CW: Contains Smut
--
"You seem... unusually peppy."
He is not. He is not. "It's the run," says Wriothesley as they jog down the block.
"This is barely a run," says Clorinde, keeping pace with him. Her breath control is something else. She doesn't even sound winded. Wriothesley feels like he's one step away from a heart attack. "I have to bribe you with breakfast to come out here."
"It's a ten-minute drive from my apartment—"
"Which makes it perfect for an early morning workout."
Wriothesley whines softly. "It's our day off."
"From work," she says. "Not gains. You've got to get ahead of the curve before it becomes too hard to keep it up."
She isn't wrong. Wriothesley wipes at the sweat on his forehead and gives her a pointed look. "Crêpes," he says.
"If you want to undo all your hard work, I won't stop you, but do you have to pick something so fucking expensive?"
Yes, yes he does. If Clorinde is going to drag him out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn, she's going to pay. Besides, they're just crêpes. What's a little bread when he can sweat it off in the ring? Hasn't been a problem yet.
Clorinde knows what he's thinking, though, and reaches out to pinch his side. "Ten pounds up?" she teases, nails digging in, and Wriothesley nearly trips over an uneven spot in the pavement trying to bat her hand away.
"Mean," he mutters. "So fucking mean."
Thankfully, she says nothing else on the last few blocks they jog to Café Lutece. Once there, they plop into a set of chairs and tables outside, legs burning from the exercise.
"Man, I'm getting too old for this kind of cardio," he mutters the moment his ass meets warm metal.
"Eat it," says Clorinde, flagging over their favorite server.
"Oh, trust me, I will—"
Wriothesley's phone chirps a well-known jingle from the video game Super Kamisato Twins. Clorinde pays it no mind. "Sorry," he continues. "Let me just..."
[Neuvillette] >> Good morning.
[Neuvillette] >> Since you seem to be in the habit of ensuring that I wake up in a ... pleasant mood, I shall return the favor.
The picture that Neuvillette sends isn't explicit; it's him in his bed, wearing a silken and flimsy robe, pale skin glowing in the soft early morning light streaming in from the window. A little lewd. Mostly innocent. Wriothesley is now regretting the flimsy jogging shorts that he chose to wear for his run.
Down, down, big guy, he begs silently, hoping that his dick doesn't rise to the equation, otherwise he'll never hear the end of it. It behaves, nothing more than a gentle twitch of interest. He can work with that, as long as Neuvillette doesn't send any more surprises.
[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart, are you trying to kill me?
[Wriothesley] >> distracting me on my morning run
[Neuvillette] >> Morning run? I thought you would be the type to sleep in.
[Wriothesley] >> oh make no mistake, i am
[Wriothesley] >> my old roomie forces me out of bed on saturday mornings
[Neuvillette] >> That sounds terrible. I would never do such a thing.
Oh. Wriothesley bites at his lip, reading over the message a second time. Suddenly, he thinks of Neuvillette in his bed, of waking up to him on a lazy weekend morning. Would they lounge in the sheets? Have a slow and sweet fuck?
He—
He cannot think about this, he can't—
Wriothesley hisses when Clorinde pinches the ever loving Abyss out of his arm. "Hey!"
"You done with whatever that is?"
"Give me a moment, shit."
[Wriothesley] >> baby you cant say shit like that to me
[Wriothesley] >> youre going to give me ideas
Clorinde gives him a suspicious glance but backs off when Wriothesley sets his phone face down on the table. "See? I'm being good."
She snorts— and then is interrupted by the chime of another text. Wriothesley's mouth tenses, but he leaves his phone alone.
"Are you going to get that?"
"Nope, all good."
The server arrives to take their order. "The usual, I guess," says Clorinde with a wave of her hand. "I think he wants crêpes though."
Wriothesley nods. "That and—" Another text chirp. "Fontaine Breakfast Tea. A little cream on the side—you know."
The server flashes him a blinding smile. "The usuals, got it. Kitchen is a little busy today, so there might be some back up, but I'll throw in a couple of scones to compensate."
"Shouldn't be a problem," says Clorinde. "You know we like to camp."
"And you're allowed to because you tip well and aren't a bother. Drinks coming right up." She whisks away after that, leaving Clorinde and Wriothesley alone.
Another text comes in, his phone vibrating on the table. Three texts—three. Wriothesley squirms in his seat, and it catches Clorinde's eye.
"Man, that phone is burning a hole in your pocket, huh?"
"Clorinde—"
"By all means, check it. We've ordered."
Wriothesley cannot grab his phone fast enough, causing Clorinde to snort.
[Neuvillette] >> I think that giving you an idea or two is, in fact, a good idea.
[Neuvillette] >> I assume I'd reap the benefits of that.
[Neuvillette] >> By benefits, I mean elicit pictures of your cock.
Wriothesley sucks in breath. It's terrible. Gods, Neuvillette is terrible at this, but Wriothesley is, admittedly no better. He finds himself grinning wide, already typing a response.
[Wriothesley] >> only my cock?
[Neuvillette] >> A picture of your backside would be equally appreciated.
Wriothesley laughs so hard that he draws the attention of Clorinde, whom he initially ignores. He's halfway through typing a response when she clears her throat. "Hang on, just let me—"
"Wriothesley."
"I'm nearly done."
[Wriothesley] >> my ass? anything for you sweetheart.
Clorinde leans over and yanks the phone from his hands.
"Wait, don't—"
She pauses and gives him a shrewd look. "I've seen your dick before."
"I'm—that's not—"
"There aren't dick picks?"
Wriothesley pinches the bridge of his nose and doesn't respond.
"So there are. Wriothesley, that's your text tone going off, and I'm the only fucking person you text."
"Listen, Clorinde," he begins. His face pales as she unlocks his phone.
There is a too-long moment as she scrolls through his most recent messages. "Neuvillette," she reads aloud, her voice already taking on a hard edge. "Wriothesley."
He winces slightly. "So, I may have done something stupid."
"You gave him your phone number? The rules!"
"Yes, yes, the rules! I fucking know, Clorinde. But he—I—" Wriothesley lets loose an annoyed whine. "Neuvillette isn't like others. He's just... different, and it's genuine. Last night we just talked. Well, after—"
"I don't need the details," she cuts in with a hiss.
"Point is, we talked. And it was nice, it's nice. He's so, so terrible at flirting, but that makes it genuine. I'm bad too, we're both just..." Wriothesley drags his hand down his face and finally meets her gaze. "Can't a man take a fucking chance? Like, at this point, what can I possibly lose?"
He expects her to give him a polite ear lashing, but Clorinde just sighs.
"You know what the worst part is?" she asks. "I know you're right. This man is just... odd. But not in a bad way."
"He's endearing," says Wriothesley, his mouth curling into a soft smile. "Like, he just makes me warm. I listened to him ramble about water for an hour last night."
Clorinde raises an eyebrow. "Water?"
"He has a thing for it. Er, drinking it."
She snorts, hiding her laughter.
"I know that giving him my phone number was really fucking stupid. I definitely regretted it the moment I hit send."
"And then?"
