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Wriothesley knows a thing or two about consequences.
As with everything in life, there are choices, causes and effects, decisions that seem small in the moment only to snowball into beasts of their own.
In this case, it’s a glass of champagne shoved into his hand by an uncharacteristically nervous Clorinde. Or maybe it had started before the champagne, before this grand, gaudy display of wealth and gluttony poorly disguised as a Halloween celebration. It was an invitation passed along to him by Iudex Neuvillette, an invitation he’d promptly declined.
But that’s the thing about decisions: they only count when you stick with them, and Wriothesley had folded like a cheap cafe stool as soon as Clorinde begged him to accompany her.
Archons, does he wish he hadn’t.
Wriothesley’s never liked parties like these: masquerade balls full of perfumed courtiers and simpering aristocrats, all eager to have a word with the Duke of Meropide. Fortunately, Wriothesley’s been blessed with the kind of intimidating countenance that deters the weaker ones from approaching him and leaves the rest to scatter like crystalflies after exchanging a few words.
It’s a damn shame they don’t stay gone.
“That’s it,” he says, downing the rest of his drink, watching the most recent vulture finally walk away. “I’m calling it a ni—”
“No,” Clorinde interrupts. “You can’t leave yet.”
Wriothesley’s chest deflates with a long suffering sigh, his champagne flute sitting empty and idle in his grasp. He has to adjust his mask once again, and then his faux ears, followed by the stuffy suit jacket that just barely stretches over his broad shoulders. He swore it fit last time he wore it, but maybe it’s been a few years since he pulled it from the depths of his armoire.
“Remind me again why I’m here?”
“I…” she starts, and then thinks better of it, shaking her head and exchanging her glass for a full one as a waiter passes. “It’s unimportant.”
“Mhmm,” he hums, entirely unconvinced. “Would this have anything to do with Ms. Navia, perhaps?”
Clorinde stiffens and pointedly looks away, but it tells Wriothesley all he needs to know. After all, silence is its own answer. She’s anxious, out of her element. They’re the same in that sense. This grand ballroom is a far cry from the champion duelists’ training grounds, just as it's a far cry from the metal fortress that lies deep in the underbelly of Fontaine’s waters.
She takes a large drink of her champagne, leaving an imprint of blood-red lipstick on yet another glass. Bless the poor sod who has to wash however many she’s gone through.
“You made it!” A familiar voice says.
Wriothesley arches a self-satisfied brow at Clorinde and turns to greet Navia with a smile.
“Ms. Navia,” he says. “We were just talking about you.”
Clorinde stiffens like she’s suddenly re-thinking every life choice she’s made to this point, namely the one where she dragged Wriothesley along to this gods-awful party. Good, he thinks. Maybe this’ll be the last favor she ever asks.
“You can go now,” Clorinde says to him, voice curt, eyes saying the same thing only with slightly more colorful language.
Wriothesley exhales a small laugh, gesturing vaguely to the both of them. “Did you plan the matching costumes, or…”
Navia blushes a delicate, springtime shade of pink. Clorinde goes redder than an armored crab.
“I suppose great minds think alike,” Navia says, smoothing the front of her dress, polite as ever.
They’re both wearing extravagant gowns, all dark velvet, ruching, and lace. Their lips are a matching shade, covering twin canines that are sharp as blades.
Look at it this way, Wriothesley would say, were he a crueler person. You’ll look even more like vampires when the champagne sinks in and you sneak away to make out.
But Wriothesley isn’t cruel—a bastard maybe—but not a cruel one. So, instead he turns, waves over his shoulder and says: “You ladies have a nice date, now.”
He immediately heads for the door, mentally patting himself on the back. Clorinde may hate him now, but someone had to step in before her pining became too much, and Wriothesley’s nothing if not a problem solver.
He almost makes it, too, almost reaches the door. Just like he almost declined the invite, just like he almost didn't come. Decisions, the fickle things. But he looks up, one last scan of the room, and something stops him in his tracks.
Another consequence, another turn on the roadmap of tonight.
It’s a familiar silhouette: graceful, lithe, smaller than Wriothesley by at least half. If someone had asked Wriothesley, only moments ago, if he could pick the Great Magician Lyney from a crowd of costumed partygoers, he’d have chuckled, thrown back his drink, and shook his head.
He’d have been wrong.
