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“Okay, Wriothesley, you can look,” you murmur.
This isn’t the first time he’s been in your room like this, or the first time you’ve asked him for help with something. It pleases him every time to see your bright smile whenever you manage to finish the homework after he explains another concept to you for the fourth time.
He thinks it’s a nice feeling, being needed for once. Especially since it comes with your giggles whenever he makes a dumb joke, or the exasperated looks you send him when he’s distracting you from your essays.
Still, he ignores the twinge that comes with it. You’re just friends. He has your number saved under the nickname you came up with yourself, and you meet up at least three times a week to study together.
He frowns. The studying sessions are good. You challenge him, push him with every question you ask on the cases you’re reviewing this week. And that’s… fine, really. He’s fine with being just friends, because you are.
And he has done weird stuff for his friends.
There’s the time Navia needed his help sneaking Clorinde out of her dorms after she got the talk from her landlord about sex not being allowed there. He still remembers the disgusted scowl on Clorinde’s face when he had to kiss her face so they could pass as a loving couple.
Navia certainly hasn’t let him live it down. Especially not after his magic trick at Lyney’s party that ended with him having to strip in front of the whole fraternity to save face.
So, yeah, he has done some questionable things for his friends, but nothing is quite up as high on this list as this is.
He swallows hard, and then finally opens his eyes. It takes a second for his vision to come into focus. His mouth runs dry immediately, subtly swiping his tongue over his lip before you look up at him.
“You’re acting even more shy than I am,” you grumble. You glare at him, your bare thighs remaining tightly pressed together. “I’m the one with the issue here, remember?”
He does remember. He’s remembering really well, actually, with you half naked in front of him on your own bed, with his gaze on you like this is the most normal thing you’ve done all week. It might be.
Wriothesley doesn’t really want to know. (He does. He has spent the past few days thinking about every other person you might’ve asked before you settled on him, if this is something you casually ask of people.)
“Yeah,” he croaks out. “Yeah, right.”
It takes him more than a second longer to fully focus on what you were saying, and then he tilts his head. “I’ll have to see a bit more than that to help you, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Because you had gone to him days ago, face flushed from the effort it had taken you to run up the stairs. You had texted him about an emergency, so Wriothesley, like any good friend would, had called in late to his shift at the nearby café.
The last thing he’d expected was for you to stare at him for a long moment, clearly at a loss for words, before mumbling out an embarrassed ,“I need you to help me come.”
Because, well. You’re just friends. And yet, despite everything, he couldn’t ignore the interest that had settled in his stomach, a syrupy heat that hasn’t left still. Had he felt embarrassed? Well, yeah, and more than a little confused, but the thought had stayed and hadn’t left his mind after.
Still, he’d blinked at you like you were speaking a completely different language. You might as well have been. “And you need me for that?”
You had scowled at him when he’d said that. “I do need you for that,” you’d snapped, rolling your eyes while a deep crimson flush appeared on your cheeks. “Who else am I going to turn to? The other cis guys who don’t know anything about my identity?”
Which was fair, all things considered. The fraternity you’re both in doesn’t have the best reputation for stuff like this, and really, Wriothesley had felt flattered that you trust him enough to come to him.
Maybe that’s why he had told you he’d think about it before rushing to work.
And he had. He had thought about it, more than enough times, and the only reason he’s doing this is because you had looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes. So he had said yes. Had texted a plain I’ll do it, because the prospect of saying it to your face had been scary enough to almost convince him to say no.
So, yeah. This was as much your decision as it was his, he reminds himself. You’re comfortable enough with him to ask him about this. And he is as well. He is. You just needed help and came to him for it.
Which has led up to this very moment. You’re sprawled back against the sheets and a few pillows you propped up to lean against, your plush naked thighs still tightly pressed together even as you glare at him again. “I’m trying,” you grumble.
He knows that you are. You’ve pressed your fingers between your thighs, after all.
You’re still wearing a shirt, and your socks, having stripped off the rest of your clothes while he waited with his eyes closed. You’re beautiful like this, and he lets his gaze roam and linger.
And then he catches sight of soft, plush folds hidden behind your fingers and patches of hair, and Wriothesley forgets how to breathe for a second.
