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Neuvillette is a careful man.
He traces the edges of files, before pressing fingers between pages, to turn to the next agreement. To the next set of requests laid out by the Fortress of Meropide. And those gloves he wears remain a steadfast item of demise to Wriothesley.
If Wriothesley is fortunate enough, he’ll catch a slip of skin in summer, and the sight of his wrist, speckled in the softest, lightest dusting of pearl white scales, when Neuvillette’s gloves are shorter to combat the humid state of weather. But it’s winter now, and in the dim lamplight of Neuvillette’s office, with the hearth crackling—their only witness—Wriothesley admires how dark navy silk clings to lithe fingers.
Celestia above, he may be transfixed by the nature of Neuvillette’s hands. Those fingers are nimble, and his wrists narrow, and Wriothesley wonders what it would be like to run his lips along the backs of those knuckles, and the slope of that bone—
“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette calls for Wriothesley’s attention, tearing him from fantasies. Absurd fantasies. “It is rather late. Perhaps this is where we will pick up tomorrow.”
“Right.” Wriothesley sits up straight again. Sighs, breath catching. He clears his throat. “Must be more tired than I thought.”
Gods, he’s been found out, and while he should be mortified, he’s greatly more exhausted after a full day, and he wishes Neuvillette would notice, for once, where his mind wanders.
“You will take these with you, yes?” Neuvillette insistently pushes papers across the desk, neatly stacked. They’re all financial reports and forms to fill out for maintenance checks. Perfectly dreary in comparison to what Wriothesley actually wants. But these forms mean Wriothesley will need to come back to see Neuvillette, and they’re his saving grace.
“I’ll have to,” Wriothesley offers a gentle smile in return. Knows his ears are tipped red. “Same time, then?” He reaches for the files. Fumbles them. Papers flutter to the floor, and the larger file holding most of their documents slides to the edge of the desk, tipping dreadfully to the side.
Neuvillette reaches out to catch the file. Wriothesley does too. Their hands touch, fingers pressing over one another, to the underside of the file.
Those fingers are so warm. Neuvillette’s grip is strong, and Wriothesley’s mind assaults him with the image of those same fingers raking down his back. Of those nails pressing into the muscle of his shoulders, and that same strong grip keeping him steady as he leans over Neuvillette's body—
Gods.
“So much for that.” Wriothesley sounds breathless even to himself, but it’s entirely due to the fact that Neuvillette’s hand lingers on his for a moment more than truly needed. “We’re hopeless.”
“It is rather late,” Neuvillette offers, a somewhat small comfort. His eyes shimmer with that same blue hue his rhinophores get when he’s agitated, or focused, and Wriothesley wishes he knew what was on his mind. “The last Aquabus out to the Opera Epiclese is in fifteen minutes, if you’d like to catch it.”
As Neuvillette says this, those amethyst eyes drop to Wriothesley’s mouth. Follow a path back up to his eyes, and then stay there.
For a moment Wriothesley thinks Neuvillette will invite him to stay the night.
They have danced so very carefully around one another all these years. The past two have been the worst. A charity banquet had made sure of that. Neuvillette had indulged in champagne and Wriothesley had been daring enough to join him. They’d walked back to Neuvillette’s offices after, a true mess of words and lingering touches upon shoulders and the backs of hands.
Wriothesley still wishes he’d kissed Neuvillette before saying goodbye.
And now, every evening spent in these meetings comes with a new set of flirtations that are so thinly veiled that Wriothesley may as well be catching a glimpse of affection through a fine morning mist, rather than a curtain thick enough to block out sunlight.
But tonight of all nights is not the night that Wriothesley throws that curtain back. Confessions of all forms sit upon his tongue, but he swallows love down, letting its sweetness curl tight in his gut as nervous energy.
“Wriothesley, I—”
“I’ll be off then.” Wriothesley stands. Saves them both the awkwardness of a confession too soon uttered. He safely stows files away in his attaché case. When he goes to shake Neuvillette’s hand, he finds that the highs of Neuvillette’s cheeks, too, are flushed. It’s so very easy to tell, with that pale complexion of his.
