Work Text:
The fortress smells of tar and dust that clings to the inside of his mouth. Lyney grimaces as he flits through the open area, his fingers running over the walls in a way he hopes does not mark his presence. There is an ache in his chest that does not satiate no matter how hard he tosses and turns back in the dormitory, and the sight of his sleeping siblings is making him recall memories that churn bile in the back of his throat.
So here he is, desperate to escape the rotating images in his head that will surely turn from smudged to clear if he allows his eyes to close for more than what would classify as a blink.
There’s no room to breathe down here, he realizes belatedly. Not freely, at least. The overworld seems like a faraway thing now, but for one, singular moment, he allows himself to close his eyes and—
The wind slices faintly behind him, growing frigid with cryo, and immediately, Lyney’s muscles tense. His knees drop in an attempt to block what can only be an incoming attack, but seconds later, a rough, calloused palm is pressing itself to Lyney’s mouth. He tastes sweat and smells chamomile and then there is a weight around his middle, pulling him back until he is flush against the narrow wall of an inner hallway.
His eyes flash, body going still as he looks up and sees the glint of periwinkle. “Let go of me,” he says, muffled against the hand.
“Mr. Lyney,” Wriothesley drawls, and there is something dangerous about his voice like this, “don’t you think you’re pushing your luck a bit?”
Lyney plasters a smile on his face, and it feels like salt and lemon juice rubbing into a fresh wound on his lip, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“I was just looking for a breath of fresh air.”
Wriothesley raises a delicate eyebrow. “In a place like this? Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
Lyney resists the urge to huff. Instead, the lines of his face carefully settle until they are flat. Wriothesley’s hand has moved from his face to the outline of his waist, locking him against the wall with one outstretched knee. His largeness is almost daunting like this, though Lyney knows there’s no real danger here. Just one infuriating man whose visage still makes him feel sick to his gut.
His jaw tightens. He arches his body forward and maneuvers his legs so that he can bring the heel of his right foot up to kick Wriothesley’s thigh.
Wriothesley does not flinch, and Lyney knows he did not hurt him in the slightest, but he does loosen his grip, just enough for him to stand straight and glare up at him. Faintly, he wishes he still had his bow in his possession; some comforts are only realized with a weapon in hand, after all.
The air is hot now, but there is ice in his lungs. He grits his teeth. “You have no right to talk to me.”
“I have every right, actually,” says Wriothesley. This time, he does take a step back. His arms cross over his chest and his eyes give him a slow once over, his eyes so dark gooseflesh erupts over Lyney’s skin. “You’re still my prisoner, and you’re supposed to be in your assigned quarters. In fact, I could have your sentence extended just because I caught you roaming freely outside.”
“Perhaps your guards are just bad at their job,” Lyney spits.
Wriothesley wilts a little. “I do suppose that’s part of it,” he acquiesces with a sigh. “However, prisoners here commonly do not go out of their way to bring trouble for them.”
Lyney’s chin tilts upward. “I’m not bringing trouble to anyone.”
“Just me, then,” says Wriothesley, and then he turns so that his side is facing him. “Follow me.”
Lyney’s eyes narrow. “I am not—”
“A cup of tea,” says Wriothesley. “In my office.” He turns fully away so that his back is facing him, the sight so deeply irritating that Lyney has half a mind to lunge right at him again. It reeks condescendingly, a blatant I don’t see you as enough of a threat to keep myself guarded around you. He feels his hands curl into fits by his side and he drops his head, wordlessly following after and hating himself for every second of it.
The Duke’s office is dark and smells of Freminet’s half-drowned body. One step inside has Lyney recoiling back, but when Wriothesley looks over his shoulder at him, he straightens up and hardens his eyes.
“Are you partial to any flavor in particular?” Wriothesley asks him, sifting through one of the drawers at his desk. “I have green, earl gray, mint, chamomile, black, Sumerian chai, jasmine, and a fancy white I got imported from Liyue Harbor last week.”
“I prefer coffee, actually.”
“Well, that won’t do,” Wriothesley tuts. “Hmm. I’m feeling simple black right now. I’ll pour you a cup of that too, then.”
Lyney feels like he is going to be sick, actually, but he sits down at the small tea table near the end of the room and watches sharply as Wriothesley follows suit. He pours the tea, two small cups balanced delicately on fresh porcelain. The steam rises in thick curls, and Lyney’s nose twitches.
“Your sister,” Wriothesley starts, and Lyney’s head snaps to look in his direction, “was a fan of my mint tea especially—”
“Don’t you dare,” Lyney snarls, moving to stand up, the chair shrieking against the floor as it slides backwards, “talk about my sister.”
Wriothesley’s expression sets.
Lyney continues, “You have no idea what I—what she—” He shakes his head. Wriothesley still has not said a single word. “Do you even feel the smallest amount of remorse for what you did?”
“No,” says Wriothesley, finally, and he crosses his arms over his chest and settles his eyes perfectly on Lyney’s face. “I would do it all over again.”
Lyney steps forward, his upper thigh colliding straight with the edge of the table. It wobbles, the tea line trilling over the rim of the cup. It pebbles in the saucer, and Lyney stares at it, then back up to Wriothesley, and he releases a breath that could almost be mistaken for a laugh. “You’re a fucking asshole.”
Wriothesley makes a noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a hum, and then he stands up too. Like this, he’s so much taller than Lyney, towering over him, staring down at him with that goddamn glint in his eyes. There is a smirk tugging at his lips, ever so slightly, cleaving Lyney’s stomach into two halves and pouring acid over his skin. It is a feeling so awful it almost has Lyney curling in on himself and emptying his throat right then and there, but he stands firm, fists ready at his side, as if he believes he has even an iota of a chance against the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide.
Said duke is currently rounding the table, dark eyes set on Lyney’s violet, unstopping until he has him backed against the side of the chair and pressed into the point of the wood. His hand comes up, large fingers grasping Lyney’s chin, and his thumb runs over the bubble below his lip before he leans forward, past his cheek until his mouth is by his ear.
“I’m the asshole?” he whispers, rough. “What about the Fatui, who infiltrated my prison and treated me like some sick joke?”
“Yes,” Lyney spits, not caring at all for their closeness, “yes, you’re the asshole.”
