#mbj.write

[illyabata]

♜ wriothesley and his big hands.

slightly suggestive in one paragraph, but romantically so :3

covered in callouses and scars, one wouldn’t imagine wriothesley’s hands to be a symbol of anything all too romantic. but he is nothing if not gentle—when it comes to you, at least.

the iron fists that he uses to keep the fortress of meropide under lock and key are the same ones that rest on your waist to find comfort, the same ones that tug you close at night, the same ones that cradle your face like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

his hands are rough and scary. his hands are the softest things you’ve ever felt.

he is incapable of consciously doing anything that would bring you harm. he has only ever laid you down—gently, carefully—kissing you, worshipping you. he wants to be able to see your face no matter what; he wants to be able to hold it no matter what. he wants access to all of you—he wants to be intimate with you.

wriothesley is a big man, but it has never scared you. he has done things less than desirable to land himself in a place like the fortress of meropide, but it has never scared you. his hands are rough; his hands are big; his hands are covered in blood—but it has never scared you.

the scars that run down his neck, stripe his chest, crowd his arms: you trace each one with your fingers—your small, soft fingers—and he shivers as if you possess a cryo vision of your own. your untainted, un-calloused hands touch each intersection and cluster of healed wounds with absolute fascination, listening so intimately to the stories tattooed on his body by his own spilt blood, as if the stretched skin were the grooves on a record, your little hands the needle on the player; as if by tracing these grooves, the memories recorded in their wake would unfold.

just as a music player reads the language of its disc, you have the unique understanding of the language on wriothesley’s skin.

he secretly prides himself that he is able to protect you. that he alone can provide you the comfort and stability you desire—no other man. it is wriothesley, even with the sutures that litter his body, who has the privilege of being yours, and of having you as his own. to you, his scars are not a measure of his worth. his scars are not some separate, unfortunate feature that you are merely excusing in order to love him, no—they’re included in the contract. they are a part of what it means to love him.

the gracious nature of his authority commands respect from anyone who knows his name—and there is no man who does not. he is greatly loved by all, and he is greatly feared by all—but not by you. they love him for what he does; they love him as the man he presents himself to be in small, carefully crafted fragments.

yours is the privilege to love him as a whole, and it is yours alone.

so how are we feeling wriothesley nation (i still dont know how to pronounce his name, i use the korean voiceover) (also reblogs are appreciated because i’m just getting started here)

[illyabata]

scars are A Thing™ with wriothesley and nobody can convince me otherwise, idc if there is zero mention of his scars or their meaning when he comes out idc it’s my permanent headcanon that scars and their stories are simply entangled with his character idc

so now i give you: wriothesley who is fascinated by your scars

tw: discussion of scars lol, but in no way do i indicate their origin unless it’s stretch marks. however if talk of scars at all is triggering to you, dont read!! it’s sweet fluffy stuff, but that doesn’t matter if it will trigger you. please take care :)

sfw, big brainrot under cut

theyre so much smaller than his, more delicate, just like you. doesnt matter if compared to other people you are big or tall, he’s such a big guy that he makes you feel small no matter your size or height. and no matter what your scars look like to you, to him they are beautiful. to him they are delicate.

he’s enamored by all of your scars no matter their origin—stretch marks, however, seem to intrigue him the most of all. he’s absolutely transfixed by them, and you can never understand why. he’s simply mesmerized by the way the blemished skin stretches as he thumbs and presses it, watching the discoloration flatten itself only to bloat back when he leaves it alone. for some reason he just seems so puzzled by the concept of natural scarring of the body; nothing had happened to harm you for these to appear—they’re simply the product of change, your skin either going through rapid periods of expanding or shrinking. he thinks they’re pretty.

he’d spend so long just running his rough fingers over your skin, absorbed in the feeling of the puckered tissue under his own blemished hands. whether the scars are stretch marks or from something else, he loves them, he loves you.

this might sound weird but i just like to imagine you both spend time gently tracing each others’ scars as comfort, like it sounds weird in words but it makes sense i promise. there is something intimate and fascinating about scars, no matter what they’re from; it’s truly like the language of your body’s history, a record of what has occurred. you can resent them or be proud of them, it really depends on the person and situation—but regardless, scars are always a record, and that is a constant no matter the person.

and if you’re not comfortable with that level of touch or that much attention on your scars, that is absolutely okay. he’s not going to make you uncomfortable, he’ll always ask if it’s okay before he looks at or touches them—or touches you at all, really. he never wants to hurt you. and if you say you’d rather he not touch your scars, he’ll understand and just show you he loves you—all of you—in some other way.

