Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Is it tradition, when it happens repeatedly until it becomes routine? Neuvillette shies away from calling it that, but he cannot deny the truth – the ritual calling he receives to his soul, loading up the link before the notification even goes out.

Every Friday evening at the same time on the clock, Lady Focalors will start her stream and entertain her audience until her donation goal is met and then some.

Lady Focalors is a woman with impossibly attractive charm. She is witty and dramatic, loud and expressive with her pleasure, mischievous as a minx as she sits in front of her camera dolled up and ready to please. 

And oh, please she does. As soon as the stream starts, she is always absentmindedly twirling her hair or trailing her fingers down her thighs, occasionally allowing the rare touch to her clit before laughing mockingly. Focalors will draw out several more donations from her audience until she reveals the method for that night, and then she will pleasure herself until the money comes like she does. 

And without fail, every single time, Neuvillette gets caught up in her web and funds her mischief with more money than he allowed himself to spend. I will only donate twice, he tells himself before each stream, I will not spend over ten thousand mora. And then Focalors smirks at the camera like that, pausing her thrusts inside herself with the fan-favorite phallus. She gasps and wipes her tears and asks, “Oh, you want me to stop?” And before Neuvillette can even blink, his hand has sent in another fifteen thousand, pleading her not to.

Lady Focalors is like a spider, twisting him into her web – she has incredible energy and attitude, one that holds Neuvillette close and does not let go. 

From what he reads on her few forums, this seems to be common. The overwhelming portion of her audience are sapphic women that feel a sort of dominant instinct upon seeing Lady Focalors; “can i top u” is a common phrase in her chat. It is no wonder, with how often Focalors flops onto her bed and writhes in frustration, whining and whimpering that she just can't make herself come on her own, and cries about how she needs a certain person there to please her now. The certain person changes depending on who is her highest donation at the time. 

Before, Neuvillette fought hard to be the name she moans in the throes of passion. He would donate with reckless abandon, throwing hundreds of thousands of Mora at a woman who he doesn't even know the real personality of. 

He can't help it. He doesn't bother feeling guilty about it. It all comes back to him whenever he thinks about it, about Focalors’ whiny expression and her wonderful cries when the donation goal was met and she dutifully turned her vibrator back on. 

She will be grinding down on the dildo she's riding, tongue stuck out as she pants through the delicious pleasure, and still find it in herself to lift her head and laugh when Neuvillette's donations come through. You are so attractive it makes my heart throb, he will write, and Focalors will see it and squint and moan as the tip of the phallus hits a spot within her. She will whimper and stutter out a, “If I make you come, you have to donate again,” and she will mewl until Neuvillette looks down at his lap and notes that he has orgasmed all over his hand. 

“What do you even do for fun?” 

This is how Neuvillette finds himself earlier in the week. All in all, the start of this seven day cycle was pleasant – his pay has never changed, and yet seeing the balance on his account made his Tuesday all the brighter. It was the tenth of the month, and as payday always goes, it brightened everyone’s day in the office. Truthfully, Neuvillette found a bit of shame inside himself. He regularly hears his subordinates discuss their groceries and budget, and the amount of times he’s offered to help said subordinates with their finances is growing larger every day. They work the same department he does, to feed their families and carry on living, while he spends paycheck to paycheck on a pretty lady on the internet.

Neuvillette wouldn’t consider himself a financial advisor, but he is well versed in the economy and its inner-workings, as all their employees should be. However, it is understandable that, especially his younger colleagues, do not bother with the “financial nonsense” as Wriothesley so put it. Wriothesley also eloquently said, and Neuvillette quotes, “I really don’t give that much of a shit, I just wanna pay rent on time”.

And, just as Wriothesley put it, his lack of care towards financial legal ‘nonsense’ landed him to where he is now, asking Neuvillette for help. Except that they’ve strayed past the actual topic of Wriothesley’s many debts, and after Neuvillette’s sixth monologue, Wriothesley has started making fun of him. 

“I find entertainment just fine, thank you,” Neuvillette says. (He does not sniffle in offense. He does not.) “You’d find that the pursuit of legal knowledge is quite entertaining on its own.” 

Wriothesley groans, shifting in the office chair opposite Neuvillette’s – currently turned the other way around, with Wriothesley leaning over the backrest which is currently turned to face Neuvillette, and being used in a way different manner than it was intended to – and rolling his eyes so hard that Neuvillette fears for his head’s health. “Not this again. What do you even mean by that? Do you just read the dictionary on your days off?” 

Neuvillette does not wish to tell Wriothesley what he does on his days off, because his days off are Fridays and those are reserved for less-than-holy acts that definitely don’t classify as “fun”. It is fun for Neuvillette, but he suspects Wriothesley wouldn’t find as much fun in knowing that. 

(If anything, Wriothesley will call him a disappointment to their department again. Not for any apparently present lack of work ethic, but for not getting ‘laid’ despite being the ‘hottest being alive’. That conversation remains in a dark place inside Neuvillette’s mind.)

The door to Neuvillette’s office opens, and Clorinde announces her arrival with a poorly-guised laugh. “Please refrain from corrupting our dear judge, Wriothesley. Let him read his classics in peace.”

“There is no way anyone reads ancient philosophy for fun. He is horrific and his very existence grinds my gears,” Wriothesley spouts.

Clorinde kicks Wriothesley’s leg. Wriothesley moves to kick her back. Clorinde expertly sidesteps his assault and pulls up another chair to Neuvillette’s desk, the other way around, sitting down on it the exact same way Wriothesley is. 

“It’s been too long,” Clorinde admits solemnly. “There is no going back. I’ve already ordered the Illiad off of that sketchy bookstore you recommended.” 

“Damn,” Wriothesley says.

Neuvillette puts down his pen, leaving the issue of Wriothesley’s finances for later. He lays his hands on top of the table, smiling pleasantly. “You have already gotten me a gift?” 

It warms his heart, really, to know his subordinates see him so warmly as to get him a gift for his upcoming birthday. In reality, his birthday was just last month, but Clorinde has always been a meticulous planner. It was at his birthday celebration that she approached him and asked what he wanted for next year’s birthday. (It was embarrassing to admit that he’s been eyeing a limited edition of the Illiad for quite some time, but this one was quite old and pricey, and he could never convince himself such a charge on his account was worthwhile.)

(It was also embarrassing to admit that Clorinde most likely asked him what she did when and where she did because otherwise, the sudden inquiry into his desires would’ve left him scrambling for a response, running away to avoid saying something foolish in his haste to fill the silence. He was not partial to anxiety, but small talk unlocked that deep cavern inside him, the one that he thought disappeared after he graduated high school.)

“I didn’t wish to risk it getting sold out,” Clorinde says. “God knows what we’d do with you, then.”

Wriothesley laughs, high and sharp, yet his eyes crinkle with genuine mirth. “I actually don’t know. What else could we even get you? I still remember that first birthday party when you opened the coffee maker I got you, and you visibly shivered.”

Neuvillette will never live that down. 

“I just did not think I gave the impression of a coffee drinker,” Neuvillette says, and hopes his voice is not as tight as he feels. Please, God, let Wriothesley never mention the coffee maker ever again. It left his house the minute it entered it, and he is still trying to let go of the guilt of regifting it. He hopes Sedene is treating it good. Better than he would. Ever. 

A screech of the chair legs echoes in the room as Wriothesley stands, slapping Neuvillette’s shoulder with a sharp motion, a sign of the… ‘bro code’. “It’s alright, Chief Justice,” Wriothesley laughs, “We learned to accommodate your strange tastes, and you learned to let us know ahead of time. All’s well that ends well, eh?” 

“Please adjust the chair before you leave,” Neuvillette mutters, hurried. Wriothesley laughs again. 

Clorinde watches Wriothesley leave, but does not rise herself. “Speaking of your tastes,” she begins, “Are the new recruits treating you with the grace and humility His Mightiness deserves?” Her tone is teasing, and despite her resting ‘bitchface’, Clorinde forces a smile to let him know she is joking. Actually, there is another layer underneath. She is letting him now that it is a silly sentence, but the question is genuine, and he can choose how he will respond to such a thing. The ball is in his court, as they say. 

“The new employees are treating me just fine,” Neuvillette responds, “Though the lack of prostating and worship is severely upsetting. I have already decided which ones will be waterboarded. I expect fast results.” 

Clorinde laughs, genuinely and honestly. “Alright, Chief Justice. I’m just glad they’re not gawking like the last ones. You deserve your peace, you know.” Her fingers drum on the desk as she looks him over. The silence stretches, but it is not an unpleasant one. “I assume you will let me know how next week’s briefing will go? I am truly sorry I cannot be there.” 

“It is not a worry,” Neuvillette assures her. “Please, enjoy your vacation. Let Miss Navia know I extend my regards.” 

“Miss Navia could stand to have humbler regards,” Clorinde grumbles. “She is acting as if we are leaving for a month. What if our house catches fire? What if our friends miss us terribly? She is acting as if all our acquaintances are puppies with abandonment issues. Star of their lives, that’s who she is.”

Neuvillette, deep in thought, nods sagely. “If you do not message me every day, I fear I will pee on the couch and chew up the lampshades.” 

Hiding her chuckles with the chair’s scrapes, Clorinde rises and returns both chairs to the way they were before. “I’m hiding the treats. Careful with your words, or I’ll have Wriothesley buy you another coffee machine.” 

That is the worst thing you have ever said to me, Neuvillette wants to say. This is even worse than the time I caught you with Miss Navia in your office, and out of stress and humiliation, you angrily asked me if I ‘never wanted to have office sex before’. 

“The law does not tremble before unauthorised, useless threats,” Neuvillette says instead. 

On the next livestream Focalors hosts, Neuvillette was so prepared, he almost felt as if he was going to a social gathering of some sort. It made him feel a little silly, enough to get the blood pumping through his veins in anticipation of what was to come. 

He spends the day as he always does, treating himself to all the luxuries life has to offer, indulging in hobbies he has not had time for recently, until the evening finally arrives.

Focalors starts the stream as always. On her person rests a beautiful piece of lingerie, gorgeously laced with intricate patterns all around. If Neuvillette were to guess, he would place the patterns as of Sumeru origin, but given that the broadcast is digital, Neuvillette cannot precisely decide because of the pixels. Focalors asks them the questions she always does, nagging and whining when they hurry to donate and tell her of their troubles. 

work was so awful today lady focalors :((, a generous donater will say, and Focalors responds effortlessly. “Good thing I’m never late, then! As always, I am here to dissipate all your agony!”

And then Focalors pulls out a rabbit vibrator. 

In moments, the chat floods. Neuvillette himself is stricken into shock, given that this vibrator has never been seen on a stream before. (He is slightly ashamed that he knows that, actually.) Its color is lively and bright, and Neuvillette can already imagine how it would look in an hour or two, after Focalors was done with it.

And yet, during her prep and first touch of the vibrator inside her, Neuvillette cannot help but have his eyes wander to Focalors’ nightstand, just out of view of the camera. From what he can see, it is only a few pixels of what might be a few books stacked, but as Focalors picks up her camera and holds it in her hands for everyone to see her stuffed hole better, Neuvillette spots it.

Really, his gaze zeroes in on it, heart beating. The title is clear, now that Focalors has moved the camera above herself, despite the worried messages of her moderators. 

On the Gods and the Cosmos.  

A philosopher’s book from eons ago, filled to the brim with the inner workings of an ancient philosopher and his views on religion and life. A book Neuvillette has read many times, as an enthusiast of religion studies. Sitting on Focalors’ nightstand, loud and clear, as if it was nothing but a piece of paper.

He cannot help himself. He presses the link, types in the amount, and sends it.

“Is that On the Gods and the Cosmos on your nightstand?” His donation reads, having gone through.

Predictably, his donation gets lost in the sea of a hundred others, the donation goal being met without any issue. The amount of Mora in each donation varies, and yet he feels a distant, creeping feeling of pride, that his was the largest. He stamps it down, shame rising within him. What is he, her keeper? 

He finds he cannot focus on the rest of the stream. It is such a pity, because Focalors is as pretty as always. Her demeanor does not falter even once, carrying the performance of the broadcast up til the very end. Sometimes, and only sometimes, Focalors will keep the livestream running even after she is done, and chat with a few of her viewers while she cleans up. Whenever asked, she says it builds a relationship between viewer and streamer, and that she enjoys not being alone for the aftermath. 

This time, however, it consists of Focalors defending herself from her mods, who berate her for recklessly altering her camera angle and risking her privacy. It is here that Focalors laughs, less like a mischievous minx and more like an amused friend, and says, “By the way, did I mishear that, or did someone actually ask about Sallustius?” 

Jackpot.

I recognised the title immediately, Neuvillette writes. I was not aware you were a connoisseur of ancient philosophy.  

Focalors sits back against her pillows, the lingerie still clinging to her person. “It’s not my usual cup of tea,” she says, “But I read stuff like that every once in a while.”

Neuvillette cannot help himself. His next message basically types itself. You are truly a miracle.

Focalors laughs, loud and full, and turns the stream off. 

Chapter Text

Despite his ever-increasing workload in the coming days, Neuvillette finds that he cannot let go of the thought that Focalors, loud and bratty Focalors, reads nonfiction books. It is entirely too silly to be hung up on, he knows, and he does his best to bury these thoughts under sound logic.

Stripping on camera is merely what Focalors does for work, Neuvillette reminds himself. It is no surprise that she has a life outside of her occupation, and that the personality she uses to bait viewers is no doubt different from her actual self. (He isn’t complaining. He is one of the baited ones. Frequently. He still isn’t sure if being self-aware of it makes it better or worse.) Sex work does not determine any person’s self nor their personality or intelligence, and he keeps repeating to himself that being surprised by Focalors’ interest in law, religion, and philosophy is extremely demeaning and insulting.

However, he can never truly let it go. What does she think of Stallustius’ texts? How does she interpret the thoughts of people who lived so long ago? Does she agree with their line of thinking, within reason? Does she carry complex analyses of these texts with detailed annotations?

(It is the first time in his life that he meets someone as interested in the ‘mundane’ as he is. He gets a little ahead of himself, before realising that maybe Focalors picked it up because she liked the cover, or because she liked a particular passage. Then shame fills him all over again, and he berates himself for nonsensically dumbing her down to her character.) 

He thinks about this on his way to the office, and he thinks about this as he overlooks the recent investigation Clorinde drops on his desk, and he thinks about this as he heats up his lunch. He cannot stop thinking about it after his lunch, when he remembers a particularly controversial book among philosophy enthusiasts, and wonders if she ever read it. If she has a strong opinion on the ‘mundane’ as he does.

Perhaps it is this that leads him to Wriothesley’s office, hovering next to the door that is always open. “Wriothesley,” Neuvillette announces his presence, and finds he cannot wait much longer. “Do you think true free will exists?” 