Wriothesley tips his head back, but he does not let go of his hold on Lyney’s face. He surveys him, eyes raking from his hairline, to the rosy bud of his cheeks, to his nose, to his lips. “You know, Mr. Lyney,” he starts, and immediately, a knife swoops through Lyney’s chest, “I’ve heard quite a bit about the celebrities of the overworld. Yourself included.”
“Oh?” Lyney raises an eyebrow. Archons, what is happening to him? Why is he acting like this? Where is his fucking mask? There is blood gurgling at the tip of his tongue and he cannot stop it from waterfalling over. “I wasn’t under the impression you kept such intricate tabs on me, your grace.”
“Don’t flatter yourself unnecessarily,” Wriothesley mutters.
Lyney tilts his head. It’s fruitless against Wriothesley’s harsh grip, but he’s sure he feels it. And that is all that matters. “You imply that there are times where it’s necessary.”
At this, Wriothesley’s gaze flickers away from his face, just for a second, and travels briefly downward. Lyney watches, eye twitching, and keeps his mouth pressed firmly shut. Waiting.
“As I was saying,” Wriothesley breathes, “I’ve heard about you. Fontaine’s great magician doesn’t escape the jeering eye anywhere outside of your little stage.”
“Jeering?” Lyney blinks, lips twisting a little. “Cheering may be a better word to use here.”
“You think of yourself as quite the wordsmith, don’t you?”
“I’d be a shoe in for the Sumeru Akademiya’s Haravatat Darshan.”
A smile curls at the corner of Wriothesley’s lip. “So this is the real you, then.”
Immediately, Lyney bristles, easy facade dropping right then and there. If he were worse at this, if he hadn’t had rules beaten into his soul as a child and taught to hold on, and hold on, and hold on, he would have collapsed face-first onto the floor. Perhaps Wriothesley would have taken pity on him and kept his grip on him steady, until the remainder of his body was hanging flimsily from his knuckles and his neck snapped in two.
But he is the heir to the Harbinger throne. He is better than that.
So he breathes. He glares up at him and channels the spirit of his Vision. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You smile up on that stage, you take in their praises and their lauds and you turn them over in your head again and again and craft a version of yourself that is honorable to what your audience wants from you,” says Wriothesley, as if he is doing nothing more than reading the morning paper, as if he has not just cleanly picked apart Lyney’s insides and smeared them over the sky for all to see. “But that night, right here, I saw the real you. And you can’t stand it.”
“I can’t stand you,” Lyney growls, suddenly very much done with the way Wriothesley is still fucking gripping him. “Let go of me. Wriothesley, let go of me right now.”
“Nothing was going to happen to her,” Wriothesley says. His gaze is unwavering. It sends a shudder down Lyney’s spine, and then he’s releasing his hold and gently pushing himself away with a flick of his fingers. “I used her to lure you out.”
“You should have left her alone—”
“Well,” says Wriothesley, head cocking slightly, “it doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s safe. Your brother is safe.” A pause. “You’re safe.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” says Lyney.
“I don’t expect you to,” says Wriothesly shortly. “For the record, I’m not forgiving you either, so. Seems we’re at a bit of an impasse.”
Lyney turns around. “Don’t you dare try anything like this again.”
“What, inviting you for a cup of tea?”
“Anything,” says Lyney, already walking toward the exit. “Literally anything.”
Wriothesley’s response comes in the form of nothing at all. Minutes later, Lyney is back to traipsing the weary layout of the fortress until he is slipping back into his dormitory, putting a finger beneath Lynette and Freminet’s noses to check that they’re still alive, sighing in relief when he confirms their breath on his skin, and reluctantly going to sleep.
His siblings definitely notice his sour mood the following day as they make their way to the production zone, but thankfully, they don’t comment on it. Lynette in particular keeps shooting him curious glances, emphasized by the three-degree tilt of her left eyebrow, while Freminet glances between them and presses his mouth firmly closed.
Lyney, throughout the day, keeps himself firmly alert, his eyes narrow and glancing around every so often, shoulders tense as he carefully makes note of each and every change in the air. Wriothesley’s presence last night was marked with warm tea leaves and contrasting ice, his fingers cold and rugged against the lines of Lyney’s face and his torso. The memory skips stones in his chest, a persistent, awful ache in every movement of his limbs as he works through the labor of the day and tries desperately to swat away the phantom feeling of Wriothesley’s body pressed against his chest.
Archons, he needs to pull himself together. He cannot afford to be this weak, this sentimental, when in just a few days Father will call them upon their release and demand for his retelling of each and every event that went down here. He knows he cannot tell her about his rendezvous with the duke last night—she wouldn’t say anything bad, per se, but it just…it’s not necessary.
His hands clench. What a useless one he is, absolving to hide from the only person he’s ever considered a proper caretaker. What a joke of an heir.
“Lyney,” Lynette murmurs under her breath as the three make their way back to their quarters for the night, “are you all right?”
Lyney starts, blinking at her. “What? Oh!” He shakes his head. “Yes yes, I’m absolutely fine. I’m just tired from all the work we did today.”
“You’ve been like this since before we started working this morning,” says Lynette, because of course she does.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” Lyney allows gently, and he watches as his sister’s eyebrows furrow atop her forehead and her eyes narrow ever so slightly over his frame. There is never any getting past her sharp intuition. He knows that. He also knows that there’s no way he can tell her about what happened last night either.
“Mm,” says Lynette, finally, and he can tell that she obviously does not fully believe him, but he can also tell she won’t pry. For now, at the very least.
When he gets to his bed, he finds a crumpled piece of paper underneath his pillow.
I think you’d like the citrus tea that was shipped today.
Immediately, he scowls.
“What’s wrong?” says Lynette from the other side of the room, glancing over from where she’s hovering over her own bed.
He squashes the paper in his fist before she can see it. “Nothing, nothing. It’s late. Go to sleep.”
He keeps the note in his hand as he climbs under the thin sheets. The quality of life down here isn’t awful, of course, but it does get a bit cold at night. There are extra blankets, but Lyney would rather give them to Lynette and Freminet instead of using them for himself. Seeing them cocooned together on their side of the room is more than enough.
Besides.
He finds himself standing outside Wriothesley’s office approximately an hour and a half later, after tossing and turning and tossing and turning until each and every lick of his pillow was a touch too warm. He needed fresh air, but that obviously wasn’t possible. The note, grown soft from creasing, slid through the cracks of his fingers, and as he caught the corner with his thumb, he sighed and accepted defeat.
