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Most people who crossed paths with Wriothesley could make a thousand assumptions about him before ever coming to the conclusion that he was the scholarly type. That was, if they were fortunate enough to even catch a glimpse of him in the first place, given that the Duke of Meropide had made it his utmost priority to keep himself as much of a non-entity as humanly possible. A priority second only to making sure he always had a hot beverage on hand, perhaps.
Upon meeting him for the first time, you could admit—albeit with a tinge of regret over your own superficiality—that you’d been one of those many people. His unkempt hair, haphazardly worn tie hanging loose around his scarred neck, numerous piercings, and muscular build riddled with evidence of past brawls hadn’t exactly given off the impression of an intellectual. Like any other detail of his true character, it was something you had to decode, read between the lines of in order to appreciate the writing in full.
It began when you discovered that the heavy mechanical gauntlets he carried with those powerful arms, seemingly good for nothing but a brutish way to kill time in the Pankration Ring, were a product of his own invention. Countless prototypes had come and gone over the years, with the oldest being created in his teenage years, wandering the unforgiving streets of Fontaine for spare parts. It would've been easy to dismiss the shadows that hung beneath his tired eyes as a result of careless nights indulging in hedonistic desires, until dealings with the Maison Gestion revealed that they instead were born from long hours spent managing all the accounting and documentation for the entire Fortress. What had stood out to you most, however, were the shelves of books lining his office walls. They weren't simply for show, well-kept and organized, not even having the chance to gather dust when he regularly rotated out the stack on his desk every few days.
Little by little, it became abundantly clear to anyone who gave Wriothesley the attention he so vehemently tried to evade that the laid-back, unsophisticated demeanor his appearance suggested was precisely what he wanted people to assume about him. And that kind of cunning was in of itself another testament to his intelligence.
You considered yourself lucky to have spent enough years with the elusive Duke to learn of his brilliance that he kept shrouded in the sea’s murky depths. And you considered yourself even luckier to know that a mind as sharp as his was infinitely more satisfying to break.
The scent of marcotte, fragrant and brewed to perfection, wafted over your senses as steam rose from your teacup in a wispy dance. It was a bit more saccharine than you were used to—the former Hydro Archon, notorious for her sweet tooth, had taken it upon herself to return the gesture of sending copious amounts of tea to Wriothesley’s residence, just as he’d done for her in the past. Coupled with the two sugar cubes he always added to his cup, you wondered how he was faring with its flavor. If the drink’s excessive sweetness didn’t appeal to him, he showed no signs of it, sipping contently away in his office chair.
You observed him from above where you sat perched on his desk, admiring the concentrated expression on his face as he scoured the book in his hand, worn at its edges from years of use. The second volume of The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria; you recognized it instantly. It was a piece he always seemed to come back to, no matter how many books made their home in his office.
As expected, it didn’t take long for him to take notice of your stare, pale blue eyes flickering up from the pages to give you an inquisitive look. Regardless of how immersed he seemed to be at any given moment, you knew better than anyone that he never truly let his guard down, alert senses dulling for nothing and no one.
Well, with maybe just one exception.
“What’s with that look?” He set down his teacup to free one of his hands, ruffling his hair in a half-hearted search for any mischievously placed stickers or ribbons. “There’s no way Sigewinne was able to reach this high without me noticing.”
“It’s not that,” you replied, gesturing to the book. For how thick it was, he held it so effortlessly with just one hand, sturdy, taped up fingers cradling it with a care that shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you, anymore. “I just hope you’re not planning to uncover ancient prophecies for another world-ending disaster in there.”
The corner of his mouth curled up at that, morbidly playful. “It’d be nice if the Wingalet was good for more than just a one time use, wouldn’t it?”
You grinned back at him, as if the thought alone wasn’t terrifying to consider. He took immediate notice of how you peered curiously over at the blocks of text he was so engrossed in, and, ever the gentleman, he tilted the book back and angled it in your direction to give you a better look. “Feel like helping out? You can take all the credit when we break the news to everyone that we’re damned for eternity.”
“You say that as if you’d be doing me a favor and not the other way around, Lord Incognito," you joked.
He leaned forward with a click of his tongue, resting his chin on the book’s spine as if to entice you. “Oho? How can I sweeten the deal for you, then?”
It would be a lie to say that you weren’t interested in the historical work’s contents—though, that was more so just an extension of your interest in Wriothesley himself. Anything that managed to capture his attention so thoroughly, made him tick the way this book seemed to do, was undoubtedly worth exploring, in your eyes. All the books that had passed through his battered hands during his time growing up in the Fortress, all the decades of information he’d familiarized himself with when most teenagers had been out in the overworld, skipping classes for film festivals—you were far more intrigued by those pieces of him than you were by knowledge of the long-lost empire
You took a thoughtful sip of your tea as you mulled it over, enjoying the floral, silky smooth liquid that bathed your tongue before placing your cup to the side and scooting closer to him. “You read, I’ll listen,” you decided. “I’ll focus much better if the words are said in your voice.”