Lyney is smiling coyly at some fawning sycophant, sharp lavender eyes holding such carefully manufactured interest that it’s almost convincing. His nimble fingers toy idly with his near-empty glass, but none of the attendees can mistake the gesture for boredom. Wriothesley, along with the others, can understand the way he keeps his hands busy, a habit hard to break. And those surrounding him crane their necks as if expecting some trick, some sleight of hand to entertain them.
Wriothesley pauses, plucking a fresh glass of champagne from a passing tray and taking a gulp. They haven't spoken since the Fortress, since Wriothesley used his siblings as leverage. Afterwards, Lyney declined all invitations to tea, all attempts at some form of reconciliation. Then later, when Wriothesley had met with Fatui diplomats to mend relations, they had been nameless, faceless lackeys, uninteresting in comparison, and Wriothesley had found himself growing tired of their placations and empty promises.
Lyney’s promises may be just as empty, more illusions and tricks pulled from his hat, but they’re entertaining, at least. Wriothesley tilts his head and keeps watching, long after it’s stopped being appropriate. He’s aware that he’s openly staring, but it doesn't matter. Lyney doesn’t seem to notice the way Wriothesley admires his mask, the delicate lace and intricate filigree.
His costume is a simple one: black ears and a slim tail to match a twin sister who is suspiciously absent. If Wriothesley had to guess, he’d say she’s sneaking about for some secret purpose, her brother left as a distraction. Wriothesley had weeks to study them during their stay in Meropide, to understand how they operate. Lyney with his charming smile and magnetic confidence, all eyes on him. Lynette could easily travel along the walls, blend in with the gauzy curtains, hide behind one of the many audacious displays full of artifacts ‘discovered’ in foreign lands. Just another fancy way of saying stolen.
The man Lyney is speaking with shifts unsubtly, wraps an arm around his waist, offers him another glass of champagne with a leer. And Lyney leans into it, smiles, bats his eyes coquettishly. He has everyone in the room fooled…
Everyone except Wriothesley.
There’s a vein thrumming wildly in his neck, a tension to his narrow shoulders. His grip on the champagne glass changes, fingers dangerously still. Wriothesley scoffs at how fucking oblivious everyone is, the cakes and liquor having lulled them into a gluttonous stupor. They wouldn’t know a true predator if it bared razor sharp teeth, unhinged its jaw, and ripped out their jugulars. How should they be expected to recognize one that smiles prettily, laughs like music, and looks like a dream?
Lavender eyes snap up, meeting his stare.
Wriothesley expected to be caught at some point, so he doesn’t look away. Instead, he inclines his head in greeting, raises his glass in a distant toast.
It takes all of two minutes for Lyney to detach himself from the man clinging to him, to offer honeyed excuses and pretty placations to the surrounding crowd. Wriothesley can’t say he expects it, the way Lyney crosses the ballroom, waltzing straight toward him like he hasn’t been avoiding Wriothesley for months.
“It’s impolite to stare, you know,” Lyney says, but it sounds less like an admonishment and more like an opening, a private invitation to hold a conversation with one of the most desired people in the room.
“I’m not the only one staring, sweetheart.”
Lyney laughs, and even Wriothesley has a hard time telling if it’s genuine or not. It’s a little jarring, how amicable he’s being. Wriothesley wonders if it’s the champagne, or if this is all some act, a way to keep the peace while they’re in public.
Wriothesley’s question is answered a second later when Lyney holds out his hand.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Monsieur…?”
Oh… that’s…
Wriothesley blinks down at his hand. His costume isn’t that good. Fluffy ears that blend in with his hair, a fluffier tail, a wolf-like mask courtesy of Clorinde. But Lyney’s looking at him expectantly, and there’s no indication that this is some sort of trick.
Wriothesley only realizes he hasn’t taken Lyney’s hand when Lyney draws it back.
“Ahh… did I misspeak?” Lyney asks with a nervous laugh. “Have we met before?”
His gaze slowly slides from Wriothesley’s ears to his boots and back again.
“It’s just… I can’t say I recognize who lies beneath your costume,” he says with some hint of appreciation in his voice. “And you don’t strike me as someone so easily forgotten.”
Shit, he really doesn’t know it’s me.
