you're grabbing lunch with a nice man and he gives you that strange grimace-smile that's popular right now; an almost sardonic "twist" of his mouth while he looks literally down on you. it looks like he practiced the move as he leans back, arms folded. he just finished reciting the details of NFTs to you and explaining Oppenheimer even though he only watched a youtube about it and hasn't actually seen it. you are at the bottom of your wine glass.
you ask the man across from you if he has siblings, desperately looking for a topic. literally anything else.
he says i don't like small talk. and then he smiles again, watching you.
a few years ago, you probably would have said you're above celebrity gossip, but honestly, you've been kind of enjoying the dumb shit of it these days. with the rest of the earth burning, there's something familiar and banal about dragging ariana grande through the mud. you think about jeanette mccurdy, who has often times gently warned the world she's not as nice as she appears. you liked i'm glad my mom died but it made you cry a lot.
he doesn't like small talk, figure out something to say.
you want to talk about responsibility, and how ariana grande is only like 6 days older than you are - which means she just turned 30 and still dresses and acts like a 13 year old, but like sexy. there's something in there about the whole thing - about insecurity, and never growing up, and being sexualized from a young age.
people have been saying that gay people are groomers. like, that's something that's come back into the public. you have even said yourself that it's just ... easier to date men sometimes. you would identify as whatever the opposite of "heteroflexible" is, but here you are again, across from a man. you like every woman, and 3 people on tv. and not this guy. but you're trying. your mother is worried about you. she thinks it's not okay you're single. and honestly this guy was better before you met, back when you were just texting.
wait, shit. are you doing the same thing as ariana grande? are you looking for male validation in order to appease some internalized promise of heteronormativity? do you conform to the idea that your happiness must result in heterosexuality? do you believe that you can resolve your internal loneliness by being accepted into the patriarchy? is there a reason dating men is easier? why are you so scared of fucking it up with women? why don't you reach out to more of them? you have a good sense of humor and a big ol' brain, you could have done a better job at online dating.
also. jesus christ. why can't you just get a drink with somebody without your internal feminism meter pinging. although - in your favor (and judgement aside) in the case of your ariana grande deposition: you have been in enough therapy you probably wouldn't date anyone who had just broken up with their wife of many years (and who has a young child). you'd be like - maybe take some personal time before you begin this journey. like, grande has been on broadway, you'd think she would have heard of the plot of hamlet.
he leans forward and taps two fingers to the table. "i'm not, like an andrew tate guy," he's saying, "but i do think partnership is about two people knowing their place. i like order."
you knew it was going to be hard. being non-straight in any particular way is like, always hard. these days you kind of like answering the question what's your sexuality? with a shrug and a smile - it's fine - is your most common response. like they asked you how your life is going and not to reveal your identity. you like not being straight. you like kissing girls. some days you know you're into men, and sometimes you're sitting across from a man, and you're thinking about the power of compulsory heterosexuality. are you into men, or are you just into the safety that comes from being seen with them? after all, everyone knows you're failing in life unless you have a husband. it almost feels like a gradebook - people see "straight married" as being "all A's", and anything else even vaguely noncompliant as being ... like you dropped out of the school system. you cannot just ignore years of that kind of conditioning, of course you like attention from men.
"so let's talk boundaries." he orders more wine for you, gesturing with one hand like he's rousing an orchestra. sir, this is a fucking chain restaurant. "I am not gonna date someone who still has male friends. also, i don't care about your little friends, i care about me. whatever stupid girls night things - those are lower priority. if i want you there, you're there."
he wasn't like this over text, right? you wouldn't have been even in the building if he was like this. you squint at him. in another version of yourself, you'd be running. you'd just get up and go. that's what happens on the internet - people get annoyed, and they just leave. you are locked in place, almost frozen. you need to go to the bathroom and text someone to call you so you have an excuse, like it's rude to just-leave. like he already kind of owns you. rudeness implies a power paradigm, though. see, even your social anxiety allows the patriarchy to get to you.
you take a sip of the new glass of wine. maybe this will be a funny story. maybe you can write about it on your blog. maybe you can meet ariana grande and ask her if she just maybe needs to take some time to sit and think about her happiness and how she measures her own success.
is this settling down? is this all that's left in your dating pool? just accepting that someone will eventually love you, and you have to stop being picky about who "makes" you a wife?
you look down to your hand, clutching the knife.