Wriothesley had half-expected the proposal, but that didn’t stop a strange, warm tingle from buzzing at the back of his neck. His stare dropped back down to the book with a bit too much haste, like the earnest twinkle in your eyes may be enough to blind his dulled ones. “Starting to think I should charge for my services.”
“It’s mutually beneficial,” you insisted. “You get an extra pair of ears, and I get to listen to you talk all smart and eloquent for me.”
He cleared his throat, for reasons other than preparing his vocal chords to read out loud. Your request was nothing new, at this point, and not nearly as much of an inconvenience as he played it up to be. Compared to fifteen years of words beyond his comprehension echoing around his troubled, young mind with no one to share them with, compared to loneliness that ran so bone-deep that only cracking them in a fight could temporarily quell it, this was more than a welcome change. A genuine interest in him—not his position, not what he could do for you, just him. The good, the bad, and the ugly. It was simultaneously what he’d always longed for most, and what he dreaded more than anything else in the world.
He adjusted his position with a heavy sigh, not out of annoyance, but quick and easy surrender. Things always seemed to turn out that way, when it came to you. Without any further resistance, he picked up right where he’d left off. “Here, all the theaters and palaces were established in shapes most harmonious, their beams and domes adorned with the most sumptuous and intricate carvings, and centered on a golden palace of towering copper pillars.”
His carefree drawl filled your ears; lazy, low, yet still pronouncing every word with crisp precision, like the slow, steady trickle of a frozen river beginning to thaw in spring’s wake. You pulled one knee to your chest and rested your chin on it, eyes fluttering shut as you indulged in what had quickly become one of your favorite pastimes. He didn’t stumble or hesitate over even a single word, each one spilling from his lips with practiced ease. In the back of your mind, you wondered if it was a result of how often you’d asked him to read aloud for you, or simply because he’d revisited this story enough times for his tongue to know what each sentence would say before his brain even caught up to it.
“The King, resting peacefully at the heart of the palace, listened closely to every melody and every note coming from every corner of the empire,” he murmured, eyes flickering up momentarily to catch a glimpse of your peaceful face. “Upon hearing any discord, the God King would correct it immediately with a pluck of his strings, bringing perfection to the symphony of his empire.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” you remarked.
He reached for his teacup again, tilting his head at you with a faux-innocence that didn’t have you fooled for a single second. “I’m flattered you think I could be that efficient.”
Speaking of melodies, as Wriothesley paused to take a sip of his drink, you leaned over on his desk and reached for the bronze record player resting on the far side of it, carefully removing its needle so that the serene, classical tune that had been playing in the background came to a sudden halt. He didn’t have to ask to know why you’d put an end to the ever-present lull of music; the answer lied in how his voice rang out even clearer than before when he placed down his cup and continued reading, nothing but the sound of his own intonations echoing off the lonely, iron walls. Just the way you liked it.
“To keep all the people upon the high water from destroying the symphony of universal harmony, King Remus promoted four humans of great capability to high post,” he continued, wondering if it was the tea he’d just swallowed or the sensation of your eyes locked on him that had his skin feeling so oddly warm. It crept up his nape and nipped at the back of his ears, making him all too aware of his own body and voice in a manner that he wasn’t quite used to. Not necessarily uncomfortable, but awkward in his own skin, trying to picture how his every move may appear through your eyes. “He…shared his power and authority with them, making them his partners in governance the Harmosts for all cities, to eliminate all discordant sounds.”
Wriothesley’s languid tone grew gradually more impassioned the longer he read, as if each sentence pulled him deeper and deeper into the book’s pages until he was experiencing the faded ink words for himself. You didn’t bother to mask the endearment in your eyes as you drank in the sight of him; the mesmerizing shapes his lips formed around each syllable, the unexpected deftness of his calloused fingers, the thick, dark lashes framing his wandering eyes. You began rocking your knee pleasantly from side to side while your other leg hung off of his desk, hovering just above his thigh.
As he took a brief pause to flip the page, his gaze darted back up to meet yours, trailing off once again when he caught wind of how intently you were staring. He raised an eyebrow, half-amused. “Are you listening?”
“And looking,” you hummed. “You have a really lovely voice, Wrio. Can't get enough of it.”
To say that Wriothesley wasn’t accustomed to praise was both a vast understatement, and a bold-faced lie. It was hard to take the notion that he was deprived of kind words seriously when he was addressed with a title as sycophantic as “Your Grace” more often than his own name. Not to mention the fact that everyone who came to know of his status (largely against his will, he might add) used any fleeting interaction they had with him as an opportunity to inflate his ego like their life depended on it—which, to be fair, they probably believed it did.
