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Summary
“Whose blood is this?” Wriothesley says, low and insistent, tracing the dark stain at his waist.
Across his corset, arterial spray paints the fabric a deeper shade of black, and below it—a mottled mess of flesh, an inky bouquet blooming just beneath Wriothesley’s hovering hand.
“It’d be so much easier if you didn’t ask,” Lyney says, fluttering heavy-lidded eyes. “Just pretend it’s my blood, okay mon cher~?”
Problem is they both know you don’t lose this much blood and keep standing. You don’t lose this much blood and then go begging to be fucked.
“Lyney,” he warns, fingers digging in, hard.
Series
- Part 13 of Alex’s Wrioney Fics