Neuvillette has chased the Dread Pirate Wriothesley across ocean waters for decades, leading to a strange situationship, and a lot to learn about love.

CW: Contains Smut

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 "I should've known it was you." A sardonic smile spreads across the Dread Pirate Wriothesley's face, crooked on one side. He stands there, leaning against the railing of his ship, as if his crew isn't being held at canon-point. "But it's always you, isn't it?"

Too casual. Too nonchalant. Neuvillette frowns, unamused, unimpressed. Unlike Wriothesley's relaxed nature, Neuvillette stands there with proper posture, stiff-backed, hands held behind his back. "It has to be someone," comes his dry reply, "and considering the information I've compiled on your vessel over the years, it should be obvious."

Wriothesley nods, a sharp, subtle tilt of his head. Their ships are close enough for a gangplank to be tossed across, close enough for the silver in Wriothesley's hair to catch the sun's rays, glinting.

Their ships bob with the gentle rise and fall of the ocean waves. Neuvillette holds firm, his stance fluid with the motion of the sea. Wriothesley still just leans against his railing, thick forearms on display thanks to his rolled-up sleeves.

"So tell me, High Commander—" It is Wriothesley who breaks the moment of silence. "—to what do I owe this grand meeting?"

They've done this song and dance before. The Dread Pirate Wriothesley sails the ocean blue, pillaging and plundering before his ship disappears into the ether. Neuvillette follows, the Palais Mermonia the only ship fast enough to barely keep up, but the Winglet always manages to evade him at the very last moment.

It's been years; years of this back and forthing, of chasing the jet-black Winglet just out of his reach. The push and pull of it is addicting. Neuvillette has lived many, many years, and very little interests him so, but this man... Neuvillette drags his gaze across him, which only makes Wriothesley's smirk deepen.

"Must I spell it out for you?" asks Neuvillette.

"No, but I like it when you drone on about the monotonous. You have a pretty voice."

Neuvillette ignores the pull of that compliment. "Wriothesley—"

"Would it kill you to call me Captain?"

It would not, but Neuvillette is known to be an obstinate man. "Shall I list your recently known crimes?" he asks instead.

"I won't stop you." Likely because Wriothesley takes pleasure in what he does.

But that's the confounding thing—as far as pirates go, Wriothesley is merely a man. He plunders but doesn't quite pillage, stealing only from the rich and ill-repute. He doesn't often leave behind bodies, and he's known to spread his wealth amongst the poor, a veritable good Samaritan.

Humans confound Neuvillette, but this man more so than others, which is what has led to this obsession. That, and Neuvillette's stellar record of hunting down bounties for the good of Fontaine. Wriothesley is the only man to ever evade him.

"All of this would be easier if you would surrender," says Neuvillette, just the same as any other time they've crossed paths.

There is a pattern to what happens next. Wriothesley will laugh. Wriothesley will shoot him a rude gesture. Wriothesley will sail off with a quick command to his First Officer, the Winglet outpacing Neuvillette's ship easily.

But this day, years into their game of cat-and-mouse, Wriothesley breaks that pattern with a simple request: "Why don't you come aboard for a cup of tea?"

Neuvillette's brain halts. Wriothesley is still relaxed, casual in his demeanor, face split wide by an amused grin. The closest they've been is still a ship away. Neuvillette should say no, he should not consort with a criminal. He should have the wherewithal and a shred of self-awareness.

But he is blinded by his curiosity and desire to know what makes this man tick. He's chased him for years. His journals are filled with notes and theories of his being, but Wriothesley has always kept a careful distance despite his teasing jibes.

What has changed? Wriothesley looks the same, his face wrinkled and creased around the ages by both his age and life on the sea. Neuvillette's chest tightens in the strangest of ways, captivated.

So, he agrees.

#

They do not share tea.

Well, they do, but it goes mostly untouched, chilling in the air because the moment the door to Wriothesley's private cabin slams shut, Neuvillette is on him like a moth to a flame.

Wriothesley seems to have anticipated this, hands flying to his hips for a firm squeeze. He allows Neuvillette to box him against the wall, allows Neuvillette to manhandle him, to nip at his lips before kissing him properly. It's well-received, Wriothesley responding eagerly, his tongue teasing the seam of Neuvillette's mouth.

When they part, there is only the sound of the crashing waves against the hull, and their heavy breathing. "This seems counter-productive," muses Wriothesley, reaching up to tuck an errant strand of Neuvillette's hair behind his ear. "If your intent is to capture me, that is."

