Wriothesley swears an oath of old, sealed with his blood, and a bite mark against his shoulder.

CW: Contains Smut

--

Wriothesley is thrown away as a child more than once.

He doesn't remember the first time, told that he was a babe left on someone's stoop. The old man who finds him is kind enough to share a few meals, but unequipped to raise him beyond that. The people that he is given too are not kind; they are devilish instead, with insidious motives driven by greed and money.

Children are resilient and observant. Wriothesley grows like a weed and notices the signs that something is off but ignores them. How can he not? Those who foster children who aren't their own are blessed with kindness and fortune. Surely no one would put such effort into rearing lost causes for anything else than the love of it.

But Wriothesley is unlucky. Or perhaps lucky—depends on the day he's asked. One late night, one glass of water, one glimpse at something that he wasn't supposed to see; Wriothesley leaves the next day for fear of his future, carrying his life in a threadbare bag that an older sister had left behind.

He doesn't think about what happened to that sister.

The streets become his playground as he bumps elbows with others. It's dog-eat-dog but he learns. There are rules here too, just like anywhere else, and while they may not be things like 'keep your back straight and your head down', they're just as important.

It's all about survival. Don't trust others, don't share your food. The young ones will always come back for scraps if you give them a bone, and you have to keep those too because who knows when you can steal another round without getting caught.

Wriothesley is good at stealing. He's quick and nimble on his feet, and those in the market have given up calling the guards on him. These are the best and worst years of his life. Best in that they taught him lesson after lesson. Worst in the eternal hunger gnawing at his gut, in the fight for clean water, for shelter, for basic needs.

There are stories of how dogs go back to their abusive owners, desperate for a shred of love. Wriothesley is loyal like man's best friend, and when he's a little older and taller, he drags himself back to that stonewashed mansion brimming with children. And like desperate owners who lost their best friend, Ma and Pa welcome him back with welcome arms—

At least until they are found lying dead one night soon after.

He is a teenager now, and though he's learned a lot, Wriothesley didn't know blood could be so red, or that it could stain wooden floors so easily.

When the guards arrive the knife drops to the ground and he puts up no resistance. He's shackled and taken to prison. He sits in a cell and has square meals twice a day for the first time in years.

It's a cold day when he awakes to a stranger. She is crisp-looking, sharp like the knife he'd saved up for, the only purchase he's ever truly allowed himself. Cat-eyed as she watches him carefully, pacing back and forth across the filthy floor.

"They're thinking about a trial for you," she says to him. "Even though you've confessed."

Wriothesley blinks, too tired to do much else.

"Do you want a trial, boy?"

"No." His voice is hoarse, having gone unused by however long he's been kept here. Days? Weeks? It's all bled together, and he sleeps the hours off huddled in the corner of his cell.

Her gaze turns curious. "Why not?" she asks, genuinely. Like a cat with cream, he realizes. She's stalking him in the same way the older kids stalk the fresh meat on the streets.

"It's obvious that I did it," he says dryly. "And, as you said, I confessed."

The woman taps her chin thoughtfully. "The argument is that it was warranted. The guards found a mess in that home. Traffickers—your foster parents. Did you know?" Wriothesley's jaw clenches, and she looks at him as though she's backed him against the wall, right where she wanted. "You have a good case. The means outweigh the end, they say. What are a couple of deaths when it saves dozens?"

"Your point?"

She stops her pacing and leans close to the bars. Wriothesley can just barely make out her pale hair in the darkness of the room. "If you go to trial, you may not win, even with the odds in your favor."

Wriothesley doesn't care. Wriothesley has done his one deed that's worth something in this life. At this point it matters not where he finds up.

The woman's gaze washes over him. "If you were let go, where would you go?"

"No where," says Wriothesley. It's oily, thick in his gut. That thought. Wriothesley wants somewhere to go, but there are no homes for the destitute.

She hums. "I had thought your work was petty revenge, but it wasn't, was it? No, you are a selfless boy, so quick to throw away his life for the sake of the others. Tell me—do you think yourself unworthy of a good life?"

