Wriothesley didn’t mean for things to go this far—he swears. It was supposed to be like any other night when he drinks: lock himself in his office or room, down the crates of alcohol he’s brought in, and eventually crash in his chair or bed. But last night, he forgot to lock the door. He was tipsy, caught up in the haze of the liquor, when you entered, concerned about him.

You wore a white button-up shirt that clung to your curves a little too tightly, paired with a black skirt and tights that left little to the imagination. The sight of you was too tempting, and with the alcohol loosening his restraint, he couldn’t resist. He’d always been attracted to you, and tonight, you looked so good. His hands wandered, and you let him. One thing led to another, and now here the two of you lay, tangled in the sheets, skin pressed against skin.

Wriothesley is still inside you, his body flush against yours, one large hand resting on your stomach, feeling the bulge of where he fills you. His lips trail soft kisses along your neck and shoulder, brushing over the bite marks and hickeys he’s left behind as silent apologies. His voice is hushed, filled with regret and a hint of lingering desire.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs between kisses, voice hoarse and regretful.

"I didn’t mean to be that rough… or tear your tights."

You’re half awake, grumpy, and too tired to fully respond, but the shift of your body and soft sigh let him know you're listening. He continues to apologize, his touch soft now, the weight of guilt heavy as he tends to the marks he left behind. "I’ll make it up to you," he adds, his tone low and sincere.