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Lyney kneels, bare knees aching where they touch the unforgiving floor. It’s stone, probably, or rough concrete. He can’t be sure.
“Listen up, prisoners,” a commanding voice rings out past the chorus of shaking breaths and stuttered heartbeats.
Boots hit the floor, steps echoing around the room. Stone floor, definitely, Lyney thinks at the cadence. There’s a drip coming from a pipe, landing on metal; Lyney studies the sound of it. They’re in a basement. The boiler is leaking, a faulty pressure valve if Freminet’s taught him anything.
The blindfold they’d hastily tied around his eyes is knotted in his hair, tugging at the back of his head painfully, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. Lyney inhales steadily and forces himself to remain still. Experience tells him that movement will only make him a more obvious target. He’s spent too many years living in houses with targets, already.
“This is a test,” the voice says, fading and then cresting along with his footsteps, like he’s pacing down the line of them. “You’re here because you think you have what it takes to join Alpha Beta Omega. Some of you do.”
His footsteps stop in front of Lyney.
“Some of you don’t.”
Lyney suppresses a snort, keeping his face carefully blank. The whole damn fraternity should join the drama club, what with all the theatrics. The guy starts walking again.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard the stories, but this is no news article. Forget everything you thought you knew about initiation. There won’t be alcohol. Alcohol is a crutch. When you’re following my orders, I expect it to be with a clear mind, is that understood?”
”Yes, sir,” the recruits say in unison.
“While you are under this roof, you will address me as Your Grace. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lyney says, and hears it mostly echoed around him.
The recruit next to him automatically shouts another ‘Yes, sir,’ instead.
His Grace huffs. “You,” he says. “Get out. There’s no place here for those who can’t be bothered to follow simple instructions.”
The guy bumps into Lyney as he hobbles to his feet, his soft footsteps fading. This, too, Lyney studies, subtly listening for the direction of the nearest exit, an escape route in case the hazing goes south.
The pause that follows his departure sits for longer than is comfortable. Lyney wonders when they’ll be allowed to stand, his knees still digging into the cold stone floor. He had known that hazing would start after he accepted his bid. He should have slept in something other than tight briefs and an oversized t-shirt, but hindsight is 20/20, and they’d dragged him out of bed and covered his eyes before he’d had time to change or put on shoes.
“Alright,” His Grace is saying, somewhere directly in front of him. “Now that we’ve weeded out the weakest of the group, let’s begin.”
There’s movement, then, and something hot ghosts over Lyney’s ear. It takes only a second for it to register as His Grace’s breath.
“Are you ready?” He asks, barely above a whisper, and it sounds more like a threat than a question.
Well, Lyney thinks, a familiar hum buzzing beneath his skin. So much for no target.
“Again,” His Grace says.
Lyney’s breathing is strained, his skin hot and dotted with sweat. He knows he’s flushing from his ears down to his cunt, but he’s pretty confident he can write it off as humiliation rather than arousal.
“F-fourteen.” Lyney tries not to sound too eager as the paddle comes down once more, landing across his ass with a harsh, reverberating slap.
He doesn’t moan. He absolutely doesn’t moan.
Over the course of the night, the blindfold has only loosened slightly. Not enough for him to catch sight of which senior has been bossing them around, but enough that a sliver of low light has begun to peek through. Lyney has lost track of which room they’re in, now. The floor here is softer on his bruised knees, carpeted over hardwood with some sort of low pile rug.
This is supposed to be a punishment. Lyney’s not sure what for, but he’s not complaining.
He’s bent over, knuckles white against the floor, bracing himself for each delicious impact. His sleep shirt has ridden up over his ass, leaving his tight underwear on full display. He wonders if it was intentional, if His Grace was paying attention to the curve of his spine, the dampness of his briefs, the subtle hints of enjoyment that seemed to leak through into every gasp.
”Keep counting.”
There’s something heavy in his voice that hadn't been there before, not while the other recruits were being disciplined. Not when they were being spanked and Lyney anxiously awaited his turn.
“Fifteen,” Lyney says through his teeth.
There’s a sound, a slight disruption of light as His Grace squats in front of Lyney’s kneeling form. “Oh? Is that a hint of defiance I hear?”
No, Lyney thinks. Not defiance.
Lyney knows defiance—knows what it sounds like, knows how it feels repaid in kind against his skin, the bruises it leaves behind. He’s not spitting the count between grit teeth because he hates this, he’s doing it to hide how much he loves it, how His Grace’s commanding voice goes straight to his throbbing core, how wet it’s all making him.