"And then I didn't regret it."
Clorinde hums. "So now what?"
Wriothesley doesn't know. He sits there, in that café chair, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly. "I..."
He what? Where does he even go from here? He's known Clorinde for nearly two decades at this point, and there's little that she doesn't know about him. She's his ride-or-die, he can tell her anything. And yes, there is usually judgment, but it comes from a place of love, not hate, and Wriothesley can always trust Clorinde to knock sense into his thick skull.
Wriothesley is wary to tell her his intentions because he doesn't want her to tell him no, that this is a bad idea. But not telling her the truth is just delaying the inevitable, which is almost worse. Clorinde has shot him before in non-lethal places, she'll do it again.
"I want this to be real," he confesses.
Clorinde doesn't look remotely surprised. "You were afraid to tell me that, weren't you? Wriothesley, I wasn't born yesterday. You're pretty good about the hands-off, one-night stand thing."
"Until now."
"Until now," she confirms. To her credit, she only looks mildly aggrieved, more annoyed than anything else. "I get it, you know. The older you get, the harder that loneliness hits. You know it isn't the same for me—I'm not looking for someone new."
Wriothesley chuckles. "Ah, yeah, the one that got away." Wriothesley remembers Clorinde's college sweetheart well—they'd loved each other, but it was volatile. Two competing personalities, constant bickering and picking at each other. It'd blown up in the end, and Clorinde has claimed the life of an embittered spinster ever since.
"Look, I want you to be happy you idiot, and lately you seem..." She waves her hand. "These last few weeks there has been a noticeable change. A good change. It's weird, and I don't entirely like it, and I won't until I can make sure that he won't murder you and toss you in a ditch—"
"I'm pretty sure I could hold him off."
"Probably," snorts Clorinde. "Judging by his pictures, he's a fucking twig. Still."
"The sentiment is appreciated, truly. I just... we're playing it by ear. Yeah, giving him my number was a dumb fucking move, but it worked out in the end."
Clorinde waits a beat and then asks, "So do I get to see rest of the texts?"
"No."
"Please?"
"No, he's—Hey, give it back."
Clorinde still hangs onto his phone, and he knows she's pulling up the Kameragram account. Her brows raise, she gives him a pointed look, and then she shuts the phone off and slides it across the table.
"I warned you," he says.
"Yeah, that one's on me."
The server comes by with their drinks and a smile on her face. Before she takes off, Wriothesley stops her. "On second thought, can you grab me a bottle of water? The imported one from Mondstadt."
Her face scrunches with curiosity. Wriothesley is a creature of habit, he doesn't order water. "I—er, sure? Yes, I mean. I'll be right back."
When she's gone, Clorinde says, "Oh yeah, you're gone."
There are worse things to be.
#
"So, on account of exchanging phone numbers—"
"Miss Navia, I did not tell you that for it to be used against me."
Navia huffs, her bangs blowing away from her brow. "I'm not using them against you, I'm just about to make a friendly suggestion."
A friendly suggestion can mean just about anything at this point, Neuvillette has come to learn. He gives her a dry look. "If the suggestion is to send another illicit picture, then you should be aware that I have."
She doesn't even blink. "Which is a good start."
"Start?"
"You know, a jumping off point." Navia drops into the kitchen chair next to him. "I think you should ask him out on a date."
Neuvillette's brain comes to a complete stop. Reeling, with a screech, like an aquabus scraping against the edge of a canal. He blinks. His mouth parts. He cannot find words.
Navia frowns. "Don't give me that look. You just said he's local."
"I—Navia. That may be true, but it doesn't mean—"
"I swear to Celestia if you say he wouldn't want that, I will serve you tap water when you least expect it."
Neuvillette winces, physically recoiling at the thought. "Don't bring Celestia into this," he hisses. "I only meant that—"
"I know what you meant, and I'm tired of your pity party." Then she calls him by his name—not Monsieur, or even his surname alone—but his given name that no others would dare to repeat to his face. It has the same effect as his mother using it, and dread creeps down his spine.
Navia leans back in the chair and crosses her legs, one knee over the other. "Ask him out on a date."
That is a terrible idea. That is the worst idea that she has every presented him with, and yes, that includes the suggestion of sending a picture of his dick back. Which worked. Which he will not bring up. Navia will never let him down for it, he doesn't need to add fuel to the fire.
He rubs at his face. "Miss Navia—"
"This man is dangling himself in front of you. He hasn't just offered himself up on a silver platter, Neuvillette, he has laid himself out as the entire damn feast from appetizer to dessert. He's given you a private show. He gave you his phone number—which you called—and then he stayed on the line until you fell asleep not once, but twice." She pauses. "What did you even ramble on about last night?"
"Water," replies Neuvillette morosely. "I was nervous and I monologued about my favorite types of water, and their differences, and he—" Navia chokes on laughter which is, frankly, insulting. "For the record, he was interested."
"Which proves my point, you idiot. Who else would possibly put up with that?"
"A man who likes my—"
"Do not say dick."
"—illicit bits—"
"That's even worse," she groans.
Neuvillette smiles, pleased that he's bothered her so thoroughly. Navia, though, refuses to relent. She levels him with a severe gaze that could cut rock, and then she calls him by his name again.
"Are you afraid?"
"No." And he isn't—truly, he isn't. If his call with Wriothesley last night proved anything, it's that they have undeniable chemistry beyond mere sexual desire. Navia is right. There isn't another man on this planet who would listen to him drone on about water—but Wriothesley did. Wriothesley asked questions and offered counterpoints. Wriothesley was all-in until he yawned and drifted off, leaving Neuvillette to be the one to cut the line.
"I would be nervous," he finally relents. "Not afraid, no, but nervous. I do not date, Navia, and even if the person suits me, even if they are an active participant in... this... the fact of the matter is I have not gone on a date in decades."
Navia nods in understanding. "You know, if it were it anyone else, I would probably agree with you. Question, though—were you nervous hopping on that video call?"
Neuvillette blinks, thinking about this. Not exactly... nervous. Keyed up, rather. Excitable. The nervousness that had settled in his gut that night had been fluttering, like butterflies, not full-bodied anxiety.
"And your call last night," continues Navia. "When he sent you his phone number, did you hesitate?"
Not one bit. Neuvillette had recognized the number for what it was the moment he saw it and called it immediately. Which, in retrospect, is considerably embarrassing, and his face must be red because Navia's mouth curls into a wide smile.
He clears his throat. "I see your point," he concedes.
"He's local. He's a hunk. He likes your dick. If you ask him out on a date, he'll definitely say yes. And you want that, right?"
More than anything. Neuvillette isn't sure that he's ever wanted something more than a just chance of making this into something more.
"Do you feel better?" she asks.
Neuvillette's mouth quirks slightly on one side. "Yes, I do."
"Right, so grab your phone."
"I appreciate your enthusiasm, Miss Navia, but—"
Navia shakes her head. "I'm not leaving until you ask!"
"I'll remind you that you let yourself into my home."
"Because you gave me a key!" Navia sighs dramatically. "I just want to make sure that you don't fuck it up."
