Andrea Gibson
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november
âč feat. wriothesley
âč premise. ' nothing worth fighting for was ever won without sacrifice ' â final fantasyâfor @seraphiism's 2024 writing event
âč cw. story quest spoilers, mentions of blood, wriothesley + reader have a daughter
When Wriothesley was ten years old, he believed he was cursed.Â
Cursed to a lifetime of misery spent huddled on the cold, bare floor of the orphanage he grew up with, the soft cries of the children around him depriving him of the quiet gift of sleep. He doesn't remember any of their faces anymore, but faint memories linger in his mind.Â
There was a time when Mother and Father, as they insisted on being called, let him and another boy outside the orphanage. It had been a cold day, the water of Fontaine's fountains slightly freezing over. He had dipped his fingers through the water, marveling at the icy surface before the other boy called his name, pointing to a nearby shop.
The two of them had huddled together before the window of a bakery, little legs straining to support their weight as they stood on tiptoes to peer at the displayed goods. Wriothesley remembers there was a cake, decorated with red icing that matched his flushed cheeks and the threadbare scarf tucked around his shoulders.
Happy Birthday!, the cake read. He didn't have a birthdayâMother had never given him oneâand it hadn't bothered him before. But at that moment, Wriothesley wished for that cake to be his, so desperately wished that he could swallow the entire thing and understand what it feels like to be cherished for a day.
But the cursed don't deserve such luxuries, and Wriothesley could only reluctantly tear himself away from that bakery, feet dragging against the ground on his way home.
He's embarrassed to admit it now, but that ordinary cake became the reason he scrubbed his hair a little harder and straightened his collar whenever the orphanage had visitors. Because some small part of him still believed that he deserved a real Mother and Father who would allow him to have that birthday cake all to himself.Â
But a few years passed and instead of a bright red cake, there was blood staining his hands, crimson trickling onto the floorboards before pooling around the limp bodies of his foster parents. Maybe this is what I deserve, he thought to himself as the Gardes cuffed and dragged him out of the orphanage. Because there was no guiltâonly a sense of hollowness that echoed in his chest at the sight of his parents' lifeless eyes.
It wasn't until he was alone in his prison cell that the tears fell, dripping onto the vision clutched in his trembling hands. A cryo visionâcold, like the water of the fountains had been on that memorable day.
Even after a few decades, Fontaine's winter winds are still as unforgiving as ever, but there's a warmth that fills Wriothesley's chest now. He has a title to his name, a place to call home, and a few friends he can trust.
And a family, he reminds himself as a small hand tugs on his coat sleeve.Â
"Papa!" His daughter beams at him, the wind rustling her black and gray curls against her rosy cheeks. He gently tucks them behind her ear before hoisting her up in his arms.Â
"Look," her excited chattering fills the silence, forming small puffs of white in the air, "we got you a present!" Following her frantic pointing brings his attention to you, leaving the very bakery that he once stood before all those years ago.Â
Eyes widening, he gasps in mock surprise, lightly bouncing her in his arms. "Did you get me a cake?" he asks, a laugh dancing on his lips at his daughter's growing enthusiasm.
"Happy birthday, Wriothesley." You're at his side now, pressing your lips to his cheek before lifting the white box in your hand up to him. "For you," you smile, and Wriothesley thinks it's the prettiest sight he's ever seen.
And as he heads home, with his daughter in his arms and you tucked into his side, Wriothesley finally lets himself forgive the little boy who spent his childhood hating the life given to him.
ౚৠthank you for reading, reblogs & comments are always welcome !
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I still think that my favorite urban legend/folklore fact is that there are certain areas in New Orleans where you cannot get a taxi late at night not because it isnât safe, but because taxi companies have had recurring problems of picking up ghosts in those areas who are not aware that they are dead and disappearing from the cab before reaching the destination and therefore stiffing the driver on the fare causing a loss for the company.