“Goodnight, Wriothesley.”
Is that a touch of affection to the lilt in that voice? Or is it simply tiredness and a great dose of delusion on Wriothesley’s part?
“Get home safely, Neuvillette.”
–
When Wriothesley leaves Neuvillette’s office, Neuvillette walks back around his desk, and leans forward, closing his eyes.
He breathes in, and catches lingering notes of Wriothesley’s cologne; pine and something sharp and chemical. Pine, perhaps? He exhales, shaken. His fingertips tingle with the memory of Wriothesley’s touch, and if he were in any other form, the scales along his back would have shuddered, too, and risen with the sole interest of attracting a mate.
But Wriothesley is no mate. He is no lover. He is a co-worker, and a highstanding one in the Court at that.
Still, Neuvillette lets his form drop, and he takes in the scent of Wriothesley in the air.
There is desire there. Something heady and dark and divine—it clings to the back of Neuvillette’s throat, bitter, yet rich as dark chocolate. It’s intense.
It’s arousal.
And he’d caught that scent halfway through their meeting. What agony it is, to not simply act upon instinct and pursue Wriothesley as a mate.
What agony it is to not be human, and still, after centuries, know so little of their courting and rituals.
“No.” Neuvillette pushes off the desk, and begins tidying his space. He places his inkwell carefully in its brass case, and locks it away in his drawer with confidential documents.
There are a few Guestionaires who have been after his inkwells for the past few days, desperate to know which brand he uses after The Steambird announced he has a preference for Inazuma’s water based inks. It’s all the rage, and Neuvillette is a little humoured by it, but ultimately more concerned for the safety of his pens.
What a dragonly thing it is for him to hoard pens. Fountain pens, dip pens, quills, glass pens and steel nib holders. It’s a telltale sign that spring will knock at the Court’s high walls and wash away the chill in the air soon. And what a terrible thing it’ll be, to spend his heat alone, with no lover to warm his bed.
Neuvillette brushes those thoughts aside as he locks the deskside drawer, and reaches for his coat. His cane rests against the bookshelf, and he takes it in hand, white-knuckled as he drives Wriothesley from his mind.
Patience has been exercised for centuries, so what are a few more years until this longing, too, passes?
But when he finds his way home—just a while West of the Palais Mermonia, and a brisk walk down a narrow passage—he sheds clothes and sinks into a bath scented with lavender.
Fingers trace skin. Mimic the fantasy of what Wriothesley’s touch might be like. Would he grasp at hips hard enough to bruise? Is he a lover of rough temperament, or rather, is he gentle enough to shatter Neuvillette with the lightest of touches?
Neuvillette drowns in fantasy, Wriothesley’s name tumbling from lips as he finds release.
He promises himself that this will be the last time he indulges. He promises himself to respect the boundary Wriothesley has drawn.
–
Wriothesley retires early to his rooms, just above his office in Meropide, as he always does after long meetings with Neuvillette. Want burns bright beneath his skin, and his thoughts drop devastatingly low into a place of achingly sweet temptation. Inmates and Gardes mistake it for upset and a dark demeanour after tedious work, when truly, he’s so taken by Neuvillette that he finds it best to shut himself away before it consumes him whole.
Tonight is no different.
The pipes groan with effort, pushing water to the showerhead. He undresses. Doesn’t bother to fold clothes away. He is tired. He craves sleep. But he craves Neuvillette more.
He washes his hair. Washes the day away and uses an elegantly carved bar of soap Neuvillette gifted him at the turn of the winter solstice. It’s lavender scented, and the ornate edges are already dulled from use. He wonders if Neuvillette chose this specific set of soaps and bath oils on purpose.
