CW: Contains Smut

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Wriothesley and Neuvillette fall into a routine.

They text, they go on dates, and they fuck. They fuck a lot. Wriothesley doesn't think he's spent so much time in a single person's bed in his entire life, but that's what he loves about it. He's carved this spot beside Neuvillette, and it just feels right.

Wriothesley wakes in the morning and the first thing that he does is check his phone. Sometimes he finds a picture. Neuvillette has found joy in sending sensual selfies that show off his collarbones (and Archons above, Wriothesley will never live that down, will he).

He'll send one back, typically less chaste. It's been a decade since he was last popping regular morning woods, but with Neuvillette... Well. Neuvillette isn't complaining. Neuvillette probably enjoys teasing him about it, a sentiment that is returned two-fold.

This morning, it is cold. Wriothesley wakes up from a dream that left him wanting, and to a half-naked picture of Neuvillette's that shows off his chest.

Fuck me, he thinks, slapping a hand against his face with a groan. It's too early for this. They haven't been able to share a night together in about a week, and gods, his dick misses the tight heat of Neuvillette's ass. Or mouth. Or that soft, damp space between his thighs. Fuck, even his hands—at this point, he isn't picky. He'll take anything that he can get, even if it's just one minute with Neuvillette's fingers wrapped around his dick.

Wriothesley snaps a picture of his aching erection trapping behind his sleep trousers and sends it off.

Later, when they meet for a quick lunch, Neuvillette greets him with a purr against his ear, and their lunch turns handsy enough for Navia to cringe and vacate Neuvillette's office.

Rinse and repeat. Days, weeks, several months they play at this. Wriothesley prefers to stay at Neuvillette's townhome; it's larger, quieter, and it has a nice kitchen. Makes it easier to cook a nice breakfast, and he likes the fancy coffee maker that Neuvillette rarely uses.

("I prefer a good pour over," he'd told Wriothesley once, as if he regularly drinks coffee. Neuvillette does not. Neuvillette doesn't even have good coffee beans, just the shitty ones that Wriothesley brought over once, that are definitely now stale.)

Neuvillette enjoys Wriothesley's flat instead, citing that it feels lived in and has charm. "Reminds me of you," he'd said once, "and I like thinking of you." Those words warmed Wriothesley from his neck to his toes. He'd made love to Neuvillette thinking of those words, because that's what this is. Love. It has to be. There's nothing softer, sweeter, or more addicting, and Wriothesley soaks up every fucking moment of it.

Wriothesley thinks it would take work to fuck this up, now. Neuvillette is so accommodating and equally needy. They fit together like laser-cut puzzle pieces, and it all feels correct, it feels—

Clorinde's words come back to haunt him. "When it doesn't work out," she'd said. And no, she didn't mean it like that, but fuck, her words stung nonetheless. Clorinde wants this for him, and her advice is good, but... "You have to tell him."

The meat and potatoes of it is that Wriothesley's backstory isn't much special. Something, something, foster care. Abuse. Siblings lost to the system. Running away. Being homeless. Aging out. Assault and petty theft.

Now that he's nearly forty, none of that matters much anymore. Beyond his teenaged years, he never saw a cell, but fuck if it isn't coming back to haunt him now. Anxiety creeps. His belly is hot and tight with a worry he knows he shouldn't have.

Neuvillette won't care. Wriothesley knows that he won't, but he is a lead prosecutor, and he has an image to uphold. What would the public think if it ever got out? The headlines would be bonkers.

(But Neuvillette would soothe him, he'd pull Wriothesley aside and pepper his face with kisses, and then they'd do something sweet and sappy like have a water-tasting date. Fuck, Wriothesley loves this man. He loves this man; loves him.)

Wriothesley's phone chirps, the same as it does most mornings. He swallows and peeks, fumbling with it slightly and nearly dropping the damn thing onto his face.

[Neuvillette] >> I do apologize for the later-than-usual morning text. I was, effectively, wrung dry last night.

Wriothesley's mouth curls into a wry smile. Neuvillette had an early morning meeting and opted to stay at his own place the night prior. Wriothesley didn't want to intrude, so they had dinner and parted ways with a kiss, and one spectacular blow job in the foyer that had Neuvillette spilling down Wriothesley's throat.

"Oh, sweetheart," he murmurs, all that coiled tension immediately loosening.

[Wriothesley] >> oh? pls tell me more

[Neuvillette] >> I could, but beloved, would you not find yourself jealous?

[Wriothesley] >> i have it on good authority that your partner wouldnt mind you sharing with me

Neuvillette would laugh at that joke, a soft, tinkling sound. Wriothesley sighs, wishing he could hear it. Later. Later. Their schedules are demanding, but at least they can carve out time for some shared meals. Wriothesley thanks himself for the relative freedom that comes with being his own boss.

[Neuvillette] >> Cheeky. And I would, but regrettably I am running late.

[Neuvillette] >> Also, my lunch slot is regrettably not free—I must entertain a client. Miss Navia told me that you have a match tonight, however. Perhaps I shall see you there?

Oh. Wriothesley's tongue is dry. He licks at his lips to no avail. Neuvillette hasn't yet seen him fight. The thought of getting down and dirty as he watches, of going hand to hand with another man with Neuvillette on the sidelines...

"Hey, no," says Wriothesley to his dick as it twitches with interest. "Down, down."

He has time to jerk off, but... he shouldn't. If Neuvillette's going to come to the gym later, he really, really shouldn't. Wouldn't it be better to edge himself until they can get their hands on each other later that night?

(Yes and no. Both have their benefits, but Wriothesley wonders if he jacks off now, just how ready his cock will be later that night. And it isn't about the refractory period; it's early in the morning, and he knows that getting it up again will be little effort so late into the day. But, but—and gods if Clorinde knew he were about to admit this—getting old is tough, and he's gotten used to turning in early. Neuvillette keeps a tidy schedule. He finds his sheets no later than nine PM on a late night, Wriothesley's streams always being the one exception. Wriothesley was skeptical of this routine, but the first morning he woke up after a genuine full night of sleep changed his mind pretty fucking fast. It's a very real possibility that post boxing match, he just... might be too fucking tired. But if he doesn't jack off...)