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underground fighter wriothesley who absolutely melts whenever you patch him up n place the softest kisses over his bruises n stuff :((
- đŠ anon
â© â§âË â© WE, NOT I â WRIOTHESLEY.
contents. underground fighter! wriothesley, gn! reader (he gifts you flowers, perfume and a necklace though, so if that is fem! coded to you, thereâs your warning), mentions of foster care and being orphaned (wriothesley), mentions of blood, bruises, and injuries (wriothesley), slight angst but overall fluff ending
moneyâs tightâhas been for a while, actually. wriothesley doesnât like to talk about it, doesnât like to open up even though he knows you wonât think any less of him. but you notice the small things, always do.
itâs the way you buy groceries for two, the way heâs always over for dinner one way or another, the way he seems to spend more and more time at your place than his. moneyâs tight, even if he doesnât like to admit itâand you could never force it out of him, but you think letting him stay with you while he can could help ease the burden of living even if a little.
heâs gratefulâa little roundabout in the ways he shows it, but grateful all the same.
and then the presents start to come.
itâs small at first: those expensive macarons you like from that bakery, the bouquet of roses that couldnât be cheap, a nice dinner he insists he can pay for every once in a while. and then it starts to get bigger: fancy tea from the side of town neither of you even think about shopping at, perfume from a brand you canât even pronounce, a necklace thatâs more than what you can afford yourself.
it starts out slow, and then all at once, wriothesley has what you imagine to be more money than he knows what to do with. because why else spoil you like this? why else blow money on things for you when he could be putting it towards himself?
not everyone gets to have a head start at lifeâwriothesley is proof of that. itâs hard, more than most people realize, to be orphaned so young and move through foster home after foster home. heâd gone to jail once tooâhe doesnât talk about that either, and you never ask. itâs hard, more than anyone gives him credit for, to be knocked down by life so many times and make a living for yourself.
you canât understand where the sudden change comes from, canât pinpoint where along the line he started getting so comfortable. itâs not unwelcome, you would never want to watch him just barely scrap by, but it concerns you how he seems to have so much all at once.
and then you get your answer.
âwhatâwhat happened to you?â you ask in disbelief, eyeing the blood caked by his nose and around his knuckles. thatâs the best of it, unfortunatelyâthe gashes on his chest and the bruises somehow look even worse.
youâd consider him lucky that his ribs donât seem cracked.
âjust a fight,â he shrugs, not meeting your eyes. wriothesley is a lot of things: resourceful, conniving at times, and braver than most. good at lying is not one of them, howeverâat least not with you. âjust happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.â
âwhere were you, then?â you challenge, staring at him hard enough that he doesnât have to meet your eyes to shuffle uncomfortably in his spot. he doesnât answer. youâre almost fed up. âwriothesley,â you say in a warning tone.
thereâs a sense of finality he doesnât like.
âwhat happened to wrio, sweetheart? youâre killinâ me here, i come home to you all bruised up and youâre here beating me down harderââ
âwriothesley, iâm worried about you,â you whisper tiredly. itâs defeatedâitâs almost helpless. he frowns, finally looking up at you from his place between your legs as you sit on the bathroom counter.
âyou donât have to be,â he mumbles, âi can take care on my own. i always have.â
âthereâs no being on your own when weâre together,â you shake your head. your hands fall to either side of your body, shoulders slumping in exhaustion. âdonât you understand? neither of us is supposed to be on our own anymoreânot when the other is here.â
âyeah,â he crosses his armsâyou try to ignore the wince he lets out as he moves, âand now youâre not handling things on your own anymore. iâm carrying my weight. just need to fight a guy or two.â
âyouâre carrying your weight by fighting?â you blink at the realization. he doesnât look you in your eyes, keeping them trained on the floor again. âoh my godâis that what these are from? becauseâŠ.because youâre fighting some punks in the middle of the night? thatâs illegalâand you could get in trouble againââ
he doesnât seem to like being reminded of his past. thatâs clear when he clicks his teeth and glares at you. âand what am i supposed to do, stay cooped up in your place and eat your food?â he asks bitterly, making your brows furrow.
