Tea & Paperwork

Frisky

Wriothesley plays a dangerous game of riling Neuvillette up in public.

CW: Contains Smut

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Wriothesley is a menace.

Neuvillette prides himself on his usually unflappable patience, but he's learned that there is always an exception to the rule. Wriothesley tests that patience with teasing touches that are far too overt for public display.

"Beloved." His tone is a curt warning. Neuvillette's hand curls around Wriothesley's wrist to stay his wandering hand that currently rests against the small of Neuvillette's back, a little too close to the swell of his ass.

"Sweetheart." Wriothesley's reply is relaxed, teasing. Even with Neuvillette holding him by the wrist, Wriothesley's fingers dig into his back through his clothing, trying to grab a handful of muscle.

Perhaps it is the wedding. Neuvillette cannot deny that the atmosphere is romantic. Navia and Clorinde's ceremony was quiet, and quaint, and even the reception, while lively, carries an air of intimacy that Neuvillette had not expected from such a function. Still, it is no excuse for this particularly licentious behavior.

Wriothesley has clung to his side the entire night. A hand against his waist. Knuckles pulling down the length of his spine. All of these teases build heat in Neuvillette's belly, and though he is a man well-practiced with reigning in his desires, his mate is... enticing.

His cock fills to half-hardness, aching in his trousers. Neuvillette has never been so thankful for such dark lighting, or the busy array of guests around them. He adjusts himself covertly, and any closeness that he and Wriothesley share is brushed off as normal.

"A dance?" asks Wriothesley, squeezing at his hip, already pulling him back to the dance floor. They've already spun a round out there, so Neuvillette would rather not, which is exactly what he says to Wriothesley, firm in his footing. "All the better then," continues Wriothesley, pressing close again. "I get to have you to myself in this corner—"

"Wriothesley."

Wriothesley is dangerously close to inciting his ire. Neuvillette chitters with annoyance—but also arousal, and Wriothesley knows that. Wriothesley can sense it, can see it on his face. He tugs at Neuvillette's hips, pulling him chest-to-chest in the way that couples do when dancing to such slow-churning music.

But then Wriothesley's hand dips between them, his knuckles brushing against Neuvillette's erection, and he smiles like a cat with cream at this discovery. He dips close, his mouth falling near Neuvillette's ear. "If we weren't in public now," he murmurs, breath warm against that pointed shell, "the things that I'd do to you."

Neuvillette reaches out to pull at the lapel of Wriothesley's suit jacket. "A menace," he calls him. "Why are you torturing me so?"

Because this is torture. It is bad enough they've both been busy, that their shared time has only been in passing as of late; mornings together as they eat breakfast, and late nights where they drop dead into bed. There has been little time for anything else. Neuvillette's fingers itch to touch. His cock aches to be buried in his mate, and Wriothesley is torturing him for the fun of it.

"If we weren't in public," repeats Wriothesley, his voice a deep and dangerous purr, "the things I'd beg you to do to me—"

"You've imbibed in too much," cuts in Neuvillette. With all the free-flowing liquor being passed around in champagne flutes, it would come as no surprise. He thinks that Wriothesley would be a bold drunk, one with wandering hands desperate to partake despite the fact that they are in public.