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There’s classical music playing in Wriothesley’s office when Childe finds him late one night past curfew. The tune, a duet between piano and violin, is calm like the surface of a lake, but with a melancholy, almost foreboding undertone.
As the door unlocks and Wriothesley beckons him in, Childe pockets the slip of paper that he has affectionately dubbed the sex coupon, and follows Wriothesley up the stairs, admiring the view in front of him. He can’t have been the first to be invited into this office for this purpose. Still, from what Wriothesley has said, it seems like he’s the first in a long time. He’ll take small victories where he can get them.
Childe can hear the music even better when they arrive on the main floor. He thinks about asking Wriothesley who the composer is— he’s been to a few concerts back in Snezhnaya, after all, so it might even be one he knows. But before he can, Wriothesley moves to turn off the phonograph.
“Not in the mood for music?” Childe asks, looping his fingers in Wriothesley’s belt loops to tug him closer. He might act a little cocky, but the truth is he’s still a little awed that he gets to do this at all. He’s wanted to from the moment he first laid eyes on Wriothesley, a small glimpse met with hushed whispers from fellow inmates that laid out in no uncertain terms the kind of man Wriothesley was.
“The music is fine,” says Wriothesley in response. “But there are other sounds I’d much rather be listening to.”
He drags a thumb across Childe’s lower lip and, like the flip of a switch, Childe moans and opens his mouth, sucking on the thumb that Wriothesley pushes inside. He feels hot all over already. Childe has been around enough to know what he likes, but even so it’s unreal how quickly Wriothesley can turn him on, especially how much he figured out without having to ask. To a vast majority of people, the title of Harbinger evokes power, demands deference and submission. Childe isn’t interested in that vast majority. Instead, he concerns himself with those he cannot yet conquer. The kinds of people that, just by virtue of existing, have you desperately aching to figure out what makes them tick, and make you work for it.
Childe doesn’t know much yet, but from what he does, the Duke conducts himself like someone who’s worked hard to earn his share of power and doesn’t care to have more of it. Probably clawed his way up from the bottom, if the scars on his body are any indication. Just earlier that day, Sigewinne had mentioned something about taking care of Wriothesley in the infirmary back when he was an inmate, a tidbit that should’ve come as surprising to Childe, but instead felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Regardless of how exactly Wriothesley rose within the ranks, he’s clearly capable of ruling with a firm hand— and doing other things with it, too, like undoing the front of Childe’s pants to palm at his crotch, making his knees go weak as he bucks forward into the touch.
There’s too much clothing between them. There always is, with that stupid jacket Wriothesley doesn’t wear properly but instead half-drapes across his back— though it does make his shoulders look broad and reliable, which Childe supposes is the point. The jacket is the first to go, and then Childe makes quick work of the buttons on Wriothesley’s vest, pausing for just long enough to allow Wriothesley to remove his own outer shirt. He keeps his harness on, because he likes the burn of it when Wriothesley pulls on it extra hard, and he has a feeling Wriothesley likes it too.
Once he’s gotten Wriothesley’s shirt open, Childe runs his hands over the well-defined muscles of his chest and abs. He can feel his dick twitch just looking at it. The man is built like a statue sculpted from every wet dream Childe has ever had, and Childe privately thanks every Archon in existence for the meal he’s about to have. Then he sinks down to his knees, tugging Wriothesley’s pants down just enough to free his cock, and strokes it to full hardness before taking as much as he can of it into his mouth.
“Fuck.” Wriothesley curses under his breath, instinctively fisting a hand in Childe’s hair as Childe sucks him off, hollowing out his cheeks and letting out a garbled moan when Wriothesley hits the back of his throat. He lets himself enjoy the feeling of Wriothesley thick and heavy in his mouth, the heady scent of him, for a brief moment before reaching his hand up from where it’s resting on Wriothesley’s thigh to unbuckle the handcuffs attached to the belt of his pants. In one swift motion, he snatches up the handcuffs, pulls off of Wriothesley’s dick with a pop, and smiles.
Wriothesley casts him a glare, looking mildly disgruntled but less on guard than Childe might expect. Perhaps he really is wearing down Wriothesley’s defenses— a feat that certainly deserves a pat on the back.
