Wriothesley and Neuvillette sneak out from a Court function to get handsy in the gardens.

CW: Smut Warning

--

"While I typically don't enjoy Her Highness's eccentricities—"

"Wriothesley," hisses Neuvillette, his gaze jerking not to where, not twenty feet away, Focalors is talking to a foreign dignitary.

She's closer than expected. Wriothesley hides a grin behind his gloved hand and lowers his voice. "I do enjoy the chance to be cozy with you in public."

Neuvillette's gaze softens at that, those pale eyes affectionate behind his intricate mask. "Still, you should wait until you're out of earshot to say such things. She has deceptively good hearing."

"What's she going to do? Jail me?"

Neuvillette's mouth curls into a smirk because no, she would never. And Wriothesley knows that he's playing a little with fire but due to the oath that he bears on his neck, he will never be harmed. Not that Focalors would—it'd be too much work and not nearly dramatic enough.

A masquerade, though, is more her speed and the moment that she'd made the suggestion, the proverbial cogs of the wheel started to turn, and the planning immediately began. Focalors enjoys dramatic flair. To her, the world is a stage, and she pretends best when she's putting on a show.

Wriothesley is thankful for a public event that doesn't put him on display. It's part of the job. Eyes will follow him with every step that he takes because he is notorious, at this point. The Chief Justice's illicit friend, his consort, his uncourtly indulgence—as well as bodyguard. These rumors put a target on his back, but they also conceal the truth—that Focalors is a puppet empress and Neuvillette has long since pulled the strings from the background.

Despite the grandiose theming, it is more intimate than Wriothesley thought it would be. The majority of the Court are there, donning their finery and well-honed masks. A few foreign diplomats. Plus-ones and the odd outlier.

"You're more relaxed than I thought you would be," says Neuvillette, plucking a glass of wine from a server's tray.

Wriothesley takes it when it's handed to him, knocking back a sip with a grin. "Well, my presence usually causes a stir." Neuvillette's expression sours, his lips pulled downward. Wriothesley laughs. "There isn't a need for that look."

"You belong here—"

"When I'm working, sure. Tonight, though, I'm off."

Neuvillette hums, his gaze turning half-slitted. It's a vacation day in title only—Wriothesley is always on the clock regardless of the time and place. Not that he minds. No, he wants it, craves it, the mark on the back of his neck a searing oath of his word. And Neuvillette knows, dressing him down in a gaze better reserved for private, which leads Wriothesley's grin to tilt into something teasing.

"You should wait until we're alone for that," he says, mirroring Neuvillette's earlier sentiments.

"I make the rules here," says Neuvillette coolly, "and if I want to ogle my—"

"Consort."

"Beloved," corrects Neuvillette, even though it isn't the term of endearment he'd rather, "then I will."

"Ogle," repeats Wriothesley. "You don't ogle me. I ogle you."

"There's a first time for everything."

Neuvillette's gaze is too sharp and possessive for it to be ogling. No, it's all-consuming, and it strips Wriothesley down and sears into his soul. Wriothesley feels heat creep up his neck and his throat bobs as he drains the rest of his wine, setting the glass onto a side table.

"The music is terrible," he says.

"I would refrain from telling Her Highness that her taste is questionable."

Wriothesley leans close and curls a hand around Neuvillette's gloved fingers, pulling them to his chest. His mouth brushes against Neuvillette's pointed ear, and he asks, "Will you honor me with a dance?"

And dance they do. Wriothesley draws Neuvillette to the ballroom floor, the eyes of the Court following them.

"I thought you didn't want eyes on you," says Neuvillette, allowing Wriothesley to lead him along. Wriothesley's hand is pressed against the small of his back, intimately, and they stand close together like the lovers they are.

"If it's for the scandal of it—"

"Wriothesley."

"Let them look."

Neuvillette's expression is delighted. He preens—Wriothesley knows he does, those pale, serpentine eyes glinting in the brilliant flare of the Electro lanterns. He loves showing him off just as much as Wriothesley enjoys being the eye candy. Later, they'll dress down, just the two of them, but for now, Wriothesley steers him across the floor with sweeping movements.