Still, a little squeeze can't hurt.

Nor can a picture.

Wriothesley sets his palm across his tented clothing, pulling the fabric taut over his erection. That squeeze helps a little, the friction dragging across the head bringing minor relief.

He takes his little snapshot and sends it to Neuvillette as a tease.

[Wriothesley] >> its a date sweetheart

#

Neuvillette knows next to nothing about Pankration.

He researched a little. After he and Wriothesley started dating, he did a little bit of light reading and watched some examples. He thought it to be a rather crass sport, with needless bloodshed in the wake of two opponents beating each other up.

But, Wriothesley enjoys this. Neuvillette cannot fathom why, but it brings his partner joy, so he does his best to understand, to listen and think, to watch.

"So, look," says Clorinde from next to him. She takes hold of his elbow with a sharp grip and nudges his gaze back to the ring. "See how the other guy is bigger?"

Wriothesley is not small by any means, nor is he thin and lithe, but his opponent is a mountain of a man, broad and tall, the floor of the ring creaking underneath his weight as they circle each other.

"He would have better reach, I assume."

Clorinde nods and then shoots him an amused look. "You would think that an advantage, wouldn't you?"

"Is it not?"

Clorinde nudges him again. "Most of the time, maybe, but he's fighting Wriothesley. And this might just be a fun little match play for pocket change and bragging rights, but Wriothesley hasn't lost all of his competitive nature. Most consider him too old to take to the ring—"

Neuvillette snorts at that.

"—but he's still fit and fast. He'll be able to duck around that man and get in plenty of hits."

Clorinde proves this theory right. Neuvillette watches Wriothesley dart to the left and clip the other man with a sharp uppercut.

"Do they not wear padding?" he asks, eyeballing Wriothesley's wrapped fists. Other than that, he's bare from the chest up. No other headgear minus a mouth guard. Dangerous, so, so, dangerous.

But alluring. Hot. Heat curls in Neuvillette's gut as he watches Wriothesley move around the ring, his shoulder muscles rippling with strain. Wriothesley's stomach tightens. Even his leg muscles are sharp, defined as he lunges.

Oh, this wasn't what he expected.

"Pankration is a different animal from other boxing leagues. No pads here—but Wriothesley does have formal training in the regular form of the sport."

"Then why this?" Because Neuvillette cannot imagine bare-fisted hits would feel good.

Clorinde considers his question before answering. "I think that you should ask him that. Everyone has a different reason for why they like this. Isn't for me. I found other methods of getting my aggression out."

"Like sharpshooting," replies Neuvillette.

She gives him a wry smile and a nod. "Like sharpshooting, though I won't deny that it's annoying to keep it to the range."

"Are you admitting to murderous intent, Miss Clorinde?" A tease, of course.

"Thoughts aren't actions, Monsieur Lead Prosecutor."

Neuvillette has come to greatly enjoy Clorinde's company. What was understandable suspicion in the beginning has turned into genuine companionship over the last several months. Clorinde is whipsmart and has a tart mouth. Neuvillette loves her banter with Wriothesley. She seems to be the only person willing to dress him down, and Wriothesley always gives in, tail tucked between his legs.

Old friendships are like that, supposes Neuvillette. He is thankful that Wriothesley has a person to share things with. And Clorinde—Clorinde is sweet to Wriothesley. Encouraging even when critiquing him, but tough with her love. Neuvillette counts himself lucky that he's gained her approval.

"As you said, then," says Neuvillette with a laugh.

Clorinde shoots him a grin, and they turn back to the match. It's between rounds, the audience chattering quietly in the downtime. The gym is small, and the atmosphere, cozy. Wriothesley sits in the corner of the ring, wiping his face with a towel. Those rippling muscles. Gleaming sweat. Neuvillette finds it very, very hard to not stare.

There's the snapping of a phone camera. And then Neuvillette's own phone vibrates in his pocket. A quick look reveals—

His face burns. He must be as red as a Jueyun Chili.

[Miss Clorinde] >> A picture lasts longer.

"Miss Clorinde," hisses Neuvillette, pocketing his phone and shooting her a disapproving look.

She shrugs. "Better to just send you the damn thing than watch you mooning over—"

"Watch me what?"

Clorinde clicks her tongue. "You're welcome," she finishes.

Celestia above, he thinks, and Neuvillette is not a man who curses fake powers that be. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He can feel Clorinde's gaze burn right through him. Wriothesley was right. There's no escaping her, be it her ire, her teasing, or her good-natured jabs.

His phone vibrates a second, third time, and it wouldn't take a genius to know that Clorinde has sent him more artisanal shots of Wriothesley in the ring. From very specific angles. Featuring very specific parts.

"My gifts to you," she says. "Fortunately for you, I'm an expert at getting his good bits. Unfortunately for me, I've seen his ass one too many times."

Neuvillette forgot that it was Clorinde who used to film Wriothesley's photo sets. When he finally meets her face, she's smirking back.

"What if I told you that I have his unpublished photos? You know, the ones that didn't quite make the cut because they were a little too revealing—"

Neuvillette groans, uncaring if it's a strange sound to make in public. His cock aches, he misses Wriothesley's dick, and Clorinde's relentless teasing helps none. "You are a wicked, cruel woman, Miss Clorinde."

"So I've been told." A pause. They're still on break in the ring, Wriothesley's opponent calling for Sigewinne to come look at something. "Are you interested, by the way?"

"Interested? In what?"

"Those photos, of course."

Interested, Neuvillette is, and Clorinde doesn't need to be told that. But she wants to hear it. Expects it. She waits for his answer, a too-sweet smile pulling at her mouth.