"I will not—"
"Okay, then I'm just nosy."
Neuvillette snorts. "That is true enough."
Despite this, he unlocks his phone and pulls up his messages. Navia watches with a keen, glittering gaze as he types out a message, leaning forward on the edge of her seat.
[Neuvillette] >> Wriothesley, if I may overstep, I would much like to ask you out for a cup of coffee.
[Neuvillette] >> Well, I suppose tea, for you and water for me.
[Neuvillette] >> As a date.
[Neuvillette] >> A real date.
[Neuvillette] >> A date without ulterior motive, just to be clear.
Navia snatches the phone from his hand before he can clarify further and put his foot in his mouth. She shoots him a look, her mouth scrunched up. "If it were anyone else—"
"I would have scared them off," he finishes. "I am well aware."
"And what do you men 'without ulterior motives'? You absolutely have ulterior motives. You should."
"Miss Navia—wait, don't—"
She's already typing in an additional text message. "You'll thank me later," she says, sending it off before he can stop her.
Logically, he knows he will. Navia is smart. Her advice has been sound this entire time, and she is more used to the modern marvels of dating. He thanks her when she hands him his phone back, a deep grouse that makes her mouth turn into a smile. Then he reads the message.
[Neuvillette] >> Unless you want there to be an ulterior motive. I could easily arrange that.
He drags a hand down his face.
"Did I do good? Sounds like you, no?"
It does, which is the worst part, but Neuvillette cracks a smile nonetheless.
#
Clorinde and Wriothesley's breakfast bleeds into a brunch, and Wriothesley promises their server they'll tip her extra well to cover their camping. This isn't so unusual. Once in a blue moon they indulge in this way because even though they see each other at the gym nearly every day, never do they just... sit. And catch up. Share problems and give terrible advice, and then laugh over it, neck deep in too-much caffeine.
Wriothesley's romance problems aside, there's a lot that Clorinde isn't privy to. He shares his upcoming fight schedule—all exhibition matches in the ring because he's retired, quote unquote.
Clorinde is in the middle of telling him about the upcoming qualifiers for sharpshooting at the Teyvat Games when his phone goes off again. She pauses. Her gaze drops to the phone, her eyebrow arching. "You going to get that?"
"I—no. It can wait. My entire attention is on you, sunshine."
"Normally, this is where I'd tell you that I'll shoot you if you call me that again, but I think I might shoot you if you ignore that man instead."
"You don't even know if it's—"
"Before today, there was only one person who ever texted you, and she's sitting right here. And I sure as hell didn't text you, so..." Clorinde waves vaguely.
Truthfully, Wriothesley is losing his damn mind. He knows it must be Neuvillette. He's shaking in his skin to take a look, his foot tapping against the ground with excited energy.
"Archons," murmurs Clorinde, rolling her eyes. "Celestia above, you're about to vibrate out of your damn skin. Just fucking answer it."
Wriothesley moves faster than any punch he's ever thrown in a boxing match, unlocking his phone in record time.
[Neuvillette] >> Wriothesley, if I may overstep, I would much like to ask you out for a cup of coffee.
[Neuvillette] >> Well, I suppose tea, for you and water for me.
[Neuvillette] >> As a date.
[Neuvillette] >> A real date.
[Neuvillette] >> A date without ulterior motive, just to be clear.
Wriothesley gapes at his phone.
He should've expected this. In fact, he should've been the one to ask instead of Neuvillette taking the plunge. Wriothesley is... surprised. Pleasantly. Giddy, even. His stomach curls like a teenager's would, high on the idea of their first date.
Clorinde watches with a critical eye. "That look," she says. "I don't like that look on your face. You look even more like an idiot than you usually are."
"He—Clorinde, he—"
His phone chirps with an additional message that makes his eyebrows raise.
[Neuvillette] >> Unless you want there to be an ulterior motive. I could easily arrange that.
He wants... he wants... Wriothesley's mouth goes dry. Suddenly, all thought melt away and all he can think about is getting his dick wet. Clorinde's going to kill him because he's going to say yes. He can't not say yes. Wriothesley doesn't believe in fate, but he's damn sure that this man is probably his only shot at something meaningful because if it doesn't work out, he's swearing off men for good.
Clorinde would laugh at that.
[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart, you beat me to it
[Wriothesley] >> asking you out on a date. obviously the answer is yes
[Neuvillette] >> Is there not a roommate who might kill you?
Wriothesley has mentioned her in passing enough times now that Neuvillette is in on the joke. Clorinde isn't though; she stares at him from across the table, arms crossed over her chest.
"He asked me on a date," says Wriothesley, continuing his text.
[Wriothesley] >> dont let her get in the way of you answering my dreams
Gods, it's a terrible thing to say, but he sends it anyway and then finally gives Clorinde a proper look.
She stares back, her gaze dark and acidic. "Wriothesley—"
"He's not going to hurt me. Intentionally, at least. Maybe if his flirting in person is as bad but at that point it takes too to tango, and I—"
"You're just so—" Clorinde lets out a grunt of frustration. "I'd shoot you," she mutters, "but I know it wouldn't stop you. You'd be limping to that damn date if it meant seeing him."
"You're approval means the world to me, sunshine," says Wriothesley with a teasing grin.
"This is not approval. I am not approving this, I'm merely accepting the inevitable. If you want to go and get yourself killed by an internet weirdo, that's on you. Saves me from having to hide your body."
If Clorinde was truly against the idea, she'd stop him at any cost, so she approves. A smidgen. Somewhere deep inside that stone-cold body of hers. And honestly, it does mean a lot to him. Clorinde never approves of anyone. Her turning a blind eye speaks volumes.
Wriothesley gives her a long look. "Hey, thanks," he says, which only makes her grunt and wave her hand in annoyance.
[Wriothesley] >> tell me when and where sweetheart, and im there
#
Wriothesley fidgets.
At least he looks good. Despite her supposed anger, Clorinde refused to let him go to the date unless he was pristinely dressed. He'd squirmed the moment they'd stepped in through the door.
"Clorinde," he'd said earlier, "I can't afford—"
"You can afford a decent fucking shirt and some nice trousers for the love of your life." She spat those words as a tease, as a joke, but they aren't. It's too early to think that. Wriothesley shouldn't so he doesn't, but oh, the idea of it is so nice.
She was right about the clothes, too. And now he stands at the hostess stand at Café Lutece the next evening, wringing his fingers.
His favorite server is there, leaning against the stand. "Monsieur Wriothesley," she says with a smile. "Table for one?" It isn't so rare for him to come here alone; it's either that, or with Clorinde.
"Ah, no, for two, actually."
The server blinks. "I... is Mademoiselle Clorinde late?"
Wriothesley snorts. Clorinde hates being called that. He clears his throat and says, "I'm afraid that I'm here for a date."
"Afraid?" teases the server—Ettie, Wriothesley suddenly remembers.
"No, not..." He winces. "I'm just... I don't do this? Date?"
"You're nervous." Ettie smiles gently. "Want me to put you in my section?"