Wriothesley, predictably but still disappointingly, looks up from the crossword with narrowed eyes. “Is this a bet with Clorinde? Is that why you’re asking me? I’m not answering your weird questions anymore. I got my tea spiked with salt last time!” 

“I’m inquiring for myself,” Neuvillette huffs. Wriothesley’s door is always open, accompanied by stickers such as, ‘always welcome to join me for a chat!’ and, ‘we must be tolerant of our differences!’. How tolerant of him. “Why would it be a bet with Clorinde?” 

“I never know what’s a bet with Clorinde anymore,” Wriothesley complains. He takes his glasses off, announcing the end of his crossword time, and gives his attention to Neuvillette properly. “Why else would you be bothering me about free will? I know I say this a lot, but this cannot be legitimate fun for you. Surely, you do not take pleasure in torturing me.” 

A little miffed, Neuvillette moves his hands to his hips. “I mean my question with utmost sincerity. Indulge me, for once.”

Wriothesley stares at him. Neuvillette stares back.

“Alright, I’ll bite,” Wriothesley says. “What is this about free will?”

“Well,” Neuvillette says. Wriothesley asked. “If we take into consideration the influence of religious figures from the west, their texts claim our free will was given to us by a higher being, commonly depicted as a God. However, if we take into consideration the texts of religions from other lands, such as the east, their beliefs differ. That is only if we think about religion. In the context of a higher being, let’s say God, is it truly possible for it to deposit something into our society that we call ‘free will’? If that God also desires unconditional faith, is that truly free will?” 

Wriothesley leans his head against his hand, sighing in the way when he knows this will not be a quick conversation. He should learn. It never is, when Neuvillette is involved. 

“I suppose you will tell me the answer anyway,” Wriothesley says. 

Wonderful. Wriothesley knows him so well. 

“In my own personal opinion, it is our inherent desire for making choices that makes us pursue the ideal of free will,” Neuvillette says. “But given that we have societal expectations, personal beliefs and religious matters affecting our choices at every turn, however unwillingly, I believe the existence of pure free will is a fantastical one at best, and a delusional one at worst.”

“Mhm,” Wriothesley hums. “I know this part, at least. If a suspect acts out of personal conviction, can it be blamed on the system that taught them this conviction, or on their own free will that led them to pursue such action?”

“Precisely,” Neuvillette preens. “Do you believe in the existence of free will, Wriothesley?”

Their conversation is cut short with the approaching footsteps of Clorinde. “What’s this about free will I hear?” 

“Ah,” Wriothesley grins, seeing the two of them standing in the door to his office. “Clorinde. Neuvillette was just grilling me on the ethical explanations of brainwashing.”

“That is not what I was doing,” Neuvillette says, hurried. 

Clorinde comes bearing another file, alongside a stapler. “That is brilliant, and I support you to continue enriching our workplace with constructive conversation,” she says, “But I need Wriothesley to work through these and sort their relevance to the current case.” 

“I literally just got rid of the ones you brought in this morning,” Wriothesley bemoans, “My brain is fried!” 

“This–” Clorinde snatches the newspaper, lightly whacking his head with the crossword section– “Is why your brain is fried, Wriothesley. Spend your break actually relaxing, and you’ll find your life way easier.”

Wriothesley stares at her with challenge in his eyes. “You’re starting to sound like Neuvillette.”

Clorinde pauses, going silent. Clorinde looks at Neuvillette. Clorinde looks back at Wriothesley. Clorinde shudders. 

“I am not a nagging mother,” Neuvillette feels the need to defend himself. He doesn’t even know what he’s defending himself from. “Worrying for my colleague’s health is perfectly normal, thank you.” 

“Asking them about free will isn’t,” Wriothesley points out, and gets whacked again. 

Next week rolls around, and Clorinde leaves for her vacation with Miss Navia. Wriothesley no longer has anyone to bully Neuvillette with, given that everyone else in the office either fears Neuvillette because of his status, is intimidated by him because of his quiet demeanor, or is deathly afraid of Wriothesley because it’s Wriothesley. This leaves Wriothesley unusually silent, maybe because making fun of Neuvillette was a bit of a passtime, a group activity. 

Clorinde is not there to disrupt and fulfill their usual bickering, and the sudden loneliness hangs over Neuvillette’s head. 

He was greatly exaggerating in their conversations, but he has to admit he misses her quite a bit, and has already checked his phone numerous times to make sure she was not messaging him. 

Such is life, Neuvillette finds. 

And attempts to use this period of peace to be more productive in his work.

Yet, his thoughts keep wandering to places other than cases and files of paper. They wonder if Focalors believes in free will, if she thinks it is possible for a deity that demands faith to be kind. If she believes that free will is a lie, and that they all act under the fate of the heavens above. Maybe she would surprise him, and give him an answer completely different.

It is not the first time Neuvillette found himself thinking about Focalors outside of her persona on streams. A little bit of her reveals itself at the very beginnings and ends, the times where she laughs deeply and honestly, or the times where she answers a question hesitantly, instead of putting on a parade of confidence. 

Perhaps that was a part of the charm. How Focalors gave her viewers glimpses of herself, a trail of crumbs leading them further into her trap, awaiting to devour them further. He found that he did not mind being led further. Some people would refer to watching videos such as this something akin to a ‘guilty pleasure’, but he could not find it in himself to feel any guilt for supporting a woman as gorgeous and determined as Focalors.

(Of course, she would deserve the praise and money even if she was not meeting all of the standards Neuvillette established in his life. When Focalors is not thanking people for showing up and narrating her clean-up process, she is chatting away about the more serious parts of sex work, and each time Neuvillette remembers her talks he is more upset with himself for being surprised at her preference for books.)

Focalors’ room is drenched in shades of blue and gold, her bedsheets usually donning a pattern of polka dots or simple symbols. Does this mean her favorite colors are blue and gold? As Neuvillette thumbs the corner of a case file, he cannot help but imagine how her everyday outfits must look. Her lingerie is always so intricate and detailed, he is sure the same would go for her normal clothes. Does she prefer floral designs on fabric, or is it a coincidence? Was that one time she wore a miniskirt for a roleplay livestream a joke, or does she enjoy wearing feminine outfits? 

Would she prefer blue flowers, or is any flora something she enjoys? 

How silly of him, to spend so much time thinking about the life of a person he does not even know personally. 

As he takes his lunch break, he forces his mind to shift to other matters. He cannot help but think back to the celebration mere weeks before, and the gift from the office that was so thoughtful he might have shed a tear. He appreciates Clorinde in his life, and her lack in the office is proving to be quite challenging.

Each time there is a knock on his door, he lifts his head and expects to see Clorinde’s purple head of hair. It is becoming quite ridiculous. She is his colleague and acquaintance, he should be none the wiser if she chose to spend time abroad. 

And yet, he misses her terribly. 

“Wriothesley,” he greets, once again standing in the doorway to Wriothesley’s office. Unlike last time, Wriothesley is typing away at his computer, gazing at Wriothesley over the glasses on the bridge of his nose, reminding Neuvillette of a strict grandma. “Greetings.”

“Ah, hello,” Wriothesley greets him back. “I am finally blessed with your presence? His majesty has chosen to appear before me?” 

Neuvillette takes a step forward, and lets his hand linger by the wall. “His majesty demands attention from his court jester, indeed.”

Wriothesley huffs, leaning back into his headrest. His hand rises to push his glasses up his nose, and Neuvillette notes the medical tape along the length of Wriothesley’s forearm. “What does that make Clorinde, then? Your advisor? Concubine?”

“We will have many children,” Neuvillette says, blankly. “We will repopulate the city and gain back respect as the largest dynasty. My plans are underfoot.” 

With a startled laugh, Wriothesley waves him over to sit. “She was just texting me, actually. On my lunch break, too. She doesn’t even know how much she tempts me. Just take a vacation too, she says. As if I can afford it.”

“If you took my advice, your debts would be manageable enough to take days off,” Neuvillette points out. “Yet you prefer to spend your time bullying your poor senior employee. I believe this counts as targeted harassment.” 

“Her pictures of mimosas are disgusting,” Wriothesley ignores him completely, “Has she sent you any? It looks like she is texting from a stone slate from the ancient Athens. Is Navia nowhere near to stop Clorinde from spreading those monstrosities?”

“Ah,” Neuvillette hums. “I remember when she sent a photo of herself to the groupchat, completely on accident. You said she looked like a middle-aged mother who is learning to use the front camera.”

“And I stand by it.” 

Neuvillette ends up moving his remaining work to Wriothesley’s office, seeking out the company of his work friends. Wriothesley admits that he, too, misses Clorinde very dearly, although he doesn’t say those words exactly. (In truth, Wriothesley calls Clorinde a class traitor, and accuses her of being an industry plant.) 

Even if they both miss her terribly, they choose not to message her first. The very one time Neuvillette chose to call her cellphone without prior warning, she threatened to sign his personal e-mail up for magazines and retail websites. She is incredibly scary when upset, and Neuvillette vowed to never disturb her outside of work hours again. 

“I bet she doesn’t miss us at all,” Wriothesley mutters. He is still working on the forms she dropped at his desk last week, struggling with identifying some miniscule details. He claimed she did it on purpose, knowing that she could tease him about it when she came back and saw those files still on his desk. She knows I struggle with color identification, Wriothesley complained earlier, And yet she keeps assigning the tasks to me because I won’t officially get diagnosed. Isn’t she so cruel? Woe is me, all my coworkers hate me. Can I accuse her of workplace discrimination?

It would be possible to take her to court over it if it was in your official medical file, Neuvillette told him, Which it currently is not.  

Now, Neuvillette looks up from his work to watch Wriothesley type away at his keyboard. (“I got it on sale from Goodwill, isn’t that cool?” Wriothesley told him weeks earlier. Neuvillette thought it was so, so very cool when the space bar stopped working within days, and now Wriothesley cannot type the letter L unless he presses real hard.) He thinks of how to properly respond, if Wriothesley is only saying it in jest, or actually thinking that Clorinde, dear Clorinde would actually not miss them when away from them for such a prolonged amount of time.

“I did threaten to chew the lampshades,” Neuvillette chooses to say. “If she does not message me soon, I will be in horrible distress. Maybe then, you could sue her for neglect. I will even permit you to take a picture of me as evidence.” 

Wriothesley laughs, a short and sharp ‘ha’, as he turns his computer screen around to show Neuvillette his e-mail correspondence with Miss Navia. 

I hope you are having significant fun, Miss Navia, Wriothesley wrote. Pease let Corinde know we are currently walowing in despair over her disappearance. 

Miss Navia wrote back: I sure will, Mister Wriothesley. My condolences to your keyboard once more. Did you figure out how to get the keypad to work, after all? 

“They both despise us,” Neuvillette says solemnly. “Miss Navia is very cruel, indeed.” 

The rest of the day goes by excruciatingly slow, as most Wednesdays do for him. On Thursday, he is staring at the numbers on his calendar, tapping the wood of his desk deep in thought.

His first Google search is research on whether or not public humiliation counts as a pardoned motive for murder. His second Google search is tickets to the opera. (To be safe. Because Google was a little vague on the first one.) 

It was a long known fact that Clorinde’s Miss Navia enjoyed music very much, and had a habit of dragging Clorinde to theaters all around the city. When he asked Clorinde about it, she said that Miss Navia enjoys the thrill of feeling the voice of the singers on her skin, as if the music was touching her very soul, and looking around at other members of the audience gave her the hope that she was not alone in this experience. It was a shared moment of euphoria, in short. 

Therefore, a shared trip to the opera in the town next to theirs would possibly be within the acceptable realms of gifts given on birthdays, he thinks.

“Wriothesley,” he stops by his office once more. “Does Miss Navia enjoy romantic shows, or does she prefer something with a little more realism?”

“I think she’d be delighted to know you consider romantic shows unrealistic, actually,” Wriothesley answers, and stares him down. “Why are you asking?”

“For no reason in particular,” Neuvillette answers. “I am simply asking for her preference. Surely, there is no reason for you to inquire about the details.” 

Wriothesley squints at him, picking him apart with his gaze. “That is the most suspicious thing you have ever said, I think. I’ll bite. Again. I think she likes those murder-romance ones.”

“Ah,” Neuvillette nods. “Clorinde must have been telling her about our latest cases. It is interesting, what love can make someone do.”

“Tell me about it,” Wriothesley groans. “The guy I interrogated last month tried to kill a guy because he blocked him on Grindr.”

Neuvillette finds himself a bit shocked. “Truly? They let you into the interrogation room?”

“I was shadowing Clorinde, to be fair,” Wriothesley admits. “Blessed lord, grant me immunity from the shackles of assistant work.” 

“If you wish to escape the tiny letters on our papers,” Neuvillette starts, only for Wriothesley to cut him off.

“Go get my eyes checked, yes, I know. Goodness,” Wriothesley looks off into the distance, and Neuvillette thinks Wriothesley might have invented a new method of astral projecting. “Are you and Clorinde in on this together? I wouldn’t be surprised if you were.” 

“I’m just stating fact,” Neuvillette says, and huffs in offense at being accused. (Wriothesley is right, of course. The whole office is in on it, at this point, and maybe Wriothesley could get that discrimination lawsuit going if he knew.)

He leaves the tab open on his computer for quite a while, wondering if it is a preposterous gift, or if Miss Navia would appreciate it. The number of zeroes on the price makes him feel as if it is too formal, and yet it feels like an accurate way of thanking Clorinde for all she’s done for him in his time with the department. The plot of the opera seems right up Miss Navia’s alley, a tale of brilliant love shining through the horrors of the uncertainties in life. A detective with little clues, and a suspect with a loose tongue. The reviews he finds state it as an incredible production, and he cannot help but get ahead of himself. 

The dates available are very few, and so he books it immediately. He does not even flinch as he types in his personal information, deciding that the value of art and Clorinde’s satisfaction went further than Mora could ever express, anyway. 

After her return, Clorinde lays the printed tickets to the opera on Wriothesley’s desk. 

“Hello to you, too,” Wriothesley says. “I think Mondstadt changed you. You haven’t greeted me normally ever since you got back. What happened to Hi? Maybe even a Hello? A How are you, if we’re feeling particularly wild?”

Clorinde turns to look at Neuvillette, giving him one of her looks that makes him steel himself for what is to come. “Dear Wriothesley,” Clorinde starts, tone overwhelmingly honey-like.

“Oh, no,” Wriothesley breathes.

“My beloved coworker,” Clorinde continues, “My beloved Miss Navia has caught a particularly nasty flu on our vacation abroad, and as a faithful and most beloved servant of Her Majesty, I must stay home to feed her soup and wipe her sweaty forehead every few hours.” 

Wriothesley lays his head in his hands.

“Therefore, I regretfully must ask you to take these tickets off my hands, as I am ill-equipped to deal with such a-”

“Oh my god,” Wriothesley complains. “I detest you, you know that? I actually hate you, like, for real.”

