Neuvillette gets a little handsy underneath the table at a fundraising dinner.

CW: Contains Smut

--

Wriothesley has the pleasure of usually being passed over when it comes to state dinners with one exception.

"So, the Fortress of Meropide as you know," he begins, "is mostly an autonomous zone. We make Meka for Fontaine and are well-compensated for that, but we still govern ourselves, making finances difficult to manage at times. Monsieur Neuvillette is kind with any proposed budgets, but there is a reality that most are unwilling to speak of—there are just too many inmates and too few resources."

Fundraising dinners. Wriothesley is a charismatic man and friendly enough, but wining and dining rich Elites to fork over donations to keep the cogs of Meropide well-oiled is certainly not his preferred activity. The former administrator did not bother which is why when Wriothesley was younger the Fortress was a mess of gangs and the ill-repute.

He's guided it into better times, yes, but change comes at a cost, and that's occasionally rubbing elbows against the fancier fare found within Fontaine's court.

At least he is not alone this time. Navia gives him a look of pity from where she sits across the table, politely dabbing at her mouth with a napkin. Clorinde looks as though she'd rather be anywhere else—and Wriothesley knows she would be. Polite, yes. Conversational... no. Furina makes up for it, though, by easing the way of conversation just as she would a stage play, but she lost a lot of her heft with the death of her title.

Neuvillette is quiet. Contemplative. He has seen Wriothesley at work, spinning his words in the way that he does plenty of times, but this is the first fundraising effort set into motion since Focalors died and Neuvillette stepped into her shoes as the reigning Hydro Sovereign. Not that he's never had influence, but this time, his influence has sway, not that Wriothesley expects him to step in.

The food is bland. The wine is subpar but it's what the budget allowed. Everyone picks at their food politely but Wriothesley thinks he should've taken up the Traveler's offer of inviting Chef Xiangling over and taking her for a spin.

"I'm sure that you looked over the reports I sent to you before this dinner," says Wriothesley. He's answered by a litany of murmurs and nods as nameless faces confirm that they at least received them. "As you can see—"

"Why don't you cut to the chase, Your Grace?" one woman cuts in. She's older, with a sharp gaze and hair piled atop her head. Wriothesley wonders how much money she spent on the stuffed bird that graces her hat. "It is no secret that you've come begging for money. So, tell us, what are the... enhancements—" She says the word as if it pains her. "—that you plan to implement?"

Wriothesley feels his jaw tense but wills himself to remain calm. "Ah. Begging—that may technically be true but do we need to say it so plainly? Would you call it begging if another benefactor requested your patronage for a new park in the Court?"

The woman's expression sours but she does not retort, and Wriothesley smiles. "To answer your question, though," he continues, "the changes we are considering are basic at best, mostly intended to improve the lives of those living in the Fortress."

"Criminals, you mean," says another man with a frown.

"I'll kindly remind you that not everyone within Meropide has been on the wrong side of the law—there are families who make their home here unless you think that children should be considered as such."

Soft tittering across the table. Clorinde's eyebrows rise high and she chugs a swig of her wine. Navia looks anywhere but his face, and Neuvillette—well, he looks as placid as ever, seemingly distracted by his thoughts. This is why Wriothesley hates these sorts of functions.

"Look, that isn't the point," continues Wriothesley. "Our primary concerns this year are pretty simple: better food, better housing, and updates to the general infrastructure in the aftermath of the Primordial Sea wreaking havoc, yeah? We just want to improve our quality of life."

The man looks offended at the thought, but the woman from before seems to consider this. "Not the worst idea," she says. "A better quality of life would mean more Meka production, no?"

Wriothesley gives her a smile that doesn't quite reach his mouth. "See? You're beginning to understand." Archons, he hates people like this. "It's all about how if you scratch our back, we'll scratch—" Wriothesley stops dead.

A hand presses against his knee. The barest swipe of a thumb against the bone there, tracing the folds of his trousers. Neuvillette. Wriothesley forces himself to not look, to not think about the touch. Odd. Neuvillette would never, not at a time like this. Surely it's just to ground him. Surely it's just to offer silent support because he's noticed just how agitated Wriothesley is.