The other recruits cower, whine, gasp, cry out in terror at each new and inventive humiliation ritual. But, Lyney knows what real fear is, knows how it creeps through the bedroom door, how it makes a home under the bed.
His Grace mistakes his silence for resistance.
Lyney’s head is being yanked back by a fist in his hair, the blindfold ripped off of him, taking a few blond strands with it. Lyney’s lips part on a gasp, his shock real and visceral. But, it’s not shock at the retaliation, not shock at the way His Grace leans into him.
His eyes adjust, slowly at first, then all at once. He’s always been good at that: seeing in the dark, paying attention, cataloguing every last detail of a room. He’s always needed to be. They’re in a corner room on the second floor, exit to his left. If he can't make the door, he can escape from one of the three windows. God knows he and Lynette have survived jumps from higher.
No, what surprises Lyney are the cool, blue eyes looking at him, the dark hair, the shadow of stubble lining a defined jaw.
Lyney knows Wriothesley. They had met during rush week, that first party at at ΑΒΩ. Lyney had been sitting on the edge of the beer pong table, the red cup in his hand sloshing liquid as he’d animatedly told a story about the time his sister had broken the vacuum cleaner and he’d disassembled it, sneaking it out of their foster home in pieces like some sort of serial killer hiding a body.
The frat boys had hung onto his every word, laughing, toasting, throwing their wandering arms around him. Wriothesley had shoved his way through the group and slipped the cup out of Lyney’s hand, muttering an admonishment about underage drinking that Lyney had pouted at. Wriothesley watched him the rest of the night, the entirety of the party. Watched him when he traded the alcohol for a deck of cards, watched him perform a few practiced tricks to the sound of applause, those same icy eyes following Lyney’s every movement. Lyney was extended a bid the very next day.
And Lyney had wanted.
What, exactly? A lot of things, really. He had wanted another drink, wanted a quick hookup in one of the many empty bedrooms, wanted those eyes to stay on him, to keep looking at him, to never leave him.
They weren't leaving him, now.
“Mr. Lyney,” Wriothesley says, voice a low rumble. And Lyney has the sudden, stupid thought that Wriothesley remembers his name. He snaps himself out of it. Of course he knows Lyney’s name. It’s in his damn recruit file.
“There is no place here for defiance,” he continues, hand still tight in Lyney’s hair. “Now, I’ve already turned away enough recruits tonight to fill a lecture hall. Are you going to be the next one?”
Lyney’s lips feel so very dry. He reaches out with his tongue to wet them, only just catching the way Wriothesley’s eyes flicker toward the movement.
“No, Your Grace,” he says breathily, obediently.
A second, then another. Wriothesley searches his face as if expecting the other shoe to drop, expecting a quip or a joke or some type of performance like he had given back at that party. When Lyney offers nothing, he nods and pulls away.
“Alright, gentlemen,” Wriothesley says, addressing the entire group. His frat brothers are pulling the other recruits’ blindfolds away. “If you’re still here, congratulations. We’re nearing the end of our initiation.”
Lyney leans back and folds his hands into his lap, feeling the sting of his ass against his heels. He watches Wriothesley expectantly, knowing that after that bit of perceived defiance, he can’t risk standing without a direct order.
It’s strange in some ways. While blindfolded, Lyney had been coasting through initiation with a sort of mild amusement, born—unfortunately enough—from a lifetime of worse fucking things. It had been tinged with a hint of anticipation, and those burning embers of arousal, because the thing about a childhood like his is you don’t get through it without your fair share of damage. Freminet flinches at the slam of a door; Lynette can’t stand being touched; Lyney likes to be bossed around a little too much for it to not be some sort of kink. Sue him.
But now…
Lyney looks up at Wriothesley and it makes those embers feel like a fucking house fire. He wants again, feels like he’s spent his whole like wanting and that it’s all culminated to this. If Lyney fails here, if he gets turned away from ΑΒΩ, he’ll spend the rest of his life unsatisfied. Wriothesley will graduate in a year, leave campus to do who knows what with who knows who, slip through his fingers like he had at that party.
No, Lyney’s going to do this. He’s going to let Wriothesley drag him to the edge of his limits and then shove him over the side, thanking him all the while. Lyney’s therapist would call it BPD or toxic self-destruction or something else that he doesn’t want to think about. Lynette would call it daddy issues. Lyney just thinks it counts as taking what he wants.
“There’s only one trial left for you to pass.”
