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The ringing in your ear only stopped when the referee’s whistle broke the rush of surging adrenaline that was slowly melting away from your body. You blinked, and two men appeared in the ring, dragging your unconscious opponent away. The rhythmic roars of the crowd synced with your heartbeat, and yet you still couldn’t completely comprehend that you had won. Maybe it was in your competitive spirit, but the sweet taste of victory was never enough for you. You were constantly searching for something sweeter, more fulfilling. That poor bastard had doubled over with just a kick on his ribs; he was no challenge for you. No one they shoved your way really was.
Boxing had become more of a lifestyle than a hobby over time. Your sentence to the Fortress was not a pleasant outcome after you had lost the trial. It was a dreary time for you. Those you trusted most, those you considered your most valuable allies, had turned their backs on you, planting the stolen goods in your suitcase and passing you over to the guards like a big present with a pink bow on top. It broke you. So by the time they sentenced you to five years of pure self-reflection and atonement, the anger was burning hot inside your veins.
Day by day, you grew stronger. It was addicting to watch your body change as you shaped yourself to your best form. Now, you could feel it. However, it wasn’t only your physical appearance. There had been a shift in your mindset, too. Once, being driven only by an unhealthy amount of hatred and an overwhelming need for revenge, it almost consumed you. The Fortress had shaped your mind and your beliefs. You met a handful of people here over the past two years. Each one of their stories was like a pebble on your own bridge, a part of a bigger story. Most people in the Fortress had come to terms with their new reality; accepting your fate was easier, if one could even blame it all on fate on this occasion, and you learned the hard way.
The loud clapping of hands had you turning your head in its direction, along with the surrounding crowd. If the blood in your veins was burning hot a second ago, now it was pure crystal with the chill that ran through you. “My most sincere congratulations. You really managed to entertain me.” His smile widened.
The Duke himself was casually leaning over the railing of the ring, showering you with praise. The shock on your face mirrored that of everyone else's as all eyes were pinned on his figure. “Thank you, your Grace. You practically choked out his title, almost forgetting his status from the anxiety that was chewing on your insides. Many eyes turned to you, curious, eyes wide in fear and awe. It felt like the spotlight was directly on top of your head, leaving you exposed and vulnerable under all these people’s gazes.
“How about a match against me tomorrow?” Wriothesley cocked an eyebrow at you. It was ironic how two years of facing life’s roughness could evaporate when standing underneath his pale blue eyes.
“Yes, your Grace.” It sounded so robotic that even Wriothesley suppressed a chuckle. Could anyone really refuse a challenge from the Duke? Intimidating or not, you must have piqued his interest enough to challenge you to a match. It was an honor.
“Great,” he clasped his hands together before he continued, “See you tomorrow then.” You watched as his black coat blended with the darkness of the alleyway, and you stood there while the realization dawned upon you.
He must have seen something in you to pick you apart from the other inmates that frequented the Pankration Ring. Should you have felt honored? Grateful for the opportunity to compete against him? No one knew what was going on inside the Duke’s mind. The whispers circulating in the prison spoke of an imposing figure, a capable leader, and a well-regarded man. While some didn’t even dare to gaze at the back of his coat, others liked to go on and on about his contribution in their “rebirth”. The idea of a complete restart did not really touch you. Could a person fully expiate themselves from the crime they committed? It depends on the severity of the crime, yes, but the guilt of their irreversible actions would drag one down to misery.
You were scared. You hadn’t felt this vulnerable, this unsure and anxious, since you first set foot in the Fortress. You had crossed this hallway a hundred times by now, and yet you couldn’t ease the anxiety that chewed at your insides and clawed at your chest like a wild dog in a cage. He was already there, stretching his arms from side to side, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the scars along his forearms; how they stood out against the black boxing tape that he wrapped against his rough skin. A larger one peeked out from his chest beneath the black tank top, darker and more stubborn to fade than the others.
“There you are. I'm glad you didn’t decide to stand me up.” Wriothesley hummed and approached you. You stared at his outstretched hand, swallowed the lump in your throat, then accepted the gesture and shook it. He tipped his head slightly. “Loosen up, it’s just a friendly match.”