It’s another one of those decisions, small, innocuous. Wriothesley could tell the truth, put the poor kid out of his misery and explain the situation. But then Lyney would head back to his adoring fans, would continue avoiding Wriothesley as he has been, and Wriothesley would be left without entertainment.
This is a much more interesting game: conceal his identity, see how long it takes him to realize.
“We’ve never met formally,” he says, and it’s not necessarily a lie. “But I would be remiss not to recognize the Great Magician Lyney in the flesh.”
Lyney recovers from his embarrassment immediately, laughing melodically, taking a small sip of his drink.
“I suppose my costume isn’t the most effective, is it? My sister warned me that I’d be recognized, but it only felt fitting.” He spins in place, catching the tail, running his fingers down its length. “In contrast, your costume is very well made. A wolf, is it? A mythical lycanthrope perhaps?”
“Something like that,” Wriothesley says. “But it isn't my costume. A friend supplied it after I reluctantly agreed to join her for this thing.”
“Reluctantly, you say. Not one for parties, then?”
“Not when I can help it. I suppose it must be different for you. The spotlight suits you.”
Lyney looks around before leaning in conspiratorially. “Can I confess to you a secret? I’m not one for parties either. In a lot of ways, they’re more exhausting than a sold out show. But, I’ve gotten used to them, and with that, I’ve become more adept at pretending.”
Wriothesley snorts. “You’re more candid than I expected.”
“I probably shouldn’t be telling all of this to a stranger…” Lyney looks down at his empty glass and giggles. “Must be the champagne.”
“Should we cut you off, then?”
“Not quite yet… I think I could use another glass or two.”
A waiter passes as if on cue, and Wriothesley grabs them both a fresh flute. Lyney accepts it gratefully, taking a small sip, humming at the flavor.
“So, Monsieur Wolfie, back to the topic at hand: why do you dislike parties? The music? The dancing? Too many horny aristocrats trying to climb you like a tree?”
Wriothesley doesn’t even try to hold back his amusement. “You’re not far off the mark, actually,” he laughs. “But you know how these things are. It’s hard to find anything worthwhile in a place like this.”
Lyney sets the edge of his glass against his bottom lip, piercing eyes trained to Wriothesley’s own, expression holding something charged.
“And what about tonight? Find anything worthwhile?” He asks.
Wriothesley smirks, taking a page out of Lyney’s book, eyeing him up and down slowly. “Haven’t decided yet.”
A slow, cheshire smile curls Lyney’s lips. He’s trouble. Wriothesley knew as much before tonight, before this party, long before Lyney ever stepped foot in the Fortress of Meropide.
“It’s getting rather stuffy in here. Want to find a quiet place to continue this little chat?” Lyney asks, all faux innocence and implication.
Wriothesley should say no, but he doesn’t.
“Lead the way.”
In contrast to the cacophony of music and conversation in the ballroom, the grand hallway is startlingly silent. Lyney’s boots clack against the marble floor, tail swinging behind him as his hips sway. Wriothesley follows a few paces back, admiring the view while he can, knowing he’ll have to come clean before this goes too far.
“You seem familiar with the place,” Wriothesley says when Lyney begins ascending a winding staircase, leading them further into the mansion.
Lyney winks over his shoulder. “It belongs to some unimportant Baron. My sister and I have performed here on several occasions. The Baron is a decent man, if a little handsy when drunk. But he’s never touched Lynette, so I have no reason to hate him.”
The maze of hallways on the upper floor leads them to a gaudy door gilded a brilliant yellow, carved with an ornate, filigree-lined mural.
“Keep watch for me, would you?” Lyney asks, dropping down to a knee, making two long pins suddenly appear in his hand.
Wriothesley crosses his arms. “Something tells me this isn’t quite legal, sweetheart.”
“What are you talking about? This is perfectly legal.”
“Breaking and entering?” He says flatly.
“We entered this place with invitations, if you might recall. And…” Lyney grins up at him just as the door opens with a click. “Nothing is broken.”
I should have him arrested for this.
“Remind me, kitten, is false justification a sin in the land of justice?”
Lyney takes hold of Wriothesley’s tie, dragging him into what is apparently an opulently furnished office.
“Fontaine is no more the land of justice than it is the land of hedonism. What then is the greater sin? Exploring the house? Or not taking advantage of the free champagne and this solid mahogany desk?”
“Exploring is downplaying it a bit, don’t you think?”