"For a low price of—"

"Attempting to bribe a lead prosecutor is a crime, I shall remind you."

Clorinde was ready for his quip, though. "This isn't a bribe, Monsieur. I'm trying to sell you a good." She shrugs in Wriothesley's direction. "Or, more specifically, his goods, which I know you've already paid a pretty penny for."

Gods, he will never live this down. Him or Wriothesley. But Neuvillette supposes that being relentlessly made fun of is a better alternative to being shot at. He still isn't quite sure that Wriothesley's musings of Clorinde clocking him in the thigh are fake. He'd thought so a first, an ill-tasted joke, right in line with Wriothesley's brand of humor. Over the months he's spent mapping out Wriothesley's body, though, he's seen a scar on his left thigh, small, round, a little like something that buckshot would leave in its wake.

"I suppose you would call my bluff," he mutters.

"It isn't a bluff if it's true." She nudges his ribs with her elbow. "I think they're about to reset. Wriothesley must've gotten him good if he needed Sige to look at—"

"Oh, thank Celestia. There you are, Neuvillette."

Neuvillette goes stock still. Navia. He'd forgotten that she said she might drop by earlier. Wriothesley didn't invite her, but Neuvillette had mentioned the match in passing when considering his weekly schedule, and Navia admitted to being curious.

He hadn't thought about Clorinde. How could he forget about Clorinde? Neuvillette doesn't know the specifics because Wriothesley respects her privacy, but he knows enough, that she and Navia have not just shared history, but a deeply shared history.

Navia slips through the crowd and slides close. "It's warm in here," she teases, tugging at his sleeve. "A turtleneck? Inside?"

"I—"

Navia turns from him to sweep her gaze around the room. It stops on Clorinde.

Clorinde's face drains entirely of color.

Navia's mouth parts. Tension coils through her body as she stiffens.

Oh, this is uncomfortable. Neuvillette wishes that this had happened anywhere other than here.

But then Clorinde surprises him, the both of them. "Later," she says, holding up a hand when Navia takes a step closer. "Not right now. Later. This isn't the place for..."

"No, you're right. You're..." Navia swallows whatever her next words are. "It is good to see you, Clorinde. With Neuvillette dating Wriothesley, I suppose it was only a matter of time."

Clorinde's expression tilts. "So you knew?" And then she looks at Neuvillette, and all those stories Wriothesley has told about just how scary she can be, seem very real. The look she shoots him is lethal, striking through him with precision force.

"It isn't... Miss Clorinde, Wriothesley has never betrayed your confidence."

She grunts, rubbing her face. "Of course, he didn't. Self-righteous bastard. I—" Clorinde looks at Navia again. "I lied. I can't do this. No, no."

When she turns to leave, Navia steps after her. Neuvillette grabs her by the arm sharply, something he's never done before. "Let her go," he urges. "You expected this, but she did not."

"I didn't expect this," hisses Navia, loud enough that a few of those directly near them take notice.

Neuvillette's grip on her elbow turns soft, gentle. "Give her time. From what I've seen of Miss Clorinde so far, she doesn't seem the type to leave things unaddressed."

"I—she—" Navia grunts. "Decades, Neuvillette. She's left this unresolved for—" She sucks in a breath, reeling herself back. "You know what? Not the place for this."

"I would think not." His response is, admittedly, rather dry. Neuvillette stands there a little awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck, a habit he's picked up from Wriothesley. "For what it's worth, I think that she... Wriothesley seems to think she's always regretted it." A very, very awkward pause. "Whatever happened between the two of you."

This isn't the place for this. With the hustle and bustle of the surrounding crowd, no one pays them much attention, but it's still too public, still too small of a place for something so personal to be aired out in this way.

Clorinde and Navia deserve privacy, a quiet place to talk things over. Maybe later he'll lend them his townhome, neutral ground, and hope for the best.

Navia sighs. "That isn't..." She looks more resigned than Neuvillette has ever seen her, and that one case a few years back when they worked a week straight.

A bell rings out. The crowd cheers as Wriothesley stands again, cracking his knuckles. Both Neuvillette and Navia are welcome to the interruption.

"Well," she says, her eyebrows drawn up, amused. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes." There isn't a reason to lie.

"Planning on staying out late?"

"Miss Navia—"

"You should. It's Friday. You've had a long work week. You deserved to get spoiled."

Embarrassment pulls over him. "Navia, what makes you think that he'd—" Neuvillette stops himself when he sees her face. Right. What a ridiculous thing to say. Wriothesley would pull the moon from the sky if Neuvillette asked him too. He's done nothing but spoil him from the moment they came together; since before they did, even.

"I'm just teasing," she says with a grin. "And I'll stop distracting you from missing the good parts."

There is nothing good about boxing, Neuvillette decides. Except for Wriothesley dripping, gleaming with sweat. Except for his muscles bulging and rippling with every jab. Neuvillette swallows. Stares. Pulls at his face to distract from his very tight trousers. Navia giving him a shit-eating grin helps none.

"I need a moment," he says the moment the bell rings again. The air is too thick. There are too many people in here, and it's loud, and Sovereigns, this is why Neuvillette has never been a fan of places like this. He enjoys his quiet nights.

"Well, his fight is over." Navia hums in approval. "He won, not that that should be a surprise." She shoots him a grin and pushes at him. "Go. If you don't come back, I'll take the hint."

Neuvillette groans. Rubs at his face, but nods and thanks her before taking his leave.

#

The locker room is empty, save for Wriothesley.

He groans, rolling out his shoulders, and Neuvillette stands there in the doorway, appreciating the sight for a moment. When Wriothesley notices, he smiles. "There you are. Have fun?"

"It was enlightening." Truly, it was. Neuvillette might carry a mild distaste for men beating each other up, but it was alluring to see Wriothesley fully in his environment. This is not just a hobby to him; he was once a semi-professional who chose against committing fully. Pankration is what led him to where he is now, owning a gym.