ânot necessarily, but you canââ
âwhat, so i just live paycheck to paycheck and shower at your place and sleep in your bed so my water and electricity bills arenât too high for the month?â
âwrioââ
âiâm earning, arenât i? whatâs the big deal?â
âthe big deal is this,â you wave your hand exasperatedly, tears welling up by the lash line of your eyes as you stare at his bruises with trembling lips, âlook at you. itâs not worth it if you come back to me like this.â
âbut i come back,â he mumbles, taking your handâhe kisses the knuckles, rubs a rough thumb over the smooth skin before laying your palm against his cheek and sighing. âi always come back.â
you love wriothesleyâhave since the day you met him, you think. heâs easy to fall for like that, to feel your stomach go in twists and knots every time he makes a sarcastic joke and throws you a charming smile. life has been tough on the man you love, unfairly so. itâs hit him harder and harder and pushed him back to his knees before he ever got a chance to fully stand up.
heâs hitting back, now. maybe in a more literal sense than youâd hoped, butâŠ.but maybe you can help him if you canât change him. maybe you can keep the pieces together until the plaster holds and theyâre not so fragile anymore.
âi donât like seeing you hurt,â you whisper, leaning in to kiss the broken skin on his cheekbone, âyou donât have to do all this. we were doing okay before that.â
we. he shudders at that. itâs always we and never iâeven when you did all the heavy lifting. even when he was barely getting by and you were giving more than you shouldâve had to, more than he shouldâve needed. itâs always we. never i.
you and him.
âi know,â he melts, humming as your fingers thread into his tousled hair, scratching his scalp as he buries his face into your neck, âjust let me save a bit more. and then iâll do something real with myself. i promise.â
you pull away after a bit, taking in every bruise and every cut, every dry patch of blood and swollen patch of skin. itâs shaky at first, your voice when you finally speak.
ââs all bruised,â you say quietly, running a finger over the marks littering his chest. heâs painfully stillâdoesnât move a muscle as you lean in slowly and press a kiss to the purplish stain on his skin, gently trailing them to the next one, and the next one, and the next one. âyou donât deserve all this.â
âyeah?â he chucklesâits breathy, a little strained. your arms loop around his waist and bring him closer, âwhat a sweet thing,â he coos, ânobody ever treats me so gentle.â
you frown at that. the world is not gentle with wriothesleyâyouâll have to be extra gentle to make up for it.
âyouâll be safe? youâll pull out when itâs too much, right? and youâll come back? without being too hurt, right? wrio, you canâtââ
âyeah, yeah, i got it,â he huffs, pressing his forehead to yours, letting your hands cup his cheeks. he leans closer to your touch, shudders as you slowly trace his cheek with your thumb, âjust wait at home all pretty for me, yeah? iâll bring you back something nice.â
âbring me back yourself in once piece,â you huff.
âdone,â he smiles, âiâm strong, if you havenât noticed.â
âyeah? explain this,â you challenge, pressing down on a bruise and making him wince.
âyou should see the other guy,â he whines, burying his face back into your neck. you roll your eyes, thereâs a scoff in your throat but a smile on your lips.
wriothesley is safeâfor now, thatâs all you can ask for.
âi love you,â you mumble, âso much. no matter what, okay?â
âno need to get so emotional on me, baby,â he chucklesâand then thereâs a tightening of strong arms around your body, a kiss pressed delicately to your neck before a soft, âbut i love you tooâ is murmured into your skin.
âi hope youâre ready to clean those cuts. theyâll sting for sure,â you grumble as you pull away. he grinsâhandsome, charming, yours.
âwill you kiss them better?â he bats his lashes, making you snort.
âno.â
i might make this a reoccurring drabble series too idk yet. anyway you know what else he can beat up ?? this pussy ;)
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REDEMPTION FOR THE SUFFERING â WRIOTHESLEY
contains: female reader (use of milady as a petname), fluff, minor angst (wrioâs past), minor references to violence (wrioâs past), established relationship, banter and teasing
wriothesley has an impressive collection of scars. some say itâs only proof heâs a fighterâyou think it only means the world had turned its back to an undeserving kid.
theyâre pretty, despite it all. the world is ugly and so are its people, but never wriothesley. heâs pretty where the smooth skin meets the raised, and heâs pretty laid on your chest with his arms caging you.
heâs also pretty other ways (ways in which only you get to see him, and youâd like to keep it that way. the world doesnât need to see every pretty part of him.)