Childe twirls the handcuffs around his finger the way he’s seen Wriothesley do sometimes, and cocks his head to the side. “What, you’re not even gonna ask?”
“I’d ask for them back, but I have a feeling you want something in return.” Wriothesley taps at Childe’s chin with a knuckle, tilting it up to look at him better. Even that small motion sends a shiver down Childe’s spine. “Come on. Out with it.”
“I was thinking…” Childe swallows hard. “Maybe I could tie you to your chair and ride you.”
In the ensuing silence, Childe feels his heart pound in his chest. In the context of the bedroom— or, well, office— he knows Wriothesley wouldn’t be the type to judge him for the request. But it’s also about the power dynamic outside of this room, as warden and prisoner, as Duke and Harbinger of opposing nations. By letting Childe have the upper hand for even a second, Wriothesley could be dooming the Fortress entirely. On the surface, it’s a simple enough request, but the magnamity of what he’s asking for isn’t lost on either of them.
Childe doesn’t have other intentions, though. Not really. All he wants is to see how far he can tip the scales of power, if at all— a dangerous game, perhaps, but Childe thrives on danger.
“I won’t pull anything funny, I promise,” Childe offers. “Even if I did, I’m sure you could still take me down with your hands tied behind your back.” He rakes his eyes up and down Wriothesley’s significantly larger build to make his point clear, and, well, just to admire it.
Wriothesley hums, the expression on his face guarded and indecipherable. Still, Childe can see that the desire in his eyes, at least, hasn’t waned. “I do like seeing you on your knees,” he muses, wearing a faint, knowing smile. “But I’d be lying if I said that this proposition of yours doesn’t check a few of my boxes.”
He takes a seat in his office chair, locking his arms behind his back. Even in this position, he exudes nothing but authority. Heat coils in the pit of Childe’s stomach, so intense it’s nearly debilitating. He bites down on his lip as he cuffs Wriothesley to the chair, and as he hears the telltale click of the metal locking shut, he feels something click inside of him too. Wriothesley tests the restraints half-heartedly as if for show, as if he knows exactly how much weight they can bear before they break, and even that turns Childe on.
Childe quickly removes his pants before climbing onto Wriothesley’s lap. Immediately he almost misses Wriothesley’s touch, calm and controlled, the callouses on his large hands as they roamed his inner thighs. But as much as he enjoys being manhandled, turned to putty in Wriothesley’s expert hands, he wants to experience this too. He didn’t become a Harbinger by sitting around and letting someone else do all the work, after all.
He licks his lips at the sight before him. Wriothesley’s shoulders are relaxed, blue eyes watching him expectantly. He gives Wriothesley’s cock a few strokes before leaning back and reaching for the drawer where he knows Wriothesley keeps the oil. Uncapping it with his teeth, he pours some onto his fingers before sinking down on two at once, letting his head fall back and letting out a soft ah. He’s still a little loose from last night, and, if he’s being honest, this morning in the showers. Biting his lip to keep damn quiet, keeping his arm braced against the wall as he thought about Wriothesley fucking him in place of his fingers until he brought himself to a shuddering orgasm.
“I thought about you,” he confesses. “This morning. I… touched myself, thinking about what we got up to last night.” He stifles a whine, pushing in a third finger. “It’s not the same, though… ’m not as big as you, nothing feels as good as—” his words stutter into a gasp as he brushes against his prostate— “as your cock, filling me up.”
He can see the muscle jump in Wriothesley’s neck, the jaw clench and the twitch of his cock in obvious interest. Fuck, that’s hot. The knowledge that he can make Wriothesley feel like this gives rise to a twinge of pride in his chest. He strokes his own cock with his free hand, and continues to fuck himself deeper on his fingers, rolling his hips and making a show of it, though the gasps and whimpers that fall from his lips are as sincere as they can get. He hasn’t had this much fun in what feels like ages. He’s going to miss this when he finally manages to get out of here.
Distracted by his fingers, he jumps when Wriothesley leans in and sucks a biting mark onto his neck. He trails his mouth down, leaving more marks in his wake, before closing his mouth around Childe’s nipple, licking around the bud before sucking hard enough to make Childe cry out. He bites down just as Childe hits his prostate again, and Childe’s knees shake with the effort of trying not to come. Though Wriothesley’s mouth is occupied, he meets Childe’s gaze with hooded eyes, as if to say— I can make a mess of you even without using my hands.