He’s here to help. Right, he’s here to help, that’s why you asked him to be here. “Try to relax a bit more,” he manages, tearing his gaze away from your hand to settle it on your face instead. “Deep breaths.”
“I can’t,” you protest, moving your fingers again. “It doesn’t feel good.”
Wriothesley fights the urge to roll his eyes at that. “That’s because you’re not relaxing,” he pushes, and he shifts until he’s leaning forward in the seat he’s sitting in. “Breathe in, sweetheart. You gotta let it in.”
You do breathe in and out a few times before huffing out a breath in frustration. “I just can’t, Wriothesley. You don’t get it.”
And, well, that much is obvious. You’re almost hunched over on the bed, like you’d rather be anywhere else than here, and Wriothesley very pointedly ignores his dick that’s telling him to just take care of it.
“You have to show me,” he murmurs instead. “I have to see what you’re doing in order to be able to help, sweetheart.”
After a few seconds of doubt, you do spread your legs for him. His eyes go dark, sweeping over your knees. Heat is curling in his gut. He wants you to do this for him willingly, needs you to-
He shakes his head, refocuses. You’re friends, and he can take a very objective look at your pussy. He’s meant to teach you how to do this right, and he can do that.
He watches your fingers dip between your folds again, rubbing harshly at your clit. You look almost bored, pressing your fingers against almost dry skin, and yeah. Wriothesley can definitely see the problem.
You’re not going to have a good time if you’re unable to be aroused with him here. Despite him here, maybe.
“Do you feel comfortable?” he asks, narrowing his eyes when you duck your head. “I can leave for a bit. That’s fine, if it helps you get going.”
“Nothing feels comfortable,” you snap back. You look frustrated, your cheeks flushed with a hint of.. is that embarrassment? Wriothesley swallows as he pushes down the heat that arises at that thought. It’s a good look on you.
“Right,” he simply says.
It’s quiet for a while.
You’re silent as you try to focus on your breathing again before slowly moving your fingers again. It looks like a chore, like you’re not enjoying this at all, and Wriothesley has to close his eyes for a second.
Think, he tells himself. What would help you feel better? You’re the one who asked him to be here, who wanted him close, and you still don’t look entirely comfortable. But you did want him close.
You want him close.
He sighs, and then opens his eyes. “Scooch over,” he says.
Your gaze flashes to him, disbelief written all over your face, and you’re silent as you seem to process what he said.
Wriothesley groans, shakes his head. There’s no going back from this. “Move over,” he repeats, voice a bit softer this time. “I’ll sit behind you. There’ll be less… pressure to do well, if you can’t see my face.”
You’re quiet for a bit longer before slowly making your way to the front of your bed. It’s not uncomfortable, not really, but there’s a hint of tension that he wants to pluck out of the air.
Wriothesley’s body moves before he can even tell what he’s doing. He walks up to the bed, lowering himself behind you. It’s nice, this, to have you this close. He can smell your perfume a lot more clearly like this.
He carefully leans back against the pile of pillows you put down, shifting around a bit until he’s comfortable. You’re giving him the space he needs, for now, and Wriothesley hums. “You can move back.”
And you do.
It’s a bit of a hassle, moving around until you’re both comfortable. Wriothesley hesitates for a moment before the need to touch you wins, setting his hands on your waist. You let him pull you back against him so easily.
Like you trust him this much. Like his touch doesn’t scald but instead warms you from the inside out.
He swallows, and then clears his throat. You’re pressed against him entirely and he can feel his clothed thighs press against your bare ones. The contact is electrifying, and when your breath stutters, he lets out a breathless laugh.
“Comfortable?” he murmurs, lowering his head until he’s able to whisper in your ear. Your hair pricks against his face. There’s something so tempting about having you this close, but Wriothesley is a man with discipline.
You nod, still a bit tense against him. “And now?”
Your hands are resting on the sheets, clutching the fabric a little, and Wriothesley hums. “And now you continue.”
“That doesn’t work, Wriothesley,” you immediately bristle.
Wriothesley just laughs, pressing his thigh a bit more against yours on purpose. He has you so close now, so close. If he can’t have you, then he’ll at least have this. “I’ll help you,” he rumbles.