"Apologies, I just lost my thought," says Wriothesley.

"If we were to give you funds," the woman asks, "how much would you pocket? I'm asking genuinely, by the way. No need to dodge around it."

Wriothesley blinks. "I don't pocket any. Most of my personal earnings are funneled back into Meropide to begin with, but donations, in general, never see my bank account. I—" Wriothesley chokes.

Neuvillette's hand skitters upwards along his leg, tracing the line of his thigh. Oh. Oh. No, this is—

This is the sort of shenanigans Wriothesley would dish out, never the prim and proper Monsieur Neuvillette. Something is wrong. Even if Neuvillette has found himself indulging in more... adventurous aspects of their personal life recently, never before has it been something so public.

"I..."

"Your Grace?" prompts the woman.

Neuvillette sits closely enough at the tight table that nothing looks untoward. Already they were knocking elbows as they cut into their dinner, so a hand against Wriothesley's thigh would go unnoticed. But then those fingers tilt, knuckles dragging over the crotch of his trousers, and because Wriothesley is so woefully gone for this man, his cock immediately flares to life as a result.

A soft hiss is let loose, and Wriothesley does his best to cover it up with a cough. "Sorry, something got lodged in my throat, I think. Let me—" He does his best to clear it, shifting in his seat to ease the pressure of Neuvillette's hand.

Wriothesley finally shoots him a glance and Neuvillette watches back with a satisfied expression, one edge of his mouth slightly upturned. Most would not notice. Wriothesley does. Clorinde does—

Clorinde. She leans back in her chair, hand against her chin, staring in wide-eyed surprise at Neuvillette's... forwardness.

"As I was saying," murmurs Wriothesley next. He thinks his voice is clear and unwavering. Strong enough. Aside from Clorinde, no one else seems to notice anything untoward. "You scratch our backs, we scratch yours. It's a symbiotic relationship."

"Parasitic, more like," drawls the man. "At times."

"Any more so than someone of your stature? Tell me, Monsieur, just how is it that you've made your fortune aside from generational wealth?"

"Arguing gets us nowhere," cuts in the woman with a huff.

She goes on to ask a question that Wriothesley entirely misses because all he can think about is the way that Neuvillette's fingers trace the length of his cock. The fabric of his trousers is thick and Neuvillette wears gloves, but Wriothesley can feel the heat that rises, that curdles his gut, that begins to coil tight the more that he's touched.

He's fully hard and twitching in his clothing, and Neuvillette takes advantage of that by grinding the heel of his palm against Wriothesley's lap.

"Meka—" blurts Wriothesley. Everyone at the table looks at him with concern—except for Clorinde who hides a snicker behind her hand. "I—what I mean to say is that you mentioned it—before. Um. Right, right, so if those in Meropide aren't incentivized to work, who would—" Wriothesley drags a hand down his face. "Again, apologies. I think this wine might be hitting me hard."

"I'll admit," says Clorinde, "it's a shitty wine but the alcohol content is decent. You're looking a little red in the face, Your Grace. Are you okay?"

Oh, fuck her. And then Neuvillette laughs, just a soft chuckle, so fuck him too.

Wriothesley pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm finding it hard to focus, that's all."

"A shame," says Neuvillette as if he isn't fondling Wriothesley's dick underneath the table. "I for one would like to hear more of your budget plans for the season."

Absurd. Absolutely absurd. Wriothesley tries and fails to settle his thoughts. Neuvillette's hand is sinful, squeezing at his cock, rubbing it through thick cotton. Soon, Neuvillette proves just how deft those fingers are as he pulls a button free on the opening of Wriothesley's trousers entirely one-handed.

Wriothesley stills again. Waits. Another button pops free, Neuvillette's gloved fingers dipping into the waistband to rest against his heated flesh. This is bad. This is very, very bad. Wriothesley holds the stem of his wine glass in a white-knuckled grip and misses another question.

"Your Grace?"