"Aren't you leaving for the night? I know you work mornings and mids, plus I heard you talking to—"
Ettie waves the thought away. "The extra hour or so won't bother me. Besides, you can pay out and camp, and I can bounce. I just thought maybe...well, I know you, so that might make it easier."
It would. Maybe. Or very awkward. "Thanks, really. At least you know what I like. My date apparently is a regular here too."
"Oh? What's she like?"
"Um, actually, it's kind of a blind date, and he's—"
"Wriothesley?"
Wriothesley stills at that voice. He'd know it anywhere, deep and lush. If he thought it sounded perfect through the phone, nothing compares to it in real life. He swallows. Doesn't turn. Rubs at his face and gives Ettie a pleading look. "Did I mention this is kind of a blind date?" he hisses, his body white-hot with anxiety.
She blinks and looks over his shoulder. "With... Monsieur Neuvillette?" Ettie seems horrifically surprised, which doesn't bode well. Clorinde was right. What if he's horrifically disfigured? Wriothesley tells himself it isn't a dealbreaker but—
Neuvillette is not disfigured. Wriothesley turns to give him a proper greeting and stops dead in his spot. The expression time stands still is something he now understands. It goes quiet. He stares, unable to look or think about anything else because everything else stops and the only thing there is the two of them. It is a defining thing, that moment. Wriothesley feels like every other he's lived convenes here and turns at this point, and all of his jokes about how this must be fate hits him full force.
Neuvillette is breathtakingly handsome. Like, storybook handsome; like impossible that he's real handsome, clad in one of those damnable suits and dressed to the nines. His hair is soft-looking, slicked back and cropped near his ears. His pale eyes are sharp and filled with curiosity.
Wriothesley doesn't know what he's doing there. He doesn't compare, no matter how well-cut his shirt is, or that he ironed his trousers before coming here. He's...something. In a completely differently league. Wriothesley rubs at his face self-consciously, thinking of the scar that mars the skin under his eye, the crooked bent to his nose, the—
"You are Wriothesley, yes? I know that I've only seen your—" Neuvillette cuts himself off and clears his throat, pulling at his tie idly. "I am fairly confident that I am correct."
That's cute. Wriothesley stares as the way Neuvillette fidget and trips over his words. "You. Yes. I mean, you—yes. Yes?" Wriothesley is amazed that his brain is functioning as well as it barely is. "Ah, sorry, I just..."
Neuvillette laughs, a rich sound that swells from his gut. Wriothesley rubs at the back of his head and looks at Ettie for support, but she just gawks between the two of them.
"Right," says Wriothesley. "So. I'm—well, you know. Wriothesley. Obviously, it's nice to finally meet you after..." He trails off, knowing he doesn't need to expand further in front of shared company. "Do you hug? I'm a hugger? Handshakes are too formal for something like this, and I just—oh."
Neuvillette does, apparently, not mind hugs. He crosses the space in a few steps and pulls Wriothesley close. It is a little awkward, like he's unsure where to put his hands. First they hover, then they settle lightly against Wriothesley's hips. They push close and Neuvillette tilts his face slightly, and gods, he smells good. Crisp and clean. No hints of cologne, just laundry detergent and... Neuvillette.
"I am, admittedly, not a hugger," he murmurs near Wriothesley's ear, "but I seem to make many exceptions for you."
It is hard to pull away. "Sweet—Neuvillette, you don't have to—"
"Nonsense," he cuts in, pulling away. Neuvillette wears a wide and easy smile. "I wanted to."
Oh, Wriothesley is down bad. This is... he yearns to call him sweetheart, but the endearment is fat on his tongue, and his dick is half-hard, and he really needs some tea to calm down. He can focus on that, like the burning of a candle wick. In with one breath, out with the other.
"Wriothesley?"
"Fuck, I'm so distracted," he blurts aloud. Unintentionally. He'd meant to keep that to himself.
But Neuvillette wears this half-wide, dopey smile, and just like that Wriothesley's worries are soothed.
Ettie politely clears her throat. "Monsieur Wriothesley, Neuvillette. This way?"
Just like that, they sober up. The world crashes back into him, and that pocket of time they shared for the moment disappears into the ether. Right, she's there too, a wicked grin splitting her face as she watches them both. Neuvillette said he's a regular there. Ettie's reaction confirms. Gods, he's going to be teased about this forever. "Yes, let's... after you, Neuvillette."
Neuvillette steps past him and then pauses, turning back to him. "Relax," he says. It's sweet. Non-judgmental. Truly and utterly meant to just put him at ease, and Wriothesley is, absolutely, a sucker for it. His heart races, but he feels better.
Still, easier said than done.
#
So, Wriothesley is wrong.
It is not just easier said than done, it feels like he's known Neuvillette his entire life. The moment they sit and order their drinks, they fall into polite and pleasant conversation that would last for days if they let it. Neuvillette is a fascinating juxtaposition of refinery and awkwardness—despite his plea for Wriothesley to relax, he's just as nervous.
But that awkwardness evaporates the moment they are settled, replaced by charming anecdotes and stories of Neuvillette's work.
"I recognize you," admits Wriothesley, rubbing his head. "It took a moment, but I've seen you on the news."
"Ah. Yes." Neuvillette lets loose a long-suffering sigh. "The most regrettable part of my position. I do not like the spotlight."
Wriothesley has no doubt of that, having noticed the way Neuvillette's cheeks pink with every little compliment. He's more willing to dish out the praise, he thinks, if their late nights are any indicator. Still.
"Your Kameragram, though." Wriothesley drags a fingertip across the edge of the table. "That puts you in the limelight."
A soft snort. "Without my face, it is different. There is a pleasure there. I enjoy—"
"Folks lusting after your collarbones?"
Neuvillette blinks slowly and then says, with a dry tone, "Sharing my fashion sense."
"Well, I appreciate it, that's for sure." A little too much. He definitely doesn't have a starred folder on his phone with his favorite completely safe-for-work thirst traps.
(Really, though, it's true. He's kept the smutty ones, of course. Hasn't gone a day without taking a peek at Neuvillette's pretty dick and fighting the urge to beat one out. But that's a different folder, better hidden, and with a password because if Clorinde's going to keep breaking into his phone, precautions are to be had.)
Neuvillette's expression glints at that. "Yes, I've noticed."
Ettie, of course, takes that moment to check on them. "I have to ask," she says, refilling Neuvillette's cup with fresh water. "How did the two of you meet?"
Wriothesley panics. Dread sets in, and he flounders, mouth parting as he thinks of an excuse, but—
"He liked my Kameragram account," says Neuvillette, saving the day. "And then—what is the term? He slid into my DMs."
Okay, maybe not. Ettie's eyebrows rise so high they are practically in her hairline. She hides her laughter politely. "Well, that's...cute."
"Shoo," he says, waving her away, and Ettie leaves with a wink. "You didn't to say that!"
"Would you rather I tell her that I'm a long time subscriber to your—"
"Yeah, definitely not that either," cuts in Wriothesley. Neuvillette had no intention of actually saying that aloud, though, and he offers Wriothesley an amused smile that wrinkles the edges of his eyes.