His throat feels dry when he watches you spread your legs again, slowly relaxing a bit against him. You’re beautiful. You look so fucking good slipping your hand between your legs again.
Fuck, he’s going to have dreams about this for the rest of the month at the very least.
You press your fingers down awkwardly, harshly, rubbing up and down your clit again in a way that Wriothesley knows can’t feel good.
And then, because he’s apparently incapable of being a normal person about this, his hand reaches down. You let out a surprised little noise when his hand settles over yours. He bites back a groan, shifting on the bed.
“Relax,” he breathes out, and for a long second, he doesn’t even know if he’s talking to himself or you.
You freeze up for a second before leaning into him a bit more. Wriothesley hums, tries not to let it get to his head. This is all him. You’re reacting this way to him. “Relax, slow down. It’s not going to feel good if you’re moving like you’re trying to squash a mosquito.”
“Wriothesley,” you protest, but there’s no real heat behind it.
He grins. This is working, then, but he’s greedy now that he has you here with him. He slowly presses two fingers down on yours, taking your hand in his to rub slow circles around your clit.
Your hand almost disappears in his grasp, like this. He breathes out roughly. He has to be careful with this. So, he attentively moves your hand, pressing down a little harder only when your hips twitch forward.
You’re so warm, so soft.
So warm. He can feel the heat of your cunt even with him just touching your hands. He can’t let his grip slip, can’t let you feel how much it’s affecting him. He shifts on the mattress again, but all it does is let you brush against his clothed thighs and dick.
Wriothesley groans quietly. Heaven wasn’t meant for him, anyway.
You’re doing good like this. You’re comfortable, slowly rutting your hips against their fingers, and Wriothesley should sit back and enjoy the show from here. Just like this.
But he’s just a man. You came to him for help only to hand him all the stars in the galaxy, and he’s here, and Wriothesley is no stronger than a man.
So when his finger slides off of yours and he feels a damp, wicked heat against his fingers, he huffs out a rough laugh. “Feels good?”
You don’t reply, but the soft sigh that falls past your lips is more than enough for him. He circles your clit on purpose this time. Another sigh, and he drags his finger up from your folds until it’s pressing down a bit harder on your clit.
Your breath hitches this time, your thighs twitching slightly.
The pure serotonin it gives him is enough to make his head spin. Wriothesley grins, brushing his lips against your ear. “Speechless already?”
“Fuck you,” you spit out, voice breathless.
And oh, that’s dangerous. That makes him think about something he’s definitely not supposed to do, like bending you over the mattress and eating you out before he splits you open on his cock.
So he laughs again, crooking both of your fingers right against your clit in a rhythm of slowly up- and downward movements. You gasp, pressing back against his back. Fuck. That’s good.
Really good, and Wriothesley wants more of that. So he crooks his fingers again, playing around until he discovers exactly which movements make you feel the best. There’s something thrilling about having you fall apart against him like this.
And then his finger slides off again, wet arousal glistening against his skin after he brushes past your entrance.
He freezes entirely. His breath hitches, and he swallows hard. You’re wet.
Your face tilts upwards, your hair tickling his neck. “Why did you stop?” you ask, a little whine in your tone that makes him want to break down the laws of the earth and give you everything you could ever ask for.
You’re asking for this, aren’t you? So it’s okay for him to press up against your back and hold your thigh a little firmer against his own with his free hand. It’s more than alright if he pushes a second finger between your folds.
“Wriothesley,” you breathe out.
He crooks his fingers in reply. When he presses his fingertips against your entrance, pushing down your own finger as well, you quietly moan. “More, Wriothesley.”
And, ah, fuck. You’re so soft and warm against him, so ready for his touch, and Wriothesley wants. “Yeah?” is what he asks, laughing as a disbelieving warmth settles in the pits of his stomach. “More, sweetheart?”
You nod breathlessly. Your hand fists the bedsheets, and you roll your hips against his hand.
Wriothesley watches. He just watches, entranced. “You’re so beautiful,” he then murmurs.
The sound that falls past your lips makes him grin against your neck, pushing his fingers down until he feels you tense up. “Tell me when you want me to stop,” he adds.
