Socially Awkward

Chapter Seven

Warning: Contains Smut

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Wriothesley wakes up the next morning hot, sticky, and smothered by hair.

He groans softly, pressing closer to that source of heat, uncaring of the sweat that coats his being. The hair smells nice, even if it chokes him slightly, and Wriothesley finds himself inhaling deeply, nuzzling those fine babies hairs—

Neuvillette.

All that comfort, all those sleepy thoughts, come reeling to a halt the moment that Wriothesley remembers.

He slept over. Right. He—Wriothesley had literally the best sex of his entire life, and then he stayed, he stayed. This is bad. This is— well, maybe not bad. Clorinde's going to kill him for sure, but this is a good thing, right? Neuvillette isn't like the others, Wriothesley has known that from the moment they had that damn call, and the entire point of this is to test the waters and see what happens.

Wriothesley isn't a relationship kind of man... but maybe he can be. He wants to be, for specifically this person, and that's a wild, terrifying thought. He calms himself by tilting his face and kissing Neuvillette's nape. There. Better. His anxiety melts away and as he loses himself in the feel of him, in the weight of his body pulled flush against his front.

Neuvillette sleeps like the dead. Even with Wriothesley plastered against his back, and his arm curled around him in a tight squeeze, Neuvillette doesn't stir. He snores softly, a domestic sound that makes heat flare in Wriothesley's gut.

He's beat, sore in places he didn't know that he can be sore in, but fuck if the night before wasn't the experience of a lifetime. Their date had been awkward, but pleasant. For all that Neuvillette has claimed he is not a people person, they seemed to get along like bread and butter. Maybe it's a Wriothesley thing. Maybe he's different.

(Wriothesley then thinks about his own dilemma, about how he doesn't date anyone except for, apparently, lead prosecutors with an occasional bold streak. He tries to push down those simmering feelings and look at this objectively, but Wriothesley fails, he fails miserably because Neuvillette fits so perfectly against him, warm and soft. When was the last time he wanted to cuddle? Never—literally fucking never because the idea of skin-to-skin contact beyond the horizontal tango is a no-go for Wriothesley, but Neuvillette throws a wrench into his carefully crafted walls yet again, and the worst part is that Wriothesley likes it.)

He should call Clorinde. Text her. It's too early in the morning to wake her up properly, but a text is manageable. He'll feel better once he's gotten it all out. Wriothesley carefully extracts himself, doing his best to not wake Neuvillette. Neuvillette barely moves, barely lets loose a breath; he just sighs and buries into the blankets, blissfully peaceful.

Gods, Wriothesley wishes that were him.

He can't find his clothing, but he does find Neuvillette's discarded button-down from the night before. Wriothesley slips it on without a second thought because he and Neuvillette are similar in size, even if Wriothesley is more broad. He does up the buttons, satisfied enough when the hem falls to mid-thigh. He then throws on his boxer-briefs, just to play it safe, and pads out of Neuvillette's bedroom on quiet feet.

Wriothesley finds the kitchen easily enough. He leans against the counter, holding his phone with shaking hands. "Fuck, I—where do I even begin?"

[Wriothesley] >> clorinde I need you

A little needy, but in Wriothesley's defense, this is an emergency.

[Wriothesley] >> i'm freaking out