Neuvillette looks on with concern. “Miss Navia is sick?” It is terrible news. Sure, there are no truly harmful diseases circulating Mondstadt, but Miss Navia has a weak constitution from her time in the army, and he is not surprised that Clorinde wishes to pamper her until she is healthy again. Clorinde did let him know that she would be unable to make it and offered to send the tickets back to him, but he insisted they were hers to keep and give out as she saw fit. He just didn’t expect her to regift the tickets to Wriothesley himself.

Well. Because Wriothesley dislikes opera specifically, and because he can’t see onto the stage.

“Surely you will not decline,” Clorinde feigns surprise. For the first time in his life, Neuvillette must admit she looks like him when it rains and he has forgotten an umbrella – a sopping wet kicked puppy on the side of the road. “The price is so large, I believe it would count as blasphemy to say no to such an occasion.” 

“Neuvillette bought them, not you,” Wriothesley protests. “Why me? You are literally my worst nightmare. Why do I put up with you?” 

Neuvillette inches closer to the door.

“And you,” Wriothesley turns to him. Neuvillette stops in his tracks. Neuvillette gazes into Wriothesley’s eyes, and attempts to muster up the courage of a lion facing off against the wild. “You’re not getting out of this. You’re coming with me.” 

Neuvillette blinks. 

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette says. “I detest romantic media.”

“And I can’t fucking see,” Wriothesley says. “Too bad. You’re coming with me, and we’re suffering through this three-hour joint torture session together. I’ll tie our hands together if I have to. I’ll glue you to that goddamn VIP seat if I must, do not test me Mister Neuvillette, because you know I will.” 

Clorinde looks delighted. “Alright. Well, that is a weight off my shoulders. Thank you to you both, dearly, for solving this inconvenience for me. I truly love you both.” 

“Who else would I even take?” Wriothesley exclaims. “Sedene from HR? The lady at the front desk that hasn’t looked me in the eye since I started working here? God forbid I ask one of the people in here that don’t even know how to spell my name. Not that I know, either. But it’s a bit embarrassing when I’m their superior. Of course I’ll take Neuvillette. He’s the only one I even know in here except for you. Honestly. I detest you both.” 

Chapter Text

Friday approaches swiftly, and brings with it another Focalors stream. The department’s workload was an awful amount this week, and they are all still feeling the effects of their forced overtime. Even Neuvillette, who is at home in his rocking chair and rereading the entirety of On the Gods and Cosmos by Sallustius, feels his hands cramping up from the constant writing he had to do yesterday.

For the first time in his life, he falls asleep way sooner than he usually does, and almost misses a broadcast from Focalors.

Of course, he still arrives on time, but the minor hiccup almost shook him to his core. Focalors is, by now, such a massive part of his routine that he can’t stop feeling sick over it the day after, and the day after that, until Monday comes around and he is coming into the office gloomy and tired.

Wriothesley whistles lowly from the office’s kitchen, stirring a cup of tea. “I can’t believe we’re making history right now. Neuvillette himself, upset on a Monday?”

Clorinde peeks her head out of her office door, eyes wide. “What?” She powerwalks til she has them both in her eyesight, shellshocked. “Oh, my God. Is it finally the day? Please, Neuvillette, enlighten us on the reason for your less-than-happy behavior?” 

Eyes narrowed, Neuvillette pauses before his office door, looking between Wriothesley and Clorinde rapidly. Wriothesley has a grin on his face, but that is to be expected. Wriothesley finds joy in any kind of proof that Neuvillette is not a machine, to the point Neuvillette on his deathbed would probably have Wriothesley squealing in delight at seeing the Mighty Chief Justice acting like a normal human. 

Clorinde, dear Clorinde who would drop everything at the sight of Neuvillette genuinely being upset, is staring at him expectantly.

“How much money are you wagering on it being a relationship problem?” Neuvillette says, and looks at Wriothesley.

Wriothesley’s grin drops. “What? No, I- You’re kidding.” 

“Then it is not a relationship problem,” Neuvillette says. 

Clorinde cheers so loud that Neuvillette thinks a few of their colleagues burst out of their offices to see what’s wrong. Wriothesley stays silent. “Hear that, Wriothesley? I was right, after all. You’re too hopeful. You shouldn’t have started that bet at all. So long in the making, and I am the victor of our battle of wits. Give me that goddamn Mora, you maniac.” 

His mood lifts severely by the time him and Wriothesley are stepping into Neuvillette’s car. He is actually quite looking forward to it, and does not pay any mind to Wriothesley’s constant complaining.

“You know, I remember that I said we were in this together,” Wriothesley says as they drive over the highway, “But it’s not too late to crash the car right now. Tickets can’t go to waste if we’re dead, no?” 

“I’m afraid nobody would find them in time to go to the opera in our stead,” Neuvillette says. “At the very least, it is an opera involving a detective. It is right up our alley.”

“Going to the theater is a way to relax from work, not a way to bring work into relaxing,” Wriothesley groans. “I don’t wanna think about legal nonsense on my days off, too.” 

Finding parking within the city is only a bit of an issue, not because there are no spots, but because Neuvillette has never been here before and does not know how the parking works. They still have a neat amount of time until they are needed at the opera, and Neuvillette is not sure how to spend this extra time. 

“Are you hungry, perhaps?” Neuvillette asks, a little distracted by looking all around at the beautiful architecture. Given that he spends all his time in his own little town, he got used to all the sighs around him because it was an everyday occurrence. Seeing it in a different context, he can’t help but feel proud of his nation. “We could stop by a shop to pick up something to eat.” 

Wriothesley, walking next to him with his hands in his pockets, scoffs. “Okay, but not restaurant food. We’re in the middle of the city. We won’t find food below ten thousand Mora anywhere near here.”

This is precisely how Neuvillette offers to stop by a local grocery store and pick up a few snacks for them, if they were to feel peckish. Wriothesley said he would do it, except he has a hard time with the prices and tiny ingredient listings. For these reasons, Neuvillette is the one to do their shopping, leaving Wriothesley outside to wait for Neuvillette’s return. Privately, in his own mind, Neuvillette thinks that Wriothesley looks not unlike someone’s dog tied by the tree, waiting for its owner to return. He thinks of Wriothesley’s hairstyle, and chuckles to himself.

On his internal grocery list are only a few items; a mix of dried fruits and nuts, a pair of bananas, and a packet of chocolate biscuits. 

The mix of fruit and nuts is actually quite easy to find, though he has a hard time choosing the exact type. Wriothesley enjoys any sort of mix of foods, but he didn’t mention any preferences for nuts or fruits. Would he enjoy dried raisins? Perhaps cranberries? Would he prefer cashews, or does he have a particular taste for walnuts?

He isn’t actually sure, and Neuvillette thinks he might be overthinking it a little. Surely, if Wriothesley had a strong preference, he would have made it known? 

Faintly, in his peripheral vision, he registers the presence of another person in his proximity, and he moves a bit to the right. He still doesn’t know. Perhaps he should go back outside and ask, just in case. 

The person next to him gently taps him on the arm, and he finds himself looking down at bright blue irises, mismatched, clearly heterochromic. “Sorry to bother, but could you hand me the pink packet at the very top?” 

Neuvillette pauses, and blinks several times in quick succession. “Pardon?” 

“Ah, I’m really sorry, but I can’t reach it,” the person says, apologetic and pointing. Neuvillette follows their finger and hums in understanding, picking the fruit mix off the top shelf and handing it to the person next to him. He looks at them again, at this short girl with hair down to her shoulders and heterochromic eyes, and thinks. “Ah, thank you!” 

“Forgive me,” he speaks, “Do we know each other?” 

The girl, about to move on to the other parts of the store, pauses and looks at him. She squints her eyes, tilts her head. “I… don’t think so?” 

Neuvillette finally places it. Her hair is way shorter, so perhaps they are extensions– 

Oh. Oh, good lord. 

He suddenly finds his throat extremely dry. He has no idea what to do. “I’m- so sorry. For taking up your time. Terribly so. I-”

All of a sudden, her eyes widen, and she nods in understanding, face red. “Oh. You- oh. Alright. Please- don’t mention this to anyone, like, ever?” 

Neuvillette pauses. He knows, and she knows he knows, and he knows she knows he knows.

Oh good lord. 

Could the ground just swallow him whole? His heart picks up once again, quite faster than normal, and he finds it difficult to find anything to say. 

This is horriffic. 

She must think him a stalker, maybe. Or she is incredibly embarrassed to be recognised. Oh, god, what if she thinks he is one of the worse viewers, one of the types that would indulge her online, and judge her offline? 

“Do you think true free will exists?” Neuvillette blurts out. 

If it weren’t for Focalors’ sudden pause, he would have ran right out of the store and never looked back. He doesn’t quite know what else he would have done with himself. But she seems to relax, if at least a little, and looks at him with a new sort of gaze in her eyes. “Sallustius?” 

Oh Celestia protect him. “Yes. Quite precisely. I could not help but think–” He clears his throat. “You have read On the Gods and the Cosmos, correct? I could not stop thinking of what you might have to say about it. The acceptance of religion in oneself and the freedom to pursue it, that is entirely one matter, but what of our choices as individuals?” 

“You’re looking at it from the wrong perspective,” Focalors says. Neuvillette shuts up right then and there. “I read the book, yeah, and I read quite a few of other ones, but I didn’t really enjoy them. Because we can only live our one life, right? We each have our own individual experiences. But that is only our own life. We will never understand how another person feels, even if we’ve been through the same or if they told us every single detail.” 

“Ah,” Neuvillette says. He can feel his mind clouding over, and his hands might be shaking from excitement. “Please, do continue.”

Focalors chuckles. “Well, I think the true way of life can’t be explained in words. We only have our own experience to compare, so I don’t think any sort of author is necessarily ‘in the right’. I think that they try their best to share their own experience with people in hopes of never having their light snuffed out, but it doesn’t mean that they’re any more correct than a child writing in their diary.”

“Completely true,” Neuvillette says. He thinks his heart is vibrating. “I actually agree. Have you read the texts of Marcus Aurelius? I think devoting oneself to a theory is quite delusional. Which, on the topic of free will, is nonsensical. Because if a higher being gives us free will, is that free will at all? Is it free, if it has been demanded of us? And if a higher being demands faith and worship, is that free will too? To me, it seems more of a persuasion, or perhaps blackmail. Make someone believe you will harm them, and then have them do anything they can to avoid it. That does not sound like free will to me.” 

“Hmm, true, though not all religions have a higher being that demands faith,” Focalors hums. “Perhaps we could say that Mondstadt has achieved free will given their lack of societal expectations and pressures of their fellow peers, but we are never free of the gazes of other people. Something will always have an impact on our decisions.

“Therefore, I would probably say that free will does exist, but we are unable to comprehend it. Maybe a toddler is the closest to free will, a being who does not even comprehend that there are opinions of others?” 

Neuvillette feels himself ascend. “What do you think of the revolutionary evolution from barter to using currency?”

What feels like mere moments later, Wriothesley walks into the store, and approaches Neuvillette like a policeman about to make an arrest. Neuvillette suddenly gets the feeling that something might be very, very wrong. 

“Ay,” Wriothesley exclaims, “Three things. Three things! What kind of cookies are you looking for, that take half an hour to find? I think I wore a dent into the concrete I’ve been pacing on.”

Neuvillette, to his horror, finds that the time his phone displays matches Wriothesley’s accusation. “Oh, my goodness. I am so sorry, Miss F-”

“-Furina,” Furina fills in, (Oh good lord, she gave him her name) and smiles. “Not to worry! It has been an honor to chat with a fellow enthusiast of the theorists of old!” 

Wriothesley pauses, very rapidly. He also very rapidly looks at Neuvillette with a gaze that Neuvillette can’t decipher. “You were harassing this gorgeous lady with ancient philosophy?"

“Oh!” Furina exclaims, “That’s who you were talking about before! You must be the colleague, right?” Wriothesley blinks at her. “Do you believe in free will?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Wriothesley says. “There’s two of you, now.” 

Neuvillette looks at Furina with an expression so heartbroken that he almost tears up on the spot. “I am so, so sorry, Miss Furina. We must get going. We have tickets to a local opera show.” 

“To the Heart of Thieves?” Furina asks. “Oh, what a coincidence! I’m actually the artistic director of it. I was just buying last minute snacks for the cast that got peckish before the show. I hope you enjoy it very much!” 

It seems that the talents of the angels have no limits. She is well versed in political and law theory, and is also a lover and creator of art? There are not enough cells in Neuvillette’s body to successfully store all this information at once. 

“I hope you have a wonderful day, Miss Furina,” Neuvillette tells her wholeheartedly, and is pleased to receive a smile back in return. “I am looking forward to it greatly. I don’t doubt that it will be an enriching experience.” 

Later, as they settle into their seats at the opera, Wriothesley grumbles; “You don’t even like romance media.”

Chapter Text

Neuvillette thinks the three hours passed very differently for Wriothesley than they did for him. Specifically, around the two and a half hour mark, a character on stage wept dramatically: I am made of memories. That was enough to suddenly justify the entire trip to see the opera. Neuvillette even leaned over, whispering about the reference to the ancient Greek myth of Achilles and Patroclus, to which Wriothesley happily let him know that he’s been zoned out for too long to start paying attention now. 

I think the green blur just stabbed the red one, Wriothesley said. I didn’t know murder was gonna happen.

Neuvillette leaned over and told him, The green blur is a bush. The red blur is a child.

“Alright,” Wriothesley says the minute they exist the seating area, “I’ve had just about enough. I hope I can make it home before the streetlights shut off.” 

Neuvillette looks at him, and wonders if it is a joke. “I will ram my car right into your bedroom, then. A wall is no obstacle to me.” 

“I’m so happy I have such wonderful friends,” Wriothesley says. 

Suspicious, Wriothesley questions him on his haste to get home. He accuses him of actually looking forward to work (something Wriothesley should know is a little bit true), of having other nefarious plans, and yet he never outright says that maybe Neuvillette just hated the opera that much that he is rushing to get home and forget about it.

Wriothesley knows him so well.

Truthfully, the moment Neuvillette sits down at his desk, he is opening the nearest notebook and writing down sentence after sentence. He summarises the whole plot of the opera, leaving footnotes for character motives and tiny personality quirks, and tries to connect every reference he spots with where it could have come from. He amateurely sketches the design choices, looking up the type of fashion and what the colors could mean. It is here that he writes down every thing that has escaped him. 

What was the decision behind making the character’s clothes match a red-purple palette?

Was the stuttering in the middle of the opera by the Gardener character intentional? 

Was the stage adjusted for this performance? 

Did Furina move the props around like this on purpose, or was there a pre-performance accident that led to the props being scattered around the stage?