Besides... it has made Wriothesley unbearably handsome. Thick and cut, solid and stocky. Neuvillette crosses the space, going to him, hesitating to reach out and drag his fingers across the rugged line of his shoulders. He itches to, though. To touch, to dig his nails into those muscles, to feel the tension rolling through them.

"It's only me in here. You can relax."

Neuvillette did not realize he was wound so tightly. "It isn't that." He should warn Wriothesley about Clorinde and Navia, but Neuvillette finds himself woefully distracted. Wriothesley is shirtless and sweaty. He wipes a bruised hand across his brow.

"The other man," murmurs Neuvillette, taking hold of that hand gingerly. "He was a hard hitter."

Wriothesley shoots him a cheeky grin. "Thought I was in trouble?"

"No." A pause. "Perhaps disadvantaged."

Wriothesley nods. "Trust me, I'm plenty disadvantaged. Older, not as spry. Certainly not flexible in the way that I used to be."

"But?"

"But I'm smaller and quicker. And, I'm way more experienced. That guy is good, but he's a little green in the ring. Didn't stand a chance from the moment he stepped into it. That's also the point, though. Matches like these, they're just little exhibitions, meant mostly for fun. Low-stakes, and all that."

Neuvillette hums, tilting Wriothesley's hand to and fro. His knuckles are a mess, bruised and purpling. "This must hurt," he says, pulling at the tape.

"It's sore, yeah. Sige has already looked at them. Nothing's broken, just a little bruised."

When Wriothesley digs into his bag and pulls out a painkiller cream, Neuvillette reaches for it. "Let me help."

Wriothesley slows before pressing it into his hand. "I won't say no to being fussed over. By you, at least. Don't tell Sigewinne. She might try to put you on the payroll."

Neuvillette laughs, sitting on the bench beside him. "I noticed that your style of fighting is..."

"Less-refined."

"Different, I was going to say." Neuvillette pulls the tape away, freeing Wriothesley's busted knuckles. What a mess. "You're bleeding. Have you showed yet? It will be useless to patch you up, only for you to wash it right off."

When Neuvillette meets his face, Wriothesley is wearing a crooked grin. A grin that smells trouble.

"I haven't. Want to join me?"

Arousal flares in Neuvillette's gut. His face burns red at the suggestion, but gods, yes, he does. "This is the locker room. At your gym."

"We're alone, I already told you that."

"Wriothesley."

"And nothing has to happen."

No, nothing has to happen, but something definitely will. Wriothesley will be the one to make a move, but Neuvillette will give right in because how can he say no? He can't. He's needy, desperate, and he's been sporting a boner in that crowd for the last hour.

He gives Wriothesley a look, which earns a response of: "Okay, so something will probably happen. I want it to."

Gods, that does not help. And it isn't that they haven't seen each other lately; no, no, they have. It's just that their relationship is fresh and new, and Neuvillette is enjoying the novelty of being so wholly wanted, of having his affections completely returned.

"You're a menace," he says, rubbing a thumb over Wriothesley's knuckles. But then he stands, tugging Wriothesley to his feet, and oh, the reaction is immediate.

Wriothesley pulls him close, looping an arm around his waist. Then he feels it, the tenting of Neuvillette's trousers. Wriothesley's expression is smug, amused. "Oh, you did have fun, didn't you, sweetheart?"

"That is... Beloved, you were..." Neuvillette cannot articulate words, so he just kisses Wriothesley instead.

Wriothesley laughs against his mouth. Sweeps his tongue past Neuvillette's teeth, licking across his hard palate. He tastes and smells like sweat. Neuvillette moans into his mouth as Wriothesley grinds their hips together, his own cock hardening quickly in response.

"I love it," whispers Wriothesley. "I love that you enjoyed it, that it made you all hot and bothered. You liked watching me."

"Yes, I—"

"The shower, sweetheart. Come on."

They trip their way through the locker room, unable to let go of each other. There's something thrilling about this, something elementary and youthful about getting handsy in a more public venue. Neuvillette has indulged in many things in the past—selfies, lewds, sexts—but never something like this.

Wriothesley pulls at his clothing. The tiles are cold underneath Neuvillette's feet once his shoes are kicked off, and it takes way too long for the water to heat up. By the time they stumble into the stall, though, it's blistering hot. Neuvillette is boxed in against the wall, Wriothesley's hands tight against his hips.

"Surely this isn't hygienic," teases Neuvillette.

Wriothesley leans close and nips at his ear. "I'll have you know we scrub these showers to pristine perfection. I take pride in it, even. Your bare ass is safe."

"Wriothesley."

He laughs and captures Neuvillette's lips, silencing whatever protest comes next. "Sweetheart," mutters Wriothesley against his mouth, "we don't have much time. Turn around for me."

Neuvillette had a feeling this would be quick when Wriothesley tucked away a bottle of lube into the towel, and hurried them off to the showers. The moment he turns and leans against the wall, Wriothesley's hands are on his ass.

"Perfect." Wriothesley digs his fingers into his backside, spreading his cheeks for a better look. A thumb dips between them, pulling across his hole, and Neuvillette has to choke off a moan. "Still a little loose," muses Wriothesley, the tip of his thumb just barely dipping in. "Just what I needed."

"Beloved—"

"Come on, sweetheart, let me have a moment, at least." The cap clicking open on the lube is lost to the sounds of the water. Neuvillette jerks slightly when Wriothesley's fingers press against him, cold and slick, two of them sinking right in.

He wastes no time hooking them, spreading them, pressing those fingers right against the swollen bud of Neuvillette's prostate. Neuvillette keens. Grinds back against those fingers, chasing that delicious pressure. Gods, it feels good. Coupled with the thrill of being caught—he makes a needy, reedy sound as Wriothesley's fingers pull across that spot again.

"Wriothesley, please."

"More?" Wriothesley pulls his fingers free with a chuckle. "Of course, you want more. Did seeing me in that ring do it for you?"