Lyney inches forward, leaning in, ready to throw himself into whatever it is Wriothesley asks of him.
“Strip.”
Ice water. That’s what it feels like.
Once upon a time, he and Lynette had snuck out to go ice skating, skittering out on the surface of a frozen pond that had been much thinner than either of them realized. Lyney remembers falling through the ice, the bitter plunge, the way that cold can sometimes hurt so badly you feel it in your bones.
That’s what the command feels like, now.
Around him, the remaining recruits are ripping off their shirts, tugging down their pajama bottoms, discarding their underwear. Lyney reaches for the hem of his shirt, fingers shaking where they clench the fabric.
The tremor starts there and travels up his arms, stutters his breath. C’mon… c’mon, pull your shirt off, he tries to tell himself, but his limbs won’t work.
Somewhere, beneath his bed, the monster reaches out with a gnarled, skeletal hand, creeps beneath his sheets, spoons him like a lover. Lyney’s vision blurs. He thinks he might be breathing too fast, or maybe too slow. Too shallow? Is that a thing? He tries to take more air into his lungs, fights to stay kneeling. If he falls, he fails. Wriothesley will be rid of him, everyone will be rid of him.
He can’t fail.
He can do this.
He can’t get his fucking hands to move.
Lyney jumps at the sudden touch. Wriothesley is beside him, wrapping a strong arm around him, hauling him to his feet. Distantly, Lyney hears him bark an order to someone, something about taking over the last trial, but it’s muffled as Wriothesley leads him out of the room.
The hall outside is warm, inviting in a way these old houses can be. Like some corners of them are for the ghosts and others are for the sunrise to paint in golden light. It sparks another realization that it’s morning, that he’s spent all night blindfolded and shaped into submission that has—until this moment—been entirely willing.
“Through here,” Wriothesley says.
Lyney studies his tone. He doesn’t sound mad or disappointed or any of the other qualities that might lead to punishment, but Lyney’s come to expect pain from the most unlikely of places, so it doesn’t relax him the way Wriothesley might mean it to.
Wriothsley guides him to a bedroom, one with only a single bed. It must be his room, since Lyney’s pretty sure most of the underclassmen have to share.
He gently pushes Lyney to sit on the edge of the bed and grabs a can from the mini fridge in the corner. Lyney prays it’s got alcohol, but god spits in his face when Wriothesley hands him sparkling water.
”You gonna tell me what that was back there?”
Wriothesley is leaning casually against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest. Lyney cracks open the can and takes a swig, hoping that the bubbles give him some semblance of a burn. It tastes like shit, like it watched while someone rinsed blueberries nearby. Close enough.
For a long while, neither of them speaks. Lyney tries to consider all manner of believable excuses, weighs it against telling the truth for once in his life. Thing is, Wriothesley probably wouldn’t know either way. Or maybe he would. He’s looking at Lyney like he would, like he already knows the answer and just wants to humiliate him further by forcing him to say it aloud.
Wait, that’s kind of hot, Lyney thinks with a quirk to his brow.
Eventually, Lyney settles on a bullshit answer, because if he’s going to force Lyney to do anything, then he better be prepared to force.
“I get cold easily,” Lyney says, watching his face carefully.
Wriothesley doesn’t even pretend not to roll his eyes.
“You know,” he says, looking off at the far side of the room. “There was some bad fucking bigotry when I joined, but most of the guys are chill now. They don’t care that you’re trans.”
Lyney snorts. “Who says I’m trans?” He asks.
“The pussy print in your panties says so.”
Lyney lifts a brow. “Paying attention, were you, Your Grace?”
Wriothesley shrugs, and it’s an answer in its own way. Lyney makes a face at the can in his hand.
“What’s a guy gotta do to get some fucking alcohol in a place like this?”
Alcohol is comforting, familiar and cold and calm, like a wet blanket left out to freeze. It’s comforting the way a bathroom floor is comforting, the drop after the high, like staring up at the ceiling, wondering when your life went to shit but still thinking you must have done something to deserve it.
Which is to say, it’s comforting in the sad, pathetic sort of way.
“A little young to be drinking, aren’t you?”
It’s a damn shame Wriothesley is such a square.
“Right,” Lyney says. “Forgot I’m talking to the prison warden, here. When did they start letting professors run frat houses?”
Wriothesley huffs what could be considered a laugh. “I’m a senior.”
A senior citizen, maybe, Lyney would say if he had less of a kink and more of a death wish. Instead: “And how many years have you been a senior, Your Grace?”