His most analysed part is the very end, where he vividly remembers the Gardener character sporting a tear in their clothes. Was that intentional? Did Furina set it up for a sequel? Was it just a mistake that no one caught before the actor left the wings?

Perhaps, he should go over the entire notes again. 

It is no surprise that he cannot let it go on Tuesday, and instead of getting lunch on his break, he stays in his office to continue researching the fashion choices of Furina’s characters. He doesn’t abstain from eating, of course, and made sure to bring appropriate nutrients. Neuvillette already foresaw that his day would go this way.  

Wriothesley didn’t seem to, and appears in his office’s door with his tea cup in hand. His expression is torn between bewildered and distrusting, sipping his beverage slowly, even blowing the steam out of the way on occasion. 

“Greetings, loyal court jester,” Neuvillette prompts him, trying to get him to talk.

It works.

“I’m not a court jester,” Wriothesley defends himself. “If we’re running with this, I’m a world-renowned jester. I make money by making people laugh all over the world. It’s not my destiny to rot in a castle.”

Neuvillette nods, sagely. “I terribly apologise for my mistake. I expect my execution to be swift and merciful.”

“Why are you cooped up in here all day?” Wriothesley asks him. ”Surely they aren’t giving you that much work? I thought it was common courtesy to let the elderly rest.”

This makes Neuvillette huff a laugh. It is such easy entertainment when Wriothesley or Clorinde point out his age, given that they are all in the same age range and there is a rich chance they all could’ve gone to the same schools. Neuvillette knows, however, that the age is not the point of the teasing, and that logic has never stopped Wriothesley’s bullying before. (Much like his debts.)

Neuvillette clears his throat, and opens yet another tab on color theory. “I’m doing research about the opera we saw yesterday. Do you think the tear in the Gardener’s clothes was intentional, or it was a simple mistake?”

His question is met with silence. Neuvillette looks away from his computer, and sees Wriothesley staring at him with a deadpan stare. “Neuvillette. I can’t see.”

“I’m asking about the intention,” Neuvillette defends himself, voice rising in pitch, “Not about the existence of it.”

“I thought your eyes were perfectly fine,” Clorinde says, stepping into the office next to Wriothesley. “Your file doesn’t mention them at all. I should assign you to sort the archive tomorrow, actually.”

Wriothesley moves his stare to her, looking appropriately miffed. “We literally have an archive sorter. You had me hire someone for that exact role. They get higher hourly pay than I do.”

“I did?” Clorinde feigns surprise. “That is so shocking. I recall no such thing. You wouldn’t deny my request, would you? We really need those archives sorted.”

“I saw them sorting the archives last week!”

Neuvillette agrees with her, even outside of this banter. “I heard they sorted them based by color the last time. It should be no issue for your perfectly capable eyes, Wriothesley.”

“One day,” Wriothesley says, “I will rise to the top and hire you both for retail. I wish you guys dealt with the phone calls. I really do.” 

“I cannot wait for that day,” Clorinde tells him, crossing her arms and smiling too sweetly. “When you are free of all debts, I’ll use a burner phone to scam you into even worse financial decisions. And if that day never comes, I will sign your personal e-mail up for magazines and retail websites.”

“Stop threatening us with that!”

Before Friday even rolls around, Neuvillette receives a message to his inbox. He notices that it is the mail address he uses for his Focalors spendings, and hurries to open it within the confines of his bedroom. 

Greetings! The personal message from Furina herself reads. I hope you aren’t creeped out by me contacting you so suddenly to your personal address! (Is this what Wriothesley refers to as ‘sliding into dms’?) I greatly enjoyed our discussion, and wondered if you’d like to speak some more about some topics! (He thinks he might be dreaming.) I also wondered if you and your colleague enjoyed the opera. Would you like to get together for coffee sometime and discuss these topics? Please get back to me soon! :)  

“I didn’t expect you to agree so quickly,” Furina tells him as they sit inside a lavish, gorgeous restaurant. “I honestly thought I might have been a bit too forward.” 

Neuvillette smiles at her, and finds his heart breaking that Furina would ever be insecure about correspondence with anyone, ever. “That is not a worry in the slightest, I wished for nothing less,” Neuvillette tells her. “I have so many questions to ask you, if you do not mind.”

Furina leans her head on her palm, and gives him a charming smile in return, accompanied by a flutter of her eyelashes. “Not at all, Monsieur Neuvillette. I don’t mind at all.”

“Alright,” Neuvillette clears his throat. “The cast in your opera seemed to all have in common their fashion statements, as every costume on stage could be described by using the red-purple area of the color wheel. There was only the exception of the main suspect, whose clothes were of a blue-ish tint, though I assume that is to single them out and show how much they stand out compared to everyone else? Keeping everyone in warm colors and only assigning a cold one to the suspect proved a smart choice, as I was instantly clued in on their possible exclusion, and given a red herring for the plot.”

Eyes a little wide, Furina looks at him with surprise. “O-oh! Um, well, you’re right! Although the main decision for this was that red, orange and purple colors give off a feeling of confidence. Think of a tight red evening dress, or a purple coat. They draw attention, and give the impression of someone who has all they need, and is never lacking. They also say purple is a color of royalty. Given that the main suspect was from a poorer background, I weaved that into the style decisions, and tried to show that the main suspect did not have the confidence of other characters, and was worried for their future.”

“Ah,” Neuvillette says. “That is very genius of you. I also noticed it made the characters easily stand out against the background, and yet the suspect always blended in perfectly.”

“Yes!” Furina taps her fingers against the table in excitement. “The light we used was also tinted warm, so it’s as if the whole production was favoring everyone but the main suspect. It also leads you to subconsciously alienate the suspect, and makes them further doomed by the narrative since the start!” 

That is, indeed, a smart decision. Neuvillette has never been a fan of romantic media because of the way the writers often don’t seem to think beyond the main plot. Modern scripts seemed to forget that a romance between two characters isn’t enough of a story to entertain everyone, and it has happened enough times to make Neuvillette comfortable with generalising. It seems Furina has proved him wrong with just a single performance. 

“I also noticed a tear in the Gardener’s clothes near the end of the opera,” Neuvillette says. “I wondered if it was intentional, or just a mistake I managed to spot.”

Furina’s eyes seem to twinkle in the light of the restaurant’s ceilings. “It was intentional! It’s a bit of a Chekhov’s gun, actually. They’re a Gardener, so you would expect them to be all muddy and torn from their work, as the detective points out at the start. Their clean looks make them look incompetent and stuck-up, and only at the end is the audience given a glimpse into the truth of their personality.”

Neuvillette nods, though he isn’t sure he caught that part of the opera. “Do you mind elaborating?”

“Not at all,” Furina hurries to say. “The Gardener was intended to be a suspect at the first draft, but it never made it out of the drawing board. I wanted to make them at least a little suspicious, though, so I made the audience subconsciously file them away as bad at their job, or unwilling to actually carry out any of their promises, due to their lack of commitment to their occupation. The torn clothes near the end clue in the audience that perhaps they were purposefully misled, and might serve as further foreshadowing for the main suspect’s reveal of innocence!”

Their stay at the restaurant manages to prolong itself until the restaurant is closing, leaving Neuvillette and Furina to take their conversation to the benches outside. “I didn’t even notice the time passing,” Furina says. “It was very enriching, to have a conversation with someone who also shares an interest in this genre.”

“Ah,” Neuvillette says, suddenly bashful. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a connoisseur of romantic media. It- might be silly to say it, but I felt inclined to pay attention, because you had a hand in making it.”

Furina blinks up at him, the moonlight reflecting in her mismatched irises. “Oh,” she says, sounding a bit strangled. “You went to see it because you knew it was connected to me?” 

“No, not really,” Neuvillette says. “I bought the tickets for another colleague of mine. Her and her wife go to shows such as this very often, and I thought it’d be a fitting birthday present for them both. One of them unfortunately fell ill before Monday, however, and my colleague and I ended up going in their stead. It was only in the grocery store that I recognised you, and realised I had the chance to interact personally with another enjoyer of philosophy and the like.” 

Furina hums, her voice much deeper and normal than in her livestreams. Neuvillette suddenly finds himself returning to his curiosities from before, and notes that her fashion style seems to be leaning towards masculine, with a strong preference for blues. It suits her well, and the shorter hair seems to fit her naturally. 

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she says after a moment, and Neuvillette is drawn back to her face. “In my close circles, people view it as a job, and I lack any people closeby who see it for the passion it is. I often get ridiculed for my expectations. That my goals are to bring stories to life, instead of making a profit.” 

“Your operas don’t make a profit?” Neuvillette asks, surprised.

Furina inhales, and then exhales with a choppy laugh. “They do, just not as much as other supervisors would like. That’s why I chose to become self-employed, and direct my own performances. I’d rather have an unstable financial income than release stories into the world I’m unhappy with. Think of it this way. What if a person is about to make a huge, important decision, and comes to see a show right before it? That show could impact their whole life. I want to make sure I’m sending a message I’m happy with. I don’t want half-finished marketing shit that will never reach true value.”

Listening with his whole self, Neuvillette finds himself agreeing. She is not wrong, not at all, though it might be a bit of a naive idea. Not that he’d ever say that to anyone, especially not out loud.

“It must be hard,” Neuvillette says. “Being self-employed as an artist. I can’t imagine it’s a reliable source of income.”

“Oh,” Furina laughs. “I can see where you’re going with it. I don’t do the whole Focalors thing for money, really. I love acting, I just don’t like doing it on a stage, so this is my way of getting it out of my system without having to commit to a full performance that travels around town. It’s fun, you know. And the money is a bonus.”

“You dislike the stage?” Neuvillette is surprised to come to know this about her. Furina doesn’t seem disheartened at all. 

“Not really,” Furina says. “The lights get really hot after a while, and the costumes are stifling. Plus, I hate having to memorise scripts, there’s just so much that could go wrong! It’s better to just watch from the wings.”

“I don’t think I’d enjoy the stage either. I haven’t dealt with the anxiety of other people’s opinions on me in a long time, but the pressure must be on an entirely different scale.” Neuvillette pauses. “And the texture of costumes gives me hives.”

Chapter Text

By the time next month rolls around, the office experiences a malfunction of their electricity. Given that almost the whole department is working with digital tools, Clorinde considers making the decision to turn the department remote until the upper management gets a hold of an electrician. “We work with confidential files,” Wriothesley grumbles. “How are we supposed to go remote?” 

Neuvillette looks over his other colleagues, all with similar worries. If the upper management sends them home with no preamble, today’s work will be delayed. If today’s work is delayed, he will have to work overtime tomorrow, and given that tomorrow is Friday, that would make him late to Furina’s stream as Focalors. His whole schedule is threatened, and he can feel the uncomfort sitting low in his heart. 

“Isn’t the law department a priority?” One of Neuvillette’s colleagues asks. “We can’t do our job without the computers. And the printers. And the lights.”

“I would have a hard time existing if the electricity didn’t get fixed in due time,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley, standing a few metres away, laughs. “I love your jokes so much, you know that?”

“What joke?” Neuvillette says.

Mere minutes later, Clorinde reappears with the message that the electricity fell out because of a leak that happened in the building next to theirs. A mishap with the wires caused a shutdown of local electricity connections to prevent a fire, and until the building over is deemed safe to return to work, theirs will also be under a complete lack of electricity. 

Neuvillette understands, at least a little. Safety comes first. But their upper management also gives them an unpaid vacation until this mishap is over, and that leaves him less understanding. He can not even work remotely, and has to abandon work duties due to the inherent risk of carrying sensitive material outside of the law department to his own home. They are also denied from working at the office with their own laptops, and Neuvillette is left on the sidewalk, trying to think over the thrumming headache in his mind. 

“Unpaid?” Wriothesley says. “Unpaid? It’s not even my fault, and I’m losing money over it?” 

Clorinde agrees with him. She is checking her phone every few minutes, waiting for Navia to come pick her up earlier than usual. “It is severely unfair. I sincerely offer to help you if you need it, Wriothesley – as your supervisor, I will be speaking to upper management about this decision in due time.” 

Wriothesley shudders. “Can you go back to making fun of me? This is weird.” 

“Neuvillette?” Clorinde prompts him. “Will you be alright in the meantime? I know this is also infringing on your accommodations listed in the contract.”

Neuvillette, who is very much not alright, does not wish to cause further trouble to dear Clorinde. “It is not a good situation,” he chooses to say, “But I will be able to manage. Please, do not worry about me. Speak on behalf of Wriothesley first and foremost.” 

It seems that the delay will carry over into next week as well. He imagines some of his colleagues are delighted at the idea of having a few days of vacation, but the unfair dock in pay is going to affect them greatly. He knows that not a small number of them depend on their paychecks each month, and he imagines this situation will not be good news to hear, specifically to those who are not scheduled to work today, and will receive these news indirectly. 

Neuvillette finds himself seeking solace in his recent lighthouse. Hello, Miss Furina, he types. Would you be willing to meet today? I have a great deal of topics to discuss.

“I totally agree,” Furina says in between bites of her cake. “A profit incentive is a modern issue that is so frustrating. ‘If no one got paid, nothing would get done!’ It’s so annoying. Everyone is different. Everyone will have a calling to do something. It’s just that the lack of profit makes it unable to sustain in this economy, because if you spend all your time doing a thing you’re not getting paid for, you won’t have the money to survive!”

Neuvillette nods along. “Our society would look different, but it would be a good different. People would be able to follow their passions, and wouldn’t force themselves into fields of study just for the promise of good paychecks.”

“I actually think that people who advocate for a money-based society are soulless,” Furina tells him, and pauses her cake to deliver a proper sentence. “Surely we all have something we’d love to do all the time, without a profit incentive. If everyone forgot about money, the stories we see in media would become a whole lot better and honest. Movies and games wouldn’t be rushed, and actors wouldn’t be stressed and forced into roles they might not even enjoy. It frustrates me to no end!”

There is a multitude of taps on the window next to them. “A lot of people try to make me admit that I would not pursue law if it didn’t include such hefty funding. I disagree. Law is something I would pursue regardless of pay.” Neuvillette looks over at the window, and sees the entirety of the glass covered by raindrops. Ah. Those were the noise he heard. “It is raining.”

An understatement. A second after he finishes the word, the sky seems to open itself in its entirety, and rain pours down in such strength that they see people outside scramble for cover. The noise of the cafe fades into silence as everyone looks over at the windows, shocked, panicking about the sudden change of weather. “Oh,” Furina deflates. “I guess we’ll have to wait it out. I didn’t bring an umbrella…” 

“I didn’t either,” Neuvillette admits solemnly. 

They wait, they talk more, and Furina watches as the rain she wished to wait out just became more of a storm. The employees of the cafe worry over their sudden influx of customers trying to escape the rain, and the tiny store gets more and more crowded. Neuvillette winces at the noise, and he sees Furina shrinking into herself as well.