What a cruel thing for him to ask, mostly because it's embarrassing. But Neuvillette can't hide the way that his thighs tense, or the way that his dick twitches at the mere thought of Wriothesley working up a sweat. So strong. Rugged. Handsome.

He sighs when the tip of Wriothesley's cock kisses his loose rim. Moans when it sinks in, wet with lube, searing hot as it carves through him. Gods, Wriothesley feels so good. When he's fully seated, he leans against Neuvillette's back, chin resting against his shoulder.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he murmurs, breath hot against Neuvillette's ear. "So tight for me."

Neuvillette finds it hard to stand, even when bracing himself against the shower wall. His legs shake, trembling with the strain. His feet slip slightly when his back arches, meeting Wriothesley's first thrust with ardent need.

The pace Wriothesley sets is hard, fast, driven by the need to get this over and done with before someone notices they've gone missing; before someone comes here and hears them doing such debauched things. Sure, Wriothesley owns the damn place, but the thrill of it makes the sex hotter.

"Tell me, sweetheart, what was it like seeing me up there? Did you enjoy it?"

Neuvillette whines when Wriothesley's hand snakes around his front to grasp at his cock. Heavy and full, it aches, aches. One pull of Wriothesley's hand over his length makes him spiral, makes his head light, and his heart beat faster.

"Yes," he replies. Heat curls, spreads through his veins, running hotter than the shower water. "Yes, yes."

Wriothesley leans back, the angle changes, and Neuvillette has to bite at his lip to keep from yelping in pleasure. He's pulled into the next thrust, Wriothesley's hands hooked around the sharp jut of his hips. Neuvillette doesn't care about his hair getting wet, or that his skin is pink from the boiling-hot spray; all he can think of his Wriothesley's cock, and the path it carves through him with every rut.

It's awkward. They aren't as flexible as younger folk when it comes to these sorts of things, but that's part of the fun of it. Neuvillette would never do this, but Wriothesley—Wriothesley—brings out both the best and worst in him. Fucking in the showers, in a public place—

Neuvillette palms at his own cock, feeling the way it twitches against his hand. He's close, nerves alight, heat pooling deep in his gut, almost at the base of his spine. Water pelts them. His soft, shuttered moans bounce off of the tiles, something that he'll definitely be teased about later. Neuvillette would prefer for Wriothesley to be pressed against his back, to feel the weight of him, but the sordid way he leans back and palms at Neuvillette's ass instead brings a different sort of pleasure that curls through his veins.

Wriothesley curses as he spreads Neuvillette's ass cheeks. Thumbs over his stretched rim, watching the way that his cock pulls at it, how easily it swallows him right in. Neuvillette will dream about that, the way that he stares. He wishes he could see that expression, that reverence that Wriothesley always seems to treat him with.

Stroking his cock in time with Wriothesley's thrusts brings him to the edge. Neuvillette braces himself against the wall with an arm, rests his forehead against the slick, cool tile, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself up. It's hard with the way that he's jolted, with how hard and fast Wriothesley fucks him.

"I'm close," he mutters. "Beloved, I'm close, I'm going to—"

"Sweetheart." Wriothesley slows, shoving his cock as deep as it'll go for a sinful grind. His movements stay like this, short, sharp, his length thick against Neuvillette's prostate. "Baby, please, show me. Come for me."

Neuvillette whimpers, pulling his hand over his cock once, twice. His orgasm slams into him like a damn truck. Neuvillette cries out, spilling against the tile wall.

"Fuck, just like that," hisses Wriothesley. Another hard thrust that shakes Neuvillette to the core. He fucks him through all that pleasure, letting Neuvillette drift before drowning in that high. "Tight. You're so fucking—" Wriothesley moans, low and deep, as he yanks Neuvillette back into him. He shudders, offering up a few more aborted thrusts before sagging against Neuvillette's back.

There's the weight that he wanted. Wriothesley nuzzles Neuvillette's damp temple. Kisses it, nosing through his wet hair. His cock softens, but he makes no move to pull out. His fingers trace down Neuvillette's side, raising goose flesh. "Gods, that was..."

Neuvillette laughs. "Certainly not something I'm known to do. Wriothesley, the showers?"

"My showers. I own the place. Might as will christen it."

What a ridiculous thing to say. But, despite his protests, Neuvillette would have never said no.

Wriothesley hums against his ear. "Are you embarrassed by it? Sweetheart, watching me box made you all hot and bothered. That's normal. Makes me feel hot and bothered, too."

"A lead prosecutor getting caught doing illicit things in a gym shower. Think of the scandal, Wriothesley."

Those lips against Neuvillette's ear curl into a smile. "I'll have you know that I love a good scandal." He moves, then, easing his softening cock from Neuvillette's ass. "That took longer than I wanted it too, though. Clorinde's going to bust in here any moment, and trust me when I say we don't want that."

Ah, damn, Clorinde.

"Wriothesley, about her—" When Wriothesley pulls away from him entirely, Neuvillette is blasted by the spray of hot water. He hisses in surprise, jerking away, which makes Wriothesley burst into a fit of laughter.

"Don't worry about her. For all her teasing, she expects us to be up to no good in here eventually."

"That isn't what I meant. I—oh, thank you." Wriothesley hands him a clean wash cloth and a bottle of soap. "This is unrelated."

"Unrelated?"

"Miss Navia showed up tonight."

Wriothesley dumps a little too much shampoo into his hair in surprise. "What?"

"She mentioned that she might. You remember."

"I do." Wriothesley expression sours slightly. "But I didn't think she'd actually..." He sighs, rubbing at his face. Suds drip from his hair to his cheeks, and he shoves his face under the water stream to rinse the soap out. "They saw each other, I assume."

Neuvillette sighs, leaning back against the wall as he watches Wriothesley. "It wasn't so explosive as it was..."