He doesn’t mind smelling like Neuvillette. It makes his sheets smell soft, and when he sleeps, he can almost imagine Neuvillette beside him—how softly he’d hold Neuvillette, and how much love he’d offer him, from lips tracing temple and breath gracing soft skin, naked beneath sheets.
Wriothesley allows himself to enjoy the thought of it all. He lets fingers trek down his chest. Over the ladder of his own ribs, and down his stomach, where a fine trail of dark hair leads to aching desire.
Orgasm is a temporary thing. It ends with a snap and the tense coil of muscles. In the after, Wriothesley’s heart aches, and this is far from a thing of satisfaction. He’s left beneath lukewarm water, washing evidence of unrequited love down the drain, forehead pressed to cool tiles as he catches his breath.
How much longer will he be able to do this?
–
“Monsieur Neuvillette, an invitation for you!” Sedene chases Neuvillette through the halls of the Palais Mermonia the following morning. The smell of coffee, the rustle of papers and the steady clack, clack, clack of typewriters fills the air, a resounding note that tells of Gestionaires eager to retire early before the weekend.
There is a new show at the Opera Epiclese, and many have already had their early days off approved to go see it. Neuvillette may work long hours past what is expected, but he will never do the same to the staff.
“Is it for the opera?” Neuvillette asks as he takes the manila envelope from her. She moves from foot to foot, too excited to keep still. It’s admirable, considering it’s only seven in the morning. “Prosper Mérimée’s novella is well on its way to the stage, isn’t it? The Steambird covered the rehearsals a few months ago.”
“Yes, it’s Carmen. And how tragic it’ll be!” Sedene nods, her little rhinophores swaying. She smiles, as if the prospect of high drama on stage, even if full of grief, is absolutely riveting to her. Neuvillette sees a little of Sigewinne in her in that regard—they both enjoy operas and plays that explore the human psyche, no matter how dark and tortured. They find it incredibly interesting.
“Hmm.” Neuvillette worries his lower lip between teeth as he reads over the invitation. The flutter of his heart slows as he realizes it hasn’t been extended by Wriothesley, but rather, on behalf of the Yashiro Commissioner. “Kamisato Ayato has not been in Fontaine for quite some time. I believe this must be in regards to our trade in silk and fabric, if anything. Chiori mentioned a growing interest in Inazuman silks through her customer base recently.”
It is a good thing to have ties between Inazuma and Fontaine. Operas have been introduced to Inazuma, and in turn, Inazuman fashion has begun to influence the public; the style of fans for the ladies, and the fashioning of leisure robes. Neuvillette’s favourite part of this cultural partnership, however, lies with the Yae Publishing House’s growing import of light novels. Crime novels, not so much. But romance? Most definitely.
“His Grace has a meeting scheduled for after the opera, if you are still amenable,” Sedene tells him. Her eyes shine, curious and far too knowing. “Shall he come for tea? Or shall I tell him to reschedule for Monday?”
“Yes, Monday.” Neuvillette wishes Wriothesley could come with him. “The Yashiro Commission’s men keep us up late to discuss work, so I wouldn’t want to keep His Grace waiting past working hours.”
The Fortress has been under heavy maintenance—pipes that burst in the midst of winter, and rusted machinery in need of parts replaced. Neuvillette would never allow his selfly desires to steal Wriothesley away from his own duties so quickly.
But by God, does he want to.
–
Wriothesley still finds his way to the Overworld come Friday night. He stops by Cafe Lutece to pick up Sigewinne’s favourite macarons and a fresh bag of beans—she has a taste for Sumeru’s richer blends of coffee these days. Her nights have been just as long as his, with the summer flu making its rounds.
He takes his time walking through the streets. His name is known by many, but he keeps a low enough profile that the general members of the Court do not recognize him. It feels wonderful to breathe in air that isn’t stale with the scent of metal and oil and old salt trekked in by worn down industrial-grade boots.