“Do you live nearby?” Neuvillette asks. “I could drive you home.” 

“No way,” Furina purses her lips into a tight line. “Drive? In this weather? Honestly!” She scoffs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. She looks deep in thought, as if conflicted. “I do live nearby, though. Like, terribly nearby.” 

There is silence, as Neuvillette idly swirls the melted ice in his cup with his long spoon. He is not picking up on what Furina is trying to say, but with her, he’s given up on trying to force himself into understanding.

Furina leans further, trying to meet his eyes. “We could book it to my place and wait out the rain there?” 

Neuvillette looks at her.

Furina looks back at him.

“Oh,” Neuvillette says. “Alright.”

Neuvillette does not think he’s ever felt such humiliation as when Furina and him ran across the entirety of the square, taking brief cover under arches and storefronts to catch their breath. Reaching Furina’s apartment was like a gift from the heavens, finally allowed to slow down and enjoy the dry interior of the entrance hall to her apartment complex. “That was not terribly nearby,” he complains. 

Furina shoves her key into the keyhole and laughs as she unlocks her front door. “Okay, it might have been a little further than that.”

“A little?” Neuvillette asks incredulously. “I feel as if I just ran a marathon. I don’t think I ran ever since I finished high school.” 

He peels off his coat and Furina directs him to the bathroom, where he drapes it over the radiator. She fetches them towels to dry off their hair, and when he enters her living room, he is immediately struck speechless by the gorgeous tablecloth. “Are those Remurian patterns?” He asks, lightly rubbing the edge of the fabric between his fingers, and finds that it is pleasant to the touch unlike other tablecloths he has had the displeasure of touching. 

Furina peeks her head out of her kitchen, and reappears with two steaming mugs of tea. “Oh! Yes, I got that from a coworker of mine. She knows I love patterns on fabric. It’s a bit of an obsession of mine,” she laughs, and Neuvillette thinks she doesn’t even know the way his mind blanks at her admitting that. He loves patterns on fabric. 

“I noticed you seem to wear floral patterns on your lingerie,” Neuvillette says, and Furina’s head whips towards him speedingly fast. “Are they inspired by Sumeru’s flora? I noticed they are very bell-like, and it doesn’t strike me as similar to Inazuman or perhaps even Liyuen plants. Furthermore, the vibrance of the  colors leads me to believe it isn’t Mondstadtian, but more from the western side of Teyvat…” 

Furina blinks at him several times in rapid succession. “Yeah, actually. I usually buy from a Sumerian merchant that visits the marketplace every few weeks– Hold on, don’t get me off topic! Is that all you have to say about my lingerie?”

It is Neuvillette’s turn to blink. Incomprehensibly. He racks his brain for what she might mean. “I’d assume it’s of a rougher texture? If I recall correctly, Sumeru is one of the only nations to not have a trade route with Liyue for their silk flowers, and if the report I read recently was correct, then the heat of Sumeru’s deserts inspires their clothing to be more open and breathable. Is that what I was missing?” 

“I mean, that’s true,” she scoffs, “But in actuality, they put great effort into planting their own silken flora, and their performers’ clothes are incredibly soft. Sure, they are also a bit more easy to sweat in because they’re less open, but given they’re used for short amounts of time-” 

Furina cuts herself off, and leans forward in her chair. “Stop asking amazing questions!”

Neuvillette nods sagely. “I apologise. Please, do explain your frustrations.”

“I’m frustrated because I invited you to my house after a date and you’re pointing out the inspirations behind my lingerie,” Furina says sternly. “I want you to focus on other things behind my lingerie, stupid. And those girly magazines said to be alluring, so I was, and here you are! And they also said to make sure it’s reciprocated, but you literally watch me masturbate every Friday, so there’s no way I’m wrong about this, am I?”

Oh.

Oh.

“Forgive me,” Neuvillette clears his throat. “You are upset because I am not… returning your attention? Are you confessing to me right now?” 

“Neuvillette,” Furina tells him. “You’re in my living room. We’ve been out on dates like a hundred times. You’ve seen me naked. Multiple times. You pay my rent. I’ve moaned your name before.” 

“That is not sufficient evidence,” Neuvillette says, strangled. “That is- I’m not-” He stutters over his words, and when Furina raises an eyebrow in his direction, he looks away. “That is the online,” He emphasises. “This is offline, and when we are in person, we talk about the world. Of course I would not come onto you in real life,” he hisses. “I am a self respecting member of society. Those were not dates.”

“You’re a dumb pile of rocks,” Furina says. “That’s who you are. You don’t like me, then?” 

“I support your passions like a good friend would,” Neuvillette stresses. “Sexual attraction does not have to equal romantic attraction. Please, Miss Furina, you aren’t obligated to–”

“Obligated?” Furina yells. “Obligated? You look like that, and you say I feel obligated? Yeah, I feel obligated! Because you’re a gorgeous man, and you’re like a pile of green flags! It’d be blasphemy to not be into you! I feel like the heavens themselves might strike me down if I denied being attracted to you!” 

Neuvillette puts his head in his hands. Oh, good lord. 

Furina, bless her heart, huffs and sips her tea with attitude. Neuvillette lowers his arms to lay them on the table, and looks at Furina with honesty in his eyes. (And a slightly warm face.) “Of course I like you, Miss Furina. You are the only person I have met who was also interested in the ‘mundane’ as I am. I greatly enjoy your company and our conversations, and it is also true that I enjoy watching your performances on the internet. However, I am not as shallow as to think the personality you put on in your streams is your real self, and getting to know Furina was a delight to my life I would never take back. My colleagues don’t even know who Patroclus is.” 

“'I am made of memories,’” Furina quotes, sighing. “That stupid reference in my opera you keep bringing up. Honestly, Neuvillette, do you want to kiss me?”

Neuvillette looks at her for a long minute. “It would be my pleasure to, yes.” 

“It would be my pleasure,” she mocks him with a grin. “Oh, my god. I am so charmed already. Where’s the enthusiasm?” 

“I will show you my enthusiasm,” Neuvillette says, and feels heat stir within him at the look Furina gives him. “If you would be amenable to that.”

“I would,” Furina breathes. 

Chapter Text

The first touch of their lips feels– 

Neuvillette isn’t quite sure. He’s kissed people before, and it’s made out to be an electric, powerful experience that should knock him off his feet. In reality, he gently caresses Furina’s cheek, and the kiss is… normal. Her lips are slightly cold, and the first kiss is mundane. It’s with the third and fourth that he feels the gentle balm she must’ve put on prior to this, and it’s very gently flavored. (Furina lets slip a frankly adorable squeak when he tastes it.) 

Her clothes are very soft to the touch, and the material is pleasing against his fingers. He, truthfully, can’t be blamed for the way his hands wander. It’s not out of a specific need of a sexual nature, but she is in sync with his mind so clearly that it keeps taking him by surprise. She pushes against his chest, departing just to mutter, “You can touch.” 

“No,” Neuvillette says, and blinks back into awareness. “I was admiring the material. It doesn’t irritate my fingers as other expensive-looking fabrics do. Is it Liyuen silk?” 

Furina laughs and pecks his lips with newfound ease. “It is. I was hoping you’d notice, to be honest. The patterns on the sleeves are specific to the area around Guili. The woman who sold it to me told me her entire story of travelling to Fontaine, and how the symbols were made in image of a beast that scared the people there.” 

“I’ve heard of that tale. It is a very fascinating story,” Neuvillette tells her, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. Their eyes meet for a long minute, and he doesn’t mind the silence that surrounds them. Furina rises from her chair and sits sideways across his thighs, burrowing her face into his chest while her arms sneak around his torso. She sighs, content, and Neuvillette follows the instinct to cradle her in his arms. 

Furina, after a moment of quiet, hums in delight. “I wanted to do that for so long. You looked like you gave amazing hugs, and I was right.” 

Huffing a laugh, Neuvillette takes notice of the way her hands stroke through his hair, idly twirling it between her fingers. “I don’t think I’ve been told that before. My hugs have indeed been praised, but none have told me I look the part.” 

“You’re quite intimidating,” She says. “It adds to the appeal. Intimidating and gentle people are the greatest huggers.” 

The next moment, Furina lifts her head, and studies his face up close. It seems as if she was taking liberties doing things she wasn’t able to before, such as looking at all his facial features from a small distance. “You have such pretty eyelashes,” she mutters. “You’re so gorgeous. It’s infuriating. How are you so pretty?” 

“Pretty?” Neuvillette asks, smiling. 

“Everything about you is like that. Even your hair. I bet that underneath all that intimidating lawyer nonsense, you’re a Barbie. Did you watch Barbie growing up?” 

Neuvillette chooses to answer by kissing her once more. And then twice, and thrice, until he loses count.  

The storm is still in full swing by the time the sun falls, and Furina ends up asking him if he wants to sleep over. “You don’t have to,” Furina tells him. “We can stay up all night and pretend it’s not sleeping over. You’ve mentioned having trouble with things changing too soon.”

“I appreciate that,” Neuvillette says, and decides not to mention how it makes his heart beat rapidly, that Furina would remember such a detail. That she would care to make him comfortable like this. (Of course, he also thinks that if she didn’t, it’d be very telling of her.) “I do not bode well with sudden changes. It causes me distress.” 

“We can take this easy then, too,” Furina says, not unkindly. “So you get used to the idea. We start slow, and…” She notices Neuvillette frowning. “Or not?” 

Neuvillette looks at her face, trying to deduce how she feels. Regardless of him, he also wants Furina to feel comfortable, and she doesn’t look like she wants to take it slow in the slightest. “If I remember correctly, you mentioned being impatient about this. Are you sure that’s what you truly want?” 

“I-” Furina is startled by being in the spotlight all of a sudden. Her cheeks redden. “Well, okay, as I said before… you watch me undress every Friday, so taking it slow just seems a bit–” she clears her throat. “Unneccessary. But I’m prepared to do it, if that’s what you want!” 

The scene is almost domestic. They are sat in her living room, and she was just about to bring out the blankets. Neuvillette shifts, turning to her fully, and takes her chin in his hand. “I thought you wished to see my enthusiasm?” 

Furina huffs, laughing over her flustered stutter. “You can show me your enthusiasm by giving me your consent and following me to the bedroom.” 

“I’m amenable to that,” Neuvillette recounts what he said before, and smiles. “I give you my consent, Furina. May I kiss you?” 

“You may,” She gives him a smile back. 

Her bedroom looks far better than it does on her streams, Neuvillette decides. However, he has no chance to study the amounts of books in her shelves before she is grasping his sleeve and tugging him into another kiss. “Did you annotate your copy of On the Gods and the Cosmos?” He wants to ask, but before he can even open his mouth in between her eagerness, she pushes him back onto the bed. Furina swiftly seats herself upon his lap, and after another onslaught of kisses upon his lips, she pushes further until his back hits the sheets.

He breathes out his question, watching her hover over him, hair spilling over shoulders. “I annotated it each time I read it,” Furina answers. One of her hands braces her against the mattress, splayed out next to Neuvillette’s head. The other strokes the front of his clothes, trailing down, and she kisses him again. 

The first touch of her hand against the front of his pants makes him inhale sharply, and she pulls back to check his agreement before her hand presses down against his navel. “Shh,” she says, and then her hand slips inside.

“Oh,” Neuvillette gasps, and his head tilts back against the pillow. He can’t handle Furina’s stare on his face and closes his eyes shut at the slow strokes. His breathing picks up, and he can hear Furina’s clothes ruffle as she leans down to kiss him. 

Her hand is teasing and slow, so much so that his hips buck into her touch, and Furina tuts. She presses her thumb beneath the head and traces the skin there with slow movement, and she watches him, watches him intensely. She watches as his lips press together at his attempt to stay silent, and her eyes shine with triumph when he finally whines, a little pathetic. 

She coos, such a minx that he feels his brain drop to his feet within seconds. Arousal floods him swiftly, his veins alight, and he is so hard that he is dizzy with it. 

“Come on,” she says, and speeds her hand up. “Do you still want to?” 

It is embarrassing, frankly, how much he is into this, that he whines at her tone alone. “Yes,” he gasps for air, and lets out little breathy ‘ah ah ah’s all the way up until he is spilling into her hand.

His brain turns to mush. He is fully dressed, his hair sticks to his forehead with sweat, and his boxers are full of cum. 

“I, I apolog-ise, ” he mewls the last part, as Furina disregards his state and moves down to take him into her mouth. 

A week passes by. Neuvillette allows himself a brief moment of hope when he wakes up on Monday morning, returning to his usual routine of a normal workday. He parks in the same place, grasps the front door’s handle in the same place, and even the time he enters the office is exactly the same on the dot as it always is. The lights are on, which fuels his hope for a return to normal, and yet no one around looks pleased. 

“They aren’t certain when we’ll be able to come back full time,” one of his colleagues explains to him. “They didn’t even contact all of our coworkers, only a very few. It’s probably gonna take another week or two, with the way it’s going.” 

Neuvillette gazes at the door to his office solemnly. He misses his chair severely. “I assumed I was summoned because of our return to work,” he tells his coworker with mild dissatisfaction. “What else are we here for? Did they make you come into office as well, just to tell you this will take even longer?” 

His coworker shrugs. “Clorinde proposed a meeting with the whole department. People deserve to know we’re being put on hold until the building next to us gets stable again. They’re letting us have power for other reasons, but if anything goes haywire, it’s back to a blackout again.” 

“I shall make use of my new free time,” Neuvillette says. “It appears I will need to find ways to entertain myself until the issue is solved.”

“What did you have in mind?” His coworker asks, inquisitive.

Neuvillette’s hair splays out in all directions as he falls onto the bed, wrists getting herded into Furina’s tight grasp within seconds. She straddles his lap, leans over him, devours him with her gaze alone– Neuvillette came to her with the request, stating his lack of work to do. He needed to spend time outside of his own house, otherwise he’d lose his mind pacing the empty corridors. It was too sudden. Neuvillette was not yet used to the idea of spending so much time inside his own house, days on end. 

Dear Furina, bless her heart, accepted his request immediately. She is just as dear now, as she takes him apart piece by piece with her hands, mouth trailing from his jaw to his collarbones. She is just as dear as she undresses him, peeling back layers upon layers of clothing, until he is laying on her bed nude and vulnerable. She is just as dear when she pours lube over her fingers and prepares him, making him come on said fingers only once, kissing his tears away.

And, Neuvillette finds, she is even dearer as she slips a pillow underneath his tummy, and then plows the daylight out of him. They picked the phallus out together, one that slips in with no trouble, one that overwhelms him in the best way without growing uncomfortable and making him feel too much. 

In this delightful moment, he drools onto the silken sheets Furina laid out for him, and he grinds down to achieve delicious friction against his cock. Furina thrusts forward again, so delicious, making him feel so full that he cries out and holds onto the bedding with dear life. 