It wasn’t that he found no appreciation in it, particularly when the excessive flattery came in the form of rare delicacies from the overworld, but most of it had no real bearing on him, sugar-coated words sliding off of his broad back like water off the feathers of a duck. Unearned fanfare was equally as meaningless as unearned vitriol; that was the belief he had to live by to avoid being taken advantage of.
But genuine, honest praise, spoken with affection rather than reverence, given without a second thought or ulterior motive, that was a luxury so foreign to him that you may as well have been speaking in a different tongue. He wasn’t exactly proud of the way it made a heat pool in his abdomen like some kind of touch-starved teenage boy. What overpowered any of those other thoughts, however, was his deep-seated desire to hear more of it. To earn more of it.
He reached for his cup yet again, because he didn’t know what else to do, uncoordinated hand grasping at the air for a moment before he made contact with its delicate handle. “That so?” he managed at last, bringing the rim to his lips. “Cause if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to wear it out.”
“There are faster ways to achieve that than having you read to me,” you pointed out.
Wriothesley all but choked, barely managing to stifle the cough that threatened to erupt in his chest. His fingers tightened around the cup’s handle in an iron grip, holding himself together just enough to swallow down the tea that was doing much more to taunt him than relax him, at this point.
“Careful!” It came deceptively concerned, he might have actually fallen for it if he hadn’t caught the pleased glint in your eyes. “Don’t burn your tongue, we’ve still got a lot to cover.”
Gently, you leaned forward to take the porcelain cup from his hold, resting your foot on his thigh for support as you did and taking satisfaction in the way his leg muscles immediately tensed beneath your touch. A few stray droplets of tea had splattered onto his hand in his embarrassing blunder. Before the idea had even fully formed in your head, you scooped them up with your fingers and dipped the digits into your mouth, not breaking eye contact for a second as you sucked them clean.
Wriothesley’s adam’s apple bobbed. Once, twice, like he was fighting to keep something far more shameful than a cough from rising in his throat. You leaned back with a smile, swiping your tongue over your lips and making it a point to not remove your foot from where it was pressed against his stiffened thigh. “So,” you said. “The fairways.”
He blinked at you.
“To spread the harmonious symphony throughout the world, he built far-reaching fairways…” you repeated the words he’d left off on with thinly-veiled amusement. It wasn’t like him to shut down this easily. You couldn't pinpoint if he’d gone silent because he was at a genuine loss for words, or because he knew that any attempt at further banter would land him in an even more compromising position than before.
“Oh.” His voice had a weak crack to it when he finally spoke again, setting off a delightful tingle in your spine. That. That was what you wanted more of, what you knew you’d be able to coax out if you toyed with him just right. Grateful for an opportunity to busy himself, his eyes fell back to the forgotten book, taking a bit longer than usual to find the section where he’d stopped. “H-he…” Wriothesley cleared his throat again to get rid of the uneven pitch it’d taken on. “He built far-reaching fairways, which conveyed the melodies as never-ending ripples from Capitolium to every corner that sat above the high waters.”
You let out a murmur of acknowledgement, your expression every bit as calm as before, feigning perfect interest in the historical account as if your foot wasn’t gliding absentmindedly up and down the fabric of Wriothesley’s pants. Every time you inched a little higher, he felt a little less in control of himself, legs itching to jerk inwards and tongue struggling to wrap around even the simplest of terms. He was certain that the flush on his face had to be prominent enough for you to notice by now. His skin was unnaturally warm and prickly all over, the same way he’d felt after taking a swim in the waters surrounding the Fortress, tainted with traces of the primordial sea. Ironically enough, this reddish tint was far more troubling to him than the one that had brought him mere moments from dissolution.
He shifted around in his office chair, visibly battling the urge to cross his legs in fear of drawing unwanted attention to the growing bulge between them. It was pathetic in a comical sort of way, but he had trouble finding the humor in his current situation when all his focus had to be put into breathing like a normal human being and not like someone who got riled up while reading about the decline of an ancient undersea empire.
“You seem distracted,” you commented suddenly. It was hardly above a murmur, but it brought Wriothesley’s train of thought to a screeching halt. “Something caught your eye?”
He opened his mouth to answer, only for your heel to drift dangerously close to the tightening spot in his trousers, eliciting a soft hiss from him instead. “Oh,” you giggled, not even bothering to sound surprised by what you were met with. “Got yourself a little problem down there?”
“Got a far more dangerous one right in front of me,” he gritted out.
You dragged the sole of your foot along the outline of his length with just enough pressure to feel it twitch in response. His hips stuttered in protest as you pulled away, chasing after your touch like a moth to a flame. “Yeah? Let me take care of them both, then. So you can focus better, Your Grace.”