"Your mask is a little on the nose," says Wriothesley. Neuvillette's mask is sleek and silvery, covering half of his face before ending in a point over the bridge of his nose. Scales have been arranged painstakingly to mimic the skin of a lizard. Whereas others have donned feathers and flashy accessories to match, Neuvillette wears only this mask trimmed in his iridescent scales, and a bejeweled cravat pin.

"All the more fun to wear, no? I do miss wearing the skin of a dragon. Yours, however..."

"I blame the stickers on Sigewinne."

Wriothesely's mask is black as pitch, plain, and drab, lacking any sort of embellishments aside from the stickers that Sigewinne forced onto the smooth leather.

"Did you lose a bet?" Because that is a common occurrence.

"I cannot confirm nor deny that."

Neuvillette's eyes flash with curiosity. "Can't, or won't?"

"Let's just say it may involve the matters of a certain Chief Justice."

"Oh? Scandalous."

A little bit. They're close enough in height that their faces are near each other. Wriothesley's fingers are tight around one of Neuvillette's hands. He thumbs at the small of Neuvillette's back, guiding him around the dance floor. The music slows to something soft and sensual, and Wriothesley can't help but pull him even closer. People stare—they always stare at the two of them, but Neuvillette doesn't care as he leans in readily.

The world melts away until it's just the two of them. "There are times that I wish they knew who you are," says Wriothesley, leaning forward until his lips brush against the pointed tip of Neuvillette's ear. "But on a night like this, it's easy to pretend, right my beloved dragon?"

The dragon mask was a devious choice. Neuvillette makes a quiet statement, one for just the two of them, and maybe Focalors as she were to look in their direction. But she doesn't—of the entire court, she is the one to avert her gaze and allow them privacy. A small concession for a dragon and his mate. Neuvillette wears that dragon mask like a show of cool indifference but Wriothesley knows that he's showing him off, that he's laid a proper claim, even if only for the two of them. Heat wells in Wriothesley's gut, and he shoots Neuvillette a secretive grin.

"Wriothesley," warns Neuvillette, quick to recognize the foolishness that floods through his being.

Wriothesley does nothing truly untoward; he just tugs the hand that Neuvillette has resting against his shoulder to his mouth instead for a quick kiss to the knuckles.

Neuvillette's eyes narrow. The music quiets and tapers off. Wriothesley nuzzles the back of Neuvillette's hand with his cheek, imitating how Neuvillette tends to rub against him. Scenting, he once explained. Wriothesley pulls at the edge of Neuvillette's leather glove, peeling it down those long, spindly fingers, just enough to reveal the barest edges of blue-tinted skin, and a line of soft scales against the underside of his wrist.

No one will see. Wriothesley covers Neuvillette's hand well enough, pressing his lips against those cool knuckles for a second kiss.

"Beloved," says Neuvillette then, uncaring that they are still standing on that dance floor, prone and naked to those watching. "You are a cruel and wicked thing."

"Take a walk with me?" Wriothesley asks it with saccharine sweetness before tugging the glove back to its proper place.

Neuvillette's gaze burns through him, that stark, visceral want cutting through Wriothesley's body like a sharp night.

Wriothesley chooses to ignore Clorinde's snicker as Wriothesley leads him away, passing her by as they step out into the gardens.

#

They do not take a walk.

Neuvillette waits until there is no one within earshot to make his move.

"Does this mean there's no one within earshot?" asks Wriothesley when he's manhandled and pressed against a wall in a dark corner of the castle gardens. He grunts, cold stone digging into his back between his shoulders, but curls around Neuvillette nonetheless, yanking him close.

"I said it earlier—you are a cruel and wicked thing."

"Oh? Tell me why?"

"A menace," continues Neuvillette, pulling off his mask and dropping it to the ground. Then Wriothesley's is removed next, pulled from his head gently only to land into the grass beside them. "How you rile me up." Neuvillette tugs off one glove, and then the next, and they drop to the ground.