(“I did not think you’d take interest in being on top,” Neuvillette told her a few days prior. Furina laughed and said, “You told me yourself, that the personality on my streams isn’t my real self.”) 

And then – just as agreed upon – Furina drapes herself over his back, grinds into his prostate with slow and teasing movements, and coos words of praise with hushed tones.

“Please, please, please,” Neuvillette whimpers, and then Furina is reaching down to stroke him in time with her thrusts, and he’s coming harder than he’s come in his life. 

“You were so sweet,” Furina tells him, “You did so well. So gorgeous for me.” And she will continue saying these things as he gets her off with his mouth. 

And each time they lay there in bed, breathing through their afterglow and holding each other close, Furina breaks the silence with something silly. “I wonder if my audience would wanna be topped by me like you do,” she says this time, laughing. “Do you think they’re also bratty bottoms in disguise?” 

Neuvillette hums, noncommittal, and yet the thought keeps returning to him day by day. It makes his brain spin, and makes images appear in his mind that have him burrowing his face into Furina’s soft skin, cheeks red.

Chapter Text

“Ah,” Neuvillette gasps, feeling his skin stretch around the strap as Furina pushes his leg up, further, further until he can grasp his thigh and hold it there. The other leg is pushed to the side, spreading him deliciously, so that Furina can lean forward and stroke his cock languidly. He whines at the overwhelming pleasure, his spine turning to jelly – there is electric static flooding his veins and he doesn’t even realise he threw his head back into the soft pillows. 

Furina squeezes her hand, her thumb trailing along the sensitive skin. “You like that?” She asks, teasing. Her hips move back, pulling out slowly before she thrusts back in, the slick sounds quiet yet thunderous. “Talk to me, darling.”

“I do,” Neuvillette breathes. His eyes are shut tight, breaths coming in fast and high pitched, and his mouth opens on a silent cry. “Please, m- mphm-”

“More, more,” Furina mocks, voice full of faux sarcasm. “You’re so greedy. You can’t get enough?” 

Her movement is divine, turning his body to a language she is fluent in, tuned into his tells and quirks. Her hand strokes him faster and faster, and yet her thrusts stay slow yet precise. 

Neuvillette whimpers. “Oh,” he says, and his voice is raspy and on the edge, the heat flaring in his abdomen heightening his arousal. “Close, close, Furina, ah-”

His cock spurts cum over his tummy, and Furina takes her hand away to watch, giggling. Her thrusts continue, and Neuvillette’s legs attempt to close, to which Furina shifts and hovers over him, forcibly pushing his legs apart as her strap slides against his prostate. “No, no,” she mutters. “Let me watch. Let me watch, darling, please?” 

The tone of her voice does something mean to his soul, his heart aching as the last of his cum trails down his cock, whining at the delicious arousal that her words bring him. It’s heavenly, the bliss she causes him, to the point he never wants to get up, wants to stay in this bed forever. 

Furina lays a gentle hand against his ass when she pulls out, fingers trailing over his red skin with comforting tenderness. She presses herself down against him, her wet strap pressing down into the cum on his tummy as she kisses him, kisses him deeply and lovingly with her clean hand on his cheek. “You’re so good for me,” she murmurs against his lips. 

A minute passes. Furina sits up, settles herself to sit over his torso, and pushes the faux cock against his lips. “Clean me up?” She asks, deceptively innocent and sweet. 

His obsession runs deep. He has no choice but to part his lips, and use his mouth until her strap comes away covered in spit. 

By another week, the threat has been eliminated, and the department is back to normal. Neuvillette’s first step into the office has him almost getting sentimental. He even begins to tear up a little, and then he hears Wriothesley and Clorinde’s voices, and remembers he has not spoken to them face-to-face in quite a while.

He tracks them down to Wriothesley’s office, and is surprised to find them celebrating. 

“I never thought I’d see the day Wriothesley is happy to be at work,” Neuvillette announces his presence, and Wriothesley immediately goes to clap him on the back.

“I am so incredibly thrilled to be in your incredible aura this lovely day.” Wriothesley points to Clorinde, who is currently lounging on his chair with her feet propped up on his desk with her arms behind her head. “I am no longer assistant Wriothesley, but chief assistant Wriothesley.” He shoves a paper into Neuvillette’s face, and his eyes zero in on the thousand Mora pay increase of the position contract.

Neuvillette looks at Wriothesley, and then at Clorinde. “Wriothesley got a promotion?” 

“I think I defended him a little too hard,” Clorinde says. “I took the unpaid vacation to Sedene, and she made it into an official meeting. After an hour, I somehow secured him a promotion instead.” 

“So the vacation was still unpaid,” Neuvillette says in a flat voice, and looks at Wriothesley with narrowed eyes. Wriothesley looks back at him, widens his eyes in comical fashion, and then grins. “Wriothesley, we-”

“Spoke of this, yeah, yeah,” Wriothesley tuts. “I’m rising to the top, mister. One day, I’ll run this damn department, and you’ll all be sorry.”

Clorinde clears her throat. “I also signed your e-mail up for magazines and retail websites. The promotion pissed me off.”

“That was you?!”

“I hope it is worth it in your long and valuable life,” Neuvillette says. “Perhaps with this pay increase, you’ll finally have the money to get your eyes checked."

Wriothesley crosses his arms. “All I get is bullying. You guys should try being nice to me. I’ll buy off your bosses, and deny you any law-related job ever again.”

“You are always mean to us, too,” Clorinde says. “And yet we do so much for you. You should be thankful.” She pauses. “Or I won’t make you the godfather to my children.”

“Please,” Wriothesley says, “Please listen to me, and never have children. If I had to see a mini you and mini Navia running around all the time, I think that’d be way too much chaos to handle. You as a teen was enough for a lifetime.”

“At least I never got arrested,” Clorinde responds.

“Okay,” Wriothesley says. “And?” 

Neuvillette takes a stray stack of papers from the desk, rolls them up into a tube, and bonks it against Wriothesley’s head. “I congratulate you on your promotion,” he tells Wriothesley, “But I do implore you to avoid getting sidetracked.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Wriothesley mutters, sarcastically dark. “You say that as if your own contract hadn’t been breached. Usually, you can’t handle these fast changes this well. What the hell changed?” 

Silently, Neuvillette averts his gaze. (His cheeks are not growing heated.)

“Can I start pranking you now?” Wriothesley says. “Is that acceptable?” 

“I would get you that promotion rescinded,” Clorinde says to him, still lounging on the chair. “Don’t test me. Pull a prank on our dear Neuvillette, and I will get you malware.”

Wriothesley narrows his eyes. “How do you know how to install malware?” 

“Getting rid of malware means I also know how it gets there in the first place. It’s why I’m so good at murder. I know all the tricks to get away with it.” 

“I will not defend you in court,” Neuvillette tells her, amused. “One day these jokes will be taken seriously, and you will face the judgement for your sins on your own.” 

Clorinde tuts. “I thought indulging your nerdy interests would grant me your eternal favor.” 

Distantly, the phone in Neuvillette’s office rings, and Wriothesley bullies him some more as Neuvillette hurries to take care of the call.

Well. Neuvillette is obviously expecting a client. He is not expecting the voice of a young man, sounding bored, and Neuvillette thinks this might be his first time experiencing a spam call.

“I think you might have dialed the wrong number,” Neuvillette says. “You have reached the law department office.”

There’s a huff from the other side. It is the worst part, that Neuvillette can’t see their phone number, and can’t see the area code. “I told you I wanted to reach Neuvillette, didn’t I?”  

Neuvillette settles down into his chair. This would probably take a while. “You have indeed reached me. Is there anything I can help you with?” 

“I’m just asking! C’mon, help me out here. Do you or do you not make a habit out of stalking and murdering young women?” 

“Riveting questions,” he sighs. “Who am I speaking to?” 

The man on the other side laughs, a higher pitch chuckle, but it does not sound malicious. At least Neuvillette thinks so. “You’re so lame. I didn’t find any crimes in your record, but that doesn’t exactly mean anything. Have you ever killed anyone?”

“I’m afraid you might have reached the wrong recipient.”

“No, I think I’m calling just fine,” the man says. Then, he sounds doubtful. “You’re Neuvillette, aren’t you? Super rich and all that. I just want to know if you’re a murderer! Easy peasy, lemon squeezy! Not even that hard to answer. Look, I’ll even throw in my own statement – I don’t call and then murder rich, law-oriented men!”

Then, all of a sudden, he remembers a tiny piece of information Furina told him over their recent lunch together. My friends are my moderators, she said. They’re all really weird, so if they ever reach out to you, just ignore them… God, that’d be embarrassing.

Neuvillette sighs, enough to be audible. “You wouldn’t happen to be a friend of Furina’s, would you?” 

“Oh,” the man says. “Definitely not! You should absolutely not mention this call to her, like, ever. Because I am really good at all manner of things, but I don’t think I’d survive that. I know my own weaknesses. At least I think so. So I am totally not a friend of Furina’s. I don’t even know who that is, to be honest. Like, haha, Furina who?” 

He hangs up. 

He thinks that’s the last of it. It is not.

‘Dear respectful innocent non-murderous Monsieur Neuvillette’, an anonymous e-mail reads, from an e-mail address that must be fake with the horrific name attached to it. ‘Please do not murder my dear non-friend Furina. The woman who I do not know is amazing and I would not like this woman I do not know to go mysteriously missing without any ties to yourself. Thank you! PS: You never received this email!!!! Don’t tell her!!!!!!!!!!!!!! THIS IS FOR HER OWN GOOD’.

Neuvillette writes back, ’I have no plans of doing such a thing. Please refrain of accusing me of such vile acts. It is quite distressing’.

The response comes quite fast. ‘ Sorry :(( Ur just so nice I don’t want to have to expose the crimes u committed in 1997 and have u arrested on an account of vehicular manslaughter’.

‘I never committed any crimes, and especially not in 1997.’

‘Yeah not yet :))’ 

“Oh my God,” Furina says, almost choking on her cake at the cafe. “I’m so, so sorry. That was– Oh my God. I’m– that’s utterly humiliating!” 

Neuvillette pushes a glass of water toward her, blinking in concern. “What? No, you need not worry about it– I just wished to ask, is all. You’ve mentioned your friends before. I was merely curious if this was connected to them.”

Bless her heart, Furina shrinks into her chair, cheeks aflame. “Yeah,” she croaks. “He’s not actually like this, I swear. I think you’d get along really well, actually – he loves Greek mythology – but this is the first time I’m actually seeing someone, and they’re like a bunch of rabid beasts,” she spits the last part out. “This is actually so embarrassing. I’m so sorry.”

“I was merely surprised they thought so ill of me,” Neuvillette tells her.

It is true, after all. He is aware that the nature of Furina’s life would invite several mishaps into her life, such as people devaluing her work, efforts, or means of expressing herself. She didn’t exactly hide it, but it wasn’t something she paraded around loudly, given the danger of announcing such a fact about herself. 

Furina explained this to him once before. It seems like women must never have an appetite, she told him, You need to eat what’s on your plate but you can’t ask for seconds, because that’s greedy. You have to enjoy the sex you’re offered, but can’t seek out sex yourself or Celestia forbid do sex work, because that’s greedy. They won’t see you as a human if you’re a woman with an appetite.

But did the fact Neuvillette supported Furina in her work and still regularly watched her performances not settle it at least a little, that Neuvillette wasn’t a person that would suddenly think of Furina as a lesser person, for indulging in things she enjoys? 

Furina looks a bit torn on what to tell him. He gives her time, as well as a sincere smile and a nod. “It’s not that they think ill of you specifically,” Furina says. “They just aren’t very… trusting.”

“Ah,” Neuvillette says. “Is there anything I could do to ease their concerns?”

“I don’t think it’s something to do with you,” she tells him again. “They’re just worried, and won’t listen when I say that I can take care of myself. Like, really, who even leaves the house without pepper spray?” She laughs it off, nervous (???).

It seems that something is wrong. “Furina,” Neuvillette says. “I’m not entirely comprehending if there is something I might be missing. What is making you stressed?”

Blinking, Furina fidgets with her fingers. Neuvillette reaches over to take them into his own, intertwining  their fingers and letting Furina fidget with his instead. 

“I was really scared when you first approached me,” Furina says after a moment. “I mean, I was really into you and kind of reckless, but I thought it was over for me. I read about all these horror stories happening to people in this field, especially women, and it just makes you really paranoid after a while.” 

Thinking, Neuvillette slowly nods. “It must have been scary. Do you have to deal with such situations often?”

Furina squeezes his hands with her own. “Not exactly. That’s what Venti’s for– my friend, I mean. He kind of knows everything? And there’s some people once in a while who think that they can blackmail me or something.” She breathes out, long and heavy. “So Venti’s used to doing this sort of thing for me, I guess. He also moderates my chat, (!) so it’s a normal thing for him.” 

“He should not have to,” Neuvillette says. She looks shocked, and so he continues speaking to express his point. “You should not be receiving attempts at blackmailing. Your occupation should not be taken as lesser than any other. It is truly devastating, that you face such a harsh reality.” 

“It sucks,” she agrees with him. “But that was the first time I ever got recognised, so it was an outlier.”

All of a sudden, his brain comes to a screeching halt. “You do not get recognised?”

Furina purses her lips. “Nope. Not at all. It’s the hair - at least I think so. People just don’t really notice, I guess?”

“Ah,” Neuvillette says. It makes him think, if at least a little. Furina, unique and bright and lovely Furina, doesn’t get recognised in public. “Wait. Venti also watches your performances, then?”

“Don’t bring that up,” Furina groans. “I try to forget that he technically has to. It makes it easier if you tune out the fact your closest friends see your pussy on their laptop every Friday.” 

Chapter Text

Time goes by incredibly fast after Neuvillette settles into a new routine. He introduces a few quick drives to Furina’s city into his week, when they both happen to have time, and each evening they spend with each other is a lovely one. 

Sometimes they go see a stage production together, picking apart the themes and story, arguing cases back and forth over potential character developments or plot holes. Other days, they see one of Furina's productions. Neuvillette has discovered that Furina enjoys greatly when he dives deep into each scene and dialogue line, and has started to bring him extra copies of the script for him to go over once they see it. 

(“Ah,” Neuvillette whines. “Please, please, can I come- Furina,” His cries pitter off into pathetic tiny sounds, and he presses his face into the pillow to attempt to hide his onslaught of tears. 

Quietly, barely audible, Furina coos and twirls his hair around her finger so she can tug on it until his damp eyelashes come back into view. “Tell me more about how much you loved the plot twist, and then I might let you.”) 

It is a period of light in his life. Neuvillette barely notices time passing, between ordinary days at work and incredible time spent with Furina. 

She texts him one day, alongside her usual amount of cat pictures with funny text on them, if he would like for her to visit his city for once. Furina brings up that she would be delighted to see his workplace (since she has no stable one except for her bedroom, which he has seen many times) and meet the people he talks about with such affection in real life. 

