by the strange pull

Tizzy

Wriothesley works up a sweat in the ring, breaks his hand, and talks Neuvillette into patching it up in the office.

CW: Contains Smut

--

He should stink but he does not.

"What are you staring at?"

Neuvillette blinks, coming back from his thoughts. Wriothesley stares. Not unkindly. Merely curious. He's in the middle of pulling the wrappings from his fists, revealing bruise after bruise. Dripping in sweat. Gleaming with it, his skin shining underneath the dim lights of the Pankration Ring.

It smells of alpha; thick, pungent, choking. Neuvillette's nose crinkles in distaste, carefully side-stepping anyone who comes his way, a snarl ready on the tip of his tongue. Except for Wriothesley, who smells of black tea and oiled leather. Masculine but subtle, like a well-honed knife. Neuvillete finds himself leaning a little closer—and then catches himself.

Wriothsely tilts his head and then smiles, a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Neuvillette's gaze dips down as he begins to pull one of the bandages free. Bruises dance across his knuckles, deep, purple things that punctuate broken and busted skin.

"Your... hands." Neuvillette pauses, entirely out of his depth. He is not this casual nor concerned for most, and even if they share something he could call friendship, this clearly toes the line of more. Terrifying. Neuvillette doesn't quite understand the intricacies of mortals, or even secondary genders—an alpha he may be but his instincts are rooted in his draconian nature, a deep contrast to whatever rages in Wriothesely's veins.

Still. It should be off-putting. The stench of his sweat. It should make Neuvilette's alpha snap, being in such close quarters. Why has he never noticed before? Or, maybe he has, and it has never clicked until now. Their meetings are usually business-like, not post-fight with Wriothesely dripping from his brow and half-naked to the waist.

Neuvillette pretends to not look.

Wriothesley waves. "Sigewenne will handle them when she gets to it."

"And when will that be? If your hand is broken it should be set as quickly as possible."

"You worried?" Wriothesley raises a brow in amusement. "This isn't my first broken bone, you know, least of all my hand."

"So it is broken, then." Neuvillette frowns.

Wriothesley rubs his chin, seemingly unbothered by the state of his hand. "Maybe a few knuckles. I'll survive." He pulls at the wrapping on his other hand. "Unless, you know... you want to take a look at it. You seem overly concerned but I don't mind bringing you back to the office for a check-up."

What a neatly packaged bargain. The entire place smells like arousal and sweat, nothing but alphas who get their rocks off by beating others up. An occasional beta with a masochistic streak. Omegas hanging around at the prospect of being taken somewhere more private for some fun.

Wriothesley is unreadable. He doesn't smell like arousal—but he doesn't smell like any alpha Neuvilette has come across. He parts his lips, tongue peeking out to wet them. Wriotheseley's eyes dip to watch.

"That... is amenable. Lead the way."

#

Neuvillette has never held Wriothesely's hand before. Fought for him at court, yes. Worked tooth and nail to provide him the position of Administrator, yes. Leaned close enough to brush a bang behind his ear, once—and Neuvillette tries to forget that but cannot.

"I'm not going to lie, but I thought coming back here was a cover."

It is. They both know it. But that doesn't change the fact that Wriothesley's knuckles are broken and Neuvillette has the ability to fix them. Wriothesley's hand is calloused, the thick skin of his palm catching against Neuvillette's long, slender fingers. He trails the pads of his fingertips across the lines of Wriothesley's palm. Flips over his hand and traces those split knuckles with a soft caress.