This time, his laugh is louder, a little warmer. Banter is familiar too, something easy to fall back on. Fuck intimacy. Lyney would take some sharp flirting any day.
“What a little performer you are,” Wriothesley says. Lyney pretends it doesn’t sound stupidly fond.
“You really think that’s what I’m afraid of?” He says, redirecting to keep Wriothesley from saying anything else embarrassing. “Those meatheads finding out that their dicks are bigger than mine?”
Wriothesley doesn’t miss a beat. “So, you admit you were afraid back there?”
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Fuck.
Lyney keeps his expression blank, so used to not giving himself away. He takes another slow sip of the gross water, leaning back on the bed.
“I was a foster kid.” He doesn’t explain further, doesn’t plan to.
Wriothesley nods slowly.
“I can make us some tea,” he offers, in what could possibly win an award for ‘least likely things for a frat guy to say.’
“I don’t want tea.”
“So, you’d rather talk about it, then?”
Lyney tilts his head. “You really don’t strike me as the dumb sort. Figure it out yourself.”
He waits for it, then. For some sort of sick realization or pity or disgust to pass over Wriothesley’s face. He waits for Wriothesley to open the door and tell him to get out, for him to go back to the other, worthy recruits.
Lyney waits and waits and then: “Why do you want to be here, Mr. Lyney?”
Lyney takes a page out of Wriothesley’s book and shrugs.
“I mean, not to say you didn’t do well tonight,” he continues, sensing that Lyney has no plan to respond. “It’s just that pretty little things like you don’t typically find the frat lifestyle appealing.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“I think,” he starts. “That there’s a spot here for you if you want it. I’m just not sure you really want it.”
Were Wriothesley anyone else, Lyney might think he was being propositioned. ‘Earn your spot, boy.’ ‘Oh, I couldn’t! What would the others say?’ ‘I’m the only one who matters in this house.’
Or maybe Lyney’s just seen too much shitty porn. Either way, he’s pretty sure that’s not what Wriothesley’s getting at. Still…
I do want it, Lyney thinks. I want you, he thinks.
He wets his lips, and this time, Wriothesley doesn’t pretend not to watch.
“Let me prove myself. I want…” Lyney’s breath catches in his throat, his hands only just beginning to shake again when they reach the hem of his shirt. “I want to complete the trial,” he says, before sliding it over his head.
Wriothesley’s eyes widen, raking down the front of his chest, down to the pale hairs that disappear beneath the waistband of his briefs, down his thighs, his feet. That gaze makes the slow ascent back up.
“Lyney,” he says. It sounds like a question he doesn’t know how to ask. “That’s not what I m—”
Lyney reaches for his briefs.
“Wait.” Wriothesley pushes away from the desk, running a hand through his hair. “Shit, just… just wait a second.”
Lyney is frozen, standing there in Wriothesley’s room in nothing but his underwear. His skin is still sticky from sweat, his knees purple from kneeling all night. The blush is back, blooming across his pale skin. But, he still wants.
“You said to strip.”
“I know what I said,” Wriothesley says sardonically. “But then you…”
He bites down on it, extinguishes the thought like an errant flame. Lyney taps his foot impatiently.
“I understand,” Wriothesley says, finally. “The whole frat guy stereotype, what hazing usually means. But, that’s not what we are at ΑΒΩ, and I’ve worked too hard to turn this place into a fraternity where respect is earned through leadership and accountability rather than fear. This entire initiation is about respect for authority and comradery. That’s why there’s no alcohol poisoning or water boarding or whatever other terrible things you were expecting.”
Wriothesley steps toward him, having to bend his neck to look down. “I’m not going to force you to get naked in my room. I’m not going to force you to fuck me or blow past your boundaries or trigger whatever fucked up things happened to you, because I was a foster kid too, and I get it.”
He reaches down, retrieving Lyney’s shirt from the floor, holding it out to him.
“I only want to know that if you’re here, if you’re our brother, that you’ll respect what that means. That you’ll respect me.”
Lyney stares openly. First at Wriothesley, at his serious face and words. Then at the shirt, at the offering. Realizing, for the first time, that someone could want him—could want him the way Wriothesley so clearly wants him—and not take him.
And how fucked is that? That it took this long for there to be a person who sees what Lyney’s offering and thinks to question the sincerity of it. That Lyney could be standing half naked in a frat guy’s bedroom and said frat guy would offer him tea and hand him his shirt and make sure he’s okay with being there.