Your anxiety was so deeply rooted that you’d forgotten your own capabilities, and Wriothesley saw right through you. His words were like a gentle reminder of your strength. He had pointed a finger at you in the middle of a crowd; he had chosen you. It wasn’t about proving to him that you were a worthy opponent; it was about proving something to yourself. It always was.
“Let’s have a clean fight, your Grace.” You released his hand with a nod and positioned yourself in the ring. Wriothesley’s lips twitched into a small smile before taking his own place across from you. The referee did a brief recitation of the rules, a thing rather unnecessary considering both your experiences, but protocol was to be followed. The last concerns were dismissed, and only then did the crowd quiet down, eager to hear the referee’s whistle.
The sound cut through the air like a gunshot, and your trained body moved on its own. Lunging at him was your first mistake, which you paid for with a harsh punch on your shoulder. Creating a shield with your forearms, you blocked his next few attacks and even attempted to counter him with a punch to his chest. Your legs were burning, and your heartbeat drummed inside your chest. He circled you, having his own forearms up in a defensive stance. This time he was the one who attacked, and fuck, he was fast. In a flash, he was landing hit after hit to your ribs, your shoulders, and the underside of your neck. You gritted your teeth as you stumbled a few steps back from the impact.
The look in his eyes was a daunting sight. Fierce, calculating, and strikingly wintry. A huff left your lips and you bounced back on your toes, carefully approaching him once more. At this rate, your chances of winning were slim. Option one was to aim for his chest again, but he would most likely block it. Option two was to take advantage of his exposed left side, where you had previously noticed a fading scar, assuming that it might be one of his weak spots. The options weighed more and more heavily with every passing moment you wasted. It was too late for you to block him when he seized your mental slip-up and leaped towards you, throwing your body down to the ground with ease.
“Stop thinking so much and focus.” His voice was a harsh whisper in your ear. He didn’t allow you any room for movement. It felt suffocating being trapped underneath him, with his chest only pressing you harder against the cool surface. Wriothesley’s body felt like fire, and you were slowly and torturously melting under his unforgiving grasp. He was right, again. It was pointless to ruminate and let yourself get distracted in the ring, and the consequences were pressing their entire body weight on you.
It was the moment you snapped as all the gears in your head shattered to pieces and arched your pelvis to the side, freeing your legs. With a jerk of your body and a low groan from your lips, you hooked your left leg underneath his left thigh and quickly flipped him upside down. If only you had been a second quicker, you would have grappled him to the ground. He was fast enough to shove you back and create some distance between the two of you. The air around you felt hot as you struggled to breathe, adding to the rapid beating of your heart. His eyes taunted you to approach him again, lured you in like a moth drawn to flame, although you knew that in the end, you would be the one burning.
You sprang forward once more, your right fist connecting with the outer part of his forearm as he blocked your first hit. With your left arm, you targeted the exposed spot on his chest, landing a hefty blow at that spot. A small, prideful smirk stretched across your lips when the second blow you landed on his shoulder had him taking a few steps back. He ducked the next incoming hit and counterattacked with a blow to your collarbone. You bit down on the pain and forced yourself to twist to the side to dodge his following hit, which would have landed on your chest.
This was the perfect opening. Wriothesley’s right side was all exposed, presenting you with a tremendous opportunity to strike again. In your mind, time had slowed down. You glimpsed a face illuminated directly by the spotlight above, scars carved into his pale skin, and striking sea-blue eyes staring back at you.
The next time you blinked, Wriothesley’s face was scrunched in pain after the impact of your fist that connected with his face. He stumbled a few steps back, panting, and pinched the bridge of his nose, grimacing. “Damn girl…You really packed a punch.” He sounded very amused for someone who had just undergone a jab straight to his nose.
“I didn’t mean to go for your nose, your Grace. I'm so sorry.” Your voice cracked. The silence of the crowd echoed like a loud ring in your ear. Your body had frozen while dread and guilt consumed you. Their own anxiety only magnified yours, their eyes picking you apart like you had just committed a well-plotted scheme. Worst of all, it was an accident. Your initial plan was to break his defence with a hook, but apparently, Wriothesley’s forearms were a few inches lower than you had calculated, resulting in this terrible mess.