You don’t.
Instead, you press your hips into his touch. Your back arches slightly and Wriothesley tightens his grip on your thigh to pull you back, closer into him, so you don’t leave. His finger slips into a tight, wet heat, and fuck.
You gasp out a shaky breath. Wriothesley can’t focus on anything but you. He lowers his head, presses a dazed kiss to your shoulder.
You feel so fucking good. Wriothesley is not a virgin, he has done this before, but this is nothing short of a religious experience. He groans, pressing his palm into your clit as he moves his wrist in small circles.
And then you withdraw your own hand. You push it down on his thigh instead, trying to keep yourself upright. “Breathe, sweetheart,” he murmurs.
Wriothesley can’t stop staring. He can see you breathe in, and out, and then watches as your pussy swallows his finger entirely, knuckle for knuckle.
He continues massaging against your clit. You’re wet enough to be dripping on his hand, all over his fingers.
“Can I move?” he manages. He wants to. He needs to fuck into your tight heat, needs to let himself take control.
You nod shakily before a whiny moan falls past your lips. “Careful,” you gasp out. “Stings.”
Of course it does. You haven’t gotten off by yourself before.
And still, he doesn’t want to stop, can’t stop now that he knows how tight you are and how eagerly you clench down around him. Wriothesley swallows, presses his palm down again.
“I’ll make it feel good,” he promises, voice rough.
You nod, leaning your head up to press it into the crook of his neck. Wriothesley hums, pushes his head against yours. You’re so soft. Your hair tickles, and he can feel the brush of your nose against his skin.
“You’re taking me so well,” he murmurs. It takes a few minutes before you’ve relaxed in his hold again, but then softer small moans start spilling past your lips, and he curls his finger.
A sharp inhale of breath. He does it again, and again, until you’re loose enough to take a second finger.
It goes in so easily. Fuck, fuck. Wriothesley groans as he pushes it in to the last knuckle, drawing small circles on your thigh. “You’re so good,” he says. “Good boy.”
The effect is immediate. You whine, clawing at the bedsheets. Your hips stutter into his palm, pressing up against him to swallow him whole. You like this. He’s making you feel so good.
Wriothesley feels like he’s on fire, like you’re burning him up from the inside out. He curls his fingers again.
His palm presses up against your clit, rubbing while he curls and uncurls his fingers, closer and closer and closer until-
“Wriothesley,” you whine, nails digging into his thigh. You almost jump away from his touch, thighs twitching as you try to close them. “Ah, ah-“
He presses down again and you almost scream.
There. He can’t help the sharp intake of breath at that. Wriothesley drags his fingers over the spongy muscle another time, and another time, until a sob falls past your lips and you grip his thigh instead. Fuck, he wants this again. So he hums. “Found it.”
You’re shaking in his grasp. Wriothesley is just a man, and when he fucks his fingers deeper into you, you whine out his name in a trailed off moan. He’s just a man and you’re the whole world, the entire galaxy. Nothing is going to get as good as you after this.
“Stop being so fucking smug,” you get out, nearly whimpering.
Wriothesley laughs. He feels so full like this, grinding up his fingers to press into your g-spot again. “I’m making you feel good, sweetheart.”
You don’t reply, too busy trying to press your face into his shoulder while you’re panting all over him. Your mouth is open, your teeth against his neck, and Wriothesley wants to be stupid so bad.
His hips buck up against yours without warning.
He’s hard enough that it’s starting to hurt, his dick twitching against his jeans with every little sound that falls past your lips, but you’re so much more important than any kind of high he could ride from this.
And Wriothesley can feel you get loose around his fingers, can feel how wet you are, so he pushes his ring finger along with the other digits into your sopping wet pussy. “Does it feel good, sweetheart?”
You nod, and he can’t help the moan that spills from his lips.
“Yeah?” he breathes out. “Does it feel good?”
And then he slams his fingers back into your dripping cunt. His entire hand is wet and cramping, and his wrist hurts, but Wriothesley wants to drag this out just a bit more. He wants you just a bit more.
He fucks into you, setting a steady pace. He loses track of how much time has passed since you started, since you came to him looking like temptation right from the heaven he thought he could never reach. And still, he wants more.