Something about the mockery that laced your tone had his heart pumping with adrenaline. So sweet, yet so condescending that even his own title sounded deliciously unfamiliar on your lips. His breath hitched as he watched you slip gracefully from his desk and sink down to settle in between his thighs, not having to speak a word for him to spread them obediently for you. There was already a steady buildup of heat rolling off of him in waves, begging to be set free from the confines of his clothing before it consumed him altogether. The sound of his belt unbuckling as your fingers undid the metal ornaments was almost as thrilling to you as the shaky exhale he released in response. So reactive, even without being touched, akin to a dog that’d been conditioned to heel at the ring of a bell.
Wriothesley’s gaze broke away from you for just a split-second to cast a glance at the head of the stairs, no doubt double checking that he’d locked the entrance on the lower floor. You smiled to yourself. One benefit to his borderline paranoid levels of caution meant that you never had to worry about anyone invading your privacy when you visited his office. Sliding two fingers beneath the leather strap around his thigh, you pulled it back and snapped it against his skin to draw his focus back to you. “It’s locked, baby,” you reminded him. “I’ve got you all to myself.”
Trusting your reassurance, he gave you a slow, almost shy nod, shoulders relaxing a bit—or, as much as they could relax when your warm breath was fanning out over his skin as you undid the last button of his pants. Your hands dipped beneath their waistband along with that of his underwear, and he lifted his hips dutifully to help you tug them down in one fell swoop. A quiet grunt left his lips as his dick sprang free; he hadn’t anticipated the frankly embarrassing amount of precum that had dribbled out from his tip in such a short time, hitting the cool air of his office and piercing his sensitive skin.
“Looks like you spilled a little down here, too.”
Wriothesley’s lip twitched, betraying his nervousness. “Also your fault.”
“I clean up your messes and this is the thanks I get?” you lamented. “I’d call you cold-blooded but—” You took his cock into your hand, curling around it so delicately that he almost found himself groaning in frustration. “—you’re burning up, huh, baby?”
Before he could muster up a response, you dragged your palm languidly over his slit and spread the glistening, sticky droplets along the rest of his shaft. His breathing picked up immediately, dick jerking in your grip as more and more of his blood rushed south. All it took was a few firm, slippery strokes, and he was hardened to completion. You marveled at the sheer size of him as he swelled in your palm—not just his girth that could hardly be contained by your fingers, but his entire body towering above you, as well. Thick thighs spread wide in his chair to fill up every bit of space, sturdy chest rising and falling with every ragged breath, muscular forearms bulging with veins as he clenched his bandaged fists; all completely at your mercy.
Unable to hold back any longer, you angled his cock upwards and flattened your tongue against its underside, licking a long stripe all the way from his base to his tip. Wriothesley let out a strangled noise, coming close to dropping the book in his hand. It served as a reminder that he was still gripping on to it for dear life, but as he leaned forward in an attempt to place it back on his desk, you intercepted him with a harsh, warning squeeze to his length.
“Who told you to stop?” you frowned. “This is important stuff, right? Keep reading.”
His eyes widened a bit as he shot you an incredulous look, searching your expression for some indication that you were joking. You had to be joking. “Pardon?” he chuckled weakly.
“You can do it, can’t you? Put that big brain of yours to good use.” Your lips moved just centimeters away from the head of his dick as you spoke, puffs of air teasing his glans and fingers trailing up and down his length in a tender touch that was as relieving as it was agonizing. “Go on, Wrio. I’m still listening to you.”
The pages crinkled beneath his thumb as he begrudgingly brought the text back into his view, wondering for what wasn’t the first time if the one person he’d chosen to place his trust into was actually some sort of wicked demon in disguise, sent to torture him for all his past sins. The look you gave him from below was nothing short of ravenous; he’d never guess that such a pretty mouth was preparing to open up and devour him whole. As he struggled to find his place again, he took some comfort in the fact that at the very least, he could use the book to shield his burning face from the dizzying effect your eyes had on him.
“Yet fate's decree was not for even such as gods to defy…” His voice came stable enough at first, that was, until your lips parted to take his aching dick into your mouth at long last. He cut himself off with a sharp huff as the wet heat closed around his cockhead and flooded his senses in a matter of seconds. “T-to…to even attempt to escape destined judgment was a mortal…mortal sin.”
The drawn-out hum you released as his essence flooded your tastebuds was just plain cruel, sending vibrations throughout his cock and adding a light growl to his speech. Just the tip of him felt so hot and heavy on your tongue, throbbing with need in a way that tempted a more sadistic side of you to sink your teeth into him, just to hear what kind of unrestrained cry would follow. But Wriothesley had already experienced enough pain in his lifetime to to last him several more, already been given more than enough reasons to never have allowed himself to be this vulnerable with you. So instead, you puckered your lips to form a plush, slippery ring, adding mind-numbing pressure to your movements as you began to push further down his dick. This time, he full-on moaned for you, long and breathy. It was significantly softer than his usual husky tone, sending a powerful jolt straight to your core.