"You love it," says Wriothesley, taking hold of his wrist, thumbing across the glittering scales that dot it.

Neuvillette hides his pink cheeks by leaning forward and nipping at his neck. "I am a possessive creature," he says, teeth dragging over the column of Wriothesley's throat. "When you show me off, how can I not want?" He wraps his hands around Wriothesley's waist to squeeze at his ass, pulling him close enough to notch their hips together. Neuvillette ruts against him, his hardened cock straining in his trousers.

Wriothesley cups his cheeks, tilting his face towards his. "I know," he says, tracing the high arch of the bone. Neuvillette's eyes glow softly in the dark, a rare sight reserved for Wriothesley alone. "Oh, sweetheart, you've got to calm down."

It's a tease; Neuvillette is pulled a little thin but he won't lose himself so easily in public—not in the ways of old at least. Still, his need is evident with every roll of his hips, and he guides Wriothesley to move against him.

Wriothesley groans, back arching away from the wall as they brace against each other. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

"Wriothesley," warns Neuvillette, tilting his face to nip at his thumb.

Wriothesley smirks, and amends with, "Neuvillette." He drags his thumb against Neuvillette's bottom lip and the edge of a fang, before pressing it into his mouth. Hooks it behind Neuvillette's teeth, tugging, and Neuvillette goes easily, falling closer into his space. "Mhm, mate," whispers Wriothesely right before locking their mouths together.

Neuvillette moans into the kiss. Wriothesley's hand curls against his chin to hold him there as he licks into Neuvillette's mouth, the flat of his tongue teasing the sharp tips of his canines. It's a heady rush, kissing like this somewhere so open. Even if they're tucked into the corner, even if it's dark, and Neuvillette's senses are sharp enough to notice a person far before they step into view. But the thrill of it—

Wriothesley's fingers sink into Neuvillette's hair and tugs, delighting in the groan that drips into his mouth.

"I need you," says Neuvillette against his mouth. "Beloved, let me have you."

Oh. Wriothesley pulls back just enough to ask, "Here?" It is a delicious thought, though, and the heat that curls through his belly is already burning brighter. The chance of someone coming across them and seeing Neuvillette have his way—not that Neuvillette would let them. No, they must truly be alone for him to even suggest something so sordid, but Wriothesely finds himself wanting it nonetheless.

"And you call me incorrigible," he teases, kissing him again.

Neuvillette indulges him, slotting their mouths together, tasting Wriothesley's tongue. His cock drags against Wriothesley's own, hard and hot, even through his trousers. He sinks against the stone wall as Neuvillette swallows him whole, as his hands wander down his sides, pulling at fabric; as his tongue flits through his mouth, tasting every inch. He is hot and heavy against him. His claws prick at the meat of Wriothesley's flesh as Neuvillette paws at his shirt.

"It is your fault." Neuvillette undoes Wriothesley's trousers deftly, exposing his smooth flesh to the cool air. "So handsome," he murmurs, his hand slipping into Wriothesley's clothing to wrap about his aching cock. "Your gaze, the way that you watched me, stripping me down before the entire court."

"You don't like to give up control," says Wriothesley. Neuvillette is so particular, so careful. He's spent years playing the Court like fools and pulling the strings of Fontaine from behind the scenes.

Neuvillette sighs softly, his expression fond. He drags a hand down Wriothesley's chest, the sharp tips of his claws snagging gently on the soft cotton. "I would give you the ocean if I could, and that is why I'm drunk on the thought of taking you here. Turn around."

Wriothesley turns and braces his palms against the stone. Neuvillette peels Wriothesley's trousers down around his thighs and presses close, plastering himself against Wriothesley's back. He noses at his ear, inhaling, loosing a small moan as fumbles with his own clothing. Belts clatter as Neuvillette frees his cock, rubbing it against the swell of Wriothesley's ass.

"We won't have long," he mutters, his breath blazing hot against the shell of Wriothesley's ear. "Spread your legs—just like that. Good, good boy."