You’re shaking by now, your head resting against his shoulder as you moan weakly. He can hear the moist sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your pussy almost echo through the room.
“Wriothesley,” you whine, rubbing your ass against his groin, and yeah, okay.
He’s past the point of pretending that any of this was for you. Wriothesley isn’t impatient, not like this, not usually, but you’re in his arms and pushing all of his buttons at once. He curls his fingers again. “Yeah, sweetheart?”
A soft pathetic sob rings in his ears like the sweetest melody. “I get it,” you breathe out. “I want- I’m close. Wriothesley-”
You’re close. Wriothesley swallows, laughs in disbelief, and then hums while brushing his lips against your ear. “I’ve got you,” he promises, nearly high with power. “I got you.”
He presses his palm up against your clit, harshly, and then plunges his fingers in to brush them against your g-spot again.
You’re whining, leaning against him like you forgot how to even breathe without his help. There’s the softest sob that falls past your lips. You’re clenching around him, so soft and so tight, and then-
“Wriothesley.”
It’ll be the undoing for the rest of his life.
You sob, back arching against him as your mouth opens, and he can’t do anything but watch as he works you through it. You’re panting so harshly. Wriothesley presses you closer, tightens his grip on your thigh.
He goes on until you’re limp in his grasp, shaking, and your whimpers turn into something softer and more pained. “Enough,” you gasp out. “Enough, Wriothesley.”
So he lets his fingers slip from your folds, cupping your folds as he gently massages you while you breathe. You’re slumped against his chest, trusting and beautiful. Wriothesley desperately ignores the tenderness blooming in his chest and unfurls your hands where they’re still clutching the bedsheets.
And then you blink open your eyes.
There’s a moment in which his heart stutters dangerously in his chest. You look, well, fucked out, damp hair clinging to your forehead, face so flushed. And then you huff out a soft laugh.
“You didn’t say you were this good at it,” you point out, sounding like you’ve been to heaven and back.
Wriothesley laughs in return, wonder spreading through his veins like a crackling bolt of lightning. He knows his voice is rough when he speaks up, leaning back to give you some space. “You asked me for instructions,” he rasps out.
Fuck, you look so good.
He wants to push you back into the sheets and see how far that flush reaches, if it spreads all over your chest and stomach. His dick twitches at the thought, and for a moment he wants to give in.
But you’re friends, and you needed help, so he gave it. Your hand feels soft against his own when he pulls you off the bed, steadying you on your feet. His hand settles on your lower back so easily.
And you just let it stay, like you’ve let him stay.
“I’ll go shower,” you announce, flashing him a slightly embarrassed smile as his heart drops to his stomach. “Just… make yourself at home. I won’t be that long.”
Right. Yeah. Right, back to normal. He nods wordlessly and tries not to let his gaze linger on the wet drops of cum on your thighs or the half moon shaped marks where his fingers dug into your skin earlier. He fails miserably.
There’s a sting on his thigh from where you dug your fingers into his skin, too.
“You can wash your hands,” you add, a little sheepishly. And then, a little more quietly, like it’s an afterthought that holds all the importance in the world still: “Thank you.”
Wriothesley chuckles, holds up his hand. “Go shower,” he manages, voice light. There’s a lingering want that he can’t manage to shake off. Not with you looking like a vision in front of his eyes. Not ever. Not when it’s you.
The bathroom door closes behind you with a soft thud, and he falls back on your bed with his gaze still on the door.
Everything is just you, like this. He presses his face into your bedsheets. It smells like you, like your laundry detergent and your perfume and your cum, and he groans. This was a bad idea. Really, really bad.
He slowly peeks at his hand. His fingers are wet, glistening with your release. His gaze flits to the bathroom door again.
Ultimately, Wriothesley is just a man. A little compensation for his help is nothing, he tells himself, eyes flitting to the wet patch on your sheets. And then he sucks, his cheeks hollowing around his fingers.
You taste like freedom, like sin and heaven all combined, and the tight fit of his jeans hurts more now than ever.
He groans, and rolls over on your bed. You’re just friends, yeah.
He’s so incredibly fucked.