Wriothesley's tongue is thick in his mouth. "I don't... there's nothing left for me so it doesn't matter. My work is done."

"Is it? Sounds as though you are perfect for the House of the Hearth." The woman's eyes shine with a conspiratorial glint. "Listen boy, I come here with an offer. Fontaine has a need for boys like you. Her Lady the Archon would boast about chivalrous intent, but that does not a good guard make. No, it's all about guts and survival. It's been a long time since I've seen a boy say such a bold lie when his eyes show that he wants to survive."

"The guard? The Royal Guard?"

"Well I don't think you'd make a good spy," she teases. "You'd have a roof over your head, meals, clothing, and even a stipend."

"At the expense of being fodder," spits Wriothesley.

The woman does not deny this. Wriothesley sits there and thinks about it, working his jaw.

Finally, she says, "There are worse things. Think of all the little siblings you could save in the future."

Wriothesley does. He thinks about others, children, the elderly, the infirm. He thinks of the guards who'd chase him into alleys only to turn a blind eye because they knew he had nothing better. The slaps on the wrists instead of losing fingers and knuckles. The coins that were pressed into his palms, or the last bits of ale left at the edge of a table with their faces turned.

The guards have always been nice to him. Even when they cuffed him at his home, it was with care. It was with pity, and he knows they've been sneaking him extra rations even now.

Wriothesley swallows and says, "Alright then."

The woman's mouth spreads into a wide smile. There is something strange about it, something off. Wriothesley has long learned how to read people and though this woman brings him an offer gilded in gold, he has the distinct feeling it will not be easy.

Still. Shelter. Food. The alternative is death, even if they let him go. Winter will be here soon and Wriothesley's worn through his only pair of boots.

"Alright then," the woman repeats. "I am called the Knave, by the way. But you can call me Father."

#

His experiences can be counted by the scars that are notched in his skin.

The rest of Wriothesley's teenage years pass by in a flurry of training, conditioning, and harrowing outings that test his resilience. Father is neither kind nor cruel, Father just is. Wriothesley keeps his head down, does as he's told, and learns to loosen up.

Comrades come and go, in and out, around and around, like those fancy revolving doors he once saw at a hotel he staked out as a child. As an adult he travels more than not, but he rarely steps foot into those old spaces he used to haunt.

He rises in the ranks. He's gifted titles and awards, and fanciful ribbons on his uniform. But even with his ranks and commendations, he goes to bed at night empty and forlorn. Loneliness seeps into his sheets, into his bones, and he tries to warm up with a companion of the week.

And then there is Monsieur Neuvillette, a courtly man, the Chief Justice. He doesn't look at Wriothesley with pity, like he's some strange street rat who's been polished up for entertainment. He just looks at Wriothesley. And talks to him, and shares tea with him.

Conflict in Fontaine comes and goes, Wriothesley comes and goes, but Neuvillette is always here for him, waiting, a friendship carefully cultivated through the years with nothing expected in return. Wriothesley clings to it, and the warmth that floods through his chest, pocketing every subtle smile that Neuvillette shares in his presence alone.

A decade passes and Wriothesley wonders if twenty-five is supposed to be so exhausting. Another five years are gone in a blink, and he's granted a Vision for an unknown reason. Celestia would not favor him, and yet it gleams in his palm, frosted at the edges. No one notices. Except Neuvillette. It's pinned crookedly to the coat of Wriothesley's uniform, and he reaches out to adjust it.

That touch burns through Wriothesley but he wills himself still.

"Congratulations," says Neuvillette so quietly that it's a hymn for Wriothesley alone. "I see that you have found something to protect."

Because that's what a Vision is, right? Divine power granted by Celestia herself. Neuvillette has never cared much for them, his nose wrinkled in distaste at the mere mention. But this one—this one must be different. It feels different even, crisp against his chest like the Cryo it breathes, but warm when held in his palm as it beats like a heart.