Fuck. Wriothesley doesn't typically hook up with men his age. It's nice, though. Sharing that experience, those years. Neuvillette is six years older than him, but barely looks it. Where Wriothesley is ragged around the edges, Neuvillette's entire being is smooth and sleek. So handsome. So, so—
He should pay attention. Engage. Conversate. Wriothesley is bad at that, so he blurts, "So two waters?"
Neuvillette glances from his cup to the bottle that sits beside it. He fiddles with his tie, pulling at it gently. "I like the variety."
"Variety?"
"Well, as I said on the phone, all water is different. They filter their tap here, leaving behind a fresh and crisp taste that washes over the tongue. This bottle, though, is completely different. It hails from a natural spring on Watatsumi Island, and its taste is..."
Wriothesley hates water. It's only good for tea. Clorinde has to force it down his throat when he's at the gym, and Sigewinne has a literal dry-erase board to track his intake, as well as timers that go off to ensure proper hydration.
But when Neuvillette talks about it, he can't help but think, maybe I like water too.
#
The first thought that Neuvillette has when he sees Wriothesley is: Wow, he does not know how to dress.
It is clearly him. His bulk and general shape is well-known to Neuvillette by now, as his dark, coarse hair. Nervous energy radiated off of him as he talked to the hostess, his shoulders tense, his gestured over-animated. Then Wriothesley turned around at the call of his name.
The second thought came: This is right.
That is it, that's the thought. Wriothesley has always been handsome, even with the mask he dons for his streams, but heat quells in Neuvillette's gut as they stand there and just stare.
Wriothesley is imperfect and inarticulate. He can barely speak, barely form words, which Neuvillette finds all the more charming. Navia was right, of course—Neuvillette would manage perfectly fine because Wriothesley is equally out of his depth. That moment they share as they just look and observe is one for the memory banks. Love at first sight—or at least, woeful enamorment.
Then comes their date. They sit and chat, and Neuvillette finds himself rambling about water. Wriothesley doesn't stop him. Wriothesley doesn't just listen, he is rapt with his attention, even asking questions, and taking a sip before telling Neuvillette he has no idea. Which is fine, it's more than fine—the fact that Wriothesley even entertained his strange hyper-fixation makes Neuvillette's chest flutter.
Hot—he's hot. Around the collar. Near his groin. Pulling at his tie does nothing to quell that slow-churning ache because Wriothesley is there, within his grasp, and Neuvillette's response is to ramble on about the tasting notes of fucking water.
"So, what do you do?" asks Neuvillette. "Aside from...well, you know."
Wriothesley chuckles softly. "Ah, yeah. Honestly, compared to you, Mr. Lead Prosecutor—"
"Please do not call me mister."
Judging by the glint to Wriothesley's eyes and his propensity for pet names, he will. "I co-own a gym. I used to fight—I was a Pankration Boxer. I've got a few titles under my belt, nothing fancy. Didn't want to go pro. I got older and retired, and bought a gym." Wriothesley waves this off like it's nothing special. "Nowadays I'm a part-time personal trainer. I'm able to cut back on hours because of—" Wriothesley looks around before giving Neuvillette a rather salacious gesture.
"A boxer," repeats Neuvillette. That is no surprise. Suddenly the gentle crook to Wriothesley's nose, the scars, and thick-cut muscles all make sense. Even if he's retired, he's maintained himself, even with the softness that Neuvillette has seen around his hips. The perfect juxtaposition. It makes him hungry.
Wriothesley rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, it's nothing. You're—"
"We are talking about you, right now," cuts in Neuvillette. "Do not sell yourself short, Wriothesley. You are quite admirable."
"I... well, thanks, I guess." He laughs nervously. "You'll have to deal with the fact that I don't take compliments well."
"Practice, then."
Wriothesley blinks back at him, boyish charm tugging across his face. "Practice?"
"Compliments. You can practice accepting them, and I get to dole them out. Isn't this what they call a win-win scenario?" Neuvillette has no idea where his smooth words come from, but talking to Wriothesley has brought forth a side of himself that he wasn't aware he possessed. It comes easily, smoothly. Navia would tease him, citing that that his horniness has won out.
"That's—Ah. I... yeah, okay. You can—I won't say no. To that."
Oh, he's adorable. Wriothesley's cheeks are now flushed pink, and he's wringing his fingers again. Neuvillette would be the same, will be, when Wriothesley no doubts repays the favor.
"A boxer," muses Neuvillette for a second time. "I do not pretend to know anything about prize fighting, but I am happy to reap the supposed benefits that come as a result of your training."
Wriothesley's mouth falls open. Then closes. Then opens. "Are you—is that flirting?"
"Is it working? If it is not, then no."
Wriothesley laughs at that, a full belly laugh. "Gods, I thought this would be... Man, I was so fucking nervous, you know. About this. About a date—I don't date. I've told you that. And you, you're—"
"Wriothesley."
"—like this... I don't know, you're just a league above. Out of my own. A whole weight class over me. And the idea that you want the same thing, that you'd want to have a go at this, and—"
"Wriothesley." Neuvillette reaches out to take his hand. The sit close enough, next to each other instead of opposite and across the table. It's the first time they've touched since they hugged, and then Neuvillette couldn't do much more than relish the solid weight of Wriothesley against him.
But now he holds his hand. It's calloused and scarred, tiny cuts marring the backs of his knuckles, superficial at worst but enough to make Neuvillette want to kiss them sweetly. Instead, he smooths his thumb over them, tracing each one. "Wriothesley," he says, "take a breath."
He does, sucking in that sweet relief, relaxing. He doesn't pull away. He lets Neuvillette pull his thumb across the back of his hand, tracing the rises and dips of the bones there. And Neuvillette—Neuvillette feels grounded to him, tethered together by how well they seem to fit together so quickly.
"It's getting late," says Wriothesley lamely. "Not that I want to leave, just Ettie is sweet, but we can't keep her here forever. The kitchen'll close soon. There are other times, other days. I'm off on—"
"Wriothesley, I do not want to part ways here." Neuvillette swallows, realizing he's put his put in his mouth. It's one thing to flirt shamelessly over their mobile devices with explicit teasing, and will-they-won't-they scenarios. But to do it in person, to have Wriothesley living and breathing before him, to tell him that he wants to stay, that he wants to indulge deep into the night, is a step taken that cannot be reeled back.
Anxiety pricks at his being. Wriothesley looks like a deer in headlights, and Neuvillette wonders if he's read the room wrong, if this is going too fast. But how can it? They've fucked on camera, they've fucked over the phone, Neuvillette has even broken down and fucked his hand, which, honestly, is almost worse considering his character.
But perhaps he's thought about this too explicitly. Perhaps, Wriothesley would rather ease into it, despite his admitted preference for fuck buddies and one-night stands. He'd said Neuvillette was different, that they could have something more.
"Yes," blurts Wriothesley. Immediately. Without hesitation. "I'd love that. My place is a little bit of a mess, though. Not dirty just... I've been tired lately and Clorinde keeps me on my toes about it, but she's been avoiding me."
"Ah. The angry roommate?"