Wriothesley curses softly as Neuvillette slots his cock between his thighs, already slicked with Hydro. It isn't enough for either of them, but the goal is just to take the edge off. Wriothesley isn't a fool. He knows that they'll retire to the Palais later, and lose themselves in fleeting, needy touches.

Neuvillette's hands slide down his sides, and hips, raising gooseflesh. His palms clamp against Wriothesley's thighs, squeezing them together until they're tight around his dick, and Wriothesley's breath hitches at the calculated manhandling.

He is strong, but Neuvillette is stronger. It is a choice to let Wriothesley do as he does, usually, but when he gets needy like this, Wriothesley loves how that power makes itself apparent. And Wriothesley goes—he'll always go, following Neuvillette's whims, giving right into those smooth, uncalloused hands.

Neuvillette is a welcome weight against him, arms curled around his hips, one hand flat against his stomach. He gives an experimental thrust, his cock sliding through the tight space between Wriothesley's thighs. The friction tugs at Wriothesley's heated skin, and the pleasure that churns in his gut. He groans, pressing back against Neuvillette.

"Sweetheart," he mutters, "I need more. Please." The slick drag is good. The top of Neuvillette's cock brushes against his balls with every sweet downstroke, enough so to tease and twist his belly into knots.

Neuvillette purrs against the back of his neck, nuzzling at the fine baby hairs. His hand dips lower to take Wriothesley's cock into his hand for a quick stroke. "Like this?" he asks. "Or, like this?" That hand squeezes around the head, squeezing it tight.

"Fuck, that's—" Wriothesley bucks into his grip, and Neuvillette chuckles, his thumb dipping into the tip, pulling over the precome that drips from the slit.

It's quick and rough. Neuvillette fucks his thighs sharply, his clipped pace jarring Wriothesley's bones. Wriothesley leans against his forearm. His other hand wraps around Neuvillette's fingers on his cock, dragging them across his length, showing him what he wants. Neuvillette knows—he always knows—but there's a sordid pleasure of doing it together, especially when Neuvillette ruts into his thighs.

"Neuvillette, I'm going to—"

"No." Neuvillette's teeth drag across the bite mark etched into his neck. "Not yet." Wriothesley whines when Neuvillette's fingers slip down to tighten around the base of his cock, choking off his impending orgasm. He thrusts again, his movements jerking and ill-timed, and he comes like that, first, spilling himself against the insides of Wriothesley's thighs.

And still, his grip doesn't loosen, he just mouths at Wriothesley's neck, riding out the high of his orgasm.

"Neuvillette," says Wriothesley, his tone taking on a needy edge, sharp, despite being a whisper.

"Turn around for me," replies Neuvillette, guiding him, and like a lamb to slaughter, Wriothesley does just that. When his back is against the wall, Neuvillette fixes his trousers and drops to his knees, uncaring of the damp ground, or how it may stain his clothes.

Neuvillette's fingers around his cock ease up, and the pressure of that white-hot pleasure in Wriothesley's gut threatens to overflow immediately. A kiss is pressed to the tip of his length, Neuvillette's forked tongue swirling around the head, and then down to nibble at the base.

"What are you—"

Neuvillette's gaze tips up from where he kneels, prostrate, and gives Wriothesley a sultry, half-lidded gaze. "I made a mess," he says casually, cupping Wriothesley's testicles and gently brushing them to the side. Then he spreads Wriothesley's thighs, and licks up the inside of them, and oh, he's—

He laps at his skin, cleaning up his spend, and Wriothesley could just about die at the sight. Neuvillette's tongue traces every seam, every corner, leaving no inch unturned. He suckles and bites at him, leaving bruising marks in his wake that will pair perfectly with the pinpricks of his claws from where he holds Wriothesley firm by the asscheeks.

Handsome. So gorgeous. Wriothesley doesn't deserve this sort of devotion but he soaks it up and takes what he's given.

When he's done, Neuvillette's fingers wrap around Wriothesley's cock again, stroking the entire length of it. "Wriothesley," he says then, softly, affectionately, a quiet churring sound leaking from his throat. "You've been so good for me. Take your pleasure." Neuvillette plants another kiss on the tip, his tongue sliding across the slit, tasting his precome. His mouth seals around him next, sliding down his entire cock until his lips press against sweaty, sticky skin.