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pairing: wriothesley x reader
summary: you really want to spend time with wriothesley right now.
word count: 1.1k+
warnings/tags: 18+, nsfw content (under the cut), umm praise from wriothesley??, kind of shy/insecure reader, fingering, fem/female bodied! reader, he calls you sweetheart and baby, i was gonna let him use his cuffs and then i forgot so he's extra gentle instead
a/n: i need him.
Every time you visit Wriothesley in his office, he knows it's because you're needy. You don't make the trip all the way there for no reason.
"I just missed you." You'll say, leaning against the table with a pout. It's the way you're avoiding eye contact with him and staring your shoes that gives you away. Not to mention the fact that you're standing right in front of his seat and forcing him to look at you instead of the paperwork he has on his desk.
He resists the urge to laugh. With a slow and precise movement, he leans forward so that he's meeting your gaze again. "Yeah? You just wanted to spend time with me?"
"Mhm." You feign innocence. Archons, you're even blushing.
"Still too nervous to use your words, huh?"
He watches as your shoulders tense. Guilt is written all over your features. He watches as you take a deep breath in to try to calm yourself, meeting his eyes with a flash of confidence this time. There's a rigidness in your form still though, and your mouth opens to say something. But he doesn't let you.
His hands clasp around your thighs, pushing them open so he can move forward on his seat to put himself between your legs. Before you can continue your sentence, he kisses you.
He knows you're about to apologise for something inane, like bothering him when he's clearly so busy, but he wants to remind you that he'll always make time for you. This isn't annoying for him. And it never will be. Besides, it's not like he can focus on anything while you're here.
It's a gentle kiss, and he lets himself part from you just a little before he's speaking again.
"Shh. I'll take care of you, okay?"
It's so quiet that you can hear how loud your breathing is. It's long, languid breaths at first, even as your heartbeat thuds quickly in your chest.
He's barely even touched you, and you still feel your breath hitch as he traces his fingers over your clothed pussy. You don't say anything, just letting his hands explore you and letting him squeeze and caress without complaint. He'll never tell you, but he likes holding you like this; likes knowing you're comfortable enough to let him just touch wherever. His hands never wander above your waist, and his motions slow as he tries to figure out what you're after today.
In exchange, you tentatively run your fingers through his hair. Once. Twice. And it takes you a couple seconds to realise that he's still just tracing his fingers over your thighs because he's waiting for you to ask for what you want. A small sound of frustration leaves your lips. This doesn't need to be this hard. But the soft intimacy of his hands touching you seems to add a knot in your throat. So you do the next best thing. You nudge his hand to where you actually want him to touch.
"There." A sigh of contentment leaves his lips. "That wasn't so hard, right?" And he still has the audacity to look up to you with a cheeky grin that sends your heart racing.
His fingers are gentle — pushing inside you and feeling, before they become searching, and all you can feel is a pleasure running up your legs and curling in your stomach. A breathy huff leaves your lips and that has him properly chuckling. You can't really help it if your hips jerk upwards to meet his touch a little better.
But he stills you easily.
He stands up, curving his arm around your waist and pulling you further to the edge of the table so you can't escape the way his fingers curve inside you.
"Wrio—" You moan against his ear, not entirely sure what you're asking for or what you're wanting, but wanting something nonetheless. He's quicker at thinking of it than your pleasured-muddled mind. His lips connect with yours again and you're barely able to kiss him back properly. It's all open mouthed, and a little sloppy. A warmth pulses through you as he traces his lips across your jaw forgivingly, down the side of your neck, nibbling lightly all the way. An uncontrolled whine from your throat has him huffing a laugh against your skin.