Neuvillette smiles at him. Wriothesley's heart skips a beat and he knows, then, that Celestia didn't grant him this power, it was borne of something else entirely.

Shortly thereafter, Wriothesley is brought to Neuvillette's personal chambers.

It is late. Neuvillette is dressed down for the night—far more casually than Wriothesley has ever seen him. He sits in a chair and flips through edicts. A glass of crystal clear water sits on the table beside him.

He sees Wriothesley's hesitance and calls him forward. And he goes, caught like a puppet on a string, flitting across the floor and feeling awkward in such a personal space.

"Focalors," begins Neuvillette, but then he pauses, unsure how to continue.

Yes, their Archon. Wriothesley has never disliked the woman but her theatrics certainly cause the Royal Guard quite the headache.

"Has she been needling you again?" asks Wriothesley with humor.

Neuvillette's face crinkles around the edges. He sets his papers down across his lap and lets out a long-suffering sigh. "That would make this easier, I would think." His tone is rueful and tired, and Wriothesley wonders if this just might be a coup in the making.

It is not.

Neuvillette rubs his chin and then says, "Focalors is not the Empress." Wriothesley blinks, not quite comprehending. When Neuvillette continues, his voice is small and hesitant. "I am the Emperor," he says, "and this is a carefully guarded secret, for if those out there knew that the Sovereign Dragon of Hydro was, in fact, still alive, chaos would ensue. Do you understand, Wriothesley?"

Wriothesley understands. And then he does not. "Celestia..." He trails off. He's read the histories. He knows that Neuvillette knows what he's about to say. The Authority of the Seven Sovereigns was stripped eons ago and war broke out. Thousands upon thousands of years Fontaine has worked underneath an Archon instead.

Neuvillette's expression is strained. "It is a ruse, one carefully crafted and known by none."

"None," repeats Wriothesley. "Father—"

"Your Father is not privy to this."

"Then who is?"

"Myself," says Neuvillette, "and Focalors." And then a wrinkle of his nose. "And Miss Sigewinne."

A beat passes. "And now me," finishes Wriothesley. And then: "Why me?"

"Because I trust you," replies Neuvillette evenly. He stands and glides across the floor, and suddenly his ethereal grace makes sense. "Because you care for me."

Wriothesley feels ensnared at that moment, caught in a trap of Neuvillette's making. Neuvillette watches him with a serpentine gaze, pupils slitted, irises glowing blue in the low candlelight. There is no judgment, though. His expression is soft, tender even. Neuvillette reaches out and cups Wriothesley's cheek, tracing over the arch of his cheekbone like he's a treasure.

"Monsieur—"

"I have need of a knight, and who is a better choice than you?"

"It's a risk to tell me this," says Wriothesley. "What if I were—"

"I care for you," cuts in Neuvillette as he leans into Wriothesley's space. This is the closest they've been in all their years spent together. Neuvillette smells like a crisp, mountain stream, like the air right before a storm. "I care for you in ways that are entirely improper."

Wriothesley is ensnared again but for entirely different reasons, heat curling in his gut. "Improper," he repeats, voice tight.

Neuvillette grasps his chin between a thumb and forefinger. "Focalors did not like the idea of it, but she is nothing but a puppet. I hold the true Authority here in all matters, and so I will do as I wish. I would not have asked were I not sure you'd agree."

It is a simple answer. Of course, Wriothesley will say yes. It's been a long time since his heart started beating for this man instead, and he will happily be his sword and shield.

"Wriothesley," says Neuvillette then, guiding their faces closer. "It is not an oath made lightly."

"I love you," blurts Wriothesley, rather stupidly.

Neuvillette stills. And then he smiles, wide and genuine, unfettered affection blooming across his face. Wriothesley has never seen such a look on him. "Yes," he replies, "you do."

He does not need to say it back. It is as clear as a warm day. It's in the way that he cups Wriothesley's chin, in how he leans closer; it's in the way that he clumsily kisses him, unpracticed and unused to such intimacies, and yet Neuvillette chooses to explore this with Wriothesley.