“Amongst the…the God—ngh—God King's sins, the most terrible was the attempt to—” His pitch spiked unnaturally high as your mouth encased more of his cock with that slick, addictive warmth, tongue tracing up and down over a prominent vein that ran along its underside. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to find his composure again and push through the rest of the sentence; a goal made near-impossible when it felt like you were sucking every last ounce of reason from his system. “Attempt to…pass power that should have been reserved for…for the godly domain to humans.”
Despite the strain lacing his every word, he was doing surprisingly well, all things considered. Which meant it was your cue to turn things up a notch—as a reward for all his hard work, of course, certainly not because you wanted to hear that calm, leisurely flow of his voice crumble into something frantic. Not a crisp, thawing stream, but an overflowing river, crashing and swirling with volatile currents that consumed everything in their path.
Hollowing your cheeks, you pushed forward inch by inch until you’d taken him halfway into your mouth, creating an air-tight suction and beginning to bob your head. The friction of your lips was almost unbearably good as you dragged them all the way up his cock, pooling hot saliva at his tip, before sinking back down.
Wriothesley dug his teeth into his lower lip with enough force to draw blood, but even that wasn’t enough to suppress his gasp when you repeated the action, spreading that intoxicating slickness until you’d built up a steady, merciless rhythm. Back and forth, back and forth, drowning his cock in wet, hot pleasure over and over. Every time he thought you might pull off and give him a chance to stabilize himself again, you kept going, an obscene squelching sound mixing with his stammered attempts at reading.
“Thus the…the—mmph, fuck,” he huffed in frustration, giving his head an aggressive shake in an attempt to clear it from the thick fog that was gradually blurring all his rational thought.
At last, your need for air gave you no choice but to come to a halt. He let out something between a sigh of relief and a whine of disappointment as his dick slipped from your mouth, thoroughly coated in drool and spasming pitifully at the loss. Your hands slid up his hefty thighs as you struggled to catch your breath, completely winded from taking just half of his full length. Goosebumps rose on his skin as you traced soothing patterns over the array of scars decorating his thighs, occasionally spreading your fingers as wide as they could to grab hungry handfuls of his flesh and squeeze down.
“Such a big boy, aren’t you?” you cooed. The gentleness of it was directly contrasted by the sharp prick of your nails sinking into his skin without warning, dragging down the flesh of his legs just hard enough to create an exhilarating sting. Wriothesley let out a low, gravelly groan, muscles flexing wildly under your touch like they had a life of their own. The marks your nails left behind faded into a pale pink color almost instantly, nothing like the deep, raised scars that slashed across his skin even in an area as out of reach as his inner thighs. The sight made you soften. Violence had found the most intimate parts of his body long before pleasure ever had.
“Big, beautiful boy,” you murmured, pressing tender kisses to the spots you’d just marked.
He squirmed under your adoring stare, every one of his nerve endings set ablaze over three simple words. It wasn’t solely out of abashment this time, but a warm glow of pride, as well. Regardless of how much bigger he was than you, regardless of how much broader his shoulders were and how he loomed over you at full height, he never truly felt it; that your presence was in any way smaller than his.
Even when you were lowered between his legs like this, it was still as if he were the one looking up at you, perpetually perched above him on his desk, bending him to your will without having to lift a finger. Even when you spoke formally to him, it always harbored just the right amount of mockery to make his mind melt, putting him in his place with the very title everyone else used to elevate him. With the way he gazed down at you, disoriented and awed with his mouth hanging open, you knew that you were both thinking the exact same thing—he was completely and utterly helpless in your hands.
You continued kneading at his thighs as you leaned back in to press a kiss to his swollen tip, stifling a giggle when it jolted in response. “Stay with me, Wrio,” you whispered. “I still haven’t told you to stop reading.”
Wriothesley stiffened at that, the task you’d given him already completely washed away by the torrents of euphoria rippling through his body. It took him significantly longer to anchor himself even with your mouth off of him, hazy eyes blinking rapidly and brows furrowing together in a rare display of confusion as he struggled to even focus his vision on the pages again, let alone remember which section he’d left off on.
“Thus, this power and status led to corruption 'nd…and decadence, leading to violence and revolts,” he began, a delicious rasp tinging his voice. His inhale sounded more like a yelp when you took his dick back into your mouth mid-sentence, determined to swallow down every last inch of him, this time. “S-such…such is fate's—mmph—cunning that it uses the very powers…” His recitation died in his throat as your lips glided along the neglected ridges of his cock, sucking him further and further into the velvety heat of your mouth until you reached all the way to his base. Even with your mouth full, your breaths were calm and collected in comparison to his trembling ones. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his stomach as your nose pressed against his abdomen, his trail of dark hairs tickling your skin each time his muscles contracted.