"Like this?" He mumbles, brushing his lips against your collarbones while his fingers push on a spot that has you moaning again.
A panic runs through your veins when you hear knocking at the door, and you put your hands on his shoulders, ready to stop him and scurry away. Except he's already murmuring out a reassurance against your neck before you can try.
"Shh, sweetheart. It would be a shame to end this now." He whispers casually. "They can wait." And really, with that purr in his voice, he could get you to do anything.
You let out a strained whine, trying to be quiet as he praises you, marking you with soft kisses across what bare skin he can get his mouth on. It's so easy for him to make you cum like this. And you do, with a sigh and with your eyes closed, as the knocking echoes through his office once more.
He's patient with you, tucking your shirt back over your shoulder where he pulled it down and you hadn't even noticed. His hand moves from your waist to your hair, tussling it. All while he's whispering sweet words to you.
"You okay? That was so good, baby. You were so good for telling me what you wanted, okay?"
You're barely listening, still trying to come down from the pleasure and trusting him to let him tidy up your frazzled form. Once he's finished, he kisses your forehead, sending a spark through your body. It's his way of giving you a small confidence booster as he leaves your side and walks around his desk and calling for whoever was knocking to come in. By then, he's already moved you to the more comfortable position of his chair.
Wriothesley greets whoever is behind the door with a twinkle in his eye, barely looking at whoever is speaking because he keeps taking glances at you. You're still perched all pretty on his chair, the perfect picture of attentiveness as though he didn't just finger you a few moments before. It's the small, impatient wriggle that you do on his chair that gets his full attention again. There's a look in your eyes and he knows he's not finished with you. Not yet.
He'll have to continue what he's started once this conversation is done. He did promise to take care of you after all.
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Margaret's greeting to you is sweet.
She's the assistant Veritas took in three years ago, and hasn't left since. Most people applying to the position have ulterior motives—you glumly recall a specific student, because my goodness, they have little to no shame these days—but just one meeting with her made you sure she'd be 'the one'. Her unwavering yet gentle disposition was endearing, and despite Veritas's distrustful attitude, she got in anyways.
(You think it's one of the best decisions he's made.)
"Is there anything in the mail?" You ask, shutting the door behind you.
She hums, "No, not really."
"Really?" This surprises you. Usually, it's a race to contact him on anything new he's working on. "Veritas said he's expecting letters for that weapon he's finished working on. You know, the anti-planetary one?"
"Remind me what's... that, again?"
Margaret furrows her eyebrows. Maybe Veritas forgot to tell her. "Remember that project he's been working on for a long time? The weapon got sent in for a test-firing and it was successful. So, he's waiting for any correspondence from anyone who'd like to expand on it."
(You remember peeking into his office, once, wondering why he was up so late. He promised more than four hours ago that he'll join you in bed, but there was only a coldness to his side of the bed you'll never get accustomed to.
"I will be there in a couple minutes, my love," Veritas addressed you without lifting his gaze from the blueprints he's scribbling on. From the mess on his hands, it seems he's been working on it since tucking you in. "You may go to the bedroom yourself. It is unnecessary to wait on me."
Instead of listening to him, you entered his office with the door clicking behind you. Veritas's head lifted, lips parted and about to say something, but he stopped; adjusting his glasses.
You draped over him, meeting cold skin.
"What're you working on?" You asked, instead. His warmth soothed you. "Mmh... looks like it's important."
Veritas placed a hand on yours, raised to his lips to be kissed. Aeons, your little doctor was so warm. "This weapon... will be a magnum opus. One that will eventually serve its purpose, and will be recognized for years to come."
Even in the sleep-addled brain of yours, you knew it was important.
"Yeah?"
"Indeed. It will be a weapon that will..." Veritas suddenly fell silent, alarming you. He was quick to assure you with another kiss to your hand, "Do not be so concerned, my love. Either way, this weapon will be reaching its final stages soon."