“No, downplaying would be to say that you’re going to fuck me.”
Wriothesley nearly stumbles when Lyney releases his tie. The little menace swings the door shut, turning the lock with a bow and flourish. He pulls his mask off, carelessly throws it down onto a chaise like he’s at home. His suit jacket goes next, followed by the laces of his corset as he saunters over to the desk.
Wriothesley watches it all, unmoving, trying to decide between handcuffing him and revealing his identity or playing along to see where this goes. There’s a right answer and a wrong answer, two ends of a moral spectrum. Problem is, Writhesley’s moral compass has always been a bit skewed, and his dick’s louder than his conscience could ever be.
Wriothesley loosens his tie. “What would be a more accurate statement, then?”
Wriothesley’s downfall goes like this: Lyney sits down on the edge of the desk, spreads his legs, crooks a finger in his direction. And Wriothesley goes to him, one step, then another and another until Lyney’s wrapping his legs around Wriothesley’s hips and pulling him closer by the lapels of his too-small jacket.
That’s how they end up slotted together, Wriothesley caging him against the desk, Lyney’s plush lips mere centimeters away from his.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispers, a fucked up siren song that could wreck ships and drown the most seasoned sailor. “You’re going to carve a place out in my body, mold me to the shape of your cock until I’m unsatisfied by anyone else. You’re going to tattoo the imprint of your hands around my waist, so that I can never undress without thinking of the way you stretched me, filled me, owned me.”
Archons he’s pretty, Wriothesley thinks. Even speaking those filthy words, even outlining every shameless thing he wants Wriothesley to do to him. He makes it sound like a wish, a prayer, and fuck if he wouldn’t look gorgeous down on his knees.
Wriothesley’s sort of tipsy and definitely turned on, cock straining against his zipper, begging to be buried in the plush confines of Lyney’s tight little ass. He gives it one last try, forcing his mouth to move, to form the words.
“Before this goes further, I need to tell you—”
“Shhh,” Lyney interrupts, finger to Wriothesley’s lips. “I don’t care. I don’t need to know your name or day job. Just keep the mask on… keep it on and we can remain strangers.”
Wriothesley’s brows furrow. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m sober enough to know what I want. So, stop treating me so delicately.” He grabs Wriothesley’s hand and shoves it between his legs, right against the bulge in his shorts. “Feel that? Feel how hard and aching I am for you? I prepared myself… earlier this evening. We don’t even need oil. I bet you can slide right in…”
And fuck if that’s not all the consent a bastard like him needs.
Wriothesley growls low in his chest and surges forward, capturing those soft lips, devouring the taste of champagne from his silver tongue. His mask gets in the way, makes it difficult to deepen the kiss, but Wriothesley doesn't dare take it off. Instead, he pulls back, gets his hands around Lyney’s waist just to see if his fingers can touch.
Lyney falls back on his elbows and tilts his head, smiling in a way that reminds Wriothesley of cats and canaries.
“Undress me,” he says, voice low, eyes heavy-lidded.
Wriothesley’s never been one to obey orders, but he thinks he can in this case. He takes his time unlacing each boot, pulling them off and discarding them on the floor. The garters and thigh-highs stay, but Lyney’s shorts fall next to his boots, revealing porcelain skin, plush thighs, a flushed cockhead poking above the waistband of his underwear—just as pretty and petite as the rest of him.
Wriothesley uses a forearm to lift both of his legs, pushing them down toward his shoulders. His other hand is free to pull Lyney’s underwear aside, to verify what he had said.
Wriothesley whistles.
“You weren’t lying about the prep, were you?”
Lyney’s rim is puffy and pinkened, glistening with whatever oil he’d used to stretch himself open. Wriothesley presses two fingers against him, cock twitching with how greedily his body sucks them inside.
“Fuck, you needed this, huh,” he says, and Lyney bites his lip, closes his eyes, nods frantically.
His body quivers around Wriothesley’s fingers, tightens rhythmically, like a wet little sleeve, pyro-heated and waiting. Wriothesley keeps him folded in half, fucks his fingers in a little at a time till his knuckles are stopping him and Lyney’s making all sorts of frustrated noises.
“S-stop teasing, I said I was ready…”
Wriothesley pulls his two fingers free, presses back in with three. “You sure about that, kitten?” he says, pumping his hand, filling the room with wet squelching sounds. “How do I know you stretched yourself enough?”