He doesn’t bother knocking. He knows Wriothesley is expecting him anyways, given the note and also the fact that the door is kept deceptively unlocked.
“I told you not to try anything again,” Lyney says in lieu of proper greeting.
Wriothesley is sitting at his desk, leaning casually against the back of his seat. One of his legs is crossed over the other, and he’s leafing through what looks like paperwork. He glances up when Lyney enters, but the rest of him doesn’t move a single inch.
It’s aggravating, how deeply fucking annoying he is. How he sinks his metaphorical claws into Lyney’s skin and warms them there in the mix of blood and sweat and the beginnings of unfallen tears.
Lyney presses his lips into a thin line and walks right up to the front of the desk, and he stops there, watching Wriothesley smoothing the corner of one of the pages between his index finger and his thumb. His hair falls over his eyes at this angle, but it’s obvious, the gleam dancing within pools of periwinkle. Lyney catches it and reels it in, curling it in his palms and leaning forward until his elbows rest between the stacks of papers.
He lets his chin fall against the backs of his hands, and he watches as this, finally, makes Wriothesley look up at him.
“Ah,” he says, “Mr. Lyney. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Filthy fucking liar. “The thing is,” says Lyney, “your door was open.”
“Was it?” Wriothesley asks airily. “My mistake, then.”
Lyney tilts his head, popping the muscles around his neck. “You left a note underneath my pillow.”
“I did,” nods Wriothesley. “However I simply said that I think you’d take a liking to the new citrus tea I bought.” He sets his papers down, and they flutter down between them. “Did you take that as an invitation?”
Lyney feels his teeth slide together in the back of his mouth, his jaw tightening, eyes narrowing over Wriothesley’s figure. Even like this, with Wriothesley still sat on his chair and Lyney leaning over the desk, he is taller than him, staring down at him as if issuing some sort of fucked up challenge. He’s toying with him; it’s obvious, and yet Lyney can’t help but let it get under his skin, the casual way Wriothesley is surveying him, the way the note was very much an invitation that Lyney, for some reason, didn’t have the sense to reject.
His siblings are asleep in their quarters. Tomorrow, they will fulfill another day of work, and then next week, they will finally be released to the overworld again. And Lyney will be free to forget everything that happened down here in the fortress, he’ll be free to forget everyone down here, too—
Wriothesley is staring at him still. “Why did you come?”
In answer, Lyney tilts himself towards him even further, pressing his legs together behind him and raising the soles of his feet so that he can travel further across the table. The papers run askew, but Wriothesley is watching him, uncaring of the litter, and then he too is straightening up, his hand coming onto the surface, palm flattening out.
There is a shift in the air that is palpable, something electric and thick and primal. It fills the room and suffuses the rest of the fortress too, maybe. He doesn’t really know. He hopes it doesn’t, because that would be too honest, too vulnerable despite this meaning nothing in the grand scheme of things. He knows the way this type of performance plays out. If there is one thing he can be in control of around Wriothesley, it is something like this.
Wriothesley’s arm comes up, Lyney’s jaw going slack in his grip, again. Archons, what is with him and his fascination about the lower half of Lyney’s face? All of these thoughts throw themselves right out the nonexistent window when, in a sudden breath, Wriothesley’s thumb swipes across Lyney’s bottom lip, prying it open until the white of his teeth glints against the buttery office lamplight.
He brings himself forward until they’re forehead to forehead over the desk, and he stares down at Lyney as if he is undressing his mask with nothing more than his eyes.
“What are you doing?” he murmurs, and the ghost of his voice caresses Lyney’s mouth, already feeling loose and sore from nothing more than the pad of Wriothesley’s thumb.
“Shut up,” Lyney says. A pointless thing. An obvious, futile thing.
“No thank you, but,” says Wriothesley. Something crawls in Lyney’s chest. “Do you want me to make you shut up?”
Archons fucking above. If his note wasn’t an invitation, then this definitely is. Lyney is calculating, but he is not an idiot.
So he does the sensible thing and decides in the moment that he’ll spare time tomorrow during working hours to regret this. He brings both of his hands up until his palms are flush against the sides of Wriothesley’s face, and he kisses him.
Wriothesley responds immediately, a small, strangled sound purring at the back of his throat, and Lyney swallows it before he can convince himself to do anything else. He wants to taste him—this is a stupid, vexing realization—so he closes his mouth over his and drags his tongue in circles around his lips. It only takes one swipe, barely a brush of his own mouth, to pull Wriothesley’s lips open completely and slide his tongue into his mouth, slick and tasting faintly bitter, steeped tea leaves and dust and a hint of brown sugar.
It makes Lyney shiver. It makes him feel lightheaded. It makes his fingers dig further into Wriothesley’s cheeks and drag his nails down his skin, growing hotter and hotter until Lyney is hoisting himself up onto the desk and balancing atop his spread knees.
Wriothesley growls into his mouth, licking a stripe over his tongue and catching the small of Lyney’s back with his hand.
“You—” Wriothesley pulls away from his mouth and his teeth scrape against Lyney’s cheekbone. “Fuck.”
It’s right by Lyney’s ear and it sends a shiver down his spine, his back arching as Wriothesley moves to stand up. His chair screeches as it’s pushed back into oblivion, and Lyney’s eyes dart downward to see his thighs straining against the edge of the desk as he pulls the lever on his grip and urges their chests together.
“You,” Wriotheseley starts again, this time enunciated by his teeth against Lyney’s neck. Lyney, breathless, grips onto his shoulders in a feeble attempt to steady himself. “You are so fucking small.”
Lyney tries to laugh, but his breathing has gone all rugged and uneven. The world tips sideways a little when Wriothesley slides his thumbs over the span of his waist, teasing his clothed stomach.
“That’s rich,” Lyney says, his breath catching in his throat as Wriothesley begins to scratch his teeth against his collarbone, “considering you’re so fucking—”
“What?” Wriothesley interrupts, popping away from him and looking up. Like this, when Lyney is sitting on his desk and Wriothesley is bent halfway to bury his ashy face in his neck, he is finally, finally taller than him. Gazing down at him with wide, blown out smudged eyes that are most definitely far less intimidating than he means for them to look. He wants narrow glares and pursed lips and sharp, taut cheekbones, and instead he gets loose brows and looser lips and cheeks so flushed they could be mistaken for his pyro. “I’m so what?”