You were nearing dreamland, at this point. You recall it well.
Though the mutter under his breath was ingrained in your brain:
"An anti-planetary weapon that will, hopefully, earn Nous's blessing this time...")
The spark of recognition appears, "Oh, that one!"
"You know it," you toss her a smile. "So, what's the status? I hope the Genius Society picks up one of his inventions this time. He's been looking forward to it ever since."
You take a moment to place the paper bags on the table, setting aside your bag on one of the chairs for visitors. It's well into the afternoon, classes are finished, and by Veritas's schedule, you're sure both are famished. It's strange he's not in his office at this time. You're never late with your visits, so perhaps it's likely you're early and Veritas is late.
He's probably finishing up the last lectures of the day somewhere.
"I feel the same," Margaret knows Veritas to an extent that falls closely to yours, and it's not hard to root for him the same way you do. It warms your heart to hear how Margaret holds him in high-esteem. "Mr. Ratio's one of the best, they'd be out of the minds to not induct him into the Society—oh, are those chicken wraps?"
The chicken wraps are steaming as you tear away the aluminium foil. "Yeah, I bought it for the two of you. Want one?" Her eager nod has a laugh huff out of you, so you hand it to her. You joke, "So hungry you nearly forgot, huh?"
"Yeah... where did you buy them?"
"It's near the university. There were so many students I had to fight for it..." Thankfully, one of the vendors pitied your nearly trampled self and gave you two on the house. You make a silent note to bring Veritas there to pay your debt. "...anyways, where were we?"
Margaret pauses, "Mr. Ratio's genius?"
Well, that's not what you were saying, but it's a part of the topic. "Yes, genius. Veritas is intelligent, of course. Speaking of genius, did the Genius Society send anything?"
Margaret's reaction to your question is strange. She freezes, chicken wrap just hovering in front of her mouth. Your inquisitive gaze snaps her out of her reverie, and when getting her bearings, she's avoiding your eyes. "Nothing... yet, of course. I've been watching the mail for a week already."
A week? The Genius Society's correspondence normally would not take so long. "Is there anything else in the mail?"
"No, not really," she nods her head.
Huh? The disconnect between her body language and words makes no sense at all. However, the soft smile on Margaret's lips takes the edge of the suspicion off. Why would she lie to your face, though? Unless something's happened, then...
You decide to say something else. "I see... perhaps there's some issue with the mailing system?"
"Maybe!" Margaret agrees too easily with you. Her voice went too high-pitched, smile exaggerated, then she changes the subject, "Have you eaten on the way here? It feels impolite to be the only one eating."
The sudden mention of manners has you laugh awkwardly. It's already strange enough she's avoiding a simple question like she is right now but the poor girl looks like she's about to burst with your incessant questioning of if there's anything in the mail .
Is it really so hard to answer?
"Yes, I did," you answer. Gesturing to her chicken wrap, you say, "So, go ahead and eat. It's alright."
When you turn your gaze away from her, it's as if Margaret breathes a sigh of relief. It's obvious even in the corner of your eye. For the three years she's been here, her knowledge on Veritas's projects would be better than yours. After all, it is something work related, and she deals with his correspondence to anyone on behalf of him.
If she's lying like this, then there must be a reason. A Veritas-shaped reason, indeed, because he's got a bad habit of concealing things when it comes to something.
Letting Margaret be, you take a seat on one of the chairs meant for guests. Veritas's office is a spacious one, with a small reception area for visitors to wait on him. The door to his office is by the left, the entrance to this space on the right, and Margaret's desk in the middle of the room with the lounge chairs lined up by the wall in front of her.
With this placement, it provides you a clear view of Veritas's door... and the light escaping below it.
He's here in his office and he didn't come out to greet you.
Several emotions rise up and simmer in you. Some of them are negative. Well. Most of them are, because the way alarm and concern starts to boil within you is too much.