“I don’t care, I don’t care if it was enough,” he gasps, cheeks red, chest heaving. “Just fuck me, split me open if you have to!”
Wriothesley clicks his tongue, pulls his hand free and wipes the excess oil off on his pants.
“Might not be so eager for it once you see me, sweetheart.”
And Lyney glares at him, a look Wriothesley hasn’t seen since that night, since Lyney came storming into his office, yelling his name. It makes his cock throb and balls grow tighter.
Wriothesley drops Lyney’s legs and rips off his suit jacket before shoving the front of his pants down right along with his underwear. He springs free, hard, aching, tip flushed an angry red and flinging beads of precum down onto Lyney’s exposed abdomen.
“Holy fucking hydro dragon…” Lyney whispers, staring at it in wonder with a slackened jaw and metaphorical hearts in his eyes.
“Suck,” Wriothesley says, grasping the base of his dick, taking a single step back.
Lyney pushes himself up eagerly, slipping off the desk and onto his knees. He opens up and replaces Wriothesley’s hand with his, sucks the head into his mouth.
“That’s it, get me wet, good boy.”
Lyney moans at the praise, eyes fluttering shut as he doubles his efforts, as he tries to take him deeper. Wriothesley swats his cheek gently and runs a hand through his hair, knocking off his ears, tugging lightly at the silken strands.
“Eyes open. Keep ‘em on me, kitten.”
Lyney looks like a fucking wet dream, all watery lavender eyes staring up at him, mouth stuffed full of cock. He can’t take all of it, but he does what he can: sucks, hollows his cheeks, strokes the rest like he’s trying to get Wriothesley to come on his tongue. And Wriothesley could come like this, could brace a hand on the back of his head and force him down, drain himself inside that pretty throat.
It’s a tempting prospect, but Wriothesley knows he’s never getting another chance like this. For now, they’re strangers, but come tomorrow, he’ll go back to being the Duke of Meropide and Lyney will go back to hating him, and Wriothesley will regret it for the rest of his life if he doesn’t experience with his dick what the soft, velvet walls of his hole feel like.
“That’s wet enough,” he says, pulling Lyney off of his length. “Bend over the desk and spread yourself for me.”
Once more, Lyney obeys without hesitation. Once more, Wriothesley’s cock twitches at the sight.
Lyney pulls his underwear down to his knees, cups himself and spreads. He’s slick and pink, tiny little hole looking so soft and pliant. Wriothesley presses his wet cockhead to him, and his knees nearly buckle when the muscle responds, fluttering around the tip like it could suck him inside.
“Greedy,” Wriothesley mutters like an admonishment, but he means it as praise. Who knew that Lyney could be so obedient, so docile, so eager for Wriothesley’s cock that he’d drag him off to a locked office in the middle of a Halloween ball? That he’d seduce him with a few pretty words and flirtatious smiles?
Lyney makes a small sound, something between a groan and a whine. “Please… please, I’ve done everything you asked… please give it to me…”
And once again, Wriothesley’s a bastard, but he isn’t cruel.
Despite the preparation, despite Wriothesley’s fingers in his ass and Lyney’s spit on his cock, his body is unyielding. Wriothesley presses on, further and further still. It pushes his hole inward, muscles fighting, body swallowing him at such a leisurely pace.
“Relax, kitten,” Wriothesley whispers, one hand guiding himself in, the other rubbing circles into Lyney’s back. “Relax and let me in. Let me in, and I can fuck you like you want. Nice and rough, how does that sound?”
Lyney doesn’t answer, but his body does. He shudders, gasps, his hole dilates and Wriothesley is all at once sucked inside.
Holy fucking hydro dragon is right…
There’s something to be said about mixing Cryo with Pyro. Lyney’s body is scalding, and Wriothesley knows what it must feel like to him: being speared with an icicle the size of his forearm, being cooled from the inside out.
He hasn’t even started fucking him yet, and already Lyney is drooling out all sorts of cock-drunk little noises. They spur him on, drive him into a rhythm that can only be described as punishing. It takes effort at first. Wriothesley grunts and holds onto him, pulls his cock free, struggles to shove it back inside. But Lyney opens up for him quickly, just like he said: molded to the shape of Wriothesley’s cock, flesh memorizing his length and girth, every ridge and fat, rippling vein.