Bags in hand, he stops by a small bookstore, nestled at the end of Vasari Passage. Clotilde is unassuming, and the lights inside are warm and inviting, spilling out the front door and across the cobbled path. Wriothesley isn’t a reader. He tinkers. Makes things with his hands, and fusses with gears until they spin the way he wants them to. But Neuvillette reads.
The bell above the door jangles as he steps in. It smells of paper and ink. Of leatherbound books.
“Welcome, Monsieur!” A young woman comes around the front desk. She has a pile of thin weekly digest magazines in hand. Wriothesley recognizes it as the same ones Wolsey gets in the post on Sundays for crosswords. “Can I help you? We close in twenty minutes.”
“It is already late, isn’t it?” Wriothesley gives her a kind smile. “May I browse? I won’t be too long.”
“Be my guest! Let me know when you’re ready to pay, if you find something.” She beams. Blushes a little before dashing off to the other side of the store where a frame is set against the wall for newspapers.
Left to his own devices, Wriothesley searches the shelves. They’re all catalogued by genre. He’s never seen Neuvillette read, beyond the one time Sedene came in the middle of a meeting to deliver a small box of books to Neuvillette.
“Romance, thrillers, poetry…” Wriothesley reads the plaques beneath his breath. He kneels down to look through new imports of poetry. One catches his eye.
Les Fleurs du Mal. A collection of poems by the late Charles Baudelaire. Wriothesley has heard of him, through his time spent at banquets and charity events with Neuvillette.
“Baudelaire is a good choice,” the shopkeeper chips in. She stands at the end of the shelf, placing thrillers in their rightful place. “He’s a romantic. Quite a few of our customers bought copies for Saint Valentin.”
“Oh.” Wriothesley puts his paper bag on the floor by his feet, and flips through the pages. Titles spring out at him, all intense; Man and the Sea, Obsession, Semper Eadem, Mists and Rains, The Wine of Lovers…Would it be so terrible to leave this book on Neuvillette’s desk? “Thank you.”
“You look like a man in love.” She sighs, a little wistfully. Her spectacles catch the light, the small rose-gold chain glimmering in the dark. “Cherish it.”
“Maybe. I mean, I will, but…” Wriothesley feels a little like he’s been found out. His heart races, and he holds the book a little tighter. He’s being observed a little too closely, and he wants to flee. Perhaps from himself more than the shopkeeper. “I think I'll take this one.”
“Perfect. May I wrap it for you?” She is more than happy to help, and takes him to the counter. “We may have paper left over from February.”
“Discreet, if you are able to,” Wriothesley asks. He finds his wallet, and pays, sliding mora across the counter. “I’d appreciate it.”
Archons bless her, she says nothing and wraps the book in simple brown paper, tied with a twine string. It looks like an ordinary parcel, and not at all like a gift for a lover.
Perfect.
There’s a part of Wriothesley that mourns the fact that he has to be private if he is to court Neuvillette.
–
Carmen is as excellent as Neuvillette thought it’d be, and the Yashiro Commissions’s company enjoyed the show just as much. It’s close to midnight when Neuvillette finally makes it back to his office.
He misses Wriothesley.
As he walks through the sleeping halls, he doesn’t find Sedene’s desk light on. It is pleasantly desolate, and he has to use his private key to get into his office, with no one else to let him in.
Sometimes, he finds the quiet unnerving. His thoughts can be far too loud, and his loneliness even moreso. But he appreciates the silence today, ears still ringing a little from the loud applause of the audience after the curtain fell. He’d talked himself tired, and now, he allows himself to fall into hibernative tendencies.
He stops by the doorway. Sucks in a sharp breath, and tightens his grip on the key. He won’t be needing it. Light slivers along the carpet, telling of a desk lamp’s chain already pulled. The distinct sound of pages being turned catches Neuvillette’s interest.
Surely a thief would be smarter than to turn on the light?
But before Neuvillette’s hackles can rise, and power can shimmer to life at his fingertips and in the centre of his palms, he inhales, and finds traces of Wriothesley in ink-sodden air. He hesitates, hand on the brass doorknob. Outside, thunder rumbles, promising a summer storm. A cloudburst.
