Socially Awkward

Chapter Nine

CW: Contains Smut

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Wriothesley and Neuvillette fall into a routine.

They text, they go on dates, and they fuck. They fuck a lot. Wriothesley doesn't think he's spent so much time in a single person's bed in his entire life, but that's what he loves about it. He's carved this spot beside Neuvillette, and it just feels right.

Wriothesley wakes in the morning and the first thing that he does is check his phone. Sometimes he finds a picture. Neuvillette has found joy in sending sensual selfies that show off his collarbones (and Archons above, Wriothesley will never live that down, will he).

He'll send one back, typically less chaste. It's been a decade since he was last popping regular morning woods, but with Neuvillette... Well. Neuvillette isn't complaining. Neuvillette probably enjoys teasing him about it, a sentiment that is returned two-fold.

This morning, it is cold. Wriothesley wakes up from a dream that left him wanting, and to a half-naked picture of Neuvillette's that shows off his chest.

Fuck me, he thinks, slapping a hand against his face with a groan. It's too early for this. They haven't been able to share a night together in about a week, and gods, his dick misses the tight heat of Neuvillette's ass. Or mouth. Or that soft, damp space between his thighs. Fuck, even his hands—at this point, he isn't picky. He'll take anything that he can get, even if it's just one minute with Neuvillette's fingers wrapped around his dick.

Wriothesley snaps a picture of his aching erection trapping behind his sleep trousers and sends it off.

Later, when they meet for a quick lunch, Neuvillette greets him with a purr against his ear, and their lunch turns handsy enough for Navia to cringe and vacate Neuvillette's office.

Rinse and repeat. Days, weeks, several months they play at this. Wriothesley prefers to stay at Neuvillette's townhome; it's larger, quieter, and it has a nice kitchen. Makes it easier to cook a nice breakfast, and he likes the fancy coffee maker that Neuvillette rarely uses.

("I prefer a good pour over," he'd told Wriothesley once, as if he regularly drinks coffee. Neuvillette does not. Neuvillette doesn't even have good coffee beans, just the shitty ones that Wriothesley brought over once, that are definitely now stale.)

Neuvillette enjoys Wriothesley's flat instead, citing that it feels lived in and has charm. "Reminds me of you," he'd said once, "and I like thinking of you." Those words warmed Wriothesley from his neck to his toes. He'd made love to Neuvillette thinking of those words, because that's what this is. Love. It has to be. There's nothing softer, sweeter, or more addicting, and Wriothesley soaks up every fucking moment of it.

Wriothesley thinks it would take work to fuck this up, now. Neuvillette is so accommodating and equally needy. They fit together like laser-cut puzzle pieces, and it all feels correct, it feels—

Clorinde's words come back to haunt him. "When it doesn't work out," she'd said. And no, she didn't mean it like that, but fuck, her words stung nonetheless. Clorinde wants this for him, and her advice is good, but... "You have to tell him."

The meat and potatoes of it is that Wriothesley's backstory isn't much special. Something, something, foster care. Abuse. Siblings lost to the system. Running away. Being homeless. Aging out. Assault and petty theft.

Now that he's nearly forty, none of that matters much anymore. Beyond his teenaged years, he never saw a cell, but fuck if it isn't coming back to haunt him now. Anxiety creeps. His belly is hot and tight with a worry he knows he shouldn't have.