He keeps slamming inside, hands around his waist, ignoring the way the desk scrapes against the marble floor and how loudly he cries out. Nobody will hear them over the music, over the laughing and singing and conversations that don’t mean a damn thing. This is a much more worthwhile use of his time: making Lyney gasp and claw at the expensive wood, making him arch his back in a silent plea for more. Wriothesley can abuse his prostate like this, pummel into it like a well-worn punching bag, wringing out every last drop of pleasure from his body.
The office is filled with wet slapping, grunts and curses from Wriothesley, moans and pleas from Lyney. He’s up on his tiptoes, gripping the edge of the desk to brace himself, knees shaking as Wriothesley pistons his hips without relent.
“Don’t stop,” Lyney gasps, throwing a teary look over his shoulder. “Don’t stop, I’m going to—”
Wriothesley’s grip tightens until he’s sure it’ll leave a mark, ruts his hips, growls something low when Lyney’s body clenches around him.
“Fuck,” Wriothesley curses as Lyney comes undone around him, and then again, louder but just as eloquently: “Fuck—”
Lyney comes with a guttural moan, something fucked-out and sinuous. He makes a mess of the desk, smears his spend around as he slides back and forth over the surface. Wriothesley doesn’t let up, he fucks him forward and then tugs him back, using him like a doll.
“Shit, kitten, you trying to milk me?” He asks breathlessly, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, slowing down and rolling his hips.
Lyney laughs, laughs like music and sin and a song that’s going to be stuck in Wriothesley’s head for the next decade and a half.
“Maybe…” he twists his body, props himself up on an elbow and winks. “When you come, make sure to do it inside. I want to feel you.”
“You’re a little too composed, for my liking,” Wriothesley says. “Was all that slutty begging and moaning just an act?”
Lyney hums. It’s not an answer.
“Well then, allow me to remedy that, sweetheart.”
And Lyney hears the threat behind it if the slight widening of his eyes is any indication.
Wriothesley flips him over so he can see his face, so he can burn it behind his eyelids, picture it in his mind’s eye every time he fucks his own fist in the shower. Lyney yelps when he slides back in, expression caught somewhere in the intersection of overwhelmed and blissed-out.
He’s still so goddamn tight, still warmer and wetter and prettier than any hole Wriothesley’s ever fucked.
“Do your fans know what a slut you are? Do they get to see the lewd faces you make? Do they get to hear how high your voice gets?”
Lyney shakes his head, beads of sweat set loose. “You, only you,” he lies, but Wriothesley can appreciate it. He’s a good actor, even during this, even in the throes of ecstasy, his guts being moved around like the desk they’re fucking on.
Wriothesley grabs his legs and pushes them up by his ears, folds him in half, gives himself a better view, a front row seat to the show that is Lyney’s tiny little hole clinging to his cock. It’s like it could hold on, pushing in and pulling out with every harsh thrust. What a sight, what a beautiful fucking sight.
Through all of it, there’s heat, pressure, a scalding vise on his cock. Wriothesley’s not lasting much longer and he knows it, but Lyney slaps his hand away when he reaches for his dick, when he attempts to make it go faster.
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Lyney snaps, the cutest little angry furrow to his brow. “Too sensitive…”
Wriothesley chuckles, angles his hips, prods at the bundle of nerves inside of him until Lyney’s breath is hitching and tears are catching on his lashes.
“That so? Guess I’ll just have to make you come like this, then.”
It’s only by sheer force of will that Wriothesley still sounds so fucking confident. In truth, he’s not sure he can pull another orgasm from Lyney before it all becomes too much, but damned if he isn’t going to try.
Wriothesley switches his pace, rests one of Lyney’s legs on his shoulder and holds onto it for leverage. At this angle, he can reach deeper, explore the farthest reaches of him. Lyney’s reaction is near instant. His eyes roll back, fluttering closed, lip pulled between his teeth to muffle his cries.
“That’s it,” Wriothesley says. “I can see myself through your stomach, kitten, look how deep you’re taking me.”
Lyney splays a hand over his abdomen and makes a shocked noise, his petite cock leaping at the feeling, drooling pre and bobbing with each thrust. He’s close, Wriothesley can hold out. He won’t just pull an orgasm from him, he’ll rip it from him by force.