"Silent fury? Yeah, that's what Clorinde can be like." He pauses, considering this. "Though, I don't think she'd be angry, more—"

"Miss Clorinde doesn't seem the type to handle conflict well."

Wriothesley's mouth pulls into a wry grin. "No, I would think she's the worst at it, save for me. It's probably why we've always gotten along so well. Turn around? Let me wash your hair."

Neuvillette turns, loosing a soft groan as Wriothesley's fingers comb through it. He does this when they shower together, and it's always been wholesome and domestic. "For what it's worth," says Neuvillette, "she told Navia that they would talk about it later."

Wriothesley's hands still. "She did?"

Neuvillette hums. "I don't think it is so strange that she got spooked. It isn't so easy to face your past demons."

"Hah. Yeah, that's true."

There's something in Wriothesley's tone that gives Neuvillette pause, but he doesn't press further. Pockets that thought to assess at a later time. "If they need a neutral space," he says instead, "I'm more than willing to let them use my home."

"What is this, an arbitration?"

"It very well could be. I think that Clorinde would make for a good lawyer."

Wriothesley laughs as he works the lather through the ends of Neuvillette's hair. "Well, she's going to need all the legal council she can get because I'm not sure that Navia will ever forgive her. Okay, rinse."

Neuvillette shoves his head underneath the water, and Wriothesley drags his fingers through his hair, pulling the soap away. "Forgiveness is the easy part, I think. It's what comes after that is more difficult. But, I have faith in them. They seem... I cannot fathom what may have happened, but they still love each other, yes?"

Wriothesley steadies him as he stands straight. They stand there, together, underneath the water, and he presses close. "Yeah," he replies, tilting Neuvillette's chin towards him. "A rare kind of love, too. Clorinde swore off anyone else, and not because she's jaded, but because it's a candle that'll never go out."

Neuvillette offers him a small smile. "A romantic, are you?" He knows the answer, of course, but it's always nice to hear.

"Always."

Neuvillette takes hold of Wriothesley's hand. Wriothesley hisses; now that the high of sex has worn off, his busted knuckles cannot be ignored. "Where did you learn how to fight?"

Wriothesley hesitates. "I... well. It's more of a street-style, I suppose. But it was refined later on with proper training."

"Fights in your youth?"

"The same as any boy." When he sees Neuvillette's raised brow, he amends with, "Except for you, maybe."

"My past might surprise you, Wriothesley. As you said, the same as any boy."

Oh, he wants to ask. There's a twinkle of interest in Wriothesley's eye. In reality, there isn't much to the story, just that as nerdy as Neuvillette was when young, he wasn't the sort to let harassment slide. There've been times he's defended himself. He has a decent punch, when it comes down to things.

Wriothesley is close enough that they share breaths. "I'll drag that story from you some day."

Neuvillette doesn't answer, just pulls him in for a kiss, and they laze like that in the shower, indulging for a hot minute.

Finally, Wriothesley pulls away and whispers against his mouth, "We're definitely going to get caught if we stay in here any longer. Want to come back to my place?"

"Yes. I still have to tend to your wounds."

"Didn't think you'd want to play nursemaid."

"I cannot berate you without taking some sort of action," teases Neuvillette. "But you are right. And I'm tired. Surely you are too."

"Hm, yeah. I thought I'd get a little rest before fucking you—"

Neuvillette slaps his hand across Wriothesley's face to cut him off. "Don't be crude. It's bad enough I let you talk me into it."

"Talk you into it?" Wriothesley's words are muffled by his hand. "Sweetheart, all it took was a few words. But, yes, I'm tired. So let's get home and go to sleep, yeah? We can have a lazy morning in."

There are times when being older is a slog. The more years that pass, the earlier Neuvillette turns in, which has always been an old-man sort of thing. But with a partner, with Wriothesley by his side, the bed is no longer cold, and Neuvillette looks forward to those lazy mornings Wriothesley is so fond of.

"A morning in," he muses. "Extra time to nurse your bruises." And by that, he means kissing each and every one of them until Wriothesley is squirming in the sheets.

"That sounds like a date, sweetheart."

#

"What in the Abyss is this?" Navia slaps a file onto Neuvillette's desk with enough force to make his nameplate rattle.

He pauses and looks up at her from over his reading glasses. Blinks slowly. It's too early for her to be so full of ire, but—

Oh. Once he catches sight of the file, it makes more sense. She must've tidied up his kitchen table where he left it that morning.

"Also," she continues, "why are you wearing your reading glasses? You never wear those."

"As it turns out, some companies don't like being subpoenaed. These requested reports have been printed in the finest text size legally allowed, and so..." He trails off as he drops the folio currently in his hands. "Look, Miss Navia—"

"Don't Miss Navia me," she hisses. "You pulled Wriothesley's record?"

Neuvillette winces. "You're making it sound worse than it is."

"Neuvillette—" Dammit all, she's dropped his title. Navia won't quit this discussion without a fight. She's out for blood, his blood. "—this is an invasion of privacy."

"These records are public, Navia."

"That doesn't matter! It's the principle of it. It's—" Navia lets out a frustrated grunt and turns away to pace a hole into his very nice rug. "He's your boyfriend, Neuvillette. Your partner. Why on earth would you do this?"

"Curiosity," he replies honestly. There's nothing more to it than that. Neuvillette doesn't think that Wriothesley is hiding anything untoward, it's just that he opened up a little on the night of his boxing match, which left a lingering interest. Neuvillette didn't press for more, but arrest records are public, and—

"You're worried about how I'll feel," he finishes with, giving Navia a resigned look. "Because you know what's in that file."

"What's in that file doesn't matter—"

"We agree on that."

Navia's mouth snaps shut in surprise.

Neuvillette's head aches. It's too early in the day for this, he hasn't even had lunch yet. "Wriothesley is rather tight-lipped about his youth, which I understand. The other night he mentioned a few things that made me wonder, but that is merely it, Navia."