Wriothesley keened as his cock hit the back of your throat, his free hand flying up to his mouth a heartbeat too late to suppress the mortifying noise that caught you both off guard. It was such a primal reaction, entirely involuntary, and it made your core clench with arousal just as much as it made his churn with humiliation. To make matters worse, his loss of control extended to the rest of his body as well, hips bucking up in a fit of pleasure to push himself as deep into you as physically possible.
“Fuck,” he choked out. “Sorry, ‘m sorry. You 'kay? Ah, didn’t…didn’t mean—”
His hoarse apologies morphed into another groan, even his own words proving to be too much for the poor man to get a handle on. He felt lightheaded, like all the blood that should have been reaching his brain was pumping straight to his cock instead. His thoughts fluttered around his head in a frenzy, his tongue too heavy and slurred with drool to voice them fast enough before he inevitably interrupted himself again. Mustering all of his strength, he pulled his disobedient hips back in fear of harming you, but you made no move to take your mouth off of him, continuing to suckle your lips for as long as your body would allow. Each time you swallowed around him, a fresh wave of saliva coated his dick, dribbling from your mouth and making his brain go haywire.
“Powers that—ah—that rebel…fuck, feels s’ good.” His hips stuttered on reflex again, much to his dismay, only for you to flatten your hands against his pelvis and shove him back into his chair with a force that left him stunned. The added stimulation to his abdomen ignited a fresh heat within him, every point of contact akin to a razor-sharp needle preparing to to burst the ball of pressure that had built up. “Rebel—fuck. Mm, wait. That's...if y'don't stop 'm gonna—ngh.”
Just as Wriothesley felt himself veer dangerously close to the edge, you finally pulled off of him with a smack of your lips, leaving you both panting in unison. His gloved hand clamped over his mouth to mask the soft, needy whines that tinged his labored breathing, blue eyes half-lidded and glassy, lost in a daze.
“Falling apart on me already, Your Grace?” you pouted up at him. “C’mon, I know you can do better than that. Try again.”
Wriothsley’s head spun, not even having the chance to fully absorb your words before you licked a messy stripe down his cock, swirling your tongue around his thickness like he was the most delectable treat you’d ever tasted. His hand fell from over his mouth to support his other one in gripping the book, unable to keep it within his line of vision, anymore with his energy waning at an alarming rate. Instead, he ducked his head, giving you a perfect view of his face twisted in pleasure. Raw and passionate, nothing like the impenetrable air of nonchalance he typically faced the world with.
“Such…such is fate’s cunning that it…i-it…” He squeezed his eyes shut as you tongued at his glans, relishing in the raw desperation that seeped into his taste. You knew as well as he did that he was extra sensitive around the bundle of nerves, each maddening lap of your tongue making him writhe around in his chair and restart his sentence all over again. It was pure torture, how you made sure to soothe the ache of his cock for just a few precious moments before it came back twice as fierce, never truly satiated.
“Such i-is fate…fate’s mmph. Please, more…that i-it...it—hah—it…it—”
“It, it, it,” you mimicked. “You sound like a broken record, baby. Too dumb to speak, anymore?”
Your taunts should’ve sparked a flame of defiance within Wriothesley, but all they did was fog up his mind even further, lulling him deeper into the bliss of not having to think or speak. All he had to do was take everything you gave him like a good boy. His dick throbbed in your palm, as if responding in place of the man reduced to a stammering wreck above you. Gliding your hand down to his base, you pumped sloppy strokes over the part of his length that your mouth couldn’t cover, overwhelming every last inch of him with an onslaught of stimulation.
“Wonder if everyone can hear how pathetic you sound out there,” you mused between languid licks. “What would they think if they saw their Duke like this? Needy little thing who can’t even form a sentence. Better at using his dick than his brain.”
Wriothesley whimpered low in his throat, a sound so soft and helpless that you never would’ve guessed he was capable of making it. He swallowed down the saliva that began to spill from his lips, stiff fingers fumbling with the pages of his book in an attempt to do as he was told. The ink had become blurred and muddled, words that typically came to him like second nature now entirely out of his reach. They were too complicated to process—he couldn’t process anything anymore except you. The ecstasy of your mouth engulfing him, your hands playing with him like a wind-up toy, your gaze that was practically drilling holes into his skin from below. Something about the vacant expression on his face sent a rush of gratification through your veins. His droopy eyes, perpetually calm and unfazed in even the most dire of situations, now gleamed with lust, pupils blown wide into obsidian moons. His lower lip, swollen and abused by the work of his own canines digging into them, trembled with effort as he tried to find his voice again.
