just as you are

A Bit of Rouge

Clorinde tests out some lipstick on Wriothesley and gets an eyeful unasked for.

--

It is not that Wriothesley is a weak man, it is that he is scared shitless of Clorinde.

One wrong word and he's staring down the end of her gun barrel, effortlessly drawn with a flick of her wrist, the tiniest twitch of her fingers before being held aloft at the perfect angle. Wriothesley is not perfect; he has found himself on the end of that pistol a few too many times, and even if she'd never actually shoot to kill, she's definitely lodged a bullet in his thigh at least twice.

"Come here," she says with a curl of her finger, and Wriothesley goes.

Three people—there are three people with this level of command over him. Sigewinne when in a nasty mood, usually seen when Wriothesley has (unintentionally) forgotten to take care of himself. Neuvillette, which—well, for obvious reasons—one bat of those forever long lashes tipped blue at the ends, and Wriothesley is weak in the knees. And, Clorinde, when she needs something, which never bodes well.

She guides him to a chair and forces him down with a strong grip. This is the worry. What is her aim? Clorinde rarely needs something unless it's taste-testing for poison, or something of a similar nature. "Who'd miss the Duke of Meropide?" she used to tease when Wriothesley was a loner. No one back then, that's for sure, and even now it's a strange concept that a partner is waiting for him at home every night. That his sheets are no longer cold, and his mornings drag on with heated skin pressed together. Still, even back then Clorinde would only tease.

"I need your help."

Right. Those are thoughts for another time. "Ominous," replies Wriothesley, forcing a terse grin as he meets her face.

Clorinde levels him with a salty-sweet look that dares him to fight back. He won't. She sees the way he squirms in the chair and her mouth quirks ever-so-slightly. She pulls a metal tube from her pocket and with a twist, reveals a length of red lipstick.

"A new formula," she says. "I don't want to embarrass myself out on a date if it's shit, so let me test it on you." There are worse things she's asked of him. Wriothesley lets loose a sigh of relief, his entire being relaxing. "Oh shove it," she mutters, watching. "You're acting like I was going to ask to use you as target practice."

"Sigewinne told you that you couldn't anymore."

"What Sigewinne doesn't know won't hurt her." Clorinde leans close, resting her knee against the seat cushion right between his thighs to balance herself.

"Hey, watch it—"

"Hold still," cuts in Clorinde, grabbing Wriothesley's chin in an iron-clad grip.

Wriothesley's eyes cant back to the lipstick which gleams bright red like blood. "I don't think that's my color, Cleo—Ow." He hisses when her nails dig into the meat of his jaw in warning. Right, right, she hates being called that. It's a hard life for a man whose love language comes in the form of pet names.

He holds still as she sweeps the rouge across the swell of his bottom lip. She hums, tracing his mouth with the red, her hand still and deft as she marks him up. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Wriothesley catches sight of a startled Neuvillette. He looks, face already creasing as he fails to hold back a smile.

"Wriothesley," hisses Clorinde, tugging his face back and stilling it.

"I'm sorry, just—"

"Ah," murmurs Neuvillette. He blinks, his gaze sweeping over Clorinde's fingers against Wriothesley's jaw. Not jealousy, no—but Neuvillette's expression cools slightly nonetheless. He is unused to close friendships and though he grasps that Wriothesley and Clorinde live to needle each other constantly, the sight of her painting him up must come as odd. "I... shall leave you to it, then," continues Neuvillette, amusement curling about in his tone.

"Monsieur Neuvillette," says Wriothesley just as he turns to leave. Wriothesley bats away Clorinde's hands and stands, nearly teetering over at the sudden movement. "Wait."

Neuvillette waits, a fraction of a second, just long enough for Wriothesley to latch his fingers around a slim wrist and tug.

The kiss comes as a surprise. They don't kiss in public, certainly not in the canteen of the Opera Epiclese. Neuvillette is particular about these sorts of things which Wriothesley throws out of the window in favor of feeling tasting Neuvillette's mouth at that moment.

Neuvillette falters, sinking into it. He sighs against Wriothesley's mouth, relaxing, lips parting ever so slightly to deepen the touch.

Unexpected. Wriothesley smiles, taking the opportunity for all that it's worth, tongue slipping into his mouth to tease every corner. Neuvillette groans softly, eyes slipping closed. He holds Wriothesley by the bicep, grounding himself. Wriothesley cups his cheek, angling his face back, seeking out more—

And then Clorinde coughs very loudly.

Neuvillette jerks back as if jolted by Electro, eyes wide and tittering with the same sort of nervousness of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. "I—"

Wriothesley turns to Clorinde and asks, "How's it look?"

Neuvillette's expression turns baffled.

Clorinde hums, looking thoughtful. "Good actually. Not a smudge. Looks as though the saleswoman at the boutique wasn't talking out of her ass when she said it was 'completely transfer-proof'."

"Nice," says Wriothesley, drawing out the word. "Found a winner for Navia, then."

"Wriothesley, what on earth—"

"The lipstick, Sweetheart." When Wriothesley turns back to Neuvillette he laughs at his curled expression and the way his mouth tightens at the pet name. Perfect. "Clorinde was testing it out on me."

"Also," says Clorinde, "never subject me to watching such a display again. I only have one set of eyes."

Wriothesley snorts, giving her a teasing, half-slitted smirk, to which Clorinde responds with a very rude gesture. Neuvillette looks appalled, unused to seeing her stripped down and lacking propriety. As far as he's concerned, Clorinde is the picture-perfect example of polite and poised—everything that a Champion Duelist should be.

They watch her pocket the lipstick and leave. Neuvillette still holds Wriothesley by the bicep, rooted to place.

"Hey, there," murmurs Wriothesley, dipping in close. "How about another kiss?"

"Wriothesley," warns Neuvillette.

"The damage is already done. Everyone's already seen. Why don't we really put this lipstick to the test, hm?"

Neuvillette doesn't pull away. He watches Wriothesley with a serene expression, thumbing over his bicep and tracing the muscle there. "Wouldn't somewhere more private be a more prudent option if we were truly to test the integrity of the lipstick?" His tease shocks right through Wriothesley who suddenly cannot unthink about pulling him into an unused office and making out there. And Neuvillette knows that look on Wriothesley's face. He tilts his face up with a soft, complacent sigh.

Wriothesley knows a victory when he sees it. Neuvillette rarely grants him these opportunities to show him off as a partner. This time when he kisses Neuvillette, he keeps it chaste and sweet, unwilling to push his luck. It lingers, soft, gentle pecks until Neuvillette pulls away.

"It is not unhandsome," he murmurs, reaching up to press a thumb against Wriothesley's bottom lip.

"Oh? So it goes with my wrinkles then?"

It is Neuvillette who then pulls Wriothesley into his office. And yes, they test the integrity of that lipstick—enough so that Wriothesley could likely publish a paper about it.