like idk about anyone else or if its just me and im fucking insane but sometimes i get lost looking at my own scars; sometimes the human body at work is just kind of fascinating to watch, and even more so in retrospect. it’s like holy fuck you’re looking at its handiwork, you can plainly see how the skin has been so masterfully rebuilt into this little woven bandaid of cells, carefully crafted to not only rebuild but protect. your body has looked after itself, and it will continue to do so. and thats just kind of a fascinating thing to me idk😭

some extra thoughts about scars, not really to do with wrio; red brackets will indicate the end of it if you want to skip: [[ it usually replaces any feeling of disgust i have because instead of focusing on the bad feeling of remembering where they came from or being sad at the way they look im able to think about how cool it is the way my body recovered and made my skin even stronger; it didnt just wipe it all away and give me a clean slate so i could forget, it pieced the cells together again bit by bit until it had not only replaced the wound but enforced it—so instead of forgetting the bad feelings, they were replaced by wonder. sort of like a sign that says “proof that where once there was pain, now there is strength”. it’s kind of like how they say you don’t just try to quit bad habits, you must replace the bad habit with a good one. you can replace the bad feelings associated with your scars with new feelings, whether they are good feelings or neutral feelings or meh feelings. ]]

before you, he understood scars to be an ugly thing—a source of shame, a show for others to marvel at if he left them uncovered, for them to ogle at and whisper about as if trying to guess the origin of the wounds was a sort of entertainment to them. and then in the fortress of meropide, his scars felt much less like a source of shame and more like an intimidation factor (which wasn’t something he necessarily felt good about, but it was something that he benefitted from as the duke). but when you came along and he began to know you, suddenly they were this beautiful, fascinating phenomenon that lead him to view his own scars in a different light.

he’s a powerful, strong man, yes. he’s intimidating and feared, but he is also loved, and all for good reason—he is solid and safe, an image of reliability to others. and sometimes it could weigh him down when he couldn’t seem to let another help carry the burden.

the way you made him feel, though, tracing his big ugly scars like they were rivers, like they weren’t repulsive—it changed him entirely, and it changed the way he saw himself. in the overworld, he was a criminal brute slathered in the proof of his savageness. in the fortress, he was the rock-solid standard for redemption, and he had to uphold his firm reputation. but with you, he was able to be fragile; with you, the walls he had built to protect himself from both sides of fontaine’s society came tumbling down, because he didn’t have to pretend when he was with you.

if such a small, sweet thing like you could see him in such a kind light with so much love in those eyes of yours, perhaps he was not so bad after all.

everyone else in all of teyvat could believe he was truly a bad guy like he sometimes enjoyed playing at—but it wouldn’t matter, because there you were in his bed every night, held fast in his big arms as you mindlessly traced the long, thin writings engraved in his skin, letting the stories they told lull you to sleep.

[illyabata]

okok listen bodyguard wriothesley au (tw: suggestive but not explicit, f!reader and gendered terms, dumbification, babying, i was in a weird mood when i wrote this, bla bla) kinda short and was gonna add smut but lowkey i just dont feel like it. could make a part 2 with actual writing if you guys enjoy this concept

he’s your bodyguard and you are the lil princess :3

and you are SUCH a brat

in everyday affairs you act all confident and diplomatic, when really your little brain is just so empty !! you love to order him around this way and that, and no matter what he will comply with a, “yes, my lady” or “of course, princess” because he respects you—reveres you, even—and it is his job to obey your whims.

unless, of course, those very whims should jeopardize or go against your safety. he has the power to overrule your silliness should it come to that, but hardly ever does he use it; only when real danger poses a threat will he truly speak his mind. otherwise, he stands and listens to your nonsense with a straight face, not only because he has to but also because he does find it amusing.

he finds it amusing that during the day, here you are, the silly little girl that you are, commanding him about with a wave of your finger as if he is not the one in your bed every night. as if he does not coddle and baby you and turn you to the puttiest of putty, your brain all mushy and your hands grabby and your lips pouty and oh, sweet baby, what a silly thing you are.

do you not understand? do you not get it? it isn’t you giving orders, not even when you’re pretending. you are really just the princess, and he your strong, capable bodyguard who holds your life in his scarred hands. oh, yes, of course he is devoted to you, to protecting you no matter what—but you really don’t know what’s best for you at all, do you? yes, he practically worships you, and he will follow your silly and pointless orders because he adores you; because he likes to give you that fleeting feeling of being in charge, knowing that later he is going to remind you of your place in the quiet intimacy of the nighttime where it is only the two of you and no one else. he will let you have your fun during the day—he doesn’t particularly like anyone else’s eyes on him, nor does he think it advantageous or gentlemanly to boast his authority—but you must not forget that no matter how much you pretend otherwise before the prying eyes of the public, he is the one giving the real orders and calling the real shots.

and you are his baby, his princess, his recipient of absolute devotion. yes, he holds the real authority, but he would gladly get down on his knees and give his life for you any day. it’s in his job description.

but his poor baby gets so upset at the idea of him ever doing such a thing, perhaps even going so far as to throw a fit or try to argue with him that it will be going against his lady’s command to ever, ever leave her for any reason. ever.

in the daylight, he will simply hum, nod, or give a curt and dismissive response. but alone, he will coo and hold your face and say with such sweet, honeyed conviction, “sweetheart, you don’t get a say in such matters” as he is caging you to your little princess bed while you’re in your cute little nightgown with the cute frilly trim and your cute frilly socks. “try not to think about it, okay? you don’t need to think about it.” because really, wriothesley is much more than capable enough to protect you from harm without having to sacrifice himself in the process. so don’t even worry your pretty little head about such things.