Ha. Childe has really met his match, hasn’t he.
Deciding he’s waited long enough, Childe lines himself up against the head of Wriothesley’s cock, letting out a helpless moan as he finally sinks down on it. “Ngh— fuck,” he stammers. Three fingers isn’t enough, but he knew that. Wriothesley feels so fucking good inside him he feels dizzy, like he’s only a fraying thread away from coming undone. When he takes Wriothesley’s cock all the way in he feels like all the air has been punched out from his gut. Looking down at the bulge that Wriothesley’s cock makes against his belly, he lets out a fascinated little laugh. Getting that inside of him is an accomplishment of its own, and his reward, he supposes, is getting his insides rearranged— a reward he’ll happily accept.
“Mm… I missed this,” says Childe as he begins to lift himself up then sink down again, fucking himself at a leisurely pace, drawing out his own pleasure as well as Wriothesley’s just to prove he has some semblance of control. “Thought about your cock all day. Did you think of me too?”
Wriothesley grunts, meeting Childe halfway with a thrust that nearly knocks the breath out of him. “Some of us,” he says, “have work to do.”
But he’s just as affected by this and Childe knows it. Childe moans and tightens around Wriothesley’s cock— Wriothesley lets out a shuddering breath, letting his head loll back slightly. Childe grins. “Seems to me like you have lots of free time, Your Grace,” Childe quips, grinding down on Wriothesley’s cock and earning another groan. “Otherwise why would you leave your door open for me every single night— or maybe I’m just that special?”
“It’s certainly been a while since I met anyone as insatiable as you.” Wriothesley thrusts hard, making Childe clench up with a shuddering gasp. “You know, Childe,” he drawls, casual as if he’s discussing work in the Production Zone. “There are a lot of different types of men here, in the Fortress. Some men want power. Some men value smarts. Ever since you first set foot in here, I always wondered what exactly it was that made you tick. But as it turns out… you’re just a slut, aren’t you?”
Humiliation burns hot, hot across Childe’s face. He wants so badly to defend himself, but he can’t even open his mouth to argue, because it’s true. It’s not as if he doesn’t his own motives down here. But all else pales in the face of how badly he’s wanted to be split open on Wriothesley’s cock ever since he first laid eyes on him. How even now, he’d do just about anything so long as Wriothesley did not stop.
Satisfied with his response, Wriothesley lets out a low chuckle. “Lucky for you,” he says, “I know exactly how to tame a brat like you.”
And then with a burst of strength, Wriothesley snaps his cuffs in two, plants his hands on Childe’s waist and slams into his prostate dead-on. Childe’s orgasm knocks the breath out of him, his mouth falling open in a silent scream as he comes hard all over his own stomach.
He’s shaking as he comes down from his high, trying to process what the fuck just happened. Wriothesley rubs slow circles into his hips with his thumbs, patiently waiting for him to catch his breath, though he doesn’t look like he has any intention of stopping.
“You—” Childe chokes out, chest heaving. “You don’t play fair.”
Wriothesley’s knowing smirk goes straight to Childe’s crotch. “Did you really think I’d let you cuff me if I couldn’t get out of them whenever I wanted?”
No, he didn’t. Not for a second. Childe laughs shakily. “You don’t trust me?”
“Have you given me a reason to?”
Childe grins. “I haven’t bitten your dick off yet, have I?”
“I wouldn’t call that a show of trust.” Wriothesley’s voice is dangerously low, his breath ghosting against Childe’s ear, making him shudder. “After all, we both know that nobody here can fuck you as good as I can.”
Childe can’t help the way he melts at those words, going pliant as Wriothesley lifts him up by the hips, only to slam him face down against the desk. This is where they always end up, after all. Wriothesley lines himself up again and pushes in all the way with no warning, and Childe chokes on a sob, gripping the edge of the desk for dear life as Wriothesley continues to fuck him fast and hard. The sound of skin slapping against skin is obscenely loud, and without the backdrop of music, Childe can hear exactly how wrecked he sounds with every moan that Wriothesley wrenches out of his throat.
Wriothesley shoves two fingers into his mouth and Childe whimpers helplessly around them. “You going to come for me again?” Wriothesley croons low in his ear. “You can do it, can’t you? This was what you wanted all along. Don’t think I don’t know— you wouldn’t have tried to restrain me if you didn’t want me to bite back.”