"Former," corrects Wriothesley. "She kicked me out years ago. Something about seeing my hairy ass too much."
Neuvillette hides a chuckle against the palm of his free hand. Still holds Wriothesley's with his other, still traces those knuckles with the pad of his thumb. "That bodes well for us, then. If we were to go to your place. However, you seem anxious about its supposed messy state."
"It isn't that bad, but a man has to set a good impression, Neuvillette. Don't call me out on my bluff."
"Bluff," he teases. "You've set more than a good impression, I assure you. However, if you would allow for me to offer an alternative—come back to my home instead. It's perfectly comfortable."
"Yes, okay," comes Wriothesley's immediate reply. "I—yes, okay. That's good. We should do that. Get to...know each better. Um. Ettie—wait, I've got to leave her a good tip." He pulls away from Neuvillette's grasp and pulls out his wallet, fumbling with it as he tries to count his bills.
Neuvillette happily pays for the rest of the tab.
#
The moment that the door closes behind them, Wriothesley makes his move.
"A swanky town home," he says, pressing Neuvillette against that door, boxing him against the painted wood. "I should've known. Good call coming here. I don't live frugally, but I bet you have 1000-count Sumeran cotton sheets."
"They come from Natlan, but whose counting?" Neuvillette tilts his face towards Wriothesley's neck instinctively, breathing in his scent; subtle cologne, citrus and tea, the leather of his jacket. It's addicting. He already wants a taste, leaning in.
Wriothesley's catches his face between the palms of both his hands. Turns his face back to him, thumbing over the rises of his cheekbones. "Fuck," he says, just looking at him, staring at him, taking a moment to share space. "Fuck, you have no idea how long I've wanted to kiss you."
"Since that hug?" Neuvillette chuckles at the thought.
"No, sweetheart, before that. Since the moment I heard your voice. The moment I saw those damned photos."
"You hadn't even seen my face—"
"Didn't matter. Still doesn't. Neuvillette, can I kiss you?"
Neuvillette curls his hands into Wriothesley's shirt and yanks him close, kissing him. Wriothesley's mouth is soft and yielding. His lips are a little chapped, and they part the moment Neuvillette's tongue teases their seam. A swift and consuming thing. Neuvillette didn't think this would happen slowly, but he didn't think he'd be on fire either.
Wriothesley moans into his mouth, cradling his jaw sweetly. He licks into it, tongue seeking out Neuvillette's, and he tastes like temptation, like tea had had on their date. Neuvillette's hand finds the back of his neck and holds him there, deepening the sordid kiss until they're hot and heavy, and barely standing on shaking legs.
His cock is hard. Neuvillette traces the length of Wriothesley's shoulders with his hands; down his front, feeling those damnable pecs. Down his sides, pulling at Wriothesley's jacket. Across his waist, lifting Wriothesley's shirt to feel hot skin stretched over corded muscle. Neuvillette's fingers dig into his hips, pulling him close, grinding against him.
"Sweetheart," hisses Wriothesley against his mouth, and he's hard too, moving against Neuvillette, offering up a soft groan when their erections catch against each other.
"When you call me that—"
"I said I didn't have to."
"No, no, it drives me mad. Wriothesley, I want you. I've wanted you."
Wriothesley's laughter is warm against his lips. "Yeah," he says. "Fuck, I need you too. I can't stop thinking about you."
"Oh?" Neuvillette's mouth pulls into a wicked smile as his hand slides up to rest against the small of Wriothesley's back. "Tell me more," he murmurs, chasing Wriothesley's mouth, nipping at it.
It's been too long since he's last done this but seducing a man is like riding a bike. Or maybe it's just Wriothesley. It must be Wriothesley because never before has Neuvillette responded so readily, or demanded such attention. He is greedy. He needs, and so he bites and Wriothesley's mouth, coaxing out that praise he so desperately wants.
"Literally every day," says Wriothesley, moving to kissing along the edge of his jaw. "I take my cock into my hand, and I jerk off to the thought of you."
"Wriothesley—"
"Then that video call." A kiss to a soft spot on his throat, Wriothesley's teeth just barely sinking in. "That phone call. I'm gone for you, baby. Please—"
Neuvillette tugs at Wriothesley's coarse hair. "You boxed me in against this door instead of taking me to my bed. You decided to kiss me here, breathless, instead of pressing me into my pillows."
Wriothesley's breath is hot against his ear as he kisses the shell of it. "You're killing me here."
"None of that," replies Neuvillette. "You're not allowed to die until I get to have you."
Wriothesley stills against him, his mouth easing for a sweet kiss against his temple. "So needy," he groans, rolling their hips together. The friction is delicious, sparking heat down the length of Neuvillette's spine. "So desperate. I've told you what I've wanted, but what about you? How long have you wanted me to fuck you?"
Neuvillette whines as Wriothesley bites down at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It stings, but it stings good, the fires of pleasure burning through him. Wriothesley's hands roam, squeezing his sides, his hips, the roundness of his backside.
Wriothesley's cock is trapped between them, hot and hard through his trousers. Neuvillette needs his hands on it, so one drops, fingers trailing down Wriothesley's sternum, his belly, before squeezing his length through the thick fabric.
"Since before I saw this," he purrs, tilting his face until his mouth is near Wriothesley's ear. It comes as a heady rush, a quiet confession meant for their ears alone. He traces that length, fingers dancing down it to the tip. "You've always captivated me. Never lewd. Refined—and yes, I mean that. So very handsome. I was enraptured by your voice, your laughter before anything else. But now that I've seen this, now that I've heard what you sound like as you touch yourself—Wriothesley."
Wriothesley kisses him again, just as hungry before. Sloppy. Ill-refined. "Bedroom," he begs, "where's—"
"That hall. Around the corner. You're—too clothed. Take off your jacket at least."
Wriothesley shrugs it off, dropping the leather to the ground. Another quick grind of their cocks. More dark, desperate praise whispered against Neuvillette's ear as Wriothesley tells him just what he wants to do. A hand on his cock. His fingers in his ass, opening him slowly, watching him come apart as his hole is bullied open.
Neuvillette wants that, so Neuvillette pulls at him, tugging him down the hall. Clothing is unlatched, tugged off, and left in their haste. They can pick it up later. I doesn't matter that his hallway is littered with their things, Neuvillette needs to have Wriothesley over him, in him, filling him.
"Too soft," mutters Wriothesley the moment his knee sinks into the mattress.
Neuvillette lies on his back, naked, legs spread, his hard cock on display. He cradles his cock, resting it against his palm. Gives it a quick stroke, thumbing over the tip before pulling away, a string of precome clinging to the pad of his finger.
Wriothesley stares. Loses time. Watches him with a hungry gaze that makes everything else melt away, even the dark quiet of the room. It's only them as he moves, settling over Neuvillette.
"Sweetheart." His touch this time is soft, sweet, reverent. He slides his fingers across Neuvillette's skin, taking in every inch of him. "You're gorgeous. Fuck, I—"
"Better than the suits?" Neuvillette knows it's a cruel thing to ask, but he delights in the way Wriothesley's throat bobs before he answers.