That night, Wriothesley lays himself open. He lets Neuvillette crack open his chest and explore, flaying him alive as they lose themselves to their needs and lust. It is a quiet and all consuming thing. Wriothesley lies in the aftermath, sweat-slick and glowing, and it's Neuvillette who tends to him, who combs his hair, who whispers the sort of sweet nothings found in books about lovers.

Wriothesley enjoys reading, and he's drawn to tragedies because that is all that he knows. This feels like romance, and he wonders if there is a good ending in store for a tired, broken-down, criminal-turned-knight like him.

That night, he sleeps in a soft bed plastered against another, a little too hot, hair in his mouth, but it's home. It's home.

Which is why the next morning Wriothesley swears an oath of old, sealed with his blood, and a bite mark against his shoulder.

#

Wriothesley still cannot find it within himself to truly relax.

The bath does wonders to ease his bones, and pains and aches, but it'll always be there, that flicker of awareness, that ever-present hyper awareness. Never sit with your back to the door. Sleep with one eye open. Lounge casually but always with a knife close enough for a quick grasp. Even as he sinks into the water, eyes slipping closed his ears strain for—

He jerks, eyes snapping open. "Oh," he mutters, rubbing at his face, mildly embarrassed.

"Always at attention, aren't you? What is the purpose of allowing you the use of my private bath if you're wound so tightly?"

Wriothesley winces slightly. "It isn't—"

"I tease, Wriothesley." Neuvillette is usually so stiff and proper that seeing his mouth quirked into a subtle grin is still so... strange. It's been years, at this point; years of watching that mouth learn how to emote properly and Wriothesley still finds it odd at times. Or, perhaps it's because it's directed at him.

Neuvillette watches him for a long moment, standing there outside of the bath's perimeter. He is dressed down as expected, for these are his personal baths, and Wriothesley allows himself to leer for a little too long, his gaze raking across the length of him.

"Wriothesley," he starts, his tone dry.

"I'm just looking."

Neuvillette's expression tins with amusement. "Look all you want, but I will still ask—"

"If you can get in with me? The answer is yes."

"—if you are alright." Wriothesley stiffens. Neuvillette sees it and sighs. "If the recruits are still being a bother—"

"They aren't," reassures Wriothesley. He drags a hand down his face, rubbing at it. "I'm just tired, is all. You've seen the current reports, I'm sure." Neuvillette's expression falls. "Yeah, that. That's how I feel."

Neuvillette pads across the tiled floor quietly and shrugs off his robe, hanging it across the back of a chair. Wriothesley stares, unabashedly, as he steps into the pool, hissing softly at the heat of the water. And then he scowls. "Bath oils—"

"My bath time, my indulgences."

Wriothesley grins at the grimace on Neuvillette's face. He'd prefer crisp, clean water—cool, even. He has only just begun to enjoy hot baths which are Wriothesley's preference, but he still hasn't come around to the bath oils. Soap, yes; Neuvillette enjoys being clean, and he lavishes his hair with the finest of shampoos and lathers, but the oils, he claims, cling to his skin. Which is the point, but Wriothesley has never bothered to argue much about it.

Neuvillette sinks into the water, his hair fanning out around him. Wriothesley's arm opens up as he drifts closer, a silent invitation. Neuvillette notches against his side and relaxes entirely.

"Bad day?" teases Wriothesley.

"Focalors..." Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am at my wit's end with that woman. Her eccentricities have helped over the years, but it is to the point where she is hard to reel back. I've allowed her too much latitude. In the throne room today—"

"Oh, I heard." Wriothesley lets out a long whistle. "It's rare for Morax to pay visits to neighboring countries, but I've also heard that he's pretty easy to get along with." Neuvillette's expression sours and Wriothesley's eyebrows rise. "No?"

"He is—" Neuvillette shudders, his jaw tensing. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that she cannot make such rash decisions—"

"You always get to overrule them."