Instead of answering, he reaches up, curling his hands around the lapels of Wriothesley’s shirt and smearing them with sweat. He tugs once, then twice, and then he’s pulling him up and kissing his mouth shut and open and shut again.
At some point, when Lyney’s sure he’s gone well over half mad and the only thing keeping his head from spinning off of its axis is the fact that his legs are now dangling loosely around Wriothesley’s waist, Wriothesley breaks the kiss and leans back with his torso. Lyney inhales at the sight of his hands, purple veins decorating fluctuating spiderweb patterns over his skin as he fiddles with the buttons on his overcoat, sliding the offending piece of fabric off of his shoulders within seconds and dropping to the floor behind him.
He pulls his tie off next. And then the buttons of his undershirt, the thin fabric stretching over his muscles to reveal a broad, toned chest, and Lyney is aware, without knowing how, that he is panting, lips swollen and parted, and eyes refusing to leave Wriothesley’s pale skin.
Wriothesley leans forward suddenly, and Lyney snaps his legs tighter around his waist. It pulls him impossibly closer, so close that Wriothesley slips his arms around him and hugs him against his chest, his bare fucking chest, and Lyney flails uselessly in his arms till he steadies his grip over the tight muscles of his back. A quiet, drawn whine echoes out of him as the curve of Wriothesley’s palm settles over his lower back, his other hand traveling dangerously close to the zipper on the side of his corset.
His eyes turn sharp. He glances up and finds Wriothesley already staring at him.
“Don’t fucking tease me,” says Lyney.
Wriothesley hums, runs his hand over his collarbone, gentle, almost fluttery, and Lyney’s entire body goes suddenly hot. He thinks that if someone poured water over his skin right now, it would evaporate straight off. A pathetic, irritating thought, actually. His nails dig further into Wriothesley’s back in a desperate attempt to make it hurt.
His eyes narrow. Enough of this. “Are you going to fuck me or not, old man?”
Wriothesley chuckles, low in his throat, and it sends a needle through Lyney’s core. “Haven’t you ever heard of the concept of patience?”
“No,” says Lyney. “No, I haven’t, and I’m not here for a lesson from you, either.”
“Hmm,” says Wriothesley, and then he yanks the zipper down.
Lyney hisses between his teeth as his corset falls easily off of him, Wriothesley immediately tangling his hands into the hem of his shirt. He shivers as his bare skin makes contact with the air, ice and snow at Wriothesley’s fingertips. It is such a contrast to the heat permeating off of Lyney’s skin he nearly forgets his annoyance. Nearly forgets that he is seconds away from being fully undressed by the hands of the same person who kidnapped his fucking sister, and that thought is so overwhelmingly awful he has half a mind to push himself off of the fucking desk and stalk back to his sleeping quarters.
“Stop thinking,” Wriothesley says, and Lyney snaps up to look at him. He’s close. Too close, actually, with his hands splayed over his bare chest, and, fuck, his hands are so big, the span of them nearly fully covering his body.
“How the hell am I supposed to stop thinking?” says Lyney.
“Don’t think about anything,” says Wriothesley, peeling the shirt off, digging the tips of his fingers beneath the band of his black shorts, “except me right now.”
Lyney scoffs. “Don’t you think it reflects badly on your technique? If I still have the mind to think while you’re practically ripping my clothes off of me?”
Wriothesley’s eyes darken at that. It is a thrilling sight, one that Lyney tucks to the back of his mind and has him swallowing despite himself. He straightens, then pulls Lyney’s shirt clean off, and then he leans forward and crowds fully over him, around him, and he captures his lips in a kiss that is so searing Lyney cannot help the guttural moan that falls from his lips. It vibrates from his chest to the spot where Wriothesley’s tongue is stuffed between his teeth, licking over the walls of his mouth and then out again at the corner of his lips, trailing down until he’s sucking bruises over the spot just above Lyney’s nipple.
“Fuck,” Lyney curses, and then again, “Fuck.”
He kicks outward, and it would be a stupid thing to do if it didn’t immediately get his message across. It should be embarrassing, how fucking desperate he feels right now, but Wriothesley’s mouth has moved from above his nipple to his nipple, and well.
Then Wriothesley comes up, places his mouth by Lyney’s ear, and says, “Get on your knees.”
Archons.
Lyney slips right off of the desk, his balance tripping for a split second as his feet make contact with the ground. But, really, it ends up helping, because it’s easy to fall to his knees just in time with Wriothesley slipping out of his pants and his briefs and sitting back down on that godforsaken chair of his.
Lyney makes a small noise at the sight of him, which is absolutely not the right thing to do, because it has Wriothesley smirking and bending forwards and running his fingers over Lyney’s chin. Coaxing. Degrading. “Like what you see?” he drawls, as if the answer is obvious, or something.
“Shut the fuck up,” Lyney spits, but he shuffles between Wriothesley’s offensively well-shaped thighs as he says it, so maybe his words don’t hold that much weight in the grand scheme of things.
“Mm,” Wriothesley hums, and then his hand is traveling back until his palm is pressed to the back of Lyney’s neck and his fingers are threading the knots of the ends of his hair into his fist.
A chill explodes like fireworks where his frigid touch lands, and briefly, Lyney curses out Wriothesley’s cryo for being so damn all-encompassing. Just like the rest of him. Just like—fuck.
With absolutely no care, Lyney takes his erection into hand, wincing when his fingers wrap around but don’t quite meet. He traces the nail of his index finger down the underside and looks up through his hair at Wriothesley’s lips parting in response. The thumb at the back of his neck twitches in tandem with Wriothesley’s cock curving in his hand, and before he can do something stupid, like melt into a puddle of lava at the behest of his Vision, Lyney dips down and licks open-mouthed at the head.
“Shit,” Wriothesley curses as Lyney sucks slowly and tracks a bit of precome with his tongue. “Yeah, just like that.” His eyes drop into half-lids as Lyney circles him with his mouth, easing his throat, sucking further down until his whole pulsing length is neatly tucked in his mouth.
Lyney’s stomach flips as Wriothesley’s grip around his neck tightens, and he looks up through hollowed cheeks and finds glazed periwinkle—a color that is growing far too familiar for his liking—steadily trained back on his face. The eye contact is blistering, acrid in his stomach, but he holds it and ignores the piercing want pooling in his stomach.