The look she gives him is twisted, almost sarcastic in a way. "It's a sealed juvenile record, Neuvillette. You can't tell me that doesn't have that brain of yours grinding its gears."

He huffs. It does—of course, it does—but that is just his curiosity getting the best of him. Navia knows this better than anyone else, and she knows that he'll ruminate on it until Wriothesley comes clean. But he isn't lying. Whatever is in that file bears little on the man that Wriothesley is now—or, rather, how Neuvillette feels about him.

"Wriothesley's character is clear," he says carefully. "Whatever happened in his youth helped shaped that. I am not going to ask you to betray the trust he has placed in you."

Navia rubs her face. "That doesn't... I wouldn't know. I know a lot, but even I don't... Doesn't matter. It's in invasion of privacy."

Neuvillette contemplates reminding her, again, that it's all public record, and that nothing is truly private, but bites his tongue. Instead, he says, "Perhaps I am too used to pulling files as a way of understanding things. With Wriothesley... With Wriothesley, I am constantly learning. This is new to me, and though we get along well, I am out of my depth. He is too. Together we are—"

He sighs, unsure what he's trying to explain. Doesn't even know where to begin, or how to parse out his thoughts.

Navia drops into the armchair by his desk with an audible plop. "Neuvillette, if you just ask Wriothesley, he will tell you."

"Doubtful," he mutters.

"No, not doubtful. That man would murder a person if you asked him to." When Neuvillette's expression turns interested, Navia waffles. "Not that he's done that. Murdered a person. I—look. Just... talk to him. He's honest with you. Honest in a way that I don't think I've ever seen him be."

Well, decades have passed and people change. Wriothesley no doubt has, which is exactly what he tells her. "I did not mean to invade his privacy, Navia. It really is a passing interest—"

"Which has turned up a sealed record that's going to haunt your dreams."

Neuvillette doesn't immediately reply, just sits there at his desk, twiddling his thumbs in his lap, thinking.

Navia stares, tracking the movement. Taps her foot quickly, annoyingly. Finally, she says, "Sovereigns, just speak already. Say whatever's on your mind."

He never can hide a damn thing from her, can he? "I worry for him," he admits. "About him. That is natural, is it not? Wriothesley seems to have come from a hard place, and I, of all people, know how that can wear on a person, even when we grow out of it." He heaves a sigh. Gestures to the file she threw onto his desk. "Do you truly think if I asked him, he would be truthful?"

Navia gives him a tired, but fond look. "Wriothesley is a lot of things, but honesty has never been a problem with him. There's a lot that I don't know, but that's because I don't pry." She drags her chair forward and kicks at Neuvillette's ankle to drive home that point. "With you, though... Neuvillette, I genuinely think he'd tell you whatever you asked for. I don't know, he just seems all in. With you, I mean. Like, I know it's still fresh and fun, but from my point of view, this feels like it's end-game."

Neuvillette cracks a subtle grin. "I do think that your view is incredibly biased."

"Oh, definitely. I've invested a lot in you two, you know, made sacrifices even. Like seeing his dick." Navia shudders, making a disgusted face. "I should receive hazard pay for that, by the way."

"You were off the clock, if I recall."

Navia laughs, genuinely laughs, and the tense air between them loosens. "Joking aside, what's in here..." She pats Wriothesley's record. "From what I do know, he wasn't in the wrong. Whatever it was that he did."

That, Neuvillette has no doubt of. "I'll ask him," he promises her, which, thankfully, gets Navia off his back.

#

Neuvillette does not ask Wriothesley because he thinks that it is a non-issue.

He gleaned a little from his file, at least. His parents are dead. He went into the foster system, and came out of it like so many do—poor and with very little. There were a few minor infractions beyond that sealed record, but nothing further than mild, petty crimes that barely got him a slap on the wrist. Elementary stuff. The sorts of things that Neuvillette would, even in a professional capacity, roll his eyes at.

So, he finds that he cares very little, aside from curiosity. Yes, that pulls at his brain, grinds those gears just as Navia said, but it's easy for that to fade into the background the moment that Wriothesley is within sight. The moment he leans close, and their mouths are pressed together, all those thoughts melt down to Neuvillette's groin; are left at the bedroom door as they fall into the sheets.

Wriothesley has all but taken up residence in his townhome. Neuvillette still prefers Wriothesley's tiny, chaotic apartment instead, and it's lived-in nature, but lately his own home bears the marks of his... tenure. Piles of things that Wriothesley's picked through and never put back. Dishes in the sink. Extra clothing in the hamper.

It's nice. Neuvillette comes home to a person, goes to sleep with a person, and wakes up with a person. That bone-bitter loneliness has been leeched away, leaving behind just searing hot warmth, and happiness. Neuvillette is happy because he's in—

Oh. Oh, that's—

He shouldn't be thinking about things like this on a Saturday mid-morning. He should be sleeping in, melting alive in Wriothesley's arms as he's smothered by his cuddling. He should, maybe, grind back against Wriothesley's sleepy boner because isn't that a nice thing to way up to?

But it's harder than not to ignore these feelings; how Neuvillette's chest is filled with the sticky warmth, ooey and gooey, and just right.

Wriothesley is half-awake, an arm curled around Neuvillette's waist. "Sweetheart," he mumbles against his ear, and gods, Neuvillette just crumbles apart at that soft, rumbling tone.

He's down bad. Has been for a long time, and it's at the point where he can't ignore it anymore. This is love, it has to be. He aches for Wriothesley, mourns the loss of him during the day. Turns in at night, rested and comforted just by his presence. It's effortless, natural, which means it must be love, and that's what he thinks on this lazy weekend morning as Wriothesley pulls at him, slotting against his back, hands roaming down his front with lazy, sweet touches.

This lovemaking is slow and tender. Neuvillette rolls overtop him and rides his fingers until he is a white-knuckled, leaking mess. Then his cock, watching Wriothesley as he rises and falls; as he leans back and ignores his aged and sore joints, trying to find that perfect angle. The stretch of Wriothesley's cock pulls at his being. He fills him so perfectly to the point of bursting, and Neuvillette wonders if this is what it feels like to be wholly complete.

