A member of the Court calls Wriothesley a pet, to which Neuvillette has some specific words for him (and smooches for Wriothesley).

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The man stares and Wriothesley's breath stutters. He squirms slightly at having been put on display. His tea has gone cold, his attention lost, and Wriothesley rubs at his face, trying to distract himself from how that glare burns into the back of his neck.

"Wriothesley."

He tilts, sighing at the sound of Neuvillette's voice. A hand pressed against Wriothesley's thigh, pulling over the stiff fabric of his trousers, circling, digging into the meat of his muscle. Wriothesley is pulled back from his thoughts, ever-so-slightly, Neuvillette's hand a grounding presence.

"Pay that man no mind," continues Neuvillette, his expression creased with fondness. "He has poor manners, staring in such a way."

Yes, but the man stares because Neuvillette is in a possessive mood today. Wriothesley bears the marks of his love all over his neck, and while their relationship isn't a secret, while the rest of the court is acutely aware that they share each other in such an intimate way, Neuvillette is quieter about his affections. Wriothesely is more prone to being overt, wearing Neuvillette on his arm as if one of his many accessories.

Neuvillette knows this. He watches Wriothesley as they sit at the table, sharing tea in the Palais Mermonia's gardens. He reaches out, dragging his finger across the edge of the leather choker that graces Wriothesley's neck. A gift, a sweet one that Neuvillette had commissioned, knowing Wriothesley's love for the material, and adorning himself. It is also a subtle claim, one that Neuvillette's claw just barely digs into, testing the snug fit against his skin.

"Is this okay?" The question is soft but genuine, and Wriothesley feels his face wrinkling into a smile.

"Of course, it is. As you said, that man is just rude—"

The man hears him. His expression narrows, and he says back across the space, far too loudly, "Just about as rude as parading around your pet, Monsieur Neuvillette."

Neuvillette expression cools. Wriothesley knows that look. Heat simmers underneath the surface, annoyance pulling at his being. For a man who claims to not understand humans this is a feeling that he is intimately attuned with. The constant warring is funny, from an outsider's perspective, and Wriothesley hides a smile behind his palm.

"I wonder why it is not an issue when you are strolling with your wife, Monsieur Balland." Neuvillette so rarely challenges another but has his testy moments. His fingers are tight around his teacup in a white-knuckled grip, the porcelain creaking slightly.

"We are married, for one," the man scoffs. "Will all due respect—"

"The same sort of respect the title of Chief Justice typically demands? I find that you are being rather loose with your tongue, Monsieur."

Wriothesley's eyebrows rise high into his hairline. Oh, he's in a mood. This goes beyond him, Wriothesley realizes. Something must've happened at work, or with Focalors for Neuvillette to be so agitated. Wriothesley nearly pities the man for being at the end of Neuvillette's sour mood, but... he also invited it by calling them out so publicly. Few would dare.

"I meant no disrespect, Chief Justice."

Oh, that's a sting.

Neuvillette's expression is challenging. "And what about Lord Wriothesley?"

Lord Balland's jaw tightens. "My sincerest apologies, of course, Your Grace," he grits out.

It's an empty title for most, given to him by Neuvillette in exchange for whatever favors the court thinks that he offers. The truth is simpler: Wriothesely has been indispensable to the Garde for decades, and Neuvillette loves him for it. And him, just him—and that love is softer, quieter, but no less meaningful.

Neuvillette hums then, trailing his fingers down the column of Wriothesley's throat, chasing the scars there. "Pet," he teases. "They truly think that I have you on a leash, don't they?"

He doesn't but if Neuvillette were to attach one, Wriothesley would go all the same. That's what the mark on his neck means, that oath of blood he made in a fit of love and desire. And it is a tease but Neuvillette's eyes dance with mirth, his mouth curled into the tiniest smirk of amusement.

"Well, name your price," replies Wriothesley smoothly, deciding to ante up the game. "You know that I am your most loyal servant."

Lord Balland's mouth falls open, aghast. He sputters, red-faced, swallowing thickly as Wriothesely oversteps all expectations of manners.

Neuvillette's gaze is burning; he burns with heat, looking at Wriothesley up and down. He doesn't hide it, he leans into it, dragging his chair closer until their knees are touching. That hand against Wriothesley's thigh is still there. Neuvillette tugs at his other wrist, pulling it to his mouth.

To most, the gesture would be genteel and sweet. Neuvillette nuzzles across the backs of Wriothesley's knuckles, inhaling his scent. But Wriothesley knows better, and he knows that look—Neuvillette's pupils are blown wide. He kisses a knuckle slowly, sweetly, and then the next, and the next, his mouth a slow drag over scarred skin.

Wriothesley feels like a pet at that moment, like a dog on a leash. Neuvillette is masterful with his ownership, possessive as he claims him subtly, rubbing his face, his lips across the back of his hand. Scenting him. Wriothesley loves it when he does that, leaving no inch unturned, no expanse of his skin undiscovered.

