by the strange pull

Single Leg Takedown

Things get hot and heavy after a spar when Wriothesley sucks the soul out of Neuvillette's dick.

CW: Contains Smut

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Wriothesley's jaw stings. "Ow," he mutters, rubbing at it.

Neuvillette packs a hard punch and doesn't hide the smirk that's plastered across his face. "Did you think I would go easy?"

"I said grappling, not clocking me across the face."

Neuvillette's gaze cools. "Apologies. You walked into my fist."

A tease. A damned tease. Wriothesley doesn't need to look at his face to know that he'll find a smirk.

But he does. Look. He can't help it, hopelessly tethered to Neuvillette like a moored ship at port. And Wriothesley is right; Neuvillette's mouth is tilted upwards on one side, the tiniest crack in his usually composed demeanor.

Wriothesley is more aware of it now. Or maybe those moments have always been there, gone unnoticed. Only him. He's the only one who drags these pieces of Neuvillette to the surface. Wriothesley had thought his interest was initially unrequited but Neuvillette was too quick to respond. Now it is clearer, like looking through a pool of still water, Neuvillette on the other end. That smirk, the tilt to his mouth, the way that he purrs when he presses close, how Neuvillette loves his scent.

How he's dressed down in the ring, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbow, and his hair tied up in a messy tail, bangs hanging in his face. Neuvillette would never be so uncomposed around others, but with Wriothesley—

Well. Wriothesley is different. And he knows that; they both know that.

"I was under the impression that I was here to indulge your request for a spar." Neuvillette's voice cuts through Wriothesley's thoughts, tugging him back. Wriothesley blinks, watching Neuvillette tug at his sleeve, re-rolling the cuff until he's satisfied.

The collar is undone, showing off a smooth strip of sternum. Wriothesley's eyes linger on the edge of Neuvillette's collar bone and fuck, his cock aches, half-hard and trapped in his trousers. Neuvillette, at least, does him the courtesy of ignoring it.

Mostly.

"Distracted?"

"Thinking," mutters Wriothesley. "I didn't think you'd pack a good punch."

Neuvillette's brow raises. "No?"

"You're no brawler."

"But I am not unpracticed, nor untrained. Wriothesley, you should know that there is more to me than meets the eye."

Oh, doesn't he? It's why Wriothesley was enthralled from the get-go. And yes, it was a slow crawl to action. He spent an embarrassingly long time just watching and observing from afar. Even now, Wriothesley considers him, marking every movement, every action and reaction, because this is something they've never done.

"Do you truly need a plan of action?" asks Neuvillette.

"I don't need anything but brute force, Sweetheart."

Neuvillette's gaze narrows. He huffs, annoyed, but he's coming around to the nickname.

It's late into the night. The Fortress is quiet, everyone but certain guards asleep, and those awake won't bother them here. Wriothesley steps around the edge of the Pankration Ring and Neuvillette mirrors him, head tilted to the side, hyper-aware.

Wriothesley smells the interest rolls off of Neuvillette. Rarely does he give in to his more feral side, but Wriothesley's chest swells with pride as the reason. It feeds his alpha. His instincts want to pick a fight, and who better than this man? Neuvillette will indulge, and he'll do so in a way that leads to a happy ending for them both.