Wriothesley is grunting now, his fingers massaging Lyney’s scalp as Lyney sets his pace, working his tongue over his length and watching with mild fascination the way Wriothesley’s expression twists and his lips ghost the letters of his sighs.
When Lyney shifts on his knees as he gives one particularly hard suck, Wriothesley’s hand moves rapidly from his hair to his shoulder, tipping him backward until his mouth comes off with a faint pop.
Lyney wipes at his mouth, eyes narrowing. “What the—”
“Get up, darling,” says Wriothesley, and Lyney’s eyes go wide at the sound of his broken voice hissing the pet name. “I’m going to fuck you.”
Oh, thinks Lyney as he slowly rises to his feet, watching as Wriothesley stands up as well and makes his way to the shelf on the other end of the room. He rummages around for something, finally producing a small vial of—
“Is that lube?” Lyney can’t help but ask, leaning back against the desk. The line of his mouth sets. “You sure are prepared, aren’t you.”
“It’s unopened,” says Wriothesley, coming back and sliding his hands beneath Lyney’s bare thighs in one clean sweep.
He hoists him up onto the desk, blatantly ignoring Lyney’s yelp of protest, and then he’s palming his still-clothed hardness and cleaving open the bottle with his free hand. And archons, if that isn’t the hottest thing Lyney has ever witnessed in his life.
“One of the prisoners tried to smuggle this in with the monthly shipments,” says Wriothesley. He hooks his index finger beneath the hem of Lyney’s briefs and peels them right off his legs. Lyney shudders at suddenly being exposed, but Wriothesley’s eyes are dark on his figure, so he swallows and lets it be. “Of course, I’d rather not make things uncomfortable for the rest of the inmates. So I confiscated it.”
“You mean you took it for yourself.”
“Well, are you complaining?” says Wriothesley, and then he reaches behind him and swiftly inserts one finger inside.
Lyney gasps at the sudden feeling of being filled, his head rolling back as his hands clumsily find Wriothesley’s shoulders.
Fuck, he thinks.
“Fuck,” he says out loud, his legs dropping open as one of Wriothesley’s arms come around the back of his shoulders and the other settles between his thighs. “Oh my fucking—”
His gaze is blurred with lust, and at this point, he doesn’t bother questioning himself anymore. Wriothesley pumps him steadily with his finger, and when he finally adds another, Lyney lifts his head off the desk and lets out a pathetic whine.
“You take my fingers so well,” Wriothesley hums, dipping low to plant a hungry kiss to his lips. “Wonder how you’ll look when you take my cock.”
“Archons—” Lyney starts, but he breaks off into a gasp as Wriothesley’s middle finger finds his prostate. Fuck. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Seeing me speared on your cock?”
“You have a filthy tongue and an even filthier mouth, Mr. Lyney.”
“Maybe if you hurried up you could see your desperate fantasy finally come to fruition—”
“Oh?” Wriothesley taunts, adding a third finger, and Lyney’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as his eyes flutter shut. “Are you sure it isn’t you that’s the desperate one here? The one fantasizing about—what was it, being speared on my cock?”
“I am but a performer,” says Lyney, smirking up at him through his hooded eyelids. “I gauge what my audience wants from me, and I give it to them.”
“Really,” says Wriothesley. His pace is fast, rough, and Lyney’s back arches off of the desk as his fingers curl inside him. “Then tell me, what exactly is it that I want from you?”
“Everything,” Lyney breathes immediately, his eyes flying fully open as Wriothesley presses even deeper, making him shudder. “I’m ready, asshole.”
And just like that, Lyney is emptied, and he feels his brow furrow atop his forehead at the loss. It lasts for approximately five seconds, though, because the next thing he knows, Wriothesley is pressing their naked chests together and turning him around, his hand finding the small of his back and bending him over the desk. Lyney inhales sharply as his hands find their grip on the wood, curling against the slippery surface as he feels Wriothesley crowd behind him.
There’s a weight around his rim, wet and yawning, and for a moment, Lyney wonders if he can even do this. Is his body built to handle a length this fucking large? He’s never taken anything like this before. What if he—
“Are you ready?” comes a voice that is so suddenly close to his ear it makes him start. He balances up a bit, his back immediately colliding with something strong, and, oh, Wriothesley is hovering over him, positioning himself at his hole and circling it with his—
“Yes,” Lyney breathes, “yes, I’m ready, holy fuck, hurry—”
His mouth snaps shut, a sharp moan spilling through his teeth and his lips when Wriothesley presses his hips forward, fucking into him in one easy motion, wet and hard and filling him all the way. Lyney cries out, his eyes screwing tightly closed and his back arching off of the desk again. He digs his nails into the wood, and there’s a grunt somewhere behind him as he feels Wriothesley’s cock jerk inside before sliding almost fully out. He pauses, just the tip teasing at the puffy entrance, and just as Lyney is about to urge him to continue, he thrusts forward again, and then again, and then again, and then—
Lungs burning and breathing ragged, Lyney clenches down hard and bites into his lip as he throws his head back, trying desperately to keep hold of himself as Wriothesley’s thrusts quicken in their pace. He fucks him deep and hot and heavy, and each time he slides in, Lyney feels his insides twisting in a tight knot.
He gasps when he feels a hand over his stomach, pulling him back until he is flush against Wriothesley’s chest. Something wet warms his neck, and he tilts his head back against Wriothesley’s shoulder to give his mouth better access, breathing quickening as he presses hisses to his bruised, red skin and snakes his hand lower until it’s wrapping around Lyney’s cock and pumping it in time with his thrusts.
Wriothesley’s fingers dig into his hips, his knuckles brushing the underside of his cock as Lyney buckles upward, pushing his head back against the older man’s jaw.
“Mm,” Wriothesley grunts into his ear. “Fucking perfect. So fucking wet and tight.”
“So I was right,” Lyney groans as he feels something tense begin to build and pool in his stomach. “You did want everything.”
“God, you don’t shut up, do you?”
“Seems like your original goal of shutting me up failed.”
In response, Wriothesley begins to jerk him off faster, snapping his hips flush against Lyney’s ass until Lyney is crying out and spurting come all over Wriothesley’s hand. Wriothesley fucks him through it, slower, steadier, the glide smooth and all at once too much, and the next thing Lyney knows, Wriothesley is pulling out, pressing him back down onto the desk with his hand and pumping his cock to completion. Lyney feels the hot wetness splatter over his back, Wriothesley’s moans pure music to his ears, and then he’s being pulled back up and turned around and being kissed within an inch of his life.