"Yes, but there are some things that are not so easily adjusted without risking..."

Ah, yes, that, the elephant in the room. Wriothesley hums and tilts his face to press a kiss against Neuvillette's temple. "I'm not saying that you should take your throne back, but—"

"But you are."

"It's a fantasy. It'll make you feel better, imagining all the ways that you'd get to be in charge again." Neuvillette snorts. "Really though," continues Wriothesley, "Morax—"

"Must you call out the names of other dragons in my presence?"

Wriothesley gives him an amused glance. "Is this like when cats get all territorial?"

"No. I merely dislike having not only an Archon in my lands, but another—"

"So it is like a territorial cat-thing." Neuvillette looses a long-suffering sigh and Wriothesley laughs. The bath is big enough to swim around slightly. He breaks away and floats to the side, turning to face Neuvillette properly. "How angry is Morax?"

"He is not... angry. But he is suspicious, and that is cause for concern. He is the oldest of the Archons, older than even I, and he is well-learned. Focalors was quick thinking in her response to his aide for help but I am unsure that we can risk the manpower. To fall back on such a lofty promise..."

Wriothesley hums. "We'll figure it out." He crosses the difference, leaning into Neuvillette's space. "Do you want me to wash your hair? Pamper you a little?"

Neuvillette relaxes slightly, his shoulders losing their tension. "It is too late to have wet hair."

"You can flick it away with a wave of your fingers."

"Yes, but—" Neuvillette reaches out to grasp Wriothesley by the chin, and even now, years later, it makes him think of that night they first shared a kiss. "I would rather wash yours."

"Scandalous," says Wriothesley. "Unbecoming of an—" He pauses, looking around the room dramatically, and then whispers: "Emperor."

"What's more scandalous is his knight sharing his private bath."

"Not his bed?"

"I do think that the servants are used to that."

There is little use in hiding it anyhow. Mortals may not pay attention but the Melusines who attend to matters in the palace can see his claim all over Wriothesley. It's amusing until Sigewinne sees him and turns up her nose. No, Wriothesley and Neuvillette are darlings of the court, which comes as a boon when masking the truth of Neuvillette's nature.

Neuvillette ducks close and presses a short, sweet kiss against Wriothesley's mouth. "Allow me this indulgence," he requests, politely as ever, and Wriothesley finds himself caving at that quiet, affectionate tone alone.

Wriothesley turns his back to one person and one person alone. Neuvillette knows this vulnerability of his, and so he warns before he touches, and is gentle with every sweep of his fingers. He lathers the coarse strands of Wriothesley's hair. His claws scrape against his scalp, dragging a soft moan from Wriothesley's lips.

The pampering lulls him into a comfort found only in the arms of his mate. "I'm tired," he says.

"I can tell." Neuvillette's hands travel down the length of Wriothesley's neck and across his shoulders, squeezing at the muscle there. "You're tense." His hands are followed by a quick kiss, and then Neuvillette dumps a liter of Hydro over Wriothesley's head.

Wriothesley yelps at the sharp sting of it. "Did it have to be cold?"

Neuvillette laughs against his temple before guiding him to dunk beneath that bath's surface. When Wriothesley comes back up, an apology is already falling from his mouth. The tension is massaged away by those old and ancient hands. Neuvillette does not treat him like he is something broken to be fixed, or like glass threatening to crack. He treats him like a treasure to be loved with quiet praise whispered against his ear, and kisses down the back of his neck.

He stills when he reaches the meat of Wriothesley's left shoulder. His mark. That beloved thing that brands Wriothesley as his own. Neuvillette presses his face against that spot and inhales deeply before kissing it. Then he says, "The bath is getting cold."

"You know these waters don't cool."

"I could cool them, then." Neuvillette rests his chin in the crook of Wriothesley's neck as his hand sneaks underneath Wriothesley's arm. He drags his fingers through the water, making it dance in lazy circles. That one spot cools, and the cold begins to seep outwards.