Lyney’s not going to cry about it, because that would be stupid and vulnerable and very unsexy, but he thinks about it for a fraction of a nanosecond because he’s human, alright? And then he thinks, for much longer than a fraction of a nanosecond, that he is going to let Wriothesley do absolutely anything he wants to his body.
Lyney grabs the shirt, throws it across the room, and drops to his knees.
“Tell me what to do,” Lyney gasps, desperate and urgent as he tugs Wriothesley’s belt open. “Boss me around.”
For a terrifying moment, Wriothesley blinks, staring dumbfounded like he might step away. Lyney breathes a sigh of relief when the shock gives way, when he realizes that Lyney really does want this, when his expression melts into something darker.
Wriothesley’s fingers come up to his head, sliding through blond hair, curling into a punishing grip.
“Suck my fucking cock,” he says, tone taking on that delicious edge of authority.
Lyney nearly comes on the spot.
He gets Wriothesley’s button undone and tugs his zipper down, pulling his jeans past his thighs. Wriothesley makes a deep, appreciative groan when Lyney shoves his face against the bulge in his boxers, mouthing the head of his cock through the straining fabric.
“Shit,” he breathes. “Stop teasing and start sucking.”
Lyney doesn’t have to be told twice. He slides Wriothesley’s underwear off and frees his cock, letting it spring against his face. The taste of salt and precum spreads out over his tongue when he licks the head, taking it into his mouth, not sparing a moment to adjust.
He briefly wonders what the other recruits are being put through, what their final trial of obedience is, and can’t imagine it can compare to the feeling of having Wriothesley’s length nudging at the back of his mouth.
Lyney relaxes, lets his jaw slide open wider. The stretch in his throat hurts, hurts the same way his knees hurt, the same way his ass hurts. It’s all so good, so perfect. It reminds him he’s alive, reminds him that someone wants him to the point of pain. He looks up at Wriothesley’s pupil-darkened eyes and is reminded that someone wants him to the point of consent, as well. That thought lands a little heavier than the last.
He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to think about it, sliding off with a wet sound before diving back in for more. Above him, Wriothesley curses, dragging him down further with the hand in his hair.
“That’s it. Fuck, you’ve been gagging for this, haven’t you?”
Lyney might nod, if not for the dick in his throat and the fact that he doesn’t typically gag for anything, especially not cock. That’s kind of the point of a good blowjob.
Wriothesley is deep enough now that the dark, wiry hairs at the base of his dick nearly brush Lyney’s nose. Lyney holds his breath, trying to take him deeper, to close those last few centimeters between them, but Wriothesley tugs him off roughly.
Lyney’s eyes snap open, edged with wetness, his lips parted on an affronted noise. Wriothesley tilts his head until Lyney is looking him in the eyes, his hard cock bobbing just out of reach from his tongue.
“Tell me,” he demands. “Tell me how long you’ve needed this.”
Wetness begins to soak through Lyney’s underwear.
“Since rush week,” he says, a rasp in his throat from being stretched so wide. “Wanted you to drag me off to a dark corner and fuck me till I couldn’t walk.”
Wriothesley pulls him to his feet and captures his lips in a bruising kiss. He gasps into it, still out of breath from the blow job. His head feels all fuzzy and warm, like kissing Wriothesley could be an alternative to alcohol, his own personal drug to keep him strung out.
Lyney bites down on Wriothesley’s lip as he pulls away, smiling at what a pretty shade of red it makes.
“Do you still want that?” Wriothesley asks, gripping Lyney’s jaw with one hand, the back of his neck with the other. “Want me to fuck you, sweet thing?”
“Oh god yes,” Lyney groans before he’s being thrown down onto the bed.
Wriothesley crawls over him, biting out that same commanding “strip,” that Lyney complies with eagerly, this time.
His briefs join his shirt somewhere across the room, where they can stay for eternity for all he cares. Wriothesley is already grabbing the backs of his knees, shoving his legs to his shoulders, burying his face between Lyney’s thighs.
A deep, visceral cry rips itself from his mouth when Wriothesley sucks on his clit. No, the other recruits couldn't even dream what it means to submit to Wriothesley, what it means to give themselves over to him fully. Lyney tugs on his hair, trying to clench his legs around his head, but Wriothesley licks a long stripe from his hole to his slit and folds him further in half.
“Please, fuck, please…” Lyney begs. He’s not sure what for, but he’s close. He’s been close since Wriothesley spanked his ass in a room full of frat guys. He’ll analyze that when he’s 30.
Wriothesley pulls away, staring up at him with a heated look. “Tongue or cock?” He asks.