Wriothesley spat down the dripping blood from his nose and raised a single hand in a dismissive gesture. “Don’t start with the apologies, I'm going to be fine. You're not the first one who has ever graced me with a blow on the nose.” He shook his head, but his oddly calm and lighthearted voice did nothing to relieve your guilt. “Bring it on.” And just like that, he positioned himself across from you again. With the dried blood on his upper lip combined with his disheveled hair, he appeared feral, an animal with no bounds, no confines, that was impossible to tame. Wriothesley knew no bounds when he was inside the ring. It almost felt like a natural habitat for him. His own domain to test his limits, and the only thing you could do was comply.
You hesitantly mirrored his southpaw stance, inhaling slowly. It was his turn this time to take the offensive, catching you off guard with a cross punch. His movements were more strategic than before; you struggled to keep up. It was challenging enough to keep your defence stable, let alone counterattack him. How was it even possible that he moved this fast and precisely after you had almost broken his nose? He didn’t even look a tiny bit dazed or even affected.
The exhaustion was catching up to you. It was inevitable. Wriothesley brought out your competitive spirit, making it all the easier for both of you to lose track of time. Your limbs ached, from the top down of your body, and yet you still had enough energy and determination in you to keep fighting. It was one of the many things your time in this alienated underwater society had taught you: hide your fragile parts away. The hounds that lurked behind shadowed alleys and closed doors could smell your fear, and their bite would tear anyone apart.
You stumbled back, and with the next jab, you fell to the ground. So that was his plan. To gradually tire you and wear you down with his relentless attacks, and he had succeeded. It all finally made sense now that your back was pressed flat on the ring with the blinding light burning directly into your eyes. You felt wrecked. Numb. From the beginning, you never believed you would win. You didn't even bother setting yourself these impossible standards. No one had managed to defeat Wriothesley so far, and you weren't foolish enough to believe that you would finally break the cycle.
“Get up.” The ghost of his breath would have sent a shiver down your spine if you hadn’t felt so worn out, with a body and mind so heavy and unresponsive. “Cmon, don’t you give up on me now”, he was leaning closer now; you could feel him. You caught a glimpse of his dark locks that hovered above you, like the silvery wings of a crow that loomed over its prey.
“I can’t, your Grace.” You were surprised at the sound of your own voice, how weak it was.
A sigh. One of disappointment? Defeat? You couldn’t really tell. “You need to work on your technique, you know.” Was that advice?
“I know,” you sighed.
“Your form is good, but you think too much, and you lose momentum. It’s called self-sabotage.” Another piece of advice. He couldn’t have picked a worse time. You were aware of your flaws, your unintentional overthinking in situations that spiked your stress levels.
“I know.” The sound that left your lips resembled that of a groan rather than a sigh the second time.
A strong arm hauled you back to your feet. Your surroundings transformed into a dark blur for a couple of seconds, and the grip around your waist tightened—as if he knew that the moment he let go, you’d collapse.
“Everyone! What an incredible knockout! His Grace has delivered a spectacular show once again!” The referee shouted, raising Wriothesley’s arm to announce his victory. The crowd erupted in cheers and wild shouts. Chaos erupted. Wide eyes and endless applause surrounded you, and you looked around in amazement. You had lost, and yet your chest tightened with a sense of accomplishment and fulfilment.
The referee approached you. “Are you alright?” He had to check up on you by the rules, and you responded with a slow, affirmative nod. Wriothesley supported half your body weight with just one arm; you were barely fine. A glance down to your forearms confirmed your assumption of bruising after the soreness that followed.
Wriothesley had sparked a flame inside you. He had pushed you over your limits and addressed each one of your weaknesses. It spiked your determination and your need to get better, stronger and be the best version of yourself. “Can I have a rematch?” He lifted a brow in amusement at the sound of your hasty question.
“A rematch? Aren’t you rushing into things a bit?” He snorted. “You need time to rest and train properly but-” He cut off your words. “You’ll have to train more.” Long fingers tightened around your waist. You wanted to be hopeful and take that as a promise.