"Sweetheart—" Wriothesley can feel the frown against his neck in response. "—if you want to retire to bed, you can ask."

"I wish to have you in my bed," says Neuvillette then, his voice dropping into a sultry baritone. "Were I permitted to do so."

Oh. Oh. Always so polite even when he knows that Wriothesley wouldn't dream of turning him down. Wriothesley turns around in his arms and shoots him an owlish grin. "Oh? Does the Emperor need his Consort?" A well-loved tease that makes Neuvillette's rhinosphores tint with a subtle glow. "Is this old dragon aching and needy?"

"Wriothesley."

They meet eagerly, like crashing waves, like the tide licking at the shore. Neuvillette tilts Wriothesley's mouth against his, letting his forked tongue flick at the seam of his mouth. It is heated and passionate. Despite the late hour, and the tiredness of their bones, they suckle at each other's lips, tongues, teething, seeking out warmth.

"Tea," murmurs Neuvillette. "You taste like tea, you always—"

Wriothesley laughs against his mouth, combing through his hair before pulling away. "Out," he says, tugging Neuvillette to the edge of the bath.

And Neuvillette goes, like a moth drawn to a flame, looking at Wriothesley like he's the whole damn sun.

#

They fall into the silk sheets damp and needy.

Neuvillette insists on taking care of him again, and Wriothesley chooses to let him. "A vision," he says, hanging over him, regarding Wriothesley as if he's hung the moon. He traces every inch of skin, every pock mark and scar that's etched into his body. Neuvillette likens him to a canvas, a painting of learned experiences, of adventures, and he traces every moment with his tongue and teeth.

And when he takes Wriothesley's cock into his mouth, it's graceless and with need, choking gently as he slides down the entire length, desperate to feel it against the back of his throat. Those hands wander again as he moans around him. His fingers dig into the meat of Wriothesley's ass as Neuvillette presses his thighs back.

He pulls off, suckling at the tip of Wriothesley's cock, swirling that inhuman tongue around the crown like he's savoring a delicacy. It's nearly too much. Wriothesley arches in the bed and does his best to not force his cock deeper. Neuvillette smiles around him as he takes his cock back into his mouth, encouraging him in a way that he should definitely not.

A quick bob of Neuvillette's head. That damned tongue of his slides against the underside, curling against sensitive nerves and driving Wriothesley mad. And then the heat of his mouth is gone as Neuvillette licks across his hole next, moaning at the way it twitches.

"That's—that's—"

Hydro makes the glide of a finger easy. Wriothesley bites at his lip, yielding easily, readily, forcing it deeper. Another slips in and Neuvillette purrs at how easily he opens, spreading his fingers wide, watching at how his rim swallows them deep. Then his tongue joins, lapping at his hole, suckling at it as Neuvillette eases him open, fucking Wriothesley on his fingers with a too-slow, too-languid pace.

"Neuvillette," he cries, only for it to be ignored.

Neuvillette maintains the lazy pace, scissoring his fingers open, prying him apart. Wriothesley is laid open and bare. He writhes in those sheets on one, two, three fingers, hissing out Neuvillette's name in a plea to get a move on.

Even now, he's too empty. Wriothesley needs more than just his cock, he needs Neuvillette's weight against him and those sweet praises pressed into his ear.

Neuvillette's patience runs its course. He pulls those fingers out and Wriothesley groans at the loss. "Easy there. Take a breath."

Wriothesley does as he's asked, sucking in sweet, clean air as Neuvillette settles between his thighs properly.

"Like this," he says, hanging over Wriothesley. "I crave your closeness tonight."

Yes, thinks Wriothesley. Yes, yes, yes. But, he always craves that closeness, regardless of what Neuvillette chooses to give him. Wriothesley is a needy, greedy thing, desperate to be suffocated by his warmth.

Neuvillette forgoes the Hydro and tips over a bottle of expensive oil into his hand, the smell of Romaritime Flowers filling the air. He sighs as he slicks his cock. Then, for good measure, Wriothesley's loosened rim, his fingers dipping back into him for a second.

