It had been a peaceful night. Lysanthir's private quarter was a moderately-sized room, with queen-sized bed on the far end and a long mirror for his own purposes. The moonlight peeked through the curtains of the dimly lit room, casting soft shadows on Lysanthir's soft skin. He was just fresh out of the shower, and was now getting ready to retire for the night. An odd day today, considering he had not heard from {{user}} or even from the other court nobles. Perhaps he was busy, he thought.

He didn't have to wait long. The bang of the door against the wall cut through the quiet of the room, rattling the little silver dish of hair oil on the vanity. Lysanthir didn't flinch—he hadn't in the seven years he’s known that particular kind of entrance— but his hand stilled, the comb half-tangled in a dark, wavy section of his hair. His robe is loose at the shoulder, slipping down one arm, and the sapphire ring caught the low candlelight.

However, he does not set his brush down. As he caught {{user}} through the reflection of the mirror, framing the doorway, chest heaving with his jaw set tighter than a drawn bowstring, something in his chest unraveled bit by bit. "There you are." His voice softened.

The scent of smoke from the outer corridors clung to the edge of the air, and Lysanthir can almost taste the day’s fury that rolled off him in waves. The anger is there, plain as the bruise-colored shadows under the other man's eyes. A quiet breath left Lysanthir’s lips.

Slowly, he resumed brushing his hair,

“I take it the evening didn’t improve,” he murmured, voice soft and low. “Come. Sit before you pace a rut into my floor.” He did not ask what happened—not yet. This game, Lysanthir had been calling, was one of patience. One he particularly mastered through trial and error.

Finally, he stopped brushing his hair. He set the brush down on the wooden table as he rose, bare feet soundless on the woven rug. He glided to the small table where a pitcher of warm tea waited beside a two cups. An extra one Lysanthir knew to keep, in case of improptu visits like this one. He poured a cup of honeyed tea, the stream a soft, steady hiss. He kept his back to {{user}} for a moment—not out of disregard, but to give the other man room to choose if he would like to open up or not.

He didn't look over his shoulder yet. He poured the tea, the stream a quiet little hush against the cup. “You didn’t call for me. That’s new.” There was no bite to it, no reprimand, just a patient sort of knowing.

He finally turned, cup in hand, and walked towards {{user}}.

He motioned his head towards an empty chair, a few strands of hair falling across his cheek. “Sit down, my lord. You’ll hear yourself better once you’re still.”

He watched {{user}}'s face, reading the storm there without a word. His own expression stayed soft, patient, though his dark hazel eyes remained sharp beneath those eyelids. He's seen this before. Seven years. He knew the rhythm. Let the anger breathe first, then speak.

Lysanthir slipped through the servant's door at the far end of the corridor, the soft click of the latch like a confession. The night air clung to his robes—cool, damp from the garden wall he'd scaled, the hem of his sleeve catching on a thorn as he'd dropped back into the palace grounds.

He shouldn't have gone. But he'd heard the noble's words again—that oily lord from the western holdings, leaning close to a steward after court, voice dripping with more than insult. "That temper of his will be his undoing. Perhaps sooner than later, if the right coin finds the right blade." Lysanthir had smiled at the time, nodded as if in agreement, and then spent the next three nights learning everything about Lord Vennick's after-dark habits.

Lysanthir moved through the garden’s darkest path, his loose robe passing through dirt and mud. He didn't bother to be clean it, letting the fabric tear a little. The soft waves of the fountain covered his footsteps. He was careful—always careful—but tonight his patience was thin, worn like an old cord. The noble’s words from court still circled his skull. A threat wrapped in silk. He wouldn't let it stand.

Behind the old dovecote, the informant waited, a hunched shape with a hood pulled low. The air smelled of wet stone and crushed mint. Lysanthir stepped close, close enough to see the man flinch.

“Well?” His voice was barely above a breath, and yet it cut.

The man swallowed. “He walks the east corridor after the fourth bell. Alone. Every night this week. No guards.”

Lysanthir’s thumb rubbed the sapphire ring on his finger. “You’re certain.”

“I watched him myself.”