Recovery after a match always felt like the greatest reward. Hot water enveloped your bruised body, the aroma of almonds rising with the bubbles that gathered at the surface of the tub. Baths like these were a luxury in the Fortress; Archons knew a thick stack of credit coupons was the only way to buy such privileges. Once a month, you’d treat yourself to it, nourishing your body with a touch of freshness and warmth and most precious of all, privacy. And they say money doesn’t buy happiness. Just the thought of the cold, lukewarm on good days, water in the shared bathrooms was enough to make you grimace.
Recovery also came with the inevitable train of thoughts that stormed your mind every time you let yourself relax. Wriothesley was the first opponent who’d ever knocked the air out of you, and left you with an itching desire to do better. You admired him for that. You’d heard bits and pieces of his story. How he managed to change the system of this prison after taking the role of Administrator, going against all odds and transforming this place into a passageway to flourish.
The water turning cold was your cue to get out. A fresh pair of clothes waited in your room, along with a folded letter you noticed with furrowed brows. The confusion only amplified the more you read its contents with a dumbfounded expression. Inside the envelope were a handful of credit coupons from your wins in the Pangration, but it was instantly clear that the amount should have been greater. At least double.
You had just spent a lamentable amount of your savings on a hot bath and softer clothes, and now they had docked your rewards? It had to be a mistake, a terrible mix-up. Hurried footsteps echoed against the rough metallic flooring of the Administrative Area. In all your time within the Fortress, a grievance of this value had never surfaced, at least none you had ever heard of. Since there wasn’t someone solely responsible for managing the whole credit coupon system, you addressed the first guard you found near the elevator.
“Sorry, there’s an issue with my credit coupons. I haven’t received my full earnings.” The woman gave you a dismissive glance from head to toe, then languidly began shifting through the pile of papers on her desk. Her slim fingers moved slowly across the documents, making the pages look infinitely heavy. “I know it's late, but it's important to-” A single finger in your face was all it took to silence you.
“Number?” Her eyes contained all the raw impatience her body so conspicuously lacked, and your reply was equally short and quiet.
“4228.” She went back to her search, stopping when she located your identification number on the list and dragged her pen across it.
“No, there are no further payouts listed under your number.” She shook her head, slamming the folder shut along with your remaining hopes.
“Wait, wait, a large amount is missing!” You leaned forward, your fingertips barely brushing the edge of the desk. “Could you please take another look?” Your persistence only served to deepen the scowl on her face.
“Return to your dorm, my shift has ended.” Her voice was an unyielding wall that brooked no debate or the slightest attempt at protest. Not only was she unbelievably unhelpful, but also incredibly rude.
The scene drew more guards around you. A female one gestured towards the dorms and shouted commands with an authoritative voice. Hands pushed you in the direction of the elevator until a firmer grip on your shoulder halted you.
“What’s all the noise about?” You needn’t turn around to recognise Wriothesley’s voice. It silenced the guards, but the rude lady at the desk didn’t appear too affected by his presence. “She wanted to report a problem with her credit coupons. Pretty persistent and very uncooperative, your Grace.” The rude guard didn’t miss the chance to bring herself forward. Wriothesley threw you an amused glance as if expecting to see anyone else but you. There was recognition in his eyes. “Oh, it’s you.” His brows raised.
“I’ll sort this matter out myself.” And just like that, Wriothesley dragged you towards his office with your legs barely managing to keep up with his long stride. The guards were soon out of sight, but the look of shock on their faces still ghosted your mind. A large door stretched over the center of the floor, resembling a gate. It was huge, clearly a fit for the duke’s office.
Wriothesley shoved the door open and invited you in, to which you walked inside with hesitant steps. The bottom floor was empty, to your surprise. A staircase stretched across the circular room, leading to the main room, as you assumed. A chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center, casting a warm light that illuminated both floors. You felt bad that Wriothesely had to intervene, but you didn’t voice your guilt.