Neuvillette tastes love and petrichor on his tongue. Closes his eyes and takes another deep breath to still the flutter of his heart. It’s a rabbit in a cage of bone and flesh, and Neuvillette cannot calm it. Not until it is free.
He knocks on the door. Once. twice. Three times. A muffled ‘come in’ follows. Wriothesley’s voice is deep timbre and nerves. Neuvillette notices the catch to his tone, a little pitched. Neuvillette can’t help smiling a little at how absurd it is to be invited into his own office.
“Wriothesley?” Neuvillette steps in. The fireplace has been fed with new kindling, and the wood crackles and pops, sap leaking onto open flame. It begins to rain outside, but it isn’t his doing. It adds a softness to the night. “It’s midnight.”
“I know. I…shouldn’t have come so late.” Wriothesley seems to struggle to find words. He’s sitting on the couch before Neuvillette’s desk. He has a package in his lap. His fingers tangle with one another, a nervous habit. A thumb rubs over knuckles, a soothing, circled motion. “I wanted to see you.”
“We don’t have a meeting today. Not anymore.” A moot point. Neuvillette wants to cast that aside. He wants to toss that caution to the wind and rain outside, and simply fall to his knees by Wriothesley’s feet. He wants to kiss those hands. He wants to kiss that waiting mouth…
Instinct can be such a violent, insistent creature.
“We’ve been to operas outside of work. I wanted to give you this.” Wriothesley stands. Sets the book on the table, and holds out a lavender-pale bag with a white ribbon tied around tissue paper within. “Pastries. I got a few to take back for Sigewinne, but I thought we could share tea?”
“It is not my birthday.” Or any other special occasion for that matter. Neuvillette’s thoughts run miles a minute as he takes the bag, smelling sugar and macarons. He can’t pick apart the tone of Wriothesley’s scent, though. His cologne is smooth and muted; soft spices and salt. He doesn’t reek of Meropide, but metal still clings to his skin. It’s part of him, after all.
There’s a heavier emotion beneath it all. Something Neuvillette will only be able to read properly through brushing fingertips through the waters of Wriothesley’s body. Perhaps through the salt of tears, or the slick of spit or the essence of pleasure—
No.
“I made tea. Black, to keep us up long enough to get home after,” Wriothesley adds. Sure enough, there is tea on Neuvillette’s desk, upon the silver tray Sedene uses for his meetings. A plain set carries their tea, and steam curls from the pot. “I don’t mind if it’s too much after a long night out, though.”
Wriothesley’s gaze says everything but not minding. They trek Neuvillette’s face, cool blue, asking him to stay.
Neuvillette releases a little breath. Struggles to find words for himself. How unlike themselves they are tonight. The air is charged, and it feels as if Fate herself is tugging on the strings of their life paths, tangling their cords together to form a new sort of tapestry.
“I enjoy your company, Wriothesley.” It’s honest. Neuvillette leaves his cane against the arm of the couch, at the other end, and makes his way to his desk. He brings their tea over and sits beside Wriothesley, a respectable distance apart. It’s far too much. “The meeting went well, too. I think it best to spend the rest of the night with a friend, rather than alone sorting through paperwork.” He tips his head to the wrapped book. “I see you brought a book, too?”
“Of course you’d be able to tell.” Wriothesley’s smile is lifted up higher on one side than the other. It has heat rising in Neuvillette’s gut. Has longing cinching tight around his heart. “Here. I got a few of those crosswords for the Fortress staff, and thought you’d like this.”
Neuvillette expects a crossword book, too, but as he tears through paper—delicately, with a sharp nail—he finds a poetry collection staring back at him.
“I know you like romance. Sedene brought in a delivery halfway through a meeting once. But…” Wriothesley sighs. Shakes his head. “Poetry is just as romantic, isn’t it?”