“Good boy. You were made for me, made for my cock…”
Wriothesley thrusts faster, pounds into him harder and harder, lifting his ass from the desk and punching a string of ah, ah, ah, from his reddened lips.
Lyney sobs, toes curling, body strung tight as a violin, voice high as one, too.
“Shit, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna fill you to the fucking brim,” Wriothesley growls, and he sounds more like the wolf than the man, feral, vicious.
That’s all it takes, no hand on his cock, no spoken demand that he come for him. Lyney throws his head back and comes like he’s ascending to Celestia. And Wriothesley comes too, slams in to the hilt, drains himself dry. Their bodies pulse in unison, a synchronous crescendo of pleasure that has Wriothesley seeing fucking stars.
They collapse together against the desk, breathing heavily, a tangled mess of sweat and cum. For a second, when Lyney’s small frame shakes under him, Wriothesley panics, wonders if it was too much, if he’s somehow crossed a line. It doesn’t take long to figure out he’s laughing.
“Best party I’ve ever been to,” Lyney says, cheeks flushed, voice hoarse.
Wriothesley snorts, shakes his head, looks down at him with a smirk.
“You were right. Saying I was going to fuck you was a massive understatement.”
“That wasn’t the only thing that was massive! Really, you should be required to carry a permit walking around with a weapon like that.”
Wriothesley leans up, and said weapon slips free, a trickle of cum flowing out after it. “Didn’t seem to give you any trouble, kitten.”
“Ask me how much trouble it’s giving me tomorrow, actually.”
“This is going to be a bitch to clean,” Wriothesley says, cringing at the mess.
Lyney slips off the desk, legs nearly buckling before he catches himself. “So let’s not clean. How will he know it was us with all these drunkards around?”
“Hmmm… you have a point,” Wriothesley admits, tossing Lyney’s shorts to him. “Now get dressed before anyone comes knocking.”
“Brilliant idea.”
They redress and right themselves in record time, adjusting their costumes to something almost passable. Lyney nearly falls over twice, but manages to save it at the last moment, ever the performer. And Wriothesley watches him, stuck somewhere between amused and melancholy, knowing that this time is borrowed, doomed to become an unrepeatable memory.
But Lyney doesn’t know that, and so he smiles wide, hums a catchy tune, looks up at the stranger in a wolf mask as he opens the door.
“The party should still be in full swing,” Lyney says. “Do you plan to go back?”
Wriothesley steps into the hall and shakes his head.
“No, I don’t think I…”
It’s a movement in his periphery, someone at the end of the hall. A familiar silhouette: graceful, lithe, smaller than Wriothesley by at least half. Lynette freezes and quickly hides the slip of paper she’s holding.
“Is something the mat… oh.” Lyney exits the room behind him, meets his sister’s eyes just before she disappears down the stairs.
Lyney crosses his arms, taps a foot, offers Wriothesley a smile. “She was supposed to be done by the time we finished,” he says casually.
That sly little bastard, he thinks, piecing it together a little too late.
Wriothesley knows a thing or two about consequences, choices, causes and effects, decisions that seem small in the moment only to snowball into beasts of their own.
“That guy you were distracting earlier, I’m guessing he’s your unimportant Baron?”
Lyney’s grin grows sharp. “Figure it out, did you? I’ll admit I’m impressed. Most people don’t notice the misdirection at all. But then again…” his eyes drop to Wriothesley’s crotch. “You’re not most people.”
“Why abandon him if he’s the guy you’re stealing intel from? Why distract me, instead?”
Lyney clicks his tongue. “You’re asking the wrong questions. And besides, you should be grateful, not all Halloween tricks are such a treat.”
Wriothesley narrows his eyes, takes a dangerous step toward him.
“I should have you arrested,” he says, staring down at the predator that smiles prettily, laughs like music, looks like a dream.
“But you won’t, will you, Monsieur Wolfie?” Lyney asks, taking a step forward of his own—confident, unafraid.
But, Lyney already knows the answer, already knows Wriothesley was an accomplice in all this, so he doesn’t wait for it. He plucks an invisible piece of lint from Wriothesley’s lapel, turns his back, waves over his shoulder. And just before he disappears from sight, he pauses, looking back the same way Wriothesley had earlier in the evening.
“Oh, and Wriothesley?” Lyney calls, voice carrying easily down the long hallway.
“Next time… I expect not to walk after.”