You take a deep breath to sort your emotions first. Your feelings are negative, and worry takes the top of the list. There are some wisps of anger but it quickly melts into the emotion up top and you slowly realise that Veritas has not messaged you even once starting... 1700 system hours ago.
With your phone now in hand, you shoot him a message.
It's something to the effect of asking where he is. The loud ding! of his own phone seeps out of his office room, out into the reception, and into Margaret and yours' ears.
Guilt colours Margaret's face vibrantly.
"I can explain," she begins as you stand up, making your way to his office. Poor girl, she's been shocked out of savouring the chicken wrap you've bought. "He's— he needs some time to himself..."
It's something other than needing time to himself, you know it, you know .
You give her a rueful smile, "Is that why you told me there's no mail?"
Margaret... falls short on an answer. The diverting of her eyes to the floor tells you everything. The successful test-firing of that anti-planetary weapon was done a few weeks ago, and everyone in the know was scrambling to cover it. It was Veritas, after all, and his name—like every genius—is known across the star systems. It'd make no sense there was no mail, no nothing , to be sent to him.
You only hold on to that tiny, little hope that you're wrong and Veritas is too caught on rejoicing to have noticed your arrival.
Only a look of understanding could be given to her. To scream, to yell, to let everything burst on Margaret is counter-productive. Maybe, if you asked, she'd say that she was merely doing what she, as an academic assistant, should do.
(If it was some other situation, you'd say—to his face—that you were right about Margaret. You'd say to him she's the best academic assistant he's ever had.)
You barely spare Margaret any glance before opening the door to his office. Thousands of thoughts trickle into your brain now, ranging from is he okay? to I hope nothing's bad happened.
Every moment of you turning the knob to open feels like in slow motion. Your heart is racing, just every inkling sending you in a worry-filled tizzy, and you feel nearly paralyzed in the spot where you are right now.
You open the door, and pity and fear and just everything drops a cold bucket over you.
Veritas sits on the chair by his desk, a crumpled letter on the wood and his headpiece discarded somewhere off to the side.
You're sure he's heard you coming in.
"Veritas?"
He absentmindedly says, "You may enter."
Veritas's voice doesn't have the usual lilt it has. It does not carry around the room, nor does it have its self-assured cadence that comes from being a genius. He stares at the scenery outside his office window, as if too entranced with the way light leaves the sky to make way for the moon. The moon that merely borrows its lumination from the sun.
The door locks behind you with a click that seems to echo in the dreadfully silent office. Now, only your footsteps make noise while approaching him. You move like you're holding your breath, not wanting to startle an animal that's already on its last legs.
But it's Veritas. He's not some lowly animal, though you know his heart to be softer than anyone else would presume.
Leaned over him, you bring his face into your hands. He lets you so readily, not once making any smart comment about handling him like porcelain.
(You received such a comment, once, when doing so the first time.
Before Margaret, it was you. It was so long ago you don't recall, but Veritas had turned to you for help in handling his interactions with the "outside world", he'd call it, and this time, he was busy with a project. Some prototype he'd been originally commissioned to make, though, without any second thoughts, turned down any offer of payment and instead asked that his name be "spread across the cosmos".
You originally blanched at the credits the ruler of the planet was willing to drop for Veritas's involvement in their planet-wide security, but he easily brushed your surprise off. At that moment, you were sure that, to him, it was another day of putting his gifts to use. Another day of using his intelligence to aid in the prosperity of civilizations, as if it was nothing to boast about.
"Do I seem to evoke some child-like energy to hold me like this?" Veritas questioned, a quizzical brow arched.
There was nothing in his tone that suggested he disliked it to the point of abhorrence. If anything, he looked— curious as to why you'd hold him like this.
Instead of answering that silent question, you cooed, "Oh, yes. A little baby, indeed! You're so adorable—"
"That's enough," he interrupted. You couldn't help but laugh at his disgusted face. "While I appreciate the gesture, I ask you continue sorting through the letters that came through the mail if you are wasting your time like this."
