and ornaments. The flash of scarred skin at his neck. Abruptly, his fingers hook forward, a high whine breaking from her lips as they find that soft spot inside. It’s all she can do to hold on, nails digging into the muscle of his shoulders as his palm slaps against her, sensation singing through her nerves.
Giving in to curiosity, her fingers brush through his mass of hair before tightening, gently pulling — and the groan that rumbles through his chest is nothing short of ecstatic. Playfully biting at her neck, his arm tightens around her hips in response.
”Don’t make me cuff you.” When he pulls back his eyes are feral, narrowing with interest at her lack of protest. “Or perhaps I should, one of these days.”
Breathless and heart pounding in her ears, Lumine can only grin back. “I’ll hold you to that,” she pants. “Your Grace.”
At her mocking use of his title, Wriothesley’s jaw flexes and tightens, heat flaring to life in his gaze. “Such interesting things I’m finding out about you, Traveler.”
She whines as his fingers withdraw, ghosting up the fabric of her bodice to palm her breast in one hand. “You drive me insane, how beautiful you are in that dress. It’s as if you bring the sun itself down into the depths.”
At his uncharacteristic honeyed words, she’s shocked into silence; a moment he takes full advantage of as warm lips slide against hers once more. It’s dreamlike, the fervor with which their mouths meet, the urgent yet reverent press of large hands along her body.
Lumine aches for him, for more — runs her own palm down his clothed chest, delighting in his heavy exhale as her fingers graze lower and lower until he’s hot and hard under her hand. Gently, she squeezes as he bucks forward into her touch, as she begins to blindly fumble at his belt, the fastening of his pants.
Gasping as he dips into the neckline of her dress, warm fingers pinching and rolling at each nipple in turn, she breathes a sigh of triumph as the last button of his trousers gives way to her seeking grasp. And then — she can’t help the shiver of excitement as he falls into her palm, thick and already leaking.
A gasped exhale breathes out onto her lips as she gives an experimental squeeze, a pump of her hand. “Want you so bad,” he groans. “Even without the potion.”
Her heart leaps at the admission, at the raw honesty in his tone. “Please,” she whispers. “I’ve been waiting.”
The hand at her waist tightens as his lips tip in a slight smile, as he angles her to begin the slow slide into her heat. It’s a dizzying stretch, the drag of him against every inch of her walls, the absolute fullness she feels once he’s fully seated.
“So warm- you’re so warm,” he groans even while tenderly tucking a lock of hair behind one ear. They’re still for a long moment, his frame trembling with the urge to buck into her. A muscle ticks in his tensed jaw at the effort, until she can’t wait any longer; digging her booted feet into the back of his thighs, she writhes against him in a silent request: keep going.
All conscious thought ceases to exist as he complies; hips angling to slide out until just the tip remains before he drives into her, hard. She’s certain there will be fingerprint bruises at her hip from the way he brings her down on his thick length again and again, and the metal trim along the wall is pressing into her back, but she can’t find it in her to care.
If he’d kissed her like a man starved, then he fucked her as if she was the last bright spot in his world; fervent rough thrusts that had her nerves singing. Lost in the feeling, her back arches against him in the scant space she’s pinned into, fingers twining through the fur trim of his coat for leverage.
Nose to nose, broken syllables of half-formed thoughts gasp into the air between them as he slams into her, a whirling juxtaposition of body and heart. His fingers dig into the plush of her hips and ass as she’s spread open, as he hits that spot inside her again and again; an electric coil tightening with every movement.
“Wrio…I’m…I’m gonna,” she moans, and doesn’t quite finish the thought as she breaks around him in long waves — her end taking her by surprise, as lost in the moment as she is. With a muttered curse, he pulls back to watch her face as she falls; eyes glazed over with lust, he drinks in every twitch of her body, the flush of pink that spreads to every inch of bared skin.
There’s only a brief break in his movements as she squeezes around him, before he redoubles his efforts with a throaty growl. To her delight it’s as if he’s grown even harder, their combined heartbeats thrumming through her with every flex of his form. Time seems to slow to a crawl, the metronome of their movements becoming gentler, deliberate — eye to eye as something passes between them they don’t yet have a name for. He groans then, low in his chest, a liquid heat spreading in her gut; warm like the sun that never quite reaches the Fortress, warm like his eyes when they alight on her face.
Limp and sated in his arms, she finds herself carried and sat on his expansive desk; it’s then that she realizes what a mess they both are, blushed red and misted with sweat, their clothing askew every which way.
“You know,” he begins. “I’ve always wondered what you’d look like spread out on my desk.” And with meaning, with intent, his head dips to capture her lips once more.