“You don’t read poetry, though,” Neuvillette points out. Wriothesley is a man of history and myths and legends. He likes to investigate and research in his free time more than anything. He flips through the book, looking over each title. “Baudelaire is certainly a choice.”
“Is it not a good one?” A careful question. Neuvillette scents the spike of cortisol in Wriothesley—a little bitter, a lot hazy as smoke.
“He’s a romantic. Tragedy, lovers, and loss.” Neuvillette hums a little as he thinks. As he searches for the poem he’s looking for. “Ah, here. May I read to you?”
“Please do. I’ll pour tea.”
And this is comfortable. The clink of porcelain and the stream of tea finding cups. The rattle of the sugar jar being opened and two spoons dished into both. Wriothesley sits back, expectant, sipping on tea. It’s far too hot for Neuvillette, and he has no idea how Wriothesley does it. How he enjoys his tea scalding at all.
“The Death of the Lovers is well known,” Neuvillette says. He sits back, too. Moves closer, to let Wriothesley see the page too. This close, their knees knock. They make no move to shy away from it. “Baudelaire immortalizes love and makes death seem less of a tragedy. It’s bittersweet. Like tea.”
We shall have beds full of subtle perfumes,
Divans as deep as graves, and on the shelves
Will be strange flowers that blossomed for us
Under more beautiful heavens.
Using their dying flames emulously,
Our two hearts will be two immense torches
Which will reflect their double light
In our two souls, those twin mirrors.
Some evening made of rose and of mystical blue
A single flash will pass between us
Like a long sob, charged with farewells;
And later an Angel, setting the doors ajar,
Faithful and joyous, will come to revive
The tarnished mirrors, the extinguished flames.
The fireplace pops as a log splits. Wriothesley is close. He traces the page with a finger, following Neuvillette as he reads—most likely because he didn’t bring his reading glasses with. He holds the book for Neuvillette as he reaches for a pastry—a flaky baklava doused in syrup. They’re careful to not mess anything on the pages.
Wriothesley reads. Chooses a poem for them, while Neuvillette has his tea.
Oft Music possesses me like the seas!
To my planet pale,
'Neath a ceiling of mist, in the lofty breeze,
I set my sail.
With inflated lungs and expanded chest,
Like to a sail,
On the backs of the heaped-up billows I rest —
Which the shadows veil —
I feel all the anguish within me arise
Of a ship in distress;
The tempest, the rain, 'neath the lowering skies,
My body caress:
At times, the calm pool or the mirror clear
Of my despair!
“I can’t imagine what it’s like to be consumed by something so fully,” Wriothesley says, hushed as he finishes his tea. He pours more, but leaves his cup on the table. Sits back and looks at Neuvillette. “Live music, gramophones; it’s all great. But it’s not something you can touch. As soon as you’re done listening to it, the feeling passes, and you find your next favourite song to listen to.”
“What of love?” Neuvillette doesn’t know what possesses him to ask Wriothesley. It just comes. “We can touch it. Feel it.”
“A person can consume your thoughts.” Wriothesley’s eyes drop to Neuvillette’s mouth. To the slope of his nose. “Music is enjoyable, but I…” he breaks Neuvillette’s gaze, and looks to the fireplace. Neuvillette is relieved. He doesn’t want Wriothesley reading his heart through his eyes so soon. “I prefer the tangibility of things. Makes them feel less fleeting, you know?”
Neuvillette senses there’s more to it. Perhaps it’s a feeling of not wanting to be abandoned, like all those past favourite scores of music left to gather dust on a shelf.
“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette dares to reach out. He touches fingertips to Wriothesley’s knee. Turns to face him. Like this, the light of the fire dances across the harder lines of Wriothesley’s face, all slopes and angles. He’s handsome. So very handsome, and Neuvillette suddenly feels that if he doesn’t speak now, he will forever let this love fester within him.
He will not let this happen again. Vautrin happened. Wriothesley will not happen. Will not become a memory, too.