Neuvillette blinks slowly and Wriothesley watches him with a sharp, and calculated gaze. Up close like this, he sees nothing but intelligence born of trauma and a hard life, a history shrouded in mystery that would cut short for most.

But Neuvillette was once the Chief Justice of Fontaine before the death of Focalors; he's pulled every record he could find, has memorized every line, every paragraph, every word that spells out Wriothesley's story. Neuvillette is hungry for more, hungry for—

"But you don't want that," continues Wriothesley, his voice strangely soft. "You always let me go. Why?"

Neuvillette swallows. "I do not—"

"Don't treat me like I'm a fool. You're the best, Monsieur. No one escapes the clutches of your fleet, let alone your personal attention. You expect me to believe that we've been at this for years, and I'm still Scott-free?"

For observation, thinks Neuvillette. Once a solid reason but now a flimsy excuse, a thinly-veiled explanation for the time he's spent obsessing over this man. For the sake of the Fontaine, to rid these waters of this undue influence. Only Wriothesley is a good man whose goal seems to be taking care of others instead of himself.

He has little wealth, all things considered. His only indulgences are tea, boxing, and apparently tightly-wound High Commanders, judging by the erection pressed against Neuvillette's thigh.

Neuvillette swallows. He had not expected this. He is a dragon, the dragon, he should have better control of his instincts, he doesn't hold together a crumbling Fontaine with anything less. But Wriothesley has always crashed right through these barriers with that crooked, stunning smile, and biting teases. The salted sea still calls to Neuvillette, but not nearly as much as this man, who smells like the ocean and sweat and tea.

"Bigger fish to fry," mutters Neuvillette.

"Or, you like me."

"You are adequate."

"Do you want me?"

Yes. That alone should be obvious, but Neuvillette is terrible with words, so he just kisses him again, a wild thing full of teeth, and broken, busted lips. But Wriothesley swallows it up, all those sounds, his tongue, the heat of Neuvillette's body against him. He moans, tilting Neuvillette's face for a deeper touch, rolling their hips together for the barest amount of relief.

Everything on the sea belongs to him, this man included. Neuvillette would have Wriothesley for his hoard, if given a sliver of a chance.

But then Wriothesley sweetens the kiss, slowing it. He pushes against Neuvillette, guiding him to the cot in the corner, and says, "I want this. Fuck, I've wanted this, I've dreamed of this. You're a damned plague, you know."

"Captain—"

"So now, I'm a Captain."

Neuvillette grunts as he falls against rough blankets.

Wriothesley chuckles as he settles over him. "You've spelled me, haven't you? Some sort of damnable sea magic."

"What do you mean—"

"You aren't human. You've sailed these seas for centuries, everyone knows. And, your eyes glow when you're interested in something."

Oh. Neuvillette wasn't aware. His mouth falls open and words are lodged awkwardly in his throat.

"They always glow when you catch up to me." Wriothesley doesn't say this with judgment, but rather overt curiosity as he slots between Neuvillette's thighs. "When we banter back and forth. It's distracting."

"Distracting," repeats Neuvillette.

Wriothesley hums, dragging a hand down his sternum, fiddling with the finery of Neuvillette's pristinely pressed uniform. "You wear too much. I'm dying to know what's hiding underneath all of this finery."

"Wriothesley—"

"That too." Wriothesley leans closer, his mouth tilted into a wicked grin. "I want to hear what other ways you can cry out my name."

Neuvillette's being burns with want. The dragon in his chest roars, wanting this man because it's been so long since he's last indulged in something so selfish.

Wriothesley hesitates, though. Because he's a gentleman. He worries his thumb down the crisply ironed lapel of Neuvillette's jacket. "I'll ask one more time—do you want this?"

"What is this?" asks Neuvillette, because it isn't love, it isn't even like, it's something else entirely. The need of flesh? A desire to understand the multi-faceted nature of humans? There are worse people Neuvillette could lie with, or easier options for that matter.

Wriothesley laughs, the skin around his eyes creasing attractively. "Whatever you want it to be, sweetheart."

Sweetheart. It isn't a gentle pet name, it's a taunting, teasing thing dipped in caustic sarcasm.

"A distraction." Neuvillette's hand curls into the button placket of Wriothesley's frayed vest. He smells like sweat and the sea; like the black tea that clings to his skin. "I am curious."

"Not even a clue as to what you are?"

Neuvillette gives him a secretive smile and says nothing.

Wriothesley takes this as a challenge, dipping closer to capture Neuvillette's mouth once more, just one kiss in what will become a lifetime of others.