Wriothesley, the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide—feared, respected, a man of absolute authority. Yet, when it came to you, he was nothing more than putty in your hands.

You could tug at his tie, tracing your fingers along the scars littering his skin, and he wouldn’t stop you. You could sit yourself right on his lap in the middle of his paperwork, blocking his view with nothing but your mischievous smile, and all he’d do was sigh—tired, amused, but never truly irritated.

He let you play with his hair, tug at his sleeves, press lazy kisses against his jaw just to see if you could fluster him. And sometimes? You did. His ears would tint red, his grip on his pen faltering for just a second. But did he ever stop you? Never.

Because for all his strength, all his power, when it came to you? Wriothesley liked letting you have your way.