It feels intimate. It is intimate, and just like that, the moment snaps. And Lyney is wiggling out of Wriothesley’s arms and bending down to reach for his clothes on the floor.
“Fuck,” he curses. Archons. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs. “Fuck.”
“Lyney—” comes Wriothesley’s voice from behind him, dropping the mister, but Lyney does not turn to look at him. He does not know what his face will do if he does. “Are you—”
“I have to go,” Lyney mutters. It’s quiet, and something in his chest sinks as he pulls his shirt over his head and tucks his corset underneath his armpit. “I—” This time he does look up. He finds Wriothesley’s eyes and resolutely ignores the rest of his body. “I have to go. My siblings—if they wake up and don’t see me in my bed, then I don’t know what they’ll—”
Wriothesley lifts a hand, flicking his wrist. “Go. It’s fine.”
Lyney nods, and just as he’s about to exit, he feels a weight over his shoulders. It’s warm, encircling him in a heat that smells achingly familiar—and not in a way that is ideal to whatever the hell is going on in his head right now. He looks up, just in time to see Wriothesley slip into the spot next to him, one hand still hovering over the coat he’s just draped over Lyney’s back.
“Keep this,” he mutters. “It’ll help shield you on your way back to your sleeping quarters.”
Lyney’s hand finds the black fur, and he frowns. “I’m not—”
“I said keep it,” says Wriothesley again, firmer this time, gruffer, too. “I have others. It’s not a big deal.”
“Fine,” says Lyney. He hoists the jacket further around him, casts one last glance at Wriothesley’s careful face, and then disappears into the night.
He steps into the shower as soon as he gets back, scrubs soap into his skin and then into his hair too, until lumps of blond twist around his fingers and he’s staring down at his hands and wondering how the hell he’s supposed to look his siblings in the eye now.
Wriothesley doesn’t leave any more notes beneath his pillow, and Lyney doesn’t seek him out again either. He stuffs the offending coat in the very bottom of the singular crate every inmate at the Fortress of Meropide is given and resolutely ignores the way Lynette’s nose perks suspiciously the following day, her narrow eyes falling on the crate for a few seconds before averting elsewhere.
And just like that, the rest of their prisoner days pass, and Lyney, Lynette, and Freminet find themselves thanking the staff for helping them with their release paperwork and beginning to walk in the direction of the elevator.
Seconds later, there is ice in the air.
Lyney’s eyes narrow razor-sharp, head tilting back over his shoulder in one click of his neck. There’s a small crowd of gardemek’s lining the outline of the large space, and then Wriothesley comes slightly into view—he’s leaning against a pipe, from the looks of it, and he’s staring straight back at Lyney. His expression is set, betraying absolutely nothing, but Lyney catches the way his biceps flex against his crossed arms, the line of his legs tighter than the normal, suave way he tends to carry himself.
He tilts his head forward, and Lyney feels his fists curl into palms by his sides. He turns away, finds Lynette’s eyes where they’re looking curiously between her brother and the duke.
“Let’s go,” Lyney mutters. He reaches for Freminet’s hand, squeezing it gently and offering him a smile. “Let’s go to the Court and treat ourselves to a nice meal.”
There is a small, secluded area right at the outskirts of the Court of Fontaine that Lyney found a few years ago for him and his siblings to train in, with dummies for Lynette’s sword and Freminet’s claymore and shoddy targets pressed against tree bark for Lyney’s bow. After making sure they’ve all filled their bellies with coffee and bowls of cassoulet from Café Lutece, Lynette and Freminet decide to turn in for the night, while Lyney tells them he’d like to train for a little while.
After all, it’s been weeks since he’s been able to hold his bow. The grip is familiar, comforting against his palms, and as he fires shot after shot after shot, his head begins to clear, if only slightly. He does not think about the Fortress of Meropide, and he does not think about his siblings, and he does not think about Father, and he absolutely does not think of Wriothesley.
He strips back his bowstring especially hard on the last shot, and when he emerges, he’s panting, sweat tickling his brows and the lines of his temple, lower back aching against the dimming summer night sky. Pyro tickles the burnt tips of the grass below his feet, and he has half a mind to collapse onto the ground right there and then.
He sighs and straightens up.
Hotel Bouffes d'ete is quiet by the time Lyney returns. His arms prickle uncomfortably, and his steps are slow, languid, quiet as they pad through the front lobby. He slips into one of the back rooms on the first floor, making his way to the bulletin board he knows is sitting pretty exactly for times like this. Father had set it up for them and a few other orphans: a continuously growing list of people she deemed useless to Teyvat’s general wellbeing. Lyney stops in front of it, looking up, eyes flitting through the target profiles.
His fingers twitch by his sides. He rips one labeled Marcel, 32 off of its post and makes his way up to his bedroom, where he carefully pries the door open and immediately startles at the sight of his sister sitting idly on top of his bed.
“Lynette?” he blinks, quickly hiding the paper behind his back. “What are you doing still up? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“I was,” she says, shifting a little, her legs dangling off of the side of the covers. “But I woke up and thought I’d wait for you.”
“Oh.” Lyney swallows. Something about this feels premedicated. Knowing his sister, it probably is. “Well, I’m back now! I told you, I just wanted to get my muscles loose with a bit of archery practice.” He holds up his bow, still nestled in his right hand, and offers her a grin he hopes looks easier than it feels.
“Mm,” Lynette nods. She tilts her head. “Are you going on a hit?”
He sighs, relaxing. Truly, there is no getting past his sister. “I…maybe.”
She blinks at him. “You went to the duke’s office when we were prisoners, didn’t you?”
He inhales sharply. “You knew about that?”
“His coat is in your closet,” she deadpans.
“Oh,” says Lyney. “I—” He shakes his head. “He gave it to me.”
“I’d assume so,” she says. “I briefly considered the possibility that you stole it from him, but it didn’t seem like something you would do.”
He laughs, walking over to his cabinet and resting his bow atop one of the shelves. Then he turns, making his way to the bed and plopping down next to her. “Really? You don’t think so?”
“Lyney,” says Lynette, “I know when you’re hiding something from me.”