âyouâre staring holes into my head, sweetheart,â he mumbles, face still buried into your chest. you roll your eyes, giving him a scoff and a nudge to the back of his head for the sake of routine.
you can feel his grin through your shirt.
âhow would you know that? i couldâve been staring at anything,â you huff indignantly.
âi have eyes everywhere around these parts,â he says smoothly, lifting his head up as he gives you a smug grin. itâs a charming little thing, rough and a tiny bit lopsided, far from perfect but free of any flaws.
wriothesley works in funny ways like that.
âis that so,â you challenge, clasping both hands over his cheeks and giving an affectionate squeeze. (he pretends to be greatly inconvenienced by the pucker of his lips, and you give them a small peck as a reward while you giggle. heâs valiant, after all, in soldiering through your whims.)
âyes, of course.â his voice is a muffled reply, courtesy of the persistent squeeze on his cheeks by your hands. âi see and hear all that goes on in these quarters.â
âiâm sure,â you chuckle. your thumb brushes over the small scar under his eye, delicately tracing the harsh edge of discolored skin.
you donât know a lot about wriothesley. itâs a rather complicated phenomenonâyouâre certain you know more than anyone, but youâre hardly confident you really know much at all. itâs not so much that he doesnât want to tell you, but more so that you never know how to ask.
you think maybe you should. maybe you should chalk up the courage and ask him how the rips and tears of flesh have come to be. ask him how long the new, healed skin has lived across his body and become a part of him, tethering the past to the present.
so you do.
quietly, carefully, with the gentleness of a dewdrop on a fresh blade of grass, you ask him, âwho gave you this?â
he hums, closing his eyes as your thumb strokes over the scar thoughtfully.
âthis old thing? ah, well, it was from a battle with a treacherous beast, you see. i was protecting the fortress like any good duke would.â
you snort, and he grins wider. itâs not exactly the answer you were looking for, but itâs a sweet moment all the sameâhe dodges but he never runs away. you know heâd never run away because he leans closer into your touch, eyes fluttering open as he stares at you fondly.
âwrio,â you whine, âare you always so unserious?â
âon the contrary, milady, iâm afraid i have to be rather serious with a job like mine,â he chuckles. and then, with a gentle sigh, his voice softens as he adds, âi got it when i was a teenager. while i was out on the streets.â
of course, as always, itâs up to you to make sense of the very little he offers, and itâs up to you to ask for more. you donât think heâd deny you, though. not if itâs you.
âwow, anymore details and i could probably write a biography on the fortresses warden himself for all of fontaine to read,â you say sarcastically, pulling a snort from him.
he gives you an amused squeeze before delicately trailing his hand under your shirt, tracing the skin of your belly in slow circles of his thumb. maybe, if you hadnât learned to read him so well, youâd think it was to be affectionate. but you know himâeven if you looked in blindness, youâd know him. all of him.
you know itâs from the trace of his thumb across your skin, from the presence of your touch under him, that he soothes himself. keeps himself grounded. gives himself a semblance of calm.
âwell if you want to be nosy,â he huffs with no bite at all, âi got it in a fight. itâs not uncommon to be a target of robbery when youâre homeless,â he murmurs.
youâve always known bits and pieces of his story. you knew before you came down to the fortress for work, and you know even more as you slowly get to know him, as you begin pushing past the limit of friends and crossing the threshold of lovers. running away from his parents so young couldnât have left him with the most ideal of living circumstancesâyouâd always known that.
but still, hearing him say it out loud fills you up with a certain wave of emotion. you donât like to imagine him so young, so vulnerable. so failed by the world around him.
âdid you win?â you ask softly, running your hand slowly along his back.
âno,â he laughs softly, âno, i uhâŠi lost. pretty bad, actually. he was way bigger than meâi donât know what i was thinking.â
sometimes, itâs easy to forget that wriothesley was a child once. just like you. just like anyone. sometimes, when you look at the tall, muscular form of a handsome man, one that seems to carry himself likes heâs always one step ahead, it slips your mind that underneath it all was once an innocent child. one who lost his battles and fell every once in a while. maybe more often than that, in fact.
you hum, tracing the letters of your name along his shoulder blade with the tip of your finger as his thumb circles the patch of skin above your hip.