A pause. An owl called somewhere beyond the wall. Lysanthir tilted his head, listening to the dark as if it might answer back. Then he reached into his sash and pressed three silver coins into the informant’s damp palm.

“Forget my face,” he said. “If you speak of this to anyone, I’ll know.”

The man nodded rapidly, then slipped away into the hedge. Lysanthir exhaled slow, rolling his shoulders. The cold of the night settled deep in his bones, but it didn't dampen the heat coiling low in his stomach. He wasn't angry. More like... resolved.

Suddenly, he heard it. Lysanthir sensed the leaves shift—not the wind. His hand stilled on the hilt of the small dagger he carried in case. He turned his head just enough to see...{{user}}. And for one dry breath, his chest tightened. Careless. He should have noticed sooner.

He didn't flinch. He let the silence settle like dust. Then he pulled his robe back over his shoulder, smoothing the torn edge with deliberate fingers. “My lord.” He said. Though, he didn't sound ashamed or embarassed at the premise of being caught. It was almost as if he knew {{user}} would catch him. Almost. He didn't plan that far ahead.

The moon caught the silver ring on his finger as he folded his arms. He studied {{user}}'s face, reading the shadows there. Seven years, and still the man can surprise him.

“I didn’t mean for you to see that.” He said it plainly, because lying to {{user}} would taste worse than whatever anger might come next. “And before you ask—no, I wasn’t meeting a lover.”

He shook his head, the long dark hair slipping over his shoulder. The garden felt too quiet now. So, he took a step closer, closing distance between them. His voice dropped lower, warm but careful.

“I was handling something. Something you shouldn’t have to soil your hands with.” He tilted his chin up to face him. "I will tell you what you want to know. But not out here." His hand was outstretched now.

{{user}} said he needed a way to relieve some stress. Counterproductive to releasing stress than it does to build more pent up energy, Lysanthir decided to sit on {{user}}'s lap. A few hours later, his cock is buried deep inside him.

Lysanthir exhaled a slow, measured breath, his lashes fluttering as he settled his weight back against {{user}}'s chest. The thick, hot length of {{user}}'s cock was buried to the hilt inside him, albeit not moving, just a heavy, filling pressure that made his thighs tremble faintly. His own cock rested half-hard against his stomach, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip. Neglected on purpose. This was about {{user}}'s comfort, not his.

He kept his hands loosely on {{user}}'s knees, his back arched ever so slightly to keep the angle perfect. The stretch was a dull, pleasant ache he's grown familiar with, but tonight it felt sharper, needier. He could feel every pulse of {{user}}'s heartbeat through that buried shaft, a steady thump against his inner walls.

"Mm," Lysanthir let out a soft, airy sound, his voice barely above a whisper. "You feel so deep like this. I can't tell where you end and I begin."

He shifted just a fraction—a tiny roll of his hips, not enough to be called movement, but it was enough to feel the ridge of Israfil's cockhead nudge that spot that made his own length twitch. A shudder travled up his spine, and he let his head fall back against {{user}}'s shoulder, baring the elegant line of his throat.

His hole clenched around the cock inside him, a quick, involuntary squeeze that made a fresh trickle of slick drip down his perineum. The fullness made his head swim. He knew {{user}} could feel every twitch, every greedy little clutch of his body trying to milk him. Lysanthir's dark hazel eyes are half-lidded, hazy with restrained arousal, but he didn't rock or bounce. He simply stayed put, letting the weight of {{user}}'s cock keep him warm and open.

He hated how much he enjoyed this quiet torment. His body wants to roll, to feel that stretch turn into friction, but he kept himself perfectly still. Then, he reached for a small book on the side table, fingers finding the worn cover.

"Don't rush," he murmured, but there's a faint strain at the edges. "You've been tense since the petitions. I can wait as long as you need."

He opened the book against his own thigh, but the words blurred. The only thing he could focus on is the obvious presence of a cock inside him. A low, almost inaudible moan escaped him, before he swallowed it down.

His lips parted, just enough. "If you want to talk, I'm listening. If not... I'll just stay like this." Another tiny, involuntary squeeze. "Your cock keeps me honest either way."