He’s not the only one who can bite back. Childe bites down on Wriothesley’s fingers, relishing the curse that Wriothesley mutters under his breath, the stutter of his hips as he picks up speed and finally, finally comes inside him. The sensation of being filled up with come is what pushes Childe over the edge, inevitably, squeezing his eyes shut so hard he sees stars— feeling like he’s being milked dry, having come twice in a day already.
Afterwards, he feels so wrung out that he can’t keep standing anymore. When his knees start to buckle, Wriothesley catches him. He pulls out slowly, and then carries him in his arms like he weighs nothing, laying him down on the couch. Childe is so exhausted that he can hardly move as Wriothesley wipes down the mess on his stomach, the come spilling out of his hole. He’s always surprisingly gentle after sex, like he wasn’t the one to ruin Childe in the first place.
“Spread your legs for me,” Wriothesley coaxes.
“I just did,” says Childe flippantly, but he does as told.
Wriothesley lets out a chuckle of his own. His touch is slow and careful as he wipes down Childe’s oversensitive cock, and he runs a soothing hand down Childe’s side when Childe lets out a choked whine. When Wriothesley is done, Childe is still too tired to move, so he lies back and lets Wriothesley dress him again.
Adjusting the collar of Childe’s shirt, Wriothesley lets out a sigh as he looks over his own handiwork on Childe’s neck. Childe can’t see the marks, but from the look on Wriothesley’s face, he’s sure they’ve bloomed blue and purple by now. Wriothesley runs a hand through his own hair, looking almost embarrassed. “Sorry if I went too far.”
“Don’t be. It was hot.”
Wriothesley huffs out a laugh, as if he had fully expected that answer from him. He leans back into the plush fabric of the couch, kicking his feet up on the coffee table, and brings his wrist up to examine the cuff still encircling it, though the chain has been ripped off. Childe sighs dreamily. If only Wriothesley would use that full strength on him. Maybe someday he’ll finally get Wriothesley to crack.
Without the distraction of sex, though, the foreboding feeling from before starts to ebb back in to Childe’s mind. The sound has been growing clearer lately. Childe didn’t know what it was at first, but now he does— it’s a whale call. He shuts his eyes and runs a hand over his face, trying to anchor himself back to reality. Whatever it is has to wait, at least until Childe figures out a way out of here.
A gentle hand at the nape of his neck jolts him out of his thoughts. The concern furrowing Wriothesley’s brow is genuine. “You okay? I didn’t push you too hard, did I?”
Childe shakes his head. “I’m fine, just a little tired, that’s all.”
Wriothesley flashes him a small smile. His hand drops to rest on the small of his back, the touch more comforting than it should be. “I’m sure it’s been a long day for you. Get some rest, yeah?”
Something tightens in Childe’s chest as he pieces it together, that underlying quality to everything Wriothesley does— it’s humanity. A prison is no place for something like that, but here Wriothesley is, embodying it anyway. Childe thinks he understands, now, why everyone in the Fortress defers to him without question. It’s not just obedience he commands, but genuine respect, an earnest enjoyment of the life that one could build here under a dependable leader.
In another life, Childe thinks he could even be one of them. The atmosphere here is certainly less gruelling than it was when he first began training as a Fatui. And even though he’s known every one of the Harbingers for much longer than he’s known Wriothesley, he can hardly say he trusts any of them save for Pulcinella. Does he trust Wriothesley? He wonders. Even if he did, it wouldn’t make a difference. It may have been some strange coincidence that threw their paths together, but fate has other plans for them both. Nothing’s stopping them from blowing off some steam with each other, but to think of this dalliance as anything more would be a grave miscalculation.
He knows that. He knows that.
“Yeah,” says Childe. “I guess I’ll head back now.” He gets up, arranges his clothes to appear at least half-decent, and digs the coupon back out of his pocket to show to any guards still around. He just hopes it’s too dark for any of them to see the marks on his neck.
“Have a good night, Childe.”
“Good night. Your Grace.”
The music is back on again as Childe exits the Duke’s office. A different song this time. He might be imagining it, but it sounds a little lighter, a little happier than the one that he’d heard walking in.