âat least you were brave,â you offer, âa little dense, maybe. but still brave.â
âoh a lot more than a little dense,â he grins into your neck. âit was pretty stupid. i quickly learned the hard way to choose my battles wisely.â
âmaybe not stupid,â you say thoughtfully, âmaybe you were just a kid. a kid shouldnât know any betterânot about fighting on the streets, especially.â
he stays silent at that, breathing slowly as your palm glides over the planes of muscle along his back. firm, broad, quick witted, strong. wriothesley is all of those things nowâbut you wonder how much of him became this way because he had to be. because he wasnât before and it cost him until he was.
it leaves a dull ache somewhere in your ribcage, somewhere suspiciously close to your beating heart.
âi knew better. well, eventually,â he adds that last part a little bitterly.
wriothesley is good at taking care of himself. he can throw a punch without breaking his thumb, and he can certainly dodge if a punch is coming his way instead. but you wonder if heâs ever been taken care of outside of that. if outside of quick witted survival and a firm hand to throw, heâs known anything else. anything more giving and less taking.
anything soft and honest outside of the usual harsh and deceitful.
âbaby?â you ask quietly, making him hum in response, âyou werenât stupid,â you tell him. because he deserves to knowâeven if itâs years too late, he should hear it.
he chuckles, lifting his head as he stares at you with a quirked brow, a mix of amusement and wonder written on his face.
âyeah? you think so?â
âi know so,â you nod seriously, cupping his cheeks, âi mean it wriothesley.â
âyouâre that serious, huh? the full name means weâre talking business,â he sighs.
and you know himâeven with unfilled blanks and unanswered questions, you know him. always. you know the tight smile and carefully crafted confidence that hides away the delicate child underneath.
you lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, to the scar under his eye, to the corner of his lipâdelicately on every part of him because none of him deserves to know roughness.
âyou were just a baby,â you murmur.
âi was a young man,â he pouts. you smile fondly, shaking your head.
âyouâre still a bit of a baby now,â you hum, pinching the flesh of his cheek teasingly, âthe chubby cheeks never outgrew you.â
âhey,â he clicks his teeth, âdonât push it, now.â
despite it all, he slumps himself onto your chest once more, hand finding yours as he laces your fingers.
he squeezes. you squeeze back.
something in him heals at thatâsomething young and sheltered away for so long, he forgot it existed.
âyouâd win now, right?â you ask with a yawn, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck as he breathes in the scent of you through your shirt. âif you fought him?â
âoh yeah,â he chuckles, âhe wouldnât stand a chance now.â
âgood,â you grin, âiâm glad.â
when you remember that he was literally canonically a homeless child who learned that sleep made you vulnerable and susceptible to robbery đ„Č hoyoverse did not come to play with his backstory
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Sometimes a monarchy is just a gay guy and his emotional support mean lesbians
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Alastor: My partner need to be regal, powerful, clever, with the passion to take over Hell with me.
Reader: *Trips on the sidewalk and falls over crying because they stepped on a caterpillar*
Alastor: That one. I want that one.
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RadioApple in the buildiiiing
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more memes with duckiedeers
twitter
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Running into an old friend at the grocery store
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Itâs been a month and a half and Iâm still not okay
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âAziraphale, we are in DANGER.â
My god youâre pretty.
âDANGER ZONE. HERE.â
Look at your pretty yellow eyes.
âThere are demons outside our bookshop.â
Oh my god he said our.
âAre you listening to me?â
I adore you.
âAZIRAPHALE.â
Letâs dance first.
âWE ARE GOING TO DIE.â
Did he change his shirt for the event? Goodness. He is the handsomest angel and demon and human being Iâve ever seen.
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Love like yours will surely come my way
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My experience with queer media lately:
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girl help the eldritch horrors are organising a pride and prejudice party and making us dance to mirror their forbidden and repressed love. yes there is a michael jackson thriller video reenactment outside trying to get in. no yeah i still want that rare doctor who annual
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