"Yeah. Yes. I mean—" Another sweep of his hands down the sinuous line of Neuvillette's leg.
Neuvillette stares too, his gaze washing across Wriothesley's rugged form. Thick, with soft muscle packs every inch of him comes as a tantalizing sight. Now that he's seen his face, Neuvillette is enamored. He has to touch, to get his hands on him, to dig his fingers in until that slight softness gives. He needs to feel their cocks brushing alongside each other as they frot.
"Come here," he says.
Wriothesley goes, like a puppet on a string, heeding Neuvillette's request like a well-trained command. He slots between his legs. Wriothesley fits there, perfectly, like puzzle pieces notched together.
"This," says Neuvillette, reaching out to touch Wriothesley's cock, "has haunted me. Since I first saw it, I've wanted to touch, to taste."
"Neuvillette—"
"Like this," murmurs Neuvillette, gathering their cocks together in his hand. He squeezes, and Wriothesley groans, rutting his hips into his hand.
"Shit. Shit—"
"Another time." Neuvillette tilts his face up to nuzzle the column of Wriothesley's throat. "Another time I'll take my time and indulge."
"But now?"
"But now I need you—your fingers, your cock, something." Another stroke of their lengths drags a keening whine from Wriothesley's mouth.
In a perfect world, Neuvillette would indulge now. He'd had a plan, which was to edge Wriothesley until he couldn't think; to suck him off, to explore every inch of his hard-packed body that's haunted him for so long. The pictures, the calls, the easing—Neuvillette finally has his hands of Wriothesley, and he'd wanted to drag it out.
But the world isn't perfect, and Neuvillette is a needy, needy creature, too keyed up to think much beyond having Wriothesley's cock pressed deep inside. Neuvillette's dick aches, twitches, burns with need. He's a raw, aching nerve who's desperate to get off, and Wriothesley is so close to making that happen.
"Sweetheart," he says, slowing the roll of his hips. "You said it'd been a while. But..."
A normal question. Wriothesley is trying to access the situation and prepare accordingly. Neuvillette could be coy. He could tease the man with slick and sultry words that would make Wriothesley lose his mind. But the truth here might be a boon and have the same effect if Neuvillette has learned to read Wriothesley well.
"Too long," he says. "Years since I've last had a partner, even in a less-than-personal way. I'm too busy for that, Wriothesley, so it's been years of fucking my own hands and fingers."
He can see just how those words affect him. Wriothesley draws in a sharp breath as he hangs over him. A swift rut of his cock, sliding against Neuvillette's. A deep, guttural groan as his gaze tightens. "So it's only me?"
"Yes."
"I've broken down all those walls, huh? You needed me that badly?"
"Yes." Neuvillette gasps as Wriothesley thumbs across a nipple.
Then he moves down, down the bed until he's mouthing at the soft inside of Neuvillette's thigh. "Lube?"
Neuvillette thanks himself for being lazy the night before, throwing the bottle underneath the pillow instead of in the drawer. Wriothesley takes it from his hand with a soft, humming thanks, and slicks his fingers.
Things do slow, slightly, if only to savor this first experience. Wriothesley lays between his legs and presses his thighs back for a better look. He stares again, his gaze washing over Neuvillette. Heat rises in his veins, choking him. Neuvillette watches back through a half-slitted gaze. His cock leaks from the tip, making a mess of his stomach.
"You..." Wriothesley is at a loss for words, which does wonders for Neuvillette's ill-placed anxiety. He is older but not infirm. A little soft around the edges, but handsome and lithe. Wriothesley stares with the reverence a priest would give the gods, which only adds fuel to the flames that course through his being.
A thumb sweeps over the tight furl of his hole, just feeling it. A gentle press, a teasing test. Neuvillette forces himself to relax as that thumb carefully slips in. Wriothesley is too gentle, too hesitant. Neuvillette cants his hips upward, forcing his thumb deeper.
"Please," he begs. "Wriothesley, I'm not glass. You do not need to take your time."
"Neuvillette—"
"I don't want you to. I need you like I do water. Please."
That seems to do the trick. Wriothesley stills, tugging at his hole before slipping that thumb out. Two fingers sink in with a sting, but it's the good kind of sting that makes Neuvillette gasp and his toes curl in pleasure. "Like that," he encourages, bearing down, forcing them deeper.
"Look at you," marvels Wriothesley, those fingers wriggling, spreading, pulling Neuvillette apart as he opens him up. He's greedy too, desperate to watch him, to feel him squeeze around those digits, to bully his rim wide and smooth until he's ready to take his cock.
A third finger as Neuvillette offering up a soft whimper. Wriothesley drills them deep, sweeping across his soft insides. "Tight," he murmurs in awe. "Gods, you feel so good."
"Wriothesley," he cries out sharply when those fingers find the perfect angle.
Wriothesley smirks, his mouth curled into a soft, wicked smile. His fingers find that spot again, and again, and again, until Neuvillette is a teary-eyed mess on the verge of orgasm.
It is beyond good. Pleasure coils in Neuvillette's belly tighter and tighter with every punch of Wriothesley's fingers. "Sweetheart," he says, kissing the inside of his thigh again. The crease of his groin, the base of his cock. Precome dribbles from the tip of Neuvillette's length, and Wriothesley laps at that too, swirling his tongue across the slit for a taste.
"I'm—Wriothesley, I'm going to—"
"Come on, baby, I want to see it. Let go. Be good for me, and let go, and then I'll fuck you however you want."
What a dream. Neuvillette writhes in the sheets, grinding onto Wriothesley's fingers as he barrels toward his end. "No," he says. "No, no, I want to finish with you inside. I won't—"
Wriothesley's fingers come to a stop. "Oh," he breathes, his gaze dropping to where his ass is split open around his knuckles. "That's—" Neuvillette won't come for a second time, and they both know that. His refractory period isn't great, and he's unused to giving into his pleasure this way. He'd rather finish when he's filled to the brim of Wriothesley's cock.
"Alright, okay." Wriothesley pulls his fingers free, wiping them clean on his discarded shirt. "I—shit. I didn't think about that. I didn't—sorry, I got a head of myself." He crawls back up the length of Neuvillette and presses a kiss to his temple. "Apologies."
"Apologies are best paid by fucking me—"
"Did you say fuck?" Wriothesley seems stunned by that, but very much into it.
"A rare occurrence," replies Neuvillette. He rests his hand against the back of Wriothesley's neck and guides his face closer. "I wouldn't squander it."
Wriothesley does not. He uses too much lube, so much that the wet squelch of his hand on his cock makes Neuvillette's cheeks burn pink. When the top of Wriothesley's cock meets his loose, slick rim, Neuvillette is relaxed. He's so relaxed, ready to be filled, and he lies there in the bed giving Wriothesley what he hopes is a sultry, needy look.