Of course, Neuvillette accepts with eager words. He even offers to pick her up and drive her to his city, during which they could stop at his favorite restaurants and antique shops. He even informs his colleagues ahead of time that he will have a visitor, and ignores all follow-up questions that arise. (Especially from Wriothesley.)

“This is really lovely,” Furina comments on the law department's architecture, just as Neuvillette expected her to. It makes him preen with pride and affection. “It looks very well-kept, not like some other historical buildings…” 

Neuvillette holds the door open for her, and clasps his hand into hers when she holds it out. Instinctually, Furina squeezes his hand, and Neuvillette squeezes back. 

“Indeed, we take good care of it,” Neuvillette tells her. “Every person that works in this department has a deep love for this city and its inhabitants. It's only natural for us to want to preserve such a historical structure for as long as possible.”

Furina nods, slowly and seriously, looking all around her as the click of her heels echoes through the long hallway. “It makes sense,” she murmurs. “A lot of generations before you had the same goal. It's a way of preserving their wish, too, isn't it? A way to pay respect to all the history this building has.” 

“Ah, Neuvillette,” Clorinde approaches him the second they walk into the law department. “I have been waiting for you since I got here.” 

“I clock in at the exact same time every day,” Neuvillette says. 

Clorinde looks at him and blinks several times. “Okay,” she says. “After you're done with your client, can I steal you for a minute? I need you to look at a document I received recently.” 

“Oh, I'm not a client,” Furina hurries to say. “Can you imagine? Me bothering him the second he gets into the office? No way!” 

“Huh,” Clorinde says. “Okay. I thought you were bringing in that boyfriend of yours.” 

Silence descends upon the group. 

Neuvillette decides he has never been as humiliated as right now. “Boyfriend?” He asks. He regrets it. He doesn't think he wants to know. 

Clorinde looks at him and seems to try to send a signal through her eyes alone. “The one that has been poking around your files and sending phishing emails to our secretaries to find out more about you,” She says. “I honestly thought he was doing background checks on you. Like a blind date thing?”

“Why would I go on a blind date,” Neuvillette says. (Stresses. Oh my goodness.)  

Furina, on the other hand, looks a little impressed. “You actually tracked him?” 

“He doesn't seem to use any protection against himself.” Clorinde looks at Furina a little differently, with her eyes narrowed. “You know him? It wouldn't be very hard to sue, actually.”

“Yeah, that's gonna be a no,” Furina says. “‘Cause he's foreign and my other best friend is a really good lawyer. He's never been sued before because he has, like, a license or something. I don't know. My other best friend was the one to set that up.”

“I don't think I should be hearing any of this,” Neuvillette decides to say. “I am on the clock right now, Furina, I cannot be supportive of your friends’ illegal actions while clocked in.” 

“Oh,” Furina says. “Right. Actually, I made all that up,” She tells Clorinde. “That's my Sims characters. Sorry. I got them mixed up.” 

Clorinde looks at Furina, and then at Neuvillette. “So no boyfriend?” 

"Why would I have a boyfriend,” Neuvillette stresses. 

“I don't know,” Clorinde says. “I didn't want to assume it's a girlfriend, because you're bisexual, and you can also date men?” 

“I said I was bringing a visitor,” Neuvillette says. “I didn't say I was bringing a partner. Or a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. You also just– could've asked.” 

Furina huffs. “Well, you are bringing a partner.”

(Oh. They are considered that, aren't they?) 

“Oh, my God,” Clorinde says. “Actually?” 

Furina blinks at her, eyes wide and clueless. “What? What do you mean, actually?”

“Hold on,” Clorinde says, her face going through a bunch of tiny microexpressions, and abruptly turns and speed walks in the direction of Wriothesley’s office.

Neuvillette squints. Neuvillette narrows his eyes. Neuvillette looks at Furina. Furina looks back at him.

“I think I was a subject in yet another bet,” Neuvillette says. 

Furina is silent for a bit. “They bet on you? They bet on your love life?”

“It's a recent development,” Neuvillette defends himself. “It's not a bother, really. I don't mind at all.” 

“No, that’s okay,” Furina says. “I just wanted to see if I could join.”

“Oh, hello,” Wriothesley says the moment he steps out of his office, spotting Furina standing right next to Neuvillette. 

“Hi!” Furina waves. “You’re the guy from the grocery store!” 

Nodding to himself, Wriothesley shifts a little, and Neuvillette can clearly see Clorinde standing behind him. Oh, good lord. “And you’re the lady from the grocery store.” (Knowing Wriothesley, he wasn’t sure if it really was her, because he couldn’t tell if this blur of colors was the same blur of colors he saw that day before the opera.) “We welcome you with open arms.” 

Smiling, Furina digs through her bag, handing Wriothesley a small booklet on the opera house they visited that day. “I figured you’d like to know a bit more about the play,” she says, “So I got this for you. It’s even got their next showings on it! It’s in extra tiny font, so don’t worry about the size.” 

“Um, thank you,” Wriothesley says. “But I can’t exactly read it, if that’s the case.” 

“I know,” Furina says. Still smiling. “You could get me fired for that if you had your eye problems mentioned in your medical file.” 

Somehow, Wriothesley doesn’t even look that surprised. “There really is two of you,” He tells Neuvillette. “This is so tragic. Clorinde, you’re just letting this happen?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Clorinde tells him, finally stepping to the side. “You should do less accusing and more handing over Mora.” 

“All I do is lose these days.” Wriothesley shakes his head, and looks more heartbroken at having to part with Mora than gaining another person to bully him about his lack of medical decisions. 

Opening the door to his house is a thing he does every day without a second thought. Today, however, this is accompanied by Furina’s presence right next to him, and it leaves him feeling both excited and nervous. 

He’s not even sure why. It’s just Furina. (It’s Furina. How could he not be nervous?) 

This is where he has grown into himself, a place where he thrived and became who he really is. This house held memories of all his moments, whether they were good or bad. And he was inviting Furina inside with open arms, giving her the window to his soul.

“It’s very…” Furina trails off, searching for words. “You. I can imagine you living here, I mean.” 

Neuvillette huffs a laugh, taking Furina’s hand and leading her to where he kept his wide array of patterned tablecloths. (He doesn’t use them, having cloth underneath his plate has always distressed him. But the designs are gorgeous, and he loves collecting them anyway.) 

Eager to see his room, Furina tries ending the tour of the house early, but Neuvillette always brings her back on track, leaving his room for last. It’s as if she is unlocking the last puzzle of his heart, the understanding of his entire being. 

He can’t remember if Furina was this nervous about bringing him back to her place. Her worries were probably of a different kind, though. 

“I wanna see your room,” Furina tells him, hushed and leaned close to his lips. “I wanna see where you get off to me.” 

Well. Neuvillette is just a man, after all.

Lightly, touch soft and careful, Furina pushes him further and further until he falls back onto the sheets. She crawls over him, methodical in her movements when she straddles his lap and grinds down, and Neuvillette hisses. His bed is as average as ever, and yet Furina’s presence alone makes the room transform into a divine experience. 

A single touch of her hand to his cheek has him pressing against her, seeking out her soft skin, and he smiles at the way her thumb strokes over his lips. Questioning, he inches his head up a little, eyes falling half-lidded in preparation for the kiss, but Furina pushes him back down and burrows her face into his neck. 

“Oh,” Neuvillette sighs, content. “Hello.” 

“Hi,” Furina says, and giggles. Not even a moment later her lips part against his skin, and Neuvillette sighs again at the way she trails kisses down his jawline to his collarbones. Her hand comes down to the curve of his waist, clutching and squeezing at the soft material of his blouse, pleasant to the touch. Eyes falling closed, Neuvillette lets himself melt into the bedsheets, Furina’s anchoring touches keeping him grounded in the moment of peace and affection.

With a sudden shift, Furina interlocks their legs and grinds down once more against his thigh, a pleased little hum slipping from her lips as she nibbles down at the skin on his chest. “Ah,” Neuvillette gasps at the sensation of her thigh against his length, but the way she moves is foreign, a self-focused way of chasing her own pleasure. 

Furina continues her movements, grip tightening on his blouse as she grinds down again and again, abandoning her kisses in favor of panting hotly against his neck. “Oh,” she whimpers, “So good, so good.” Her leg bumps against his as he tries to relieve the arousal in his veins, and she instantly moves her hand to grip his thigh, impossibly tight. “No, just me, just me,” she whines, “You can wait.”

Resigned, Neuvillette sinks into the bed, and Furina gasps wetly. “Good boy,” she breathes. 

And, oh. He- oh. He never– 

That tone of voice paired with those words just… does something to him, and he lets out a needy noise, lips pursed tight in hopes that maybe she did not hear it. 

However, Furina slows down, and his heart drops. (In a good way. Always in a good way.)

“Oh,” she says. “You liked that? You like being a good boy?”

Neuvillette makes a distressed noise. “Not when you say it for fun.” 

A startled laugh escapes Furina, trailing off into a breathy whine when she grabs his hand with force, and drags it down into her underwear. “Help me?” She offers, and moans with delight as he obediently joins two fingers together and moves them in tender circles against her clit. 

Babbling a few more words of praise, Furina grinds down against his fingers with purpose, words pitching higher as she finally topples over the edge and comes, mouth open in a silent cry, breathing hot and heavy onto his collarbones. His movements die down, letting Furina ride it out on her own terms, and her voice comes back to her in the form of tiny whimpers as her mouth drools onto his skin. 

“Thank you,” she breathes, “Good boy. You like listening to me, right?” 

She knows him so well. 

Furina’s breathing is fast and hurried, gasping for air, and she closes her mouth to clear her throat and hum in contentment. First, she sits back on her heels, and then her eyes open to reveal damp eyelashes and an expression full of fondness. “Thank you,” she repeats herself, and Neuvillette cannot help but smile back in her radiancy. After her shakes die down, Neuvillette helps her strip naked, and she returns the favor with the rest of his clothes. 

“You’re so pretty,” Furina tells him, and Neuvillette leans in to kiss her, again and again. “Love you,” She repeats each time they depart, “Love you, love you, love you.” 

“I love you too,” Neuvillette murmurs, “So–” Her hand lands itself in his hair, and he gasps at the tender sensation of her fingers running through his hair. “I love you,” he says instead, unable to remember what else he wished to tell her. “I love you.” 

As her hand is trailing down his tummy, Furina whispers, “Let me take care of you, please?” And Neuvillette’s mind blanks in the most blissful way. 

“Ah,” Neuvillette gasps into the sheets, tears springing to his eyes at the delicious pleasure Furina provides. She pushes inside again and again, making little noises as if she could really feel him, as if she could feel the heat that builds inside him at each touch. One of her hands is reached around him to stroke his cock, pace teasing and torturous, while the other one clutches his hair in a tight grip as she forces his face out of the pillow again and again to tilt it, having him look at the mirror propped up next to Neuvillette’s bed. 

Another movement, another thrust to his prostate, and Neuvillette is brought closer and closer to the edge, Furina’s mocking hand squeezing his dick before letting go right before he can come, thrusts turning into shallow grinds– “No,” Neuvillette gasps wetly, burrowing his face into the fabric, “No, no, no– please, Furina, let me come–” (Earlier, Furina trailed her hand over the patterns weaved into his bedsheets, ooh and aahing with awe. “They’re so pretty.”) 

Furina laughs. “Hey, look,” she tugs his head to the side, and when he tries reaching down to touch himself, so close to delicious release, she snatches his hand and forces it into the mattress. “Look,” she says, stern, and his eyes open against his instincts to hide. “You’re so cute. You’re so red, that must really be uncomfortable, no?” 

The sight in the mirror almost brings him over the edge immediately. Furina looks magnificent like this, divine and utterly in control as her hips move deliciously, face scrunched up in a mocking laugh, yet the flush on her cheeks says enough about her enjoyment of this. Neuvillette on the other hand looks completely wrecked, tears finally spilling down his cheeks, the pillow under him dark with drool and spit and tears. 

(You don’t have a feather pillow,” Furina noted with intrigue. “Is that memory foam?”) 

“Please,” he breathes out, “Let me- please…” 

“This must be so humiliating for you,” Furina trails off, starting up her thrusts again. “Look at yourself.” 

Oh, he’s looking.

“You look so lovely,” her voice pitches a bit higher as the harness’ soft padding grinds against her cunt, “Anyone who could take a look at you right now would agree. So pretty–” Her hips snap forward, and Neuvillette mewls a curse. 

His eyes close for a second, a delicious second that lets him feel all the pleasure his body is struggling to process, and then her hand is on his cock again. “Please,” he instantly begs. “Please, Furina, I–” he whines, turns his face again, hopeful that she’ll let him hide for at least a tiny moment. 

“Look,” Furina snaps, and tugs his face back to the mirror. (“Are you sure?” Furina asked him, flushed and shy. “I’ve never tried it before, but I’m down if you are. Do you even have that big of a mirror in your house?”) “I want you to remember what you look like when you crumble like this– how cute you are like this.” 

His eyes stay on their joint figures in the mirror when he comes, moans loud and needy, fist clutching the sheets. It is all he can think about as Furina kisses his tears away, as he is moved to the bath and then cuddled in bed. Only them, them, them, together for the whole world to see, to see how good Furina makes him feel, and how incredible she is. 

“I love you,” Furina mutters to him, eyes closed and hand trailing up and down his arm absentmindedly. 

Neuvillette looks at her, really looks, and realises he cannot imagine continuing his life without her presence in his life. “I love you too,” he smiles, even if she does not see it, and tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. “I love you,” he whispers, and whispers it again and again and again until Furina kisses him into silence. 

(“I love you,” Furina told him, leaving kisses all over his face. “It feels like I just got to know you so much more. I love you. I love you. Show me your photoalbums next?”)

Chapter Text

Ever since he was young, Neuvillette adored the peace of listening to birds sing. It is this peace that awakens him, slowly, sighing in pleasure as he shifts in bed. He is safe and he is held, Furina’s arms wrapped around his waist from where she is pressed against his back, and as he slowly comes to awareness, he can feel her soft rhythmic breathing, ticking his skin. 

The blinds are pulled open, the sun streaming into the room, pouring warmth all over his being. It is the closest he has come to heaven, he decides, and he cannot put words to the sensation spreading through his chest at the knowledge that this is his life now, that this love is his to hold. 

Utter harmony lives in Furina’s bedroom, a blessing upon their weary souls. They have not seen each other in a while, and to spend time together like this, sun-kissed and with birds singing, is ethereal.

“Yoo-hoo!” A loud voice echoes through Furina’s flat. Neuvillette’s eyes fly open. “Ri! Are you awake? Ri!” 