Wriothesley holds him as if he's precious, watches him with the sort of reverence one gives a god. Guides him until they're both falling over the edge, until Neuvillette spills all over his chest with a loud cry of his name, and Wriothesley is laughing at the absurdity of it all, uncaring of the mess.

He brushes back Neuvillette's bangs. "What's with that look?"

Neuvillette has always been good at seeming impartial. His coworkers call him The Untouchable, The Unreadable because he's perfected a polite mask of nothingness. It's his job as a lawyer. Treating others exactly the same makes his work come and go with ease.

But with Wriothesley, these well-built walls have come crashing down. Neuvillette is so happy that he cannot help but show it, to have his feelings leak right from his very pores.

"There is no look. I am not wearing a look."

"You are, sweetheart. This, right here—" Wriothesley traces a spot between his brows, that little furrow of skin that Neuvillette gets when he's thinking. "Something's on your mind."

"I think that I might love you. This is love, isn't it?" Neuvillette's words fly from his mouth, unbidden. He didn't mean to blurt that. That's an inside thought, one that he wanted to ruminate on before sharing. But his mind is two steps ahead. "I—that is to say..."

Wriothesley's mouth parts. Tension rolls through his body and oh, oh, this was a mistake. It's too early. People do not confess less than half a year in, though if Neuvillette were asked, he'd say it was love at first sight. Wriothesley turning to him at the café is an image seared into his brain. He will never forget the ease of that date, or how perfectly they fit together so quickly. How he was instantly endeared by Wriothesley's charm and awkward fumbling.

But Wriothesley—Wriothesley—has nothing to say. His expression is a flurry of worry, of emotion, of something that is distinctly different.

Perhaps Neuvillette is as bad with people has he's always thought. He's well-read when it comes to matters of the courtroom, but personal things and relationships, the intricacies of people and how they get along, what makes them tick when it comes to him, have never been second nature.

"Neuvillette," says Wriothesley finally. That tone, the way that he says his name tight and with strain. Not sweetheart. There is no gentle pet name that he murmurs against his ear before kissing it, just a strange, steely utterance of his name.

Fuck, thinks Neuvillette. The curse rings foreign in his head, but pairs well with the slick, oily feeling in his gut.

Wriothesley's cock is still half-hard in his ass, slowly softening. The weight of it now feels off, strange. Wrong. Neuvillette lifts himself off and away, pulling over to the side of the bed.

"Wait, Neuvillette—"

"Never mind what I said," he cuts in. Come leaks from his ass. Everything is sore and aching, most of all the pressure in his chest. Neuvillette feels off, feels sick as he pulls on a pair of boxer briefs, and then the nearest set of trousers that isn't too rumpled. "I—Wriothesley, I was just thinking aloud."

"Hang on, I'm not..."

Neuvillette waits for him to expand on whatever that thought might be. He looks stupid, standing in the middle of the room, half-in a shirt and staring at Wriothesley.

But Wriothesley says nothing else, just looks at him with this complicated, torn expression that speaks volumes. Volumes of what, Neuvillette doesn't know, but it's something else; something like hesitation, like fear.

Neuvillette does not want to be feared. It was too soon for this. "Breakfast," he murmurs, pulling on that shirt entirely. "I'll—the kitchen. That's where I will be. I just need a minute. You... you do whatever it is that you need to do."

Neuvillette half-expects Wriothesley to follow him, but he's given his space. The room is suffocating and the moment that he slips back into the hall, that weight just presses down more. But, out here, he can think, at least; he can work through whatever the hell that was.

His feelings got the better of him. He's in love—Sovereigns, he's in love—and frankly, he thinks Wriothesley is too. Neuvillette isn't a fool. The way that Wriothesley treats him, the soft moments they share, and the things that they do together...

But he and Wriothesley are far too alike in many ways, their awkwardness being one of them. Neither of them have indulged in relationships before, and the ones they have, have been tumultuous at best.

That sealed record of his, the glimpses of a trouble youth and how it's led to the person he is now... Wriothesley has admitted to him his fear of connection, of commitment, when they've talked about their past liaisons.

"I'm an idiot," he mutters to himself, pulling at his face. Not because he was hopeful, but because he blurted such a thing without thinking it through. He was just soft and warm, and felt good, and with Wriothesley staring at him like that, it made his heart tilt.

Now Neuvillette's in the hallway, soiled, half-dressed and exhausted.

"A shower, and then coffee."

The shower he takes is cold. The coffee he makes isn't even ground correctly; he just shoves the mixture into the funnel and over-boils the water in the Electro Kettle, lost in thought.

Wriothesley pads into the kitchen quietly, fully dressed save his shoes. This shocks Neuvillette. He expected him to leave without a word, to slip through the front door in utter avoidance. Instead, Wriothesley just gives him this look of grief, of sorrow, of pity.

He thinks it's his fault, Neuvillette realizes. Wriothesley has chosen to bear this strange weight that's settled over them.

"I'm..." Wriothesley's voice is thick, strangled. "I've got a lot of work, this week. Clients in from out of town. It's the end of the month, so the numbers have to be run, and I..."

He'll be busy, then. Nothing new. Wriothesley steps forward and brushes his mouth against Neuvillette's cheek, leaving a gentle kiss there. "I'll lock the door on the way out."

Right, because he has a key. Neuvillette gave it to him weeks ago.

When Wriothesley leaves, he takes a piece of Neuvillette with him. This isn't the end. It can't be. Wriothesley kissed him goodbye, and lingered before he decided to pull away. There's something he wants to say, something that he cannot quite articulate. Navia would tell Neuvillette that he needs time, so he will allow it.

Still, as Neuvillette stands there in his cold kitchen, alone, his townhome has never felt so empty, and coffee has never tasted so bitter.