His stomach twists, because of course he’s already more than aware of that. They have always been able to tell when the other is lying, or evading the truth, or refusing to come clean about something or the other. They have been together their entire lives, so it’s only natural. He just never thought it would come back to bite him like this.
Then Lynette sighs, reaching over and covering his hands with hers. “It’s okay, you know. You and the duke.”
His mouth opens. “There’s nothing between me and the—”
“Idiot,” says Lynette, and Lyney immediately shuts up. “I saw how he was looking at you when we were released earlier from the fortress. Go on the hit if you think it will help ease your mind,” she says. “Just tell me if you need any help, or if anything goes wrong.”
His jaw hinges. He doesn’t know what to say to that. “All right,” he nods. “Of course I will.”
“Good,” she says, standing up. “Be careful, brother.”
At this, he smiles. “When have you never known me to not be careful, sister?”
“Don’t even get me started,” she says, and seconds later, she’s gone, leaving a gaping Lyney staring after her in shock.
Which is how he finds himself perched high in the shadows of Fleuve Cendre, his fingers gripping nimbly onto the pipe he’s hidden behind. It’s well past midnight, Lyney realizes through belated, tired eyes, so the area is completely empty. He thinks back to the target profile he spent the journey here memorizing: an aristocrat who’s been involved in secret human trafficking dealings. A classic case for the House of the Hearth, but it doesn’t make it any less disgusting. If Father’s notes are correct—which they always, always are—then the man takes a route through one of the back pathways at fifteen minutes past one in the morning, right on his way to meet with one of the other ringleaders of the scheme.
Lyney breathes slowly. His bow is tight in his hand, fingers flexing over the curve of the grip. He doesn’t usually go out like this, oftentimes too occupied with coming up with new ideas for magic shows with Lynette. But every once in a while…
Crack. Lyney’s head snaps in the direction of the sound, and his eyes zero in on the sight of a man perfectly parallel with the picture on the case file.
Perfect.
He drops down one level and straightens up, slinging his bow out in front of him and effortlessly drawing the arrow. He feels the muscles in his arm flex as the shot rings out, and he watches with mindless disinterest as the point of the arrow pierces straight through the criminal’s heart. Marcel collapses, falling to his knees with a feeble, airy scream, and Lyney grits his teeth, jumping down to ground level and drawing his bow for another shot.
Fuck. Fuck. He shoots again, this time at a spot right below the ear, and he watches as blood croons as it drips out from the fresh wound.
“Hello,” he says, walking up to him, tilting his head and smiling down at the deranged expression he’s being subjected to. His first arrow is still pointedly sticking out from his chest, crimson decorating the frontside of his shirt. “You had a nice life, don’t you think?” He chuckles as the criminal’s eyes begin to pop. “I don’t think you did, actually. I think you’re really just a fucking asshole.”
He raises his leg and presses the sole of his foot against the end of the arrow facing him, and he sighs through his teeth as the man’s eyes flutter closed with one last attempt at flailing his arm up.
Lyney exhales.
And then he passes out.
When he wakes up, he finds himself in a place that is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He’s cocooned beneath layers and layers of blankets, and his vision begins to clear, he realizes he is in someone’s bedroom. And it is not his own. The quilt is too heavy, the pillow just a touch softer than the one in his own bed. He bites his lip and tries desperately to remember what the hell happened—he found Marcel in a secluded area of Fleuve Cendre, killed him with two arrows, and then…?
Fuck, he thinks. Where are Lynette and Freminet?
Instantly, dread fills him, pooling in his stomach and licking at every millimeter of his skin. And he—he just fucking collapsed right there. Granted, he killed the guy well away from any of the main areas of the sewer zone, but it would take anyone just a few days to stumble across the dead body. And that would not be good at all.
Fuck, he needs to get back there and clean up after his mess. But how long has he even been out for? And on that note, where the hell is he?
A door creaks open, and Lyney starts, his head whipping in the direction of the sound.
That’s when he realizes what is going on.
Wriothesley walks in. He is holding a box of tea, because of fucking course he is, and he stops in the doorway, eyes landing on Lyney sitting up in his bed. In his bed. Because that’s where they are. They are in the Fortress of Meropide, in Wriothesley’s goddamn bedroom, and Lyney is in his goddamn fucking bed.
He thinks his face might be heating up. With what, however, he isn’t sure.
“Lyney,” says Wriothesley.
Lyney breathes. He extracts himself from the bedsheets, and he stands tall next to the post. He watches as Wriothesley sets the box of tea down on a small cabinet standing on the other side of the room, and he watches him come to stand in front of him. He watches his eyes stay steady on his face, and all of a sudden, the memories from just last week are flooding through Lyney’s head and holy fuck he literally cannot do this—
“What the hell,” Lyney says, taking a step forward, “is going on?”
Wriothesley’s expression flattens. “You—”
“Where is my sister?” Lyney continues. He feels like he is on fire. Ropes of terror are settling in his bones and he does not know what to do. How did he get here? Why is he here? What happened? How did Wriothesley even—“Where is my brother? What the fuck did you to do them? What the hell is your problem? Do you make some sick habit of kidnapping people? My family specifically? What the fuck is wrong with you? What were you thinking?”
Just then, Wriothesley steps forward, and immediately, every single word on the tip of Lyney’s tongue dies and slithers uselessly back into his throat.
“Your sister is the one who gave you to me,” Wriothesley says, an edge to his voice, and Lyney’s heart drops right into his throat. “She found you collapsed over somebody’s dead body in Fleuve Cendre and brought you to the surface. I was passing by, and we ran into each other. She told me to bring you somewhere safe while she finds a way to dispose of the body.”
“What?” Lyney says. “What are you talking about?”
“So really, what were you thinking?” Wriothesley throws back. “Running around in the sewers, killing with no semblance of—you could have died had someone else found you!”
“Oh, and why the fuck do you care?” Lyney snaps. “Has the big bad duke of the Fortress of Meropide gone soft for the Fatuus who carelessly infiltrated his beloved prison and couldn’t agree to grant you an audience with his boss because he was too busy having a fucking panic attack over not being able to find his sister anywhere?”
“So this is your issue with me,” says Wriothesley. “It isn’t just that I took your sister away from you temporarily. It’s that I saw you lose control over yourself. And that’s the last thing you want. For somebody to see you like that.”