"I—ah. What did you ask?"

The woman pauses and purses her lips. "I asked if you had a calendar plan to implement these ideas? Is there a schedule to consider?"

"Infrastructure first," says Wriothesely automatically. "At least, bits of it. We'll take care of the more pressing areas that are leaking—subtly, I promise. Nothing dangerous at the moment, but it's better to focus there first."

The woman nods, accepting this answer, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

And then Neuvillette's hand curls around his cock properly for a quick squeeze.

Wriothesley jerks in his seat. He counts to ten. He thinks of terrible things; rotten food, old guys naked—but then he thinks of Neuvillette who's ancient and looks very good naked, and—

"Please, if you'd excuse me for a moment," he says, hand dropping to Neuvillette's wrist for a tug.

Clorinde snorts loud enough for Navia to give her a concerned look. Neuvillette, thankfully, extricates his hand before sipping his wine like nothing is amiss.

Wriothesley stands awkwardly, trying to hide his erection by clinging to his napkin. Of course he'd pulled off his jacket. Of course it lays across the back of his chair, as proper manners would dictate. He just hopes no one questions his death grip on the napkin as he toddles away awkwardly.

"Understandable," says the old woman with a nod. "Cream-based soups are, oftentimes, hard on the stomach. We'll patiently await your return."

Wriothesley doesn't know what is more mortifying—the fact that Neuvillette stands as well with the intent to follow, citing that he'll ensure Wriothesley's health as his partner, or Clorinde's horrifically loud laughter in response.

#

"Neuvillette," hisses Wriothesley when he's boxed in against the wall. The corridor is dark and abandoned—normally they hold these sorts of dinners somewhere nice but Wriothesley just had to suggest the Fortress itself this time. A blessing and a curse. It's late enough that there are only Gardes around, but they don't bother to patrol this close to his personal quarters.

"That tone." Neuvillette immediately shoves his face against Wriothesley's nape and inhales deeply. "You sound annoyed."

"Really? You don't think?"

Neuvillette chuckles against the column of his throat and kisses it. "You complain," he says, dragging a hand down Wriothesley's chest, his side, and across his hip until it halts at the front of his trousers, "but this part of you is honest, isn't it?"

Wriothesley could literally be boiling alive and Neuvillette's hand on his dick would still make it hard. The Primordial Sea could be crashing towards him in a wave, and he'd still get it up at the mere thought of Neuvillette groping him unprompted.

Which Neuvillette does right now, slipping his hand back into his trousers to pull Wriothesley's cock free. Wriothesley groans, his head slamming back against the wall. He isn't sure if the stars are from a potential concussion, or the fact that Neuvillette strokes him from base to tip, thumbing across the tip.

"Wet," teases Neuvillette.

"That's—"

"Mhm, and hard, too. Does it ache?"

Wriothesley whines as Neuvillette works his cock, the fabric of his glove annoyingly rough. He'd prefer the smooth skin of Neuvillette's uncalloused palm. "Fuck," he mutters as Neuvillette spreads the precome that dribbles from the tip, uncaring the mess that it makes, or how damp his gloves now are. "Sweetheart—" Usually, when Wriothesley calls him that it's a sweet thing, soft and warm, but this moment he bites it out as a curse.

"You should have seen yourself," says Neuvillette before Wriothesley can further complain. His hand is wicked as he works him, leaving no inch of his cock untouched. A quick stroke, a squeeze around the tip—Wriothesley moans, his hand curling around the back of Neuvillette's neck as he whispers dirty talk into his ear. "I've seen you at work many times, Wriothesley. I've seen you make reports, and file paperwork, but never have I seen you command such authority. Never have I seen you fight for what you think is right."

Oh. Well, that explains it. Neuvillette calls him capable all of the time and often imparts what a strong mate he is, but—

Neuvillette mouths at his neck, suckling it, teeth gliding across hot, sweaty skin. "I often need you," he murmurs, nipping at Wriothesley's flesh, kissing across his damp collar and chasing every inch that he can, "but so rarely do I need you in such a visceral way. I could not wait—"

"I noticed. I've never seen you so—hah, that's—" Neuvillette's palm twists around the head of his cock in a way that makes him forget his words. He aches. Pleasure already pulls taut in his gut, threatening to bubble over and pull Wriothesley along for the ride.