“So what seems to be the problem?” His gaze was impossible to ignore when it followed your every move as you took a seat on the lush, red cushions. Your protests suddenly seemed so insignificant inside the Duke’s office, but it was too late now to dismiss your previous complaints. “I apologise for the inconvenience, your Grace, but I haven’t been paid the full sum of my participation rewards from the Pankration. I’m in great need of these credit coupons,” you explained.
He grabbed a folder similar in colour to the rude lady’s, and by now you assumed it contained records of the accounts in the Fortress. He skimmed through it with great focus, and your wandering eyes settled on his face, and the vivid image of his bleeding nose surfaced in your mind. It appeared better now, but there was a noticeable redness in the area.
“I’m sorry for…your nose.” Your quiet murmur broke the heavy silence. Wriothesley paused, his brow furrowing at the unexpected remark and your contrite expression.
“You’re still worrying about that? I’m fine, really.” He flipped through a couple more pages after having dismissed your worries yet again.
“But it’s still a little red and swollen,” you protested, unable to let it go.
“Believe me, this pales compared to the injuries I've had in the past.” You definitely believed him and forced your mind to ease these concerns.
“How are you feeling, though? Still dizzy?” he asked with a hum.
“I’m definitely better. A hot bath works wonders.” Except now I'm broke because of it, and my coupons are missing, you wanted to add.
“I suppose you’re right.” You heard him muttering one second, and the next he was extending the folder towards you with a questioning look after his thorough search.
“The last deposit was a day ago, after your match against Karl,” he announced.
Bringing the folder to eye level, the records were just as he had stated.
“Today’s coupons are missing. The participation reward.” You blinked, eyes darting back and forth between Wriothesley and down to the document.
“Oh no, it doesn’t work like that. You have to win in an official match to get the participation rewards.”
You couldn’t tell if it was the infuriatingly matter-of-fact tone in which he said that or the fact that you had unintentionally screwed up your monthly budget for a bath that had your frustration flaring. Now you stood feeling more stupid for creating all this fuss for nothing.
“Where can I have the rematch you promised then?” It was desperate and spontaneous, but it was the only thing you could think of that could save you from living hand to mouth.
“You’re getting ahead of yourself now. I never promised a rematch.” He retrieved the folder from your tight grip and placed it back in his office with a small thud. “You’re still sloppy with a weak technique”, he continued.
You inhaled a deep breath, swallowing the insult like a brick, because it felt like one. “Why did you challenge me in the first place?” you demanded.
“You have potential, don’t get me wrong. I just think you lack the fundamentals. Sometimes the simplest moves are the most efficient and clever.” A smile tugged at his lips.
The tension eased from your face. You saw where his point was coming from, and you were most unfortunate to admit that he was right, at least to yourself. Thinking back to your performance, you constantly searched for an opening, a clever and unpredictable moment in time to grab and use it against him. Your body should have been the one working instead of your brain. Stop thinking so much and focus.
“Is this another free piece of advice for today?” You threw him a questioning look.
“All things have a price here, but I'm feeling generous today. I don’t intend on stealing more of your credit coupons, to ease your concerns.” Wriothesley crossed his arms, his hip leaning against his desk.
Well it did not ease your mind. It made you even more suspicious of his intentions, if possible. “Then, what’s the catch?” You stared at him.
Wriothesley rolled his blue-grey eyes and sighed. “Just accept my advice. Not everyone gets personal feedback from the Duke,” he said and exhaled another sigh.
The light from the chandelier above cast a bright light as he shifted his posture, revealing a slight swelling around his nose. You gasped.
“Your nose, archons. It’s swollen.” You pointed a hesitant finger at his nose. You were utterly sure by now that he was trying to brush it off before for whatever reason of his.
He went to brush it off again, but after seeing your inner turmoil, he stopped. Instead, he grabbed your hand and gently guided your fingers on his nose. You grazed his skin, careful to avoid putting pressure on the redder part where you had hit him hardest.
You held your breath the entire time, and you thanked the archons that he closed his eyes, sparing you the hustle of having to awkwardly find a spot on the ceiling to fixate on, away from his intimidating gaze. He guided your fingers to one side and then to the other, and you didn’t even notice when his fingers had left yours and continued on your own to feel the curve of his nose and then his cheeks and reached further to feel the shift in texture, captivated by the smoothness.