Lyney blinks a few times before Wriothesley clarifies. “Do you want to come while I suck on this cute little cock of yours or do you want me to fuck you?”
“Tell me what to do,” Lyney huffs. “This is my test, remember? Tell me what you want me to take.”
Wriothesley nods, like maybe it’s finally sinking in that this is what Lyney wants, what he needs.
“Then come on my face before I fuck you.”
Then, he’s back on him.
Lyney arches up from the bed, his ass lifted off of it. Wriothesley eats him out like a starving man, moving to hold his hips up, using his lips and his tongue and a bit of his teeth. He fucks into Lyney’s cunt, circles the rim of his hole until it’s twitching with want, slides right back up to abuse his throbbing clit.
It’s all so much, nearly painful in its intensity, exactly what Lyney needs.
“Fuck!”
He’s screaming, but he doesn’t care. Let the whole fucking frat house know Wriothesley is a monster in bed. Let them all know that Lyney loves it.
“I’m coming, oh god, I’m coming!”
Lyney’s eyes roll back, his legs shaking violently where they rest on Wriothesley’s shoulders. Wriothesley sucks him through it, bringing him well past the point of overstimulation, refusing to back away even as Lyney cries out and begins to squirm.
When he finally does relent, his lips are puffy and swollen and wet with Lyney’s release. Wriothesley crawls back over him and kisses him messily, his heavy cock hanging between Lyney’s limp legs.
One of those strong arms reaches past Lyney’s head, tugging his bedside drawer open. He pulls out a strip of condoms and tears one off, ripping the foil with his teeth. Lyney watches him roll it on, feeling only a slight pang of disappointment.
“This is how it’s going to go,” he says, running two fingers through his dripping folds. “I’m going to fuck this pretty, swollen cunt of yours, and you’re going to take it. And if you’re good, I might consider fucking your ass, too. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lyney breathes instantly.
Wriothesley’s nostrils flare, something hungry and feral flashing across his face. He likes this, likes it just as much as Lyney likes it. Lyney would laugh if he weren't so desperate to be split open. He wonders how many people have given themselves over to him like this, have let him have complete control.
From the look in his eyes, Lyney might be the first. Or maybe he just hopes he is. Ever the optimist.
“All fours,” Wriothesley says, and Lyney might as well be a puppet on strings.
He flips over, braces himself against the mattress they way he had on the carpet, his spine in a pretty arch, ass out invitingly. Wriothesley makes a strangled sound and lines himself up, one hand on his cock and the other on Lyney’s flushed skin.
The first press inside draws a long, drunk groan from both of them.
Wriothesley slides inside of him half-way, pulls out, three-quarters, pulls out, then Lyney’s slit is being fed the whole fucking thing.
He nearly collapses against the sheets.
“So tight,” Wriothesley says, almost to himself, almost like it sort of just slips out.
Lyney wears it like a badge of honor, clenching around him, showing him just how fucking tight he can be. That’s right, he thinks, meeting Wriothesley half way on the next thrust. I’m the best fuck you’ll ever have. You can’t get rid of me now, can you?
Instead of voicing it, he says “harder,” and Wriothesley says “greedy,” and Lyney says “only for you,” and maybe that’s what does it, because then he’s being properly fucked.
If Lyney’s moans are loud, then the slap of skin is louder, and the crash of the headboard must be deafening. Fuck, Wriothesley better keep him, better let him join the dumb frat that he only wants to be in because he’s used to living in chaos and for some reason it feels safer than being trapped with a single roommate, or worse, silence.
There is a solid argument to be made: if Wriothesley does keep him, Lyney can have this whenever he wants, can crawl into his bed and make full use of the ridiculous number of condoms Wriothesley keeps in his drawer. Wriothesley might like that. He fucks like he would.
Lyney’s drooling into the sheets, muttering out a string of incoherent curses, feeling that deep, satisfying ache that tells him he’ll be sore tomorrow. He throws himself into it like he does with everything else, meets Wriothesley’s hips, keeps his back arched, makes it the show of a lifetime.
He’s just thinking he’s close to coming again when Wriothesley’s pace slows.
“Fuck,” Wriothesley curses. “The condom… the condom is breaking.”
Lyney stifles a guttural moan and tries to remind himself that it’s not a good thing. Problem is, there’s an ocean of difference between reminding and convincing.
He fucks back against Wriothesley harder, needing to feel hot, raw flesh sliding inside of him. He thinks he might get it too, if he just keeps throwing himself back onto Wriothesley’s cock, if he can just go a little rougher, squeeze a little harder.