It is blatant. Lord Balland no longer looks, face turned away, uncomfortable.

"Beloved," says Neuvillette softly enough that only Wriothesley will hear. "Are you done with your tea?"

Oh. Oh. Neuvillette's gaze is pointed. His forked tongue peeks out to tickle the ridge of a knuckle.

"Yes, I'm—yes."

They leave their tea cups and dishes for Monsieur Arouet to clear. Wriothesley makes a mental note to send him an apology later, and a tip even though it'd be considered rude. It's the least that he can do. Neuvillette typically is polite in this regard, returning his soiled dishes, but he's distracted and keyed up.

Wriothesley smirks at Lord Balland as he's tugged along, taking great pleasure in the heady rush that fills his being at the overt disgust etched across the man's face. He's a duke, yes, but he's also a soldier, a knight, a street rat who warms the Emperor's bed like the loyal pet many claim for him to be. And no one knows that—the exact nature of their Chief Justice—but Wriothesley does. And yes, he kneels for this man in many ways, but Neuvillette returns that pleasure with the same sort of need and want that courses through his veins right then.

Neuvillette leads him to a secluded, outdoor corridor that wraps around the Palais before pulling him close. He doesn't even press him against the wall, he just cups Wriothesley by the face and takes him right there, standing in the hall, devouring his mouth with all the might of the dragon that he is.

Wriothesley gasps against him, hands falling to Neuvillette's hips, squeezing at the bone there. "Sweetheart," he says against his mouth, chasing Neuvillette's teeth, that damned forked tongue. "You love it, don't you? That I'm your lapdog."

Neuvillette huffs at that, pulling back enough to correct him with a soft murmur of, "Pet. That is not the same thing as a lapdog. You do not sit upon my lap, prettily, to be pet, and coddled. No, you are a hunting dog, sent out at my whim, and then you heel when I ask for it because you are well-trained to heed my call."

That's—oh, that's something. All talk, no fuss, but Wriothesley still drinks up his words, biting at Neuvillette's mouth. Neuvillette licks past Wriothesley's teeth, that forked tongue long enough to tickle the back of his throat.

Yes, he thinks. Yes, yes, yes. "I'll always come," he murmurs when the pressure of Neuvillette's tongue eases, and he nips at Wriothesley's mouth. Because it's true, sealed in that oath on his neck. Wriothesley has nothing else, only his Emperor, his love, his mate.

Wriothesley tugs Neuvillette's hips against him for a slow, sinuous grind.

"Beloved," says Neuvillette, breathless. He sighs, pressing their foreheads together, resisting the urge to rut against Wriothesley right there. "I am beside myself."

"I can tell," laughs Wriothesley. He kisses him again, and this one is sweeter, softer, and teasing. "I do think that Lord Balland has been blinded by that display."

Neuvillette's mouth pulls into a terse frown. "I am the only one to call you Pet."

"Yes," agrees Wriothesley. He hums softly as they share space and breaths. "About that leash, though—"

"A joke, I assure you."

"Oh?"

Neuvillette's expression slits. He drags a hand down Wriothesley's front, gloved fingers dipping into the opening of his uniform collar. "With your occasional enjoyment of being tied up, however..."

"That's a cruel bluff."

"It doesn't need to be."

No, no it doesn't. Wriothesley laughs again, pressing his fingers underneath Neuvillette's chin to tilt his face up. "Did something happen today?"

Neuvillette's expression is guarded for a second and then softens. "The way that you know me," he muses, his eyes wrinkling around the edges. "Nothing terrible. Merely Focalors and her eccentricities. I find her rather grating as of late and my patience is wearing thin."

Ah. That. "Perhaps I'm not the one that should be leashed up.

Neuvillette trills thoughtfully, a strangely inhuman sound that bubbles from his throat. "I must confess that I have little desire to leash another, even if in a more professional capacity."

"We've got to work on your dirty talk." Because Celestia above, it's terrible.

Neuvillette's mouth curves into a wicked grin. "Shall I steal you away then? Retire to our rooms and call you Pet throughout the night?"

Yes. Yes he should. And that's what Wriothesley whispers into his ear as he leans forward to nip at it before offering up equally delicious and sordid ideas.

And later, when they're sweaty and weak in the sheets, and Wriothesley has been broken down and put back together, he rests his head on Neuvillette's lap. Neuvillette pets his hair and calls him Pet again, and it's sweet and soft, affectionate in a way that burrows deep into Wriothesley's being.

It is easy to rest like that.

"Pet," says Neuvillette, the tips of his claws dragging across his scalp. Claws that could rend flesh from bone, gentle as he combs through Wriothesley's thick hair.

Wriothesley just dozes underneath them instead.