Wriothesley's hands fall into his hair, pulling. He bucks, bullying the back of Neuvillette's throat, and Neuvillette just moans in response, encouraging it. More. More, more, more.

"Fuck, look at you," says Wriothesley, brushing back Neuvillette's bangs.

All it takes is several more thrusts. Once, twice, and then a third time, and Wriothesley is spilling across Neuvillette's lips. What a debaucherous sight, his emperor, his mate, on his knees, covered in his come. Neuvillette shoots him a lustful glance and that forked tongue slips out of his mouth, too long, too slender, and cleans up the mess there too. Then his fingers and claws, licking over every joint that's soiled, and making a damn show of it because he sees the way that Wriothesley watches.

Wriothesley helps him up, dragging Neuvillette into a searing hot kiss. Neuvillette catches himself against Wriothesley, fingers pulling at his shirt. Wriothesley moans at the taste of himself on Neuvillette's lips, and tongue. The kiss is a messy, desperate thing, and Neuvillette's fangs catch against Wriothesley's lip.

When they part, Wriothesley drags his thumb across the corner of Neuvillette's lips. "Blood," he murmurs. "Just a little. Hot, though."

"Wriothesley," groans Neuvillette, mildly embarrassed. "I apologize. I lost myself and—"

Wriothesley kisses him again, just a short peck to diffuse his sudden anxiety. "I love showing off your claims." It's not as though he hides the blood oath, so what's another nick on his lip? Wriothesley wipes at his lip with the back of his hand and soothes the sting with his tongue.

Neuvillette sighs gently as he redresses himself entirely. Then he reaches out to tug Wriothesley's trousers up, his fingers deftly re-doing the clasps. "Still, I should have better control—and not just about the love bite."

The gardens, he means. Fucking Wriothesley's thighs in such a public place. Wriothesley shoots him a grin and asks, "Buyer's remorse?"

"Never." Neuvillette sniffs, offended. He leans close and pulls Wriothesley's face towards his, knocking their forwards together. He rubs against him, across his jawline, down the length of his neck, purring as Wriothesley soaks up his scent. "I wonder though—how long until we can slip away?"

"We could just ask Focalors—"

"Absolutely not."

Wriothesley gives him a crooked grin, bemused by Neuvillette's abject horror at the idea that she would know they're up to no good. But, there's a problem with that: "She'll already know. I'm steeped in your—" Wriothesley waves vaguely because it's more than just Neuvillette's scent, it's his entire being. He reeks of it, blanketed, and claimed by old instincts that Neuvillette often finds himself embarrassed by.

Neuvillette straights Wriothesley's shirt and tucks it back into his trousers. "All the better to steal you away, I suppose."

"Oh? Think of the scandal—"

"Wriothesley."

"We'll be the talk of the Masquerade—"

"Wriothesley."

"Is that a no?"

Neuvillette bends over to pick up his gloves and their masks. Smoothing his fingers over the dark leather of Wriothesley's, he says, "It is a, let us make one last appearance. I'll whisk you away when I see fit."

Wriothesley hums, tugging his mask over his face. "And do what?"

"Bathe," says Neuvillette seriously. "Together, of course. And then we'll retire for the night."

It's a tease; Neuvillette utters retire from the night quietly as if it's code.

"As you wish," says Wriothesley, tugging Neuvillette's hand to his mouth for a kiss against his knuckles.

Neuvillette tugs his gloves back on. Wriothesley helps him with his mask, adjusting it over his face. "Handsome," he says, brushing their lips together one last time.

"I care for you," says Neuvillette, smiling against Wriothesley's mouth, and though he never says those three words, they carry the very same weight. "In a way that is entirely improper, as you know."

"Don't tell the others," replies Wriothesley with a glint in his eye. It is enough. Neuvillette's love is of its own, unhuman and incomprehensible, and Wriothesley cherishes every aspect of it.