"Quickly now," says Neuvillette, sucking a mark just underneath his jaw. "If we take too long they may ask questions."

They'll notice the damn hickey too but won't say a thing. Who would cross Neuvillette? No one, which is why he's so free with how he bites at Wriothesley's flesh. Hydro slicks Neuvillette's glove, easing the way for a faster grip. Wriothesley moans, biting at his lip and failing to hide it, counting every stroke along his length.

"Sweetheart—Neuvillette—"

One, two, three, and he's coming, spilling all over Neuvillette's hand in what Wriothesley might consider a record-breakingly quick orgasm.

"Good boy," whispers Neuvillette, kissing the shell of his ear, and tracing it with the tip of his forked tongue. "Such a good boy for me. Yes, just like that."

There is no way that a hand job will satisfy Neuvillette. No, Wriothesley knows that tone, the dark, heady tint of his voice wrapped in velvet arousal. These are those older instincts, the ones that beg for Neuvillette to stake his claim. Were it not for a very important dinner, Wriothesley would already have his chest against his wall and his trousers yanked down around his thighs.

Neuvillette drops his cock slowly and with regret. A soft sigh. A kiss to Wriothesley's jaw, the arch of his cheek, and the tip of his nose. Wriothesley swallows thickly, watching as Neuvillette pulls back just enough to peel off that soiled glove and tuck it away into his pocket. And then the other, leaving behind bare, pale hands, cold like crisp water.

He warms them against Wriothesely's face, cupping his cheeks and tilting his mouth towards him. "A pity," says Neuvillette, "that there is a dinner we have to get back to. What I would give to steal you away right now and have my way with you instead."

"You can later," says Wriothesley, chasing his mouth, deepening the kiss. "Just a little bit longer. I was good for you, so can you be good for me?"

Neuvillette laughs against Wriothesley's mouth and nips at his bottom lip, fangs sinking into it just enough to slice the edge open. A small bead of blood is licked away before Neuvillette pulls away to admire his work.

"That isn't behaving," says Wriothesley, and though he maintains cool composure, his insides are on fire again, set ablaze by Neuvillette's targeted gaze.

Neuvillette drags his thumb over his lip, lingering at where it's now split open. "I will not apologize."

"Noted." Wriothesely closes the distance for another short and sweet kiss. "Really though, we've got to get back otherwise we'll never hear the end of it from Clorinde."

Neuvillette hums at that. "She has a sharp eye."

"Apt for a sharpshooter."

"She will tease us, no?"

"Forever," replies Wriothesely.

Neuvillette's expression softens, melting into something fond. "There are worse things, I would think."

He has no idea. Neuvillette has no idea what it's like to be at the end of Clorinde's eternal nagging. Wriothesley thinks it'll be better for him to experience it organically. A crooked grin is all that he gives Neuvillette, and they walk the entire way back, fingers hooked together.

#

When seated at that table, Wriothesley clears his throat. "I apologize for that. I'm feeling a lot better."

"I bet," says Clorinde, her gaze dragging from Wriothesley to Neuvillette, and then back, settling on his busted lip. "Did you walk into a wall or something?"

"Or something," replies Wriothesley without a beat. "Now, about that budget proposal—"

"Monsieur Neuvillette," cuts in the lady from across the table, her hawklike gaze sharp and calculating. "What happened to your gloves?"

"They got wet. Pay it no matter."

She tilts her head, no doubt surprised. Neuvillette does not make it a habit to run around bare-handed and she, and their other guests have never seen the likes of it. Still, as expected, no one says anything further.

Wriothesley manages to make it through the rest of dinner and wheedle out a generous donation. And later, in the comfort of his bed when blissfully alone, Neuvillette considers this a cause to celebrate, wringing Wriothesley dry until he can't think of anything else.