“Neuvillette.” A touch teasing. Wriothesley leans forward, the slightest. Neuvillette smells sugar on his breath, and tea, and wants to taste it all for himself.
“Would it be terrible of me to…” Instead, Neuvillette looks down, to where his hand rests on Wriothesley’s knee. Gathers himself before looking Wriothesley in the eyes. “To want you to not become such a thing of fleeting fancy?”
“Fancy?” Wriothesley’s laugh is low. Breathless. It settles in Neuvillette’s gut, not as a stone, but as a smoldering heat. He wants to hear Wriothesley laugh more. Wants to be the reason he laughs. “Neuvillette, fancy is too soft a word, isn’t it?”
“I don’t want to call it anything heavier. Not just yet.” This is love, though. They both know it. But it’s something deeper and more carnal than that for Neuvillette.
Mate.
“Tangible things, then. No names. No weighty words,” Wriothesley agrees, lifting a hand. Brushes hair back from Neuvillette’s face. He’d decided to wear it down to the opera, and soft strands frame his face. He leans into the warmth of Wriothesley’s hand. Lets a soft breath pass his lips. “May I?”
“Please.” Neuvillette has never wanted anything more. Has never expected Wriothesley to ever step over this line they’ve danced around for so many years. “Please, Wriothesley.”
Their first kiss is tentative. A thing of lips meeting lips and nothing more. A soft sound leaves Neuvillette, and he leans in. Presses palms to the couch, and breathes in through his nose.
“Neuvillette.” A hushed groan leaves Wriothesley. The ice shatters. Caution melts away into warm desire, all sticky honey and sugar on their tongues. Neuvillette parts lips, to drag tongue against blunt canines, to take more. Wriothesley obliges. Brings a hand to Neuvillette’s waist, the other finding a place at the soft base of his neck where soft hairs are.
This isn’t enough.
Neuvillette is a star burning bright, and flickering, nuclear fusion in the very core of his being. He brings a hand to Wriothesley’s thigh. The other rakes through salt and pepper hair. His nails are sharp. He can’t rid himself of this when his composure slips so quickly, but Wriothesley’s next breath comes sharp, and arousal spikes in the air.
Oh, Gods, and Neuvillette can taste desire on Wriothesley’s tongue—it’s not dusky as he’d thought, but burnt sugar over a flame and something smoky. Neuvillette moans. Tilts his head to the side for Wriothesley to trek open mouthed kisses down the line of his throat. Blunt teeth skate the flutter of his pulse, and Neuvillette’s breaths turn ragged.
“You are…” Wriothesley doesn’t finish his sentence. He pushes back and unbuttons his waistcoat. He wears no tie, but undoes the first few fastenings of his shirt too. He reaches for Neuvillette's hand on his thigh and kisses the back of it. Kisses the tip of a sharp nail. It nicks him, and a pinprick of blood rises to his lower lip.
Neuvillette chases after Wriothesley’s mouth. Drags his tongue over that small bead of blood and tastes him. Truly tastes him for his blood and who he is.
It’s ecstasy.
Neuvillette has never partaken in recreational drugs of any sort. Has never drank enough to truly be addled by its effects. But he thinks he may be high. May be infatuated to the point of losing all sense.
And it’s all Wriothesley’s doing.
“Gods, Neuvillette.” Wriothesley takes Neuvillette’s mouth in drugging pulls. Crowds him back until they fall to the other side of the couch. Neuvillette lays on his back. His waistcoat pulls tight around him as he shifts, but Wriothesley’s hands are quick, and soon, satin falls loose around him as Wriothesley pushes it aside. “You drive a man mad.”
“I wouldn’t want anything less.” Neuvillette’s voice sounds so far away from himself as is, and he doesn’t mind it. He arches into the line of Wriothesley’s body. Gasps, as Wriothesley’s teeth find the line of his collarbone, pushing his blouse aside to find skin. His tongue is all wet heat, and harsh breaths, and Neuvillette chokes on a sound of need, keening into the hold Wriothesley has him in.