“When the day of…of destiny arrived, Remuria…the g-grand immortal—ngh— city, faced an inevitable end,” he slurred out, that unwavering certainty with which he spoke earlier now nowhere to be found. You purred around his cock in approval, patting his thighs affectionately to encourage him to keep going.
“Today, the God—God,” he gasped as your tongue found the tip of his cock, gliding under its grooves and bringing dormant, electrifying sensations to life that he hadn’t even known existed. “God King's melody is…hah, God…is played only in Capi…C-cap…fuck—!”
The ruthless roll of your tongue on his cockhead didn’t let up, and before he could stop himself, Wriothesley’s lower half shot up, aching to feel more of the warm cavern of your mouth engulf him. You grabbed hold of his powerful hips without missing a beat, pinning them back to his chair with ease now that he’d more or less gone limp everywhere but his cock. Despite how far gone he was, he still managed to mumble out a weak apology for being so hopeless at controlling his own body.
“Only in Capito—nnn,” he tried a second time, only for it to end in another miserable grunt. He’d pronounced the word without any problems just moments before—well, truthfully, it could've been seconds, minutes, or hours ago and he wouldn’t have known the difference, anymore. What had come to him so effortlessly before now felt like he was trying to grab at wisps of smoke before they dissipated in the air.
Your teeth grazed just barely over the tender skin of his dick as you pulled off, earning a string of broken curses that were a rare indulgence in comparison to his usual decorum. “Big word, huh?” you murmured sympathetically, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into his skin to ground him. “Is it too much for you, baby?”
Wriothesley shuddered. You weren’t sure if he’d even registered what you said, but he nodded, anyway, half-lidded eyes zeroing in on your mouth in a nonverbal plea.
“You can do it, Wrio. C’mon, try one more time for me.”
You had a feeling he would’ve done any depraved, unspeakable thing you may have suggested to him in that moment if only he could feel your dripping, silken mouth enveloping his cock again. It was as if you could see the gears turning in his head like a Clockwork Meka coming to life, responding to your commands only.
“Ca…pi…to…li…um,” you sounded each syllable out for him. “Not so bad, right? Even you can figure it out.”
Vaguely, in the back of his short-circuited mind, he sensed that familiar burn of humiliation stinging his ears. But compared to how delightfully warm your honeyed voice made him feel all over, he couldn’t bring himself to worry about whatever remained of his pride.
“Cap—” It felt uncomfortably heavy on his lips, barely breaking through the cage of his teeth, but the way your expression softened as he tried to repeat after you made it all worth it. “Capitolium.”
“Good boy,” you crooned. “Keep it up, you’re almost there.”
Amidst the whirlwind that was wreaking havoc on his head, Wriothesley hadn’t even realized that he’d reached the volume’s final page until you pointed it out. He didn’t even have the chance to fully bask in your praise before your lips were wrapped around him again. You sank down on his cock without hesitation, taking him halfway into your mouth despite the ache that had spread in your jaw after accommodating his size for so long. The dull pang paled in comparison to your determination to keep going until the last fuse in his mind was burnt out.
“The God King's melody is—ngh—is played only in….in C-Capitolium, ‘nd his m-mighty…mmm, mighty reign has ended.”
The filthy slurping sound that followed his sentence as you dragged your lips back to the head of his dick sent a cold shiver up his spine, contrasting the feverish heat of his body so intensely that it gave him whiplash. Your heartbeat pounded in your chest as you sealed your mouth around his tip, already anticipating the final line of text that even you had memorized by now, in part because of the fascination Wriothesley seemed to have always had with it. Whether he himself was aware enough to remember it anymore was what you were truly interested in finding out.
The man jolted as you put all your focus into teasing his tip again, effectively sucking his last shred of sanity out through his cock so that he was operating on autopilot. Even as the book began to slip from his twitching fingers, he carried on mindlessly.
“Th-th-thusly do the...ah—fuck. Fuck, that’s good, ‘s good,” he babbled. “Please—ah. Thusly do the ancient writers concur — ‘Oceans will…will…’ Ngh.”
Your tongue found his slit, brushing over it a few times with devious, kittenish licks before you dug your tip mercilessly into it, flicking back and forth at an agonizing pace. Wriothesley doubled over, book falling from his hands and hitting to the ground with a heavy thud that was drowned out by the volume of his rambling.