“Stop,” Wriothesley commands, and Lyney stills so quickly, he can almost feel the freezing water again.
Wriothesley pulls out. Lyney sees the tear in the condom through his legs, the way the rubber is detaching from the base, threatening to curl away completely, a disaster waiting to happen.
“Let me grab another one,” he says, reaching past Lyney to the sleeve of foils. Lyney grabs his wrist.
“Don’t,” he begs, looking over his shoulder at Wriothesley’s stunned expression. “Fuck my ass. You can do that, right? You can fuck my ass raw.”
Wriothesley looks like he’s at war with himself, a million different thoughts flashing through his eyes before settling back on one of calm authority.
“How’s this, sweetheart,” he says, finally, thumb sliding over Lyney’s puckered hole. “I’m going to put on another condom, and then I’m going to fuck this tight little ass of yours. That’s not up for discussion.”
Lyney is equal parts aroused at the surety of his words and disappointed by the condom.
“But,” Wriothesley adds, a tiny glimmer of hope in an otherwise creampie-less world. “If you get it to break again…”
He leans over him, breath fanning out over his ear as he drops his voice to a whisper.
“I won’t be responsible for stopping,” he finishes.
Lyney answers by ripping a new condom free and shoving the remaining ones off the bed. Wriothesley slides it on, slipping back into Lyney’s dripping pussy, staying within its warm, wet confines while he retrieves a bottle of lube from the same drawer the condoms were in.
Lyney’s whole body feels overexposed, a live wire when Wriothesley slicks his fingers and prods at his opening. Lyney leans down, chest on the bed, head cradled on his crossed arms, ass up in the air. Wriothesley stays inside of him while he presses a single finger past his resistance, slowly at first, hitting the first knuckle, then the second, right down to the base.
It’s not enough. At another time, Lyney might pretend to be a blushing virgin, might act like the stretch and burn and ache are all too much. There’s no acting now, though. Only the desperation in his voice when he begs for a second finger, then a third, then Wriothesley’s cock, because god, please, just move, damn you, just slam inside and take what we both want!
Wriothesley laughs, preparing him at a torturously slow pace. Lyney bets the sun is already half way across the sky, bets classes have long since started, bets that Wriothesley wastes half the fucking day stretching him like he’s trying to set the record for world’s slowest fingerfucking.
Lyney tries his hardest to urge him on, tries to wiggle his hips, tries to clench his pussy around him. He has the fleeting thought that he hadn’t signed up for cockwarming, but that’s quickly replaced by the thought that he’d definitely signed up for anything Wriothesley wanted to do to him. And apparently, what Wriothesley wants is to tease him to death.
Lyney quickly tires of saying please somewhere between the second and third finger, so when Wriothesley pulls free, both with his hand and with his cock, Lyney can only sigh in relief.
“Remember what I said.” Wriothesley pours more oil over his hole, pressing the blunt tip to him. “I’m not stopping, this time.”
Lyney’s eyes flutter shut, his mouth falling open on a cock-drunk noise.
It’s so much different, getting his ass stretched open by such a thick cock. Even the head, that first delectable penetration. Lyney thinks he could let Wriothesley fuck him with just the tip, could get off just like this, with slow, shallow fucking that makes him feel all syrupy and warm.
Fingers dig into his waist, bruising to keep him steady. Wriothesley presses on, plunging in deeper, trying to see how much of him Lyney can take. Lyney has an educated guess that the answer is all of him, but he doesn’t say so.
Instead, Lyney lets a whimper spill past his lips, blinking teary eyes over his shoulder, curling his fists into the sheets.
“It’s too much,” he whines. “You’re so big, so deep, I can’t…”
If Wriothesley sees through him, he doesn’t call him out for it. He rubs circles into Lyney’s back and tells him to breathe, walks him through taking a dick up his ass like this really is Lyney’s first time.
“Relax, sweetheart. You’re so tight for me. Just breathe deeply, just like that. I’m almost all the way in, you’re taking it so well. You’ll take it all, won’t you? Another breath, that’s good.”
Lyney is decidedly not relaxing. Instead, he’s squeezing every muscle south of his navel, trying to get that damn condom to rip like it had personally insulted him. It had kind of. Except that Wriothesley’s care and responsibility and authority is also incredibly hot, so maybe Lyney shouldn’t complain all that much.
Without warning, Wriothesley’s hand comes down on his ass, slapping the reddened skin harshly. Lyney shouts. It sends a ripple of electricity up through his spine. He could sob, it feels so good.