“If you continue a bit further down, you’ll discover the mark you left on my collarbone.” One dark blue-grey eye peeked down at you, and you drew back, feeling like a cat caught red-handed. Shame washed over you, a feeling that was well-deserved, if you were honest with yourself.
“I got a little…carried away,” you admitted.
Wriothesley’s low chuckle confirmed he was teasing you. Without a second’s hesitation, he reached for your palm again, guiding it toward the collarbone peeking from beneath his dark shirt. He leaned back slightly to make the bruise visible from where you stood. A small but dark, purplish mark stood out sharply against his fair skin.
“If you’re so persistent about apologising for the consequences of your sloppy punching,” he said, his voice casual as he remained perfectly still, ”then let me give you a real reason to apologize.”
You leaned in closer to his collarbone, grimacing at the sight of the bruise you had caused. Was he trying to humiliate you more by showing you all of the masterpieces you left on his body? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the heat rising in your cheeks. This intimacy was a trap. Wriothesley was fully aware of that, and yet all he did was try to push you more and more and test your limits, just like he did at the ring. But as your thumb grazed the edge of his shirt, the guilt you felt began to morph into a remorseful feeling.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you this badly. I never learned to control the force of my punches.” Your breath fanned over the skin of his collarbone. You watched the heavy thrum of his pulse and the way his throat moved as he swallowed.
“You’ve got remarkable strength. It’s impressive how much you’ve improved in such a short time.” His voice dropped to a low, gravelly hum. You looked up, finding his gaze already anchored on yours.
“You’ve been watching me for a year?” It was a surprise to hear such a blunt confession.
“A wrongful conviction and a rising star in the Pankration? A little hard for the Duke to ignore, if you ask me.” Despite the casual curve of his lips, there was a simmering admiration in his eyes before he masked it behind a practiced calm.
“Is ‘fluttering’ a secret technique in boxing I'm not aware of? Drop down my guard so you can openly strike?” You humored him, continuing your exploration of his skin until you discovered another small, purplish bruise on the other side of his jaw. “That’s mine too?” you murmured.
His gloved hand stopped your curious fingers. With a sudden shift, Wriothesley reached forward and twisted your arm behind your back, shoving your chest against his desk. He secured the position, pinning both of your wrists in a single, firm hold.
You gasped, craning your neck to peek back at him.
“I can catch you off guard with or without fluttering,” he rumbled. He brushed a few stray strands of hair away from your face, a strangely gentle gesture considering your hands were still firmly pinned firmly behind your back.
“That’s cheating-“ you spat a few loose strands of hair stuck to your lips. “-Your Grace.” With your cheek pressed against the flat of the wooden desk, it was impossible to get a clear view of his face. Wriothesley huffed at that. Shifting his grip so one hand held both of your wrists, he wrapped his free hand around the nape of your neck, doing you the favour of hoisting your head up so you could meet his eyes.
“It’s a variation of a grappling move I just invented, and I declare it completely legitimate.” It was obvious he was toying with you. You could practically hear the smile in his voice. He was enjoying this bizarre game, and he clearly knew you were too, even if you were more subtle about it. That intimate shared thrill was exactly why he pushed further.
You could only scoff and roll your eyes. “And they spout all the bullshit for fairness and justice,” you muttered and Wriothesley had to choke down his amusement.
This was the opening you needed. Wrenching your arms outward, cost Wriothesley his hold of your wrists. Taking advantage of the momentary slack, you ducked low and drove your weight into him. Moving faster than you ever had, you caught his arm and pivoted, flipping him around until he was the one pinned against the desk.
Fighting between your remaining dignity and the heat that had been boiling inside since the moment you went against Wriothelsey, you kept firm pressure on his neck with your elbow. You were aware of this false sense of the upper hand. You had your elbow against his neck, but you only had hold of one of his arms, but you didn’t budge.
“I don’t think choking your opponent is allowed either, but I suppose we’re going all-inclusive today,” he joked. You were so focused on keeping a firm hold of him that you didn't see his hand move until his fingers were already hooked under your jaw. He drew you in, and he was subtle when he glanced down at your lips. He didn’t try to be.