“Oceans will rise—mmm, please. Please, don’t stop. S’ good,” he groaned, voice so thick with lust that he could physically feel it filling his throat, threatening to choke him up. Each word took every drop of his lifeforce to gasp out when all he could think of, all he could feel and see and hear was you. It felt cruel to expect him to pour his attention into anything else. “Rise…rise—ngh. Oceans will rise, empires will…will fa—fuck. Ah, please, ‘m close. Close. Can’t, can’t anymore. ‘S gonna—”
You didn’t need to decode the absolute mess of warnings thrown into his moans to know that he was at his limit. Tonguing one last time at the spongy head of his cock, you coaxed out his climax, thick, sticky seed spilling into your mouth with all the force of water gushing from a broken dam. Wriothesley let out a broken cry of your name, the only word that came easily to him anymore, so uncharacteristically loud and rife with desperation that it had your core clenching wildly around nothing. His dick pulsed like a heartbeat against your tongue as his release spurted out with every shock of pleasure that shuddered through his drained body. You were careful not to swallow too much of it, bearing with the bitter taste so you could put the creamy fluid to much better use.
His pants of relief mixed with raspy, borderline incoherent apologies as he failed to stop himself from thrusting shallowly into your mouth, riding out the last few waves of his high. You kept your hands flattened on his contracting stomach, petting it gently through his climax until he at last collapsed against his chair. His head fell back against the cushion in pure exhaustion, jaw going slack to spill out a dribble of drool from the corner of his mouth.
Carefully, you let his cock fall from between your plush lips, a thin trail of saliva still connecting you to its head as it fell against his thigh, still twitching and leaking. Wriothesley’s labored breaths filled the room in place of the symphony of pure sin that had been echoing through it earlier, chest heaving with no signs of slowing down after the intensity of what he’d just experienced. Your knees cried out in relief as you rose from your spot at last, throwing your legs over his muscular thighs and settling into his lap. He quivered slightly as your heat pressed down on his hypersensitive length, all the arousal that had pooled in your core making itself abundantly clear.
Wriothesley’s head lolled to the side, like he was toeing the line between a dreamscape and the waking world, but his eyes fluttered open drowsily when you took his chin between your fingers and guided him to look at you. With his mouth already hanging open uselessly as if he’d forgotten how to close it, you were able to seal your lips to his with ease, rolling out your tongue to spill his own release into his mouth. His expression twisted into a slight grimace as the acrid flavor flooded his tastebuds in a thick sheen, but he lapped it all up without hesitation nonetheless, gliding his tongue against yours to capture every last drop.
As you pulled back to let him swallow, he barely gulped down the mouthful of his seed before leaning into you with surprising urgency, still too uncoordinated to stop his nose from bumping against yours in the process. You indulged him when he let out a soft grumble, not quite ready to lose the bliss of your lips encasing his like a pillow of clouds. The very same lips that had been driving him mad just moments ago, now soothed him right down to his bones.
Regaining a bit of his strength, his forearms rose from where they’d been hanging limp at his sides and wrapped loosely around your waist, a silent plea for you to come closer. Your mouths moved in a deep, lazy rhythm until his need for oxygen interfered with his need for you. The sight of him when you pulled apart was enough to make you wish you could slip your bottoms off and sink down on his sore, spent cock without wasting another second. His pale cheeks, always so lifeless from a lack of sunshine, were tinted with a rosy flush and glistening with beads of sweat that trickled from his forehead. Messy, damp locks of his hair stuck out in all directions, and a content hum rumbled in his throat when you ran your fingers through them, scratching at his scalp.
He blinked slowly up at you as you pet his head in comfortable silence, eyes still very much glazed over with a far-off look in them that stirred something protective in you. He was so out of it, drained and powerless beneath you, trusting wholeheartedly that he was safe in your hands. It was a display of vulnerability that you never would've dreamed of witnessing when you first met him. You wiped the corner of his mouth where pearly droplets of his seed had spilled out, pushing them tenderly past his parted lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, patting his cheek when his tongue swiped over your thumb like a reflex. “You like the taste of milk with your tea?”
Wriothesley swallowed hard, giving you a dreamy nod that he would no doubt be mortified with himself for when he came back to his senses. But right now, the fuzzy afterglow that nipped the edges of his brain was far too pleasant for him to care.
“So,” you began softly, tracing your fingers up and down the triad of scars rippling along his neck and chest. “Found anything worth noting in there?”
Wriothesley tilted his head, still in no state to understand what you were getting at with your question, let alone form a proper response to it. You giggled, tapping the crown of his empty head and gesturing to The History of the Decline and Fall of Remuria, lying forgotten on the floor. A vague sense of recognition flooded his features, and he blinked a few times before giving up and slumping back into his chair with an airy chuckle of his own.
“Mmm…dunno,” he mumbled. “Dunno. Don't 'member anythin’ but you.”
You brushed his silver-streaked bangs back to press a chaste kiss to his forehead, ebbing some of the heat gripping his body like a drop of cool, calming water.
“Guess we’ll have to try Volume Three, then.”