“You’re doing it on purpose,” Wriothesley admonishes, all low and gravely. “Gripping me so tight I can barely pull out…”
Lyney smirks against his forearms. If he pays attention, he can feel the condom slip, feel the way his body tries to pull it right off of Wriothesley’s length. Wriothesley is laughing under his breath, shaking his head. He slaps Lyney’s other cheek and drives back inside of him.
He must have moved on to other forms of torture, because he quickly matches his earlier pace. Lyney doesn’t have to wait long before the pressure builds again, that molten itch deep in his belly, a bowstring pulled too tightly.
Wriothesley smacks him again, plants another spank on his ass, and the bowstring snaps, Lyney goes hurtling over the edge, squirting all over the bedsheets. It drips down his inner thighs, pools where his knees dig into the mattress.
Wriothesley laughs loudly, mid-thrust, pounding into his ass with the single-minded drive of a man possessed, and through his post-orgasmic haze, Lyney might feel affronted by it if he weren’t absolutely sure what a laugh like that meant.
He reaches between his legs, feeling for where Wriothesley disappears inside of him, feels how the broken condom stretches around Wriothesley’s cock. Lyney starts laughing too, a little more breathless, a little more fucked out. This time, the rubber split open at the tip, shoved down to the base of him, gripping him like a cock ring.
True to his word, Wriothesley doesn’t stop fucking him. If anything, he moves harder, faster, undeterred by any barriers between them. Lyney collapses into the sheets and takes it, letting himself feel it, letting himself get lost in the overstimulation of being used by Wriothesley.
“Gonna come,” Wriothesley grunts, pounding into him, hips stuttering.
Lyney thinks his stomach might burst or his spine might snap, and he’d still thank Wriothesley for it, still ask for it again and again and again.
Wriothesley slams in once, twice more, and then he’s pulsing and coming, and Lyney can feel every last throb and jet of release. He’s warm, so warm and full and wet inside.
There’s no coming back from this. There never was. And Lyney realizes—through the smell of sex, the sound of grunting and breathing, the thick fog of pain and euphoria—that he hasn’t stopped wanting. There’s no cure for this itch, no drug or alcohol strong enough to deter him, no cage that could keep him away.
Wriothesley pulls out gently, his spend spilling out after him, joining the rest of the sticky mess on the bed. Lyney melts, just barely mustering the strength to turn over, braving whatever looks he’s going to see on Wriothesley’s face.
“So,” Lyney says, mildly. “Did I pass—”
Wriothesley is kissing him again, deeply, slowly. Damn the person who taught a frat boy to kiss like this. Damn them and bless them in equal measure.
Lyney is the first to break it, falling back on the bed, feeling a strange surge of affection as Wriothesley brushes the hair out of his face and levels a small smile down at him.
“Welcome to ΑΒΩ,” Wriothesley says, and it makes Lyney want to throw his hands in the air and do a victory dance. “Are you the cuddling type, or do you want to check on the other recruits?”
Lyney stifles a laugh at the thought of the other recruits, wondering how much shit he’s going to hear about ‘preferential treatment’ and ‘playing favorites’ after hooking up with their leader.
“I want to see who survived,” Lyney says with a grin.
“So, cuddle later, then?” Wriothesley winks, standing up to redress, like he didn’t just make Lyney’s heart skip several beats without trying.
Lyney watches him fix his hair, re-do his belt, check himself in the mirror. This time, when Wriothesley hands over his shirt, Lyney accepts it, tugging it over his head and reaching for his briefs.
Wriothesley opens the door and holds it like some kind of gentleman, so that Lyney can stumble out like the opposite of a gentleman, trying not to trip as he slides his underwear back on. He squirms a little at the wetness between his thighs, attempting to flatten his hair. It’s not like the rest of the guys won’t know what they did, but Lyney has some pride. He’d rather pretend he’s not freshly fucked.
Someone clears their throat, and Lyney’s head shoots up.
The current fraternity members are all standing awkwardly in the hall, waiting for their president to formally welcome the surviving members standing among them. Wriothesley takes one look at Lyney’s face before realizing what’s happening. He steps out slowly, scanning their faces, taking in the group to memorize who is left after the last test.
From among them, a haggard recruit raises his hand, looking at the open door to Wriothesley’s bedroom. “Um… do we have to do that trial, too?” He asks, fearfully.
Behind him, another new member—much braver than the last—also raises his hand.
”Do we get to?” He asks, hopefully.