“Is kissing your opponent also included in your new additions?” You had to keep playing the game just to keep your nerves from showing. The elbow you had pressed into his neck softened, sliding down to his chest as you leaned into him. The shift allowed Wriothesley to close the distance until you were sharing the same breath.
“Wanna find out?”
Wriothesley stole the reply from your throat when he crashed his lips on yours. It was a slow, yet urgent and magnetic collision. He tilted your face, angling your face to fit better against him as his other arm snaked around your waist to haul you flush against his body. Your fingers resumed the curious exploration of the muscles peeking from beneath his grey shirt, and he let you, his breath hitching against your mouth.
You let him turn you around and lay you back across the cluttered surface of his desk. Your lips broke apart for a jagged breath, but Wriothesley was greedy. You cracked a smile when he kissed down your jaw and then down your neck and when he seemed particularly fond of specifically the side of your neck and nibbled at your skin. The desk was uncomfortable, but you forgot all about that when his hands slid under your shirt and found your breasts.
“No bra?” Wriothesley chuckled, his hot breath making you shudder. His touch was electric, his palms messy and rough as he squeezed you, his mouth traveling lower toward the hem of your shirt.
“I wasn’t planning on coming here,” you huffed, your heart hammering against your chest. “Just take it off,” you urged him, already tugging at the edges of the fabric. Wriothesley was more than happy to comply with a low, vibrant hum against your skin, peeling the shirt over your head.
He kissed his way down your bare chest, down your abdomen, leaving a plethora of open-mouthed kisses that had you shivering every time. You arched your head, glancing as he kneeled between your legs, and your breath hitched. You hoisted yourself on your elbows and watched with needy, wide eyes while Wriothesley neared your hips and eventually pulled your sweatpants down. He placed a kiss on your hipbone, and he continued to grace your skin with more as he undressed you. Despite your nerves, it brought a strange confidence watching him so eager to please you and touch you.
Wriothesley’s palms wrapped around your thighs, and he rested his head on top of them to just stare up at you with the faintest smirk. In your years in the Fortress, your body had inevitably changed, but it was impossible not to be self-conscious about it, especially in this moment. There was something between his sharp, calculating eyes that was oddly soothing and warm. He was looking at you with the same admiration that you only had the chance to see a fragment of before, but now, it was whole. What a strange feeling it was, his quiet, intimate adoration. With his guidance, you spread your legs for him, and the smirk on his face widened.
“I’ll be gentle,” he rasped, leaving you breathless as he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth and dragged them down. Wriothesley made it look effortless, moving past your thighs until the lace dropped to the floor. With determined hands, your legs were hiked over his shoulders in a flash, his mouth finding the space between your thighs. You fell back against the tabletop, drawing in a sharp, jagged exhale the moment his tongue glided against you.
The warmth of his mouth was driving you crazy. He licked along your slit, up to your clit where he sucked and kissed, then back down to your folds, tasting you over and over again. Your legs closed around his neck, and when the light from the chandelier became unbearable, you dropped your gaze to find Wriothesley buried between your legs. Through half-lidded eyes, you watched his wild black and silver strands fall over his forehead, tickling your sensitive skin. You choked down a moan and took hold of his hair, pulling it back from his face. Wriothesley showed his appreciation by sucking harder on your clit, drawing a sharp whimper from your throat.
You weren’t usually vocal, but Wriothesley had a way of getting you to unravel. When he voluntarily buckled your hips into his mouth, you finally lost it. With your mouth agape and his tongue flicking rhythmically across your clit, there was no point in muffling the shuddering moans. His nose brushed your clit as he continued to eat you out like a starved man. A desperate tug of his hair and the broken sigh you exhaled were all the motivation he needed. He did it again and again. He continued until you could barely breathe, until your legs began to twitch and tremble, and until you came against his face. Even then, he didn’t stop until the last of your quivers had calmed down.