His cock sinks in with one smooth, measured thrust. The cradle of his groin meets Wriothesley in a sickly sweet grind, and they both moan as they fall into each other. Wriothesley is deliciously full. Neuvillette's cock carves its way home, sliding through his insides, dragging across that bundle of nerves with every eager stroke.

He clings to him, holding Neuvillette close. Neuvillette more than indulges him, he leans into it, melting against Wriothesley's heated, flushed skin. "Beloved," he murmurs, their foreheads pressed together as they share words, praises, every breath that puffs between them.

Wriothesley will not last long. He didn't realize how keyed up he was, how little it would take to drag him to the edge. He curses, trying to reel it in, trying to hold it back, but the pleasure is too sweet, too sharp. He arches, his cock twitching and aching.

All the while Neuvillette praises him with sweet, soft, my beloved mate's, you feel so good's, and such a good boy's. He drowns in him too. Neuvillette. He drinks up everything that Wriothesley gives him, pocketing that trust and giving it back with the full force of all his power.

That's what the mark on Wriothesley's neck means; it isn't a one-sided blood oath but a promise between the two of them, steeped in the white-hot love that carves through his being.

Neuvillette thrusts into him suddenly, sharply, and Wriothesley comes untouched, going taut in the bed. He clamps down as all that pleasure in his gut releases, leaving him a mess. "Yes, yes—" And then he cries Neuvillette's name, his given one, a gift that he's only allowed to Wriothesley. This is the secret of all secrets, and Neuvillette's breath hitches as Wriothesley tilts his face against his ear and begs for more with it.

A soft grunt. An exhalation of a name that isn't Wriothesley, but something older, something nearly forgotten, something that said by anyone else would curdle the blood in his veins. Even with Neuvillette this name is rarely allowed but in that moment it's perfect, wrapped in warmth, in comfort, in deep, heady arousal.

Neuvillette comes after several unsteady thrusts. He grinds deep as he spills, claws pricking at Wriothesley's thighs.

Wriothesley is a mess in the sheets, his stomach coated with his spend. He whines softly, feeling Neuvillette's cock begin to soften.

"A moment." Neuvillette's lips brush his temple. "Allow me a moment as I clean you up."

He could leave it. Wriothesley wouldn't mind, loose-limbed and taffy-like in the bed. But Neuvillette would mind, so he sighs as he's taken care of with gentle, sweeping touches.

"We should have more political snafus," says Wriothesley when he drifts back down from the heavens. Because if that is the result... well. He wouldn't complain.

Neuvillette has already slipped back underneath the covers and plastered himself against Wriothesley's back. "I would rather not," he says, but Wriothesley hears the humor that colors his words, and smiles into the covers.

"Damage control tomorrow?"

"I do not relish the meeting I will have with her. You, however—"

"What about me?"

"Our dear, sweet Archon has promised Morax's little guard dog a show of your prowess. You're set to spar with him at noon."

Wriothesley groans, burying his face into the pillow. But then, an idea. "Will you be there?"

Neuvillette smiles against his neck. "What better way to spend a mid-day water break than watching you show off your skill? Mhmn, yes, I think that I will attend and watch. And when you're done, I'll whisk you away—"

"For something untoward?"

"A tea break, as you like to call them."

Oh, so definitely something untoward. Wriothesley knows Neuvillette and his tendencies of being hot and bothered under the collar.

Teasing aside, it falls quiet. Neuvillette's chest rumbles against Wriothesley's back with a soft purr. "You're thinking," he says, gently probing.

Wriothesley thinks a lot. He thinks of the days of old and his present now. Once, he'd called himself fodder before a woman who wanted to mold him into something useful. Father has treated him well—but it is Neuvillette that has given him reason.

Wriothesley doesn't answer. Neuvillette doesn't probe further, he just nuzzles at the mark on his shoulder, kissing it with a lingering touch.

He may get that storybook romance, perhaps. Their ending isn't yet written.