“You have no idea what I—” Lyney cuts himself off, and he is vaguely aware of how his chest is heaving, up and down, up and down. “You’re—you literally—”
“I what?” Wriothesley says. They’re so close, like this, and if Lyney tipped forward just a few inches, his chin would collide directly with Wriothesley’s chest.
His lips part. Suddenly, he is completely overcome.
“She was taken from me,” he says, and in his periphery, he sees Wriothesley freeze. “When we were kids. She was taken from me. She was sent as a gift to some fucking pervert and I wouldn’t have ever seen her again if it weren’t for Father saving her life that day.”
Wriothesley’s expression shutters. Suddenly, the room feels overwhelmingly cold. “What?”
“I am indebted to Father for that,” says Lyney, because now that he’s started, he can’t seem to fucking stop, “she saved Lynette’s life and for that, I will always be grateful to her. Without her, Lynette would have—she would have—” He breathes heavily. His eyes screw tightly shut. Nausea is curling in the back of his throat.
Then, there is a weight on his shoulder, and Lyney looks up to see Wriothesley’s hard eyes set on him. “I didn’t know.”
“Obviously you didn’t know.”
“It wasn’t my intention to dig up your past trauma.”
“I know that,” says Lyney, his voice breaking over the last syllable. “And it infuriates me! Of course you didn’t know about what happened to her—and yet here I am, holding a grudge against you even though I’m the one who waltzed into your prison and acted as if I had free reign over the place.”
At this, Wriothesley’s expression softens, and it is a sight so devastating Lyney has half a mind to jump up into the air and kick him right in his cheekbone. “So you’re apologizing.”
“I would never apologize for that,” says Lyney quickly. “I told you. I am indebted to Father.”
Wriothesley nods. “And I would do anything to protect Fontaine.”
“Right,” says Lyney. “Right, I—me too. Of course. Me too.”
“Good, then,” says Wriothesley. “So we can finally agree on something.” Then he turns around, walks back to the cabinet and gingerly picks up the box from earlier. Lyney squints at him, then down at the box. “It’s a box of the citrus tea I told you about last week.”
Lyney blanches. “Huh?”
“I wasn’t lying when I said I thought you’d like the blend,” says Wriothesley. He shrugs, casual, but the line of his shoulders is ever so slightly rigid. And Lyney catches onto it. Because of course he does. “So I made sure to save a box of it for you if you ever found yourself back down here.”
“Are you insinuating that I would get myself arrested again?”
“Well,” says Wriothesley, cocking his head. “You are Fatui.”
“I am a Fatuus who is very careful and even more capable,” Lyney says.
Wriothesley raises one delicate eyebrow.
“Well,” Lyney amends, a sheepish smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “Today was very clearly an anomaly.”
“Right,” says Wriothesley. Then he takes a step closer, his legs so long that it completely bridges the gap between them, tosses the box of tea onto his bed beside them, and swoops down to kiss him.
Lyney doesn’t think. He’s tired of thinking. His hands fly up, grabbing onto the lapels of his outer layer and pulling them between his fingers. Wriothesley makes a low sound in the back of his throat, and Lyney feels it vibrate against his lips, spurring him on. He licks into his mouth and runs his tongue over his teeth as Wriothesley’s hands come around his waist and settle at the small of his back.
“Fuck,” whispers Wriothesley as he breaks away from his mouth, his lips grazing Lyney’s ear, his breath hot on his skin. “I missed your mouth.”
“Yeah?” Lyney breathes, turning his face to press against Wriothesley’s neck. He kisses at the hollow below his jaw, circling his tongue around rough skin and bending sideways to bite around the red-tinged spot. “Show me exactly how much you missed it, then.”
And he does. He presses Lyney’s back into his bed and takes all his clothes off with his teeth, kisses along his stomach and his collarbones and his nipples. Lyney moans helplessly into his mouth, his hands gripping hard onto Wriothesley’s shoulders as he grinds against him and desperately throws his head back onto the mattress. He whimpers when his shorts peel away from his legs and Wriothesley takes him into his hand—his huge, broad hand—and pumps him slowly, deliberately, until Lyney is a squirming mess beneath him and coming between their stomachs.
His toes curl when Wriothesley eventually slips his hands beneath his thighs and hooks his knees over his shoulder, positioning himself at Lyney’s entrance and sliding right inside. Lyney bucks against him, his back arching as Wriothesley begins to thrust.
“Archons,” he pants, “Wriothesley—”
“That’s it,” Wriothesley croons as Lyney’s body tightens around him. “Let yourself go, kitten.”
He’s a sight, with the way he crowds over him, sweat trickling down his muscles and his hair falling into his eyes. Eyes that are trained directly down on Lyney, unmoving, sharp and intentional as his gaze sweeps over him, taking all of him in. His hips snap, and Lyney cries out, clenches around him as another orgasm hits him hard and fast.
Wriothesley drops down, his strong arms caging around Lyney’s shoulders as he fixes his position and increases his pace, milking him completely dry and kissing him straight on his mouth as he comes too, groaning loudly at the crook of his mouth, gasping for air and sucking Lyney’s bottom lip between his teeth. He shudders, then pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against Lyney’s. The tips of his fingers graze over Lyney’s hipbones and fall still as Wriothesley draws out another kiss. His skin is flushed red and his chest rising slowly, before he falls down onto the spot next to him on the bed, hooking an arm over his waist and pulling him against his chest.
He kisses his forehead. “Are you all right?” he asks softly.
“What,” Lyney drawls, “you don’t think I can handle you?”
Wriothesley laughs. It’s a low sound, one that goes straight to Lyney’s gut and makes him feel all warm and pleasant. “Darling, I think you’re the only one who can handle me.”
“Well then,” Lyney grins, rolling his eyes.
He yawns, and Wriothesley’s grip on him tightens. “I could arrest you for what you did today.”
“It was morally correct,” says Lyney.
“Was it?”
“No.”
Wriothesley shakes his head, and Lyney feels his stubble against the side of his cheek. “Sleep. Talk tomorrow.”
“I need to get home—”
“I told your sister to not expect you before tomorrow morning.”
Lyney gapes at him, but Wriothesley is already pressing his face soundly into his neck, so he supposes he’ll have to interrogate him about it tomorrow. For now, there’s this, and this is enough. “Fine,” he says slowly. “I’m going to ask you about that tomorrow.”
“Exactly, tomorrow,” says Wriothesley, and Lyney sighs against him, finally allowing his eyes to flutter closed.