Tiny circles of light danced in front of your eyes when you opened them again. You hadn’t realized how tightly you had squeezed them shut. Wriothesley’s hands were on your waist, he had pulled you upright so you were sitting on the edge of the desk again. Wet, swollen lips brushed the corner of your mouth, and you parted for him. The taste of your own pleasure enveloped you as he kissed you deep. You reached up, your thumb brushing away the slickness on his chin. A mess you were responsible for.
“I can now officially declare kissing your opponent as one of my newest additions,” he murmured against your mouth. You could feel the smile spreading wide across his lips.
“That’s not fair play,” you whispered, mirroring the amusement in his gaze.
Wriothesley pulled back and raised a single brow, as if he were actually considering your words. With his hands still wrapped around your waist, he eased you down from the desktop only to spin you around, pressing your chest down until your back was arched over the wood. You gasped, your cheek finding the cool, flat surface once more.
“You’re right, it’s not fair play,” he admitted, his breath hot in your ear. He pressed a kiss just beneath your jaw, making your body shudder as his large palm slid down the curve of your ass. He gave a firm squeeze that punched a sharp inhale from your lungs.
“I suggest we make this a clean match.” You couldn't see his face, but you felt the shift in his demeanor as his thumbs drew lazy circles on your hips.
Your lack of resistance or instinct to fight back was like accepting your defeat once more, only that this time you felt more humiliated than ever before. Having you bent over his desk, willingly accepting the shift of dynamic, was the sign that you had cracked, so you weren’t surprised when the sound of clothes rustling soon followed.
“Such a stickler for justice.”
The answer to your sarcastic remark was a harsh squeeze of your ass, and your hips angled higher until you felt his cock tease your entrance. Your heart jumped and your throat tightened in an instant. Your previous biting attitude evaporated into thin air.
“If only you had this attitude in the ring.”
Wriothesley gripped your waist and pushed himself in. Your mouth fell open, a broken moan escaping as you jerked forward, the sturdy wooden desk shaking beneath your weight. Whatever clever retort your mind had tried to conjure was swallowed up by his cock, which filled you deeper and stretched you out with every thrust.
Along with the last fragments of your dignity, every coherent thought simply disappeared, drowned out by the sheer overwhelm of pleasure. Wriothesley maintained a casual grip on your hips, guiding you in time with his rhythmic movements—not that it was necessary, given the way you were eagerly pushing back against him to meet every thrust.
He stole the air from your lungs with every touch, every time he pulled your hips against him until he was completely inside you and your bodies became one. Logic abandoned you, and all you cared about was the selfish desire to satisfy the need tormenting you between your thighs. That hot tension began to build, intensifying dangerously fast when Wriothesley suddenly shifted tactics and slowed his pace but moved more harshly inside you.
He drew many whimpers and groans from you, and his own rough grunts and heavy panting filled the room. You had started to ache by the time you realized how awkwardly you were tensing your legs, lost in blind pleasure. You had underestimated his ability to read people once again. Sensing your strain, he immediately pushed you forward, flattening your chest against the desk and forcing you to lie face down, giving him deeper access while taking the pressure off your legs.
“That better?” His voice sounded close to your ear once again. You nodded, deeming that answer enough.
Your new position was more unforgiving and clearly intentional, allowing him to go deeper, which you considered impossible until now. Your composure crumbled completely as your attempts to maintain a steady rhythm became desperate and sloppy. It was torturous, the tension in your chest making it feel like your heart was ready to burst from how close you were to the edge.
When you finally tipped over the edge for the second time, it was otherworldly. A violent shiver racked your entire body, and everything around you dissolved into a blurry, silent void. Waves of pleasure left you gasping unevenly, your breath hitching in your throat. You felt utterly full until the world began to piece itself back together.
In the next moment, Wriothesley pulled out, chasing his own release with sharp, broken gasps. You knew he had finished too when you felt warm liquid spill across your lower back, trickling lazily down the curve of your ass.
You lifted your heavy head, turning to look at him with a small, dazed smile.
"So, who’s the winner?" You asked, letting the humor creep back into your voice.
"I’m afraid we might actually need a rematch here, too." Wriothesley grinned broadly, wiping sweat from his brow with a nonchalant shrug.