Tea and poetry be damned, Neuvillette wants to drink love from Wriothesley’s tongue instead.
“Wriothesley, please.” Neuvillette doesn’t know what he’s asking for exactly. Or fully. He’s achingly hard, and Wriothesley is too, against the crook of his hip. They do nothing but rock against each other though, sharing breaths from parted lips as they simply feel.
“What do you need?” Wriothesley is the one who takes things into his own hands. Neuvillette likes this. He likes surrendering himself to Wriothesley’s decisions.
“Anything.” Neuvillette swallows hard, and his throat clicks, as he tips his head back more, for Wriothesley to trace fingers down the column of his throat, a reverent sort of worship. “Everything.”
They are both old. Have had lovers. There’s an unspoken understanding there, and Wriothesley is gentle.
Neuvillette watches as Wriothesley sits up, and moves down, to rest on his elbows and knees between Neuvillette’s legs.
It’s all a blur of sensation and uttered praise, really. Neuvillette can’t find a tether, and the only thing he can focus on is the heat of Wriothesley’s mouth around him and the pull of his tongue over achingly hard arousal. He can’t think straight. Can hardly find words beyond Wriothesley’s name as an orgasm is pulled from him.
Scales line his body, in the dips and bends of limbs and muscle. One day, he’ll reveal a more creaturely form to Wriothesley.
One day, he’ll bear his entire soul.
He tastes himself on Wriothesley’s tongue, all salt and freshwater. He’s never tasted himself before, and it’s new and strange, but it’s also Wriothesley.
“I want to taste you.” A demand from Neuvillette. He surprises himself. “Please.”
Neuvillette has uttered many ‘please’s tonight.
“Yeah?” Wriothesley asks, all husked and rough. He takes Neuvillette’s mouth in another deep kiss. Sinks teeth into his lower lip. Neuvillette gasps, hands tightening in their grasp on Wriothesley’s shirt.
Mercifully, Wriothesley doesn’t ask Neuvillette anything else. He simply lays back, and lets Neuvillette find a home between his legs. He is awkward. Far less practiced than Wriothesley, but he lets his form slip further. Lets a draconic tongue drag along the side of Wriothesley’s length, and press to the slit to taste.
A burst of sensation rushes through Neuvillette. Wriothesley’s pleasure becomes his own, flowing hot in his own veins. He groans. Sinks down, swallowing around Wriothesley. Tears burn at his waterline, and he breathes carefully through his nose. Fingers weave through his hair. It’s messed beyond saving, and he lets Wriothesley undo the clip fully for hair to fall free down his back.
Wriothesley doesn’t last long. He warns Neuvillette, too. But Neuvillette doesn’t care for lasting, when he is greedy for taste. And how divine Wriothesley’s orgasm is. Neuvillette reaches for himself, spilling into his waiting palm, as release rocks through him again, a strong echo after Wriothesley spends himself, fits and bursts of heat upon his tongue.
“Let me.” Wriothesley offers Neuvillette a silk handkerchief from his blazer, slung across the back of the couch. “I don’t really use these.”
Half-dressed, they lie with one another, watching the fire as it dies down to a glow, all hot ash. They bask in each other’s presence. Take kisses and soft words from each other. Neuvillette listens to the beat of Wriothesley’s heart.
They both startle when the grandfather clock in the foyer announces it is two in the morning.
“Will you go back to Meropide?” Neuvillette tries to not sound hopeful, but he dreams of taking Wriothesley back to his apartment, to spend their Saturday in bed. Perhaps a shower. A bath…Oh, the very thought of it has him sighing, nosing at Wriothesley’s neck. “Or come home with me?”
“Home?” Wriothesley’s laugh is gentle.
“My home.” Neuvillette shakes his head. Props himself up to leave a kiss to the tip of Wriothesley’s nose. It’s a little crooked, too, from Pankration spars.
“I’d like that.”