"Just like that," says Wriothesley, dragging his cock across Neuvillette's hole, up and down through the crease of his ass. And then he's pressing in, the flared head of his cock catching on Neuvillette's rim as he slowly sinks in. "Oh," he murmurs. "Oh, you feel—"
Neuvillette moans, a long and drawn out sound as he swallows Wriothesley's cock right to the root. So full. Neuvillette doesn't care much for toys, and he's less inclined to shove his fingers inside himself. They don't fill him like this. Nothing will; Wriothesley's cock is too thick, too long, too perfectly shaped to be compared with anything else.
He's gone. Neuvillette's brain chemistry has been altered, and when Wriothesley pulls back, his cock sliding through him until only the tip remains, Neuvillette is left choking on his breath. "Wriothesley," he says, hooking his entire arm around his neck to pull him flush.
"Yes, baby?"
"Fuck me," he whispers into Wriothesley's ear.
Just like that, everything falls into place, clicking together like puzzle pieces. Neuvillette has had his share of partners, but nothing like this, nothing like Wriothesley who thrusts into him with deep, slow strokes that have him arching from the bed. Neuvillette can feel it all. His cock is everywhere, deep in his ass, in his stomach, in his throat. He moans. Cries out Wriothesley's name. Clings to him for leverage as he lifts his hips and meets every thrust with a roll of his hips.
"You wicked, wicked thing." Wriothesley's breath is hot against his ear. He moans against him, kissing the shell of it, nuzzling the soft skin that he finds there.
Neuvillette's spine tingles, phantom sparks of pleasure bleeding through his belly and gut. Wriothesley leans on one elbow. His other hand holds Neuvillette's thigh, pressing it back. It's the perfect angle. Wriothesley grinds his cock into him, the tip brushing against Neuvillette's prostate with every wet thrust.
"There," he says, "there, there—"
"I've got you sweetheart. Fuck, feels so good. Tight. Hot. You're perfect."
He isn't. Neuvillette isn't, but when Wriothesley says it, it's so sweet, so soft that it's easy to believe. And it isn't the first time Wriothesley has confessed this; he said it even before he saw his face, before he knew who he was, and now—
Neuvillette has that daring thought that he wants this to be something. This isn't sex, it's something else, a seed being sowed into rich, loamy soil. He wants to cultivate it, wants to work with Wriothesley and discover all that they can share. Wriothesley would want that too, he thinks. Wriothesley said he's never wanted to settle down, but he's tired in the same way, worn thin by his loneliness. They share that, but now they don't have to.
"Wriothesley," he says, cupping Wriothesley's cheeks. Another thrust leaves Neuvillette gasping, chest heaving with strain as the tension inside of him mounts higher and higher. Then, a pet name of his own, unintended. "Beloved," he murmurs, brushing back Wriothesley's sweaty bangs as his cock grinds deep on a down stroke.
Their rhythm stutters. Wriothesley stares at him with soft eyes, their foreheads pressed together. Too sweet for just a quick fucking. His eyes slip closed, and he just feels, rutting against Neuvillette, chasing his end.
Neuvillette knows, he feels the way Wriothesley's cock twitches inside. His own dick aches, and touches himself, stroking with a free hand to the uneven gait of Wriothesley's movements.
"Does it feel good?" he asks, his tone full of amusement. "Am I everything that you wanted?"
"And more, baby. Fuck, Neuvillette you—yes, yes."
"Are you going to come for me?" Wriothesley whines, his thighs tense as he tries to stave off for as long as he can. "Me too, sweet thing. Me too."
Neuvillette is drunk on it all; the feel of Wriothesley's cock carving through him, the press of their foreheads together, his sweat-slick skin as they move against each other. It's like they've known each other forever, effortless and easy. Wriothesley presses his mouth near Neuvillette's ear and tells him just how good this feels, how much he's wanted it.
He comes like that, praise dripping from his lips, coating his tongue. He shoves his cock deep, spilling white-hot with a groan.
Neuvillette squeezes his cock tighter. "Perfect," he says, "so perfect. Mmhn, yes."
Wriothesley bats his hand away, taking hold of Neuvillette's dick instead. "You next, sweetheart," he breathes, nuzzling the length of his jaw, kissing it, mouthing at it.
Just those words and being full—that's all it takes. Neuvillette tips over the edge, his ass clenching around Wriothesley's softening cock. A soft cry of his name as pleasure melts through Neuvillette's being.
Wriothesley strokes him through it because he can't help himself. "So good for me," he praises, laughing against Neuvillette hair, gracing it with sloppy kiss.
They share the high of that shared orgasm, flush against each other, uncaring of the sweat, of the mess of their come. And then Neuvillette's back aches, the lower part of his spine, just above his hips. Wriothesley too, grunting softly as he teeters back and forth on his knees.
"Gently," he mutters, pulling out slowly. "Easy does it." A pause and then: "Where's the bathroom?"
Neuvillette gestures tiredly to the far corner of his room. The bed sinks underneath Wriothesley's weight as he moves, disappearing for a few moments. He comes back with a damp towel stolen from the shower, dutifully cleaning up the mess they've made.
"We could shower—"
"This is fine," says Neuvillette. "I'm—you've cleaned up adequately. I'd rather just...rest." With anyone else, it would not be fine. They'd be already on their way, dressed and out the door, and Neuvillette would be already drowning himself in boiling hot water. But Wriothesley is comfortable. He smells good, is warm and soft.
He sits there on the edge of the bed, hesitation bleeding across his features. "I..."
"Stay," requests Neuvillette. "Please."
Wriothesley immediately slips into the sheets. "Yeah, you don't need to tell me twice."
Neuvillette laughs, rolling over onto his side to look at him. "Eager."
"I won't deny it." Wriothesley groans settling onto his back, twisting around until he finds a good angle. "Shit, I'm sore. I'm not used to... that."
Neither is Neuvillette. He reaches out and catches Wriothesley's hand, tugging it to his mouth for a kiss against his knuckles. "We share that. I won't lie that I currently ache in places that I'm an unused to aching in."
Wriothesley's smile is wicked. "Oh? Come here and tell me more?"
Neuvillette settles closer, slotting against his side. Wriothesley's chest is soft underneath his cheek, comfortable. He kisses a scar there, tasting his sweat, but doesn't elaborate. "You need no explanation. You did this to me."
"You begged for it."
"Yes." Neuvillette's hand traces more scars, dragging his fingers down their jagged lengths. He doesn't ask about them. Later, maybe. He'll demand that Wriothesley tell him each and every story, but for now he just enjoys mapping them out.
The quiet is nice. Wriothesley breathes evenly, solidly as Neuvillette's fingers dance across his skin.
Neuvillette breaks the quiet. "You said that you do not spend the night."
"I don't. Typically." Neuvillette hums softly, prompting Wriothesley to shift slightly until his face is pressed against the crown of his head. Wriothesley inhales, thinking. "You're different. I'm not going anywhere."
"Different," murmurs Neuvillette. The rise and fall of Wriothesley's chest lulls him. "I sleep better, I've learned. With you there."
Wriothesley's throat bobs. "Yeah. Same."
This is just like those times, only now Wriothesley is too-warm against his side, and he pets Neuvillette's hair. Neuvillette falls asleep, warm and comfortable, Wriothesley humming softly and he's pulled under.
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