"You call this wasted time? I'm suddenly not allowed to hold my handsome boy like this."
Veritas's eyes narrowed. "Cease calling me a 'handsome boy', and I will consider this time to be not of the 'wasted' sort."
So, he didn't hate it then. You smiled. "You like it then, Veritas?"
He fell silent, you recall. His eyes bore into yours, and for a moment, it seemed like he'd say no.
Then Veritas turned his head, kissed your palm, and murmured, "If it's you... then, yes.")
You wonder if he can outright acknowledge it's you who's holding him this way. He seems so out of it that what gnaws at you says no, but you try. You try for him. "Veritas?" You say, again, redirecting his attention to you. His eyes follow his head's movement, but it drags, and it's like it's taking everything out of him to begin looking at you.
Faint recognition appears on his face, and his voice softens too much, unlike the usual way he addresses you, "...My apologies for not greeting you when you came. I was absorbed in my readings of a letter the IPC sent me. An invitation of some sorts..."
When you see his eyes, the world falls silent.
Oh, Aeons, his eyes. Its lost its sheen and barely looks like he's there at all.
Your heart aches. So, that's it, then.
"What did they invite you to, love?" You ask, caressing his cheeks.
Veritas breathes as if it takes so much out of him to say, “The Intelligentsia Guild.”
“Ah,” You hum, willing the sadness away from your features. This moment is about Veritas, not you. “I see. You think I should reply to them, instead?”
The shake of Veritas’s head is slow. The hand he raises to envelop over yours is warm, yet you cannot find yourself to find comfort in it. “It is… better than nothing, love.”
The sight of Veritas blurs.
And, of course, out of everything, he notices you.
"You're crying," Veritas whispers softly. He reaches over and attempts to wipe away the tears streaming down, trying to soothe you. "Am I the cause of your tears? Then, I apologize. For... for being such a failure in front of you. Nous has not deemed me enough." You hadn't realized your eyes beginning to water; a single tear brought on a waterfall.
Aeons, you want to beat him ten times over. "You're not supposed to say sorry, Veritas. I'm... I'm only so worried about you."
Veritas meets eyes with you, and knows that it's not enough to cover the defeat. The disappointment surrounding his head like clouds, blurring every aspect of himself that he thought himself to be worthy of Nous' gaze.
He looks tired; an exhaustion that drills into his bones and something far beyond you. You think he's feeling the countless hours he's poured into that weapon, the surge of ambition and dedication used to fuel his drive, and the beginning of something chipping away at him and you don't know what.
(It scares you. It scares you because Veritas shoulders too many burdens he should have given to you to share.)
"You're the best scholar I’ve ever met, Veritas,“ You tell him, pushing past the tears that line your face. ”The smartest I’ve ever seen. Have you known your intelligence was the part of you that pulled me towards you? Your genius is unparalleled, my love. There is no one else I can think of if, ever, someone asks me about the most astute person I know.“
Does he think they are empty compliments? Because Veritas merely says, “Your words are better suited to a man whose Nous’ gaze fell upon him.”
You fall silent, defeated. What are you supposed to say? Are you to tell him that Nous does not matter, when his life is centered around knowledge? What is someone to do in this situation? What is comfort to a man who has been seared beyond recognition by an Aeon whom he worships?
“It is not hopeless,” Someone speaks, and you take a moment to recognize that it is you who has spoken. “Will you let an Aeon define who you are, Veritas?”
Veritas’s eyes slip close, and his forehead rests against yours. There is nothing but your soft sniffling, the steady breathing of your lover, and the persistent ticking of the clock in his office that sounds off. It is quiet and chilling, as if waiting for some bomb to tick off to end this moment once and for all.
His eyelids flutter, reddish-pink eyes peeking through—some brightness have returned, but not enough.
Veritas replies, “I… will try not to let them define me.”
To you, that is enough.
(You know than more that he will take this moment, and let it haunt him.)
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