Behind him, Furina sits up so fast that her mind cannot keep up, and all that leaves her mouth are grumpy noises. Neuvillette, resigned to the knowledge that his morning rest is over, turns over. Oh, he thinks, and his heart nearly spills all over his person. Furina’s hair is looking like a bird’s next – in the way that it is messy and unfiltered, with the obvious traces of love and homeliness. “Good morning,” he whispers to her.

Slowly, Furina’s eyes peel open, and she blinks several times, rapidly. “Huh,” she says, still partially asleep. “Good morning.” 

“Ri!”

“Oh,” Furina says, seemingly more awake. “Oh. Fuck.” 

Smiling, Neuvillette cannot bring himself to care. “There seems to be an intruder.”

“Not an intruder,” Furina says. “That’s just my friends.” 

“I absolutely didn’t forget you were on your way,” Furina says, ushering two (!) individuals onto her living room couch. “I just slept in. And on a completely unrelated note, I have a completely empty fridge.” 

Neuvillette does not know what to do with himself in this scenario. In an attempt to be helpful, he has prepared two cups of water. Furina looks grateful as she seems to panic in place, body trying to move in three directions at once, but her stress-dance is interrupted as the taller person of the two takes his turn to usher her onto the couch as well. 

“We did not mean to intrude,” he says, voice deep. Neuvillette thinks it sounds a little like honey. And he is definitely looking, although respectfully. (He learned that from Furina.) “I apologise if we have caused you distress, Furina.” 

“I’m a terrible host,” Furina says. “I’m so sorry.” 

“If you say sorry again, I’m going to give you a bad review on Yelp,” says the other person.

Fidgeting with her hands, Furina turns to Neuvillette. “This is Neuvillette,” she says. “Neuvillette, this is Zhongli.” 

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Neuvillette tells the man. It is not exactly true, given that Zhongli looks as if he was from a period drama, and Neuvillette is in his sleepwear. His slippers are still on. “I assume you are Venti?”

“Oh, hi,” Venti says. “Why didn’t you introduce me? ”

“You don’t deserve to be introduced,” Furina sniffs. “Stop sending death threats to people I’m into.” 

Venti, suddenly looking increasingly more relaxed, takes a sip of his water. “Zhongli made me send those.” 

Silence descends upon the group. Neuvillette looks between the three people on the couch, lips pursed. Zhongli clears his throat.

“Anyhow,” Zhongli says. “Likewise, it is lovely to finally meet you. Furina has spoken a great deal about you. Indeed it has been plaguing my mind, what such an individual would look like. I found that could not imagine your appearance off of what Furina has said.”

This seems to cause Furina even further distress as she sinks into herself, yet makes no move to cover her face as it slightly reddens in shame. “I didn’t even say anything like that.” 

“What do you mean?” Neuvillette asks the man. 

“You are greatly interested in topics such as she,” Zhongli starts. “Much like us, you are well-versed in all sorts of topics, and you focus on the details that might not get the same treatment from others. She described you so eloquently, I could not help but imagine someone who was more– hm. Someone who was more of a well-read looking person, who I would expect to find at a museum or a bookstore. I did not imagine you would be so…” 

“He means you’re attractive,” Venti says, and laughs at Neuvillette’s expression. “I honestly thought you’d be like one of those history-obsessed kids from school who only care about wars. And then I finally see you, and you’re like, super hot.”

“That is not what I meant to say,” Zhongli hurries to interrupt. 

Venti makes a noise of disapproval. “You literally said those exact words,” he says. “I didn’t believe Furina when she talked about you. He’s so pretty, he’s so cute, he’s so fairytale princess, like, okay. But it’s true!”

“I did not call him a fairytale princess,” Furina stresses. “Oh, my god.” 

“I’ll call him that, then,” Venti says. He gives Neuvillette a massive smile, one that looks effortless to him, one that is full of shine. “Can I get your skincare routine?” 

“I despise anything on my skin,” Neuvillette says, feeling slightly detached from the conversation. He is attempting to rapidly forget everything that has been said, because his attraction is not limited to femininity, and he does not wish Furina to know that he also thinks her friend is ‘super hot’. It is best to purge his mind of this entire conversation and pretend as if nothing happened. “The feel of product on it brings me mental anguish.”

“Oh,” Venti says, his face twisting into something knowing. “That tracks, honestly.” 

Swiftly and with purpose, Furina gets off of the couch, rushing to take the singular apple in her fridge and cut it into pieces for them all to munch on. “That’s great and all,” she says, “But can we talk about something else, like, right now?”

“The weather was awful on the way here,” Venti says, “Why does it rain in Fontaine so much? Everything was so humid, I had to straighten my hair at the hotel before we came here!” 

Begrudgingly, Neuvillette has to agree. The near-constant humidity of Fontaine causes trouble for him, given his thick hair. And although he doesn’t appreciate a stranger’s critique of his homeland, Venti declined the offer of tea, and continued to ask for refills of water instead. Venti’s taste must be acknowledged. 

Furina, who has brewed herself and Zhongli some green tea, nods empathically. “It rained a lot yesterday,” she says, “But today seems to be really nice. You should make the most of the sun while it’s here. Which, speaking of, I knew you were coming, but…”

“Business,” Venti says, and grins in the way a tick would after successfully latching onto a horse’s mane. “Zhongli got a client from near here, so I suggested we come see you for a bit.”

“A client all the way from Fontaine?” Neuvillette asks, jumping into the conversation after a longer while. “What work do you do?”

Zhongli, who is gently blowing on his tea before drinking it, seems to consider the question before answering. “I am a lawyer,” Zhongli says. “Legally.” 

“Alright,” Neuvillette says. “I am also a lawyer. I do not get clients from overseas. What is special about your occupation?” 

“Well, yes,” Zhongli says. “I am legally a lawyer.” 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Neuvillette says.

“I did,” Zhongli says, and smiles. 

“Okay, that’s all–” Furina jumps in, “Really nice to say, but since when did you have clients from Fontaine? I swear, the most you’ll travel is like, Sumeru. Otherwise you do it from home.”

Zhongli looks at Furina for a little bit, head tilted and eyes half-lidden in confusion. His expression is analysing, and after a minute he says, “I simply wished to see you.”

Curling into herself, Furina stutters, suddenly shy. “Oh,” she says, “That’s so sweet of you…” 

“You make us sound like horrible friends,” Venti scolds her teasingly, frowning. “I visit you just for the fun of it, like, all the time. Zhongli does it once and gets special treatment? You literally hate me. You want me dead. Like, actually.” 

“You do visit me more often than I thought,” Furina says, “Oh, my god. I love you guys. I’m sorry. I’m so glad you’re here.” 

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Neuvillette says, “How did you all become friends? It is a bit hard for me to imagine.” 

Venti leans back into the couch with a sigh so full of reminiscence that for a second he looks almost like a grandpa about to start telling stories from The War. “The start of it all,” he laments, “Oh, it’s like it was yesterday.”

Zhongli blinks. “You’re barely thirty. It has not been that long.”

“The memories… ”

“He means to say that it is a story of great value,” Zhongli says. “Please, do not mind him. He is strange and offputting at best and downright impossible to rein in at worst.” 

Neuvillette is suddenly assaulted with the memory of a cat picture Furina has sent him recently, with the caption of ‘My strange and offputting demeanor has the bitches conflicted on me.’ She said it was very ‘him coded’, and aside from still trying to figure out what that even means, he begins to see how they all fit into this friend group of theirs.

Speaking over Venti’s indignant huff, Zhongli says, “I actually met another friend of ours first. We were not unlike two strangers with one tiny thing in common, and we were forced to get along because of being put in the same dorm room. After a little while, Venti applied to work part-time at the same place I did, and made it his mission as the token extrovert to adopt the local introvert.” 

“He was like a soaked kitten on the side of the road,” Venti says, tone filled with dramatic melancholy. “They threw you out like trash, and I collected you like treasure.” 

Furina tries stifling a chuckle, but it turns into a full laugh at the look Zhongli gives her. “Please,” Zhongli says. “You say that every time.” 

All of a sudden, Venti starts digging through his bag to find his phone. “He actually dressed really Emo back then,” Venti says, and before he can even finish, Zhongli has draped over him to wrestle the phone away from Venti’s hands. Venti shouts and tries biting Zhongli’s hand, upon which Zhongli pushes him away and holds the phone up high like a piece of chocolate from a golden retriever. 

By that Neuvillette means that he is comfortable with seeing Venti as a golden retriever, and Zhongli is preventing him from doing what he was born to do – retrieving. 

The phone, regardless of if Neuvillette wished it to or not, gets to his hands sooner or later. The photo is– 

Well, it’s sweet, honestly. It’s admittedly very old-looking, if he was going by the quality and the fact the photo is taken at a house party with the flash on. He can instantly recognise Venti by his hair that hasn’t changed in the slightest, and because he’s the shortest one there. By his side is a feminine looking person who reminds him a little of Clorinde, given their dressing style and expression and overall energy. Their eyes are half-lidded, and their entire personality screams ‘go away’, yet they are draped over Venti’s tiny figure. The third person in the picture is someone who Neuvillette doesn’t recognise in the slightest, a tall woman with long hair that is mostly hidden, or maybe the photo has been edited so many times that the crop has slowly started excluding her. 

“I met them much later,” Furina says. “Like a few years ago? I don’t really know exactly.” 

“Pardon me for possibly being offensive,” Neuvillette says, trying to file away the information. “I assume the feminine person to Venti’s side is Zhongli?” 

“Ah, yes,” Zhongli says. “I do have the habit of presenting differently at times.” 

Venti leans over Neuvillette’s shoulder, pointing to each person. “That’s me, that’s him, and then that’s Ei, she’s the one who met Zhongli first. I think you two might get along, honestly.”

Squinting, Zhongli considers this. “Hm.”

“I think she’d freak him out,” Furina says to Venti. To Neuvillette, she says, “She’s kind of like Clorinde, but– you know the memes I sent you about matching someone’s freak? Yeah, that. I think you’d be the opposite of her freak.”

“'Her freak’ you say,” Neuvillette says. “Those are certainly words that I understand separately.” 

In a sickly sweet tone, Furina coos; “You did so well,” her hand trailing down Neuvillette’s tummy with feather-light pressure. His arms are bound above his head, body forced into a stretch that leaves him wound like a spring on a lovely instrument, one that only Furina knows how to play.

It is her hands that create a melody upon his skin, her touch that he reacts to with a low, suppressed whine. He can’t even throw his arm over his face to hide. It leaves his face flushed with light humiliation, on display like this for Furina to see. For– for anyone to see. Furina is well aware of this, knows they’ve discussed it at length, and yet she can’t help the delighted giggle at his attempt to turn his face into the pillow. 

“You’re so pretty,” Furina’s voice trembles a little, the sight in front of her so appetising she can feel her arousal heighten every second. She clenches down on nothing, whimpering in greed, and considers untying him just to feel his lovely fingers inside her before she remembers their agreement. “A little louder, for me?” 

Neuvillette’s following noise is one that makes him flush further, a needy whimper. “Please,” he says, and tenses up when he feels her hand come closer to his cock. “Please, please, Furina–”

“Shh,” she hushes him, leaning down to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. “I changed my mind. Can you stay quiet?”

“No,” he opens his eyes, blinking in an attempt to remove the haze from his building tears. “Furina, please.” 

(If he truly didn’t want to, he knows what to do, what to say– it is all the more intoxicating, to hold the power in his hands and yet willingly not call upon it.) 

“I think you can,” Furina muses, and Neuvillette swallows down saliva when her hand wraps around the tip of his length, squeezing lightly. “I think you’re perfectly capable.” 

“Dear–”

Another addicting kiss placed upon his lips. “Hush,” Furina whispers, looking straight into his eyes. “Please, be a good boy and stay quiet for me?”

His mind blanks, a pressure building within him escaping in a heavy exhale, and he shuts his mouth. 

The ensuing silence fills with the sound of his heavy breathing, and half-aborted whines that he tries his best to stifle. Her hand is delicious, grip and pace sending his mind reeling, muscles flexing and relaxing as he fights the urge to close his legs. “Ah,” he moans, and then stutters– “Sorry, sorry.” 

“It’s okay, baby,” Furina says, speeding up until his mouth opens around quiet ah-ah-ah’s that never quite become audible. “You’re so gorgeous like this. So open and vulnerable, it makes me want to keep you like this forever. What do you say? You’ll keep my bed warm, and I’ll make love to you here every night…” 

Her posture changes, shifting her weight around as she makes herself comfortable, planting a tender kiss on his lips. “We’ll be like a romantic ideal in a novel,” she continues, voice dipping low. “Not like those young adult books, but a true destiny. One that not even prophecies could see.” 

“Prophecies foresee all,” is what Neuvillette says in a hushed, fast sentence, words so molten together that Furina has to take a second to realise what he even said. Her grip tightens, and Neuvillette’s head falls back against the pillow with a shaky exhale. 

“What was that?” Furina asks.

“No,” Neuvillette whines. It was a moment of weakness. He could not allow himself to let the statement go– 

“Prophecies are predictions on the future,” Furina says, and then continues her pace from before with a smile. “They can be changed. A destiny is written in stone. You don’t know your writing terms?” 

Writhing, Neuvillette arches his back and whimpers. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, “But shouldn’t prophecies–” Twisting her wrist in a truly torturous fashion, Furina laughs, and Neuvillette’s words trail off into incomprehensible sounds. “Please.” 

“Shouldn’t prophecies what?” Furina, mood changing rapidly, properly sits up and stops touching him, face turning to one of expectance. “No, say it.”

His pleasure falls away from him, and Neuvillette arches again, falling onto the bedding with a heartbroken noise. “I’m sorry,” he says, “Please, forget it. Let’s continue.” 

“No,” Furina says. “Prophecies are predictions. A destiny is a predetermined outcome that cannot be changed. Like Oedipus, Neuvillette. Like Achilles.”

“Achiles also received a prophecy of his own,” Neuvillette argues weakly, “It doesn’t matter. Please, I’m–” 

Before he can even finish his words, Furina stands off the bed, the sound of her bare feet on the floor echoing as she slides out a novel from her bookshelf, turning the pages expertly, numbers memorised. “The prophecy says you will still be alive when it happens.”

“And he was still alive when Patroclus died,” Neuvillette mutters, staring blankly at the ceiling. 

“That’s not the point,” Furina says, putting the book back. “The prophecy can say whatever it wants. It can be changed and prevented. A destiny can’t, because a destiny is written by the respective deity, and predetermined. If I decide at the start of a novel that Character A will die, then that’s their destiny. If I make a prophecy, I leave it up to the characters to try and change it.” 

“If a prophecy is made upon divining the destiny, then that is the same thing,” Neuvillette tells her. “We can bring this up later. We can each make a presentation for our cases. I do not wish to argue with you.”

“We’re discussing it now,” Furina straddles him again, with a sort of determination that has his arousal stirring once more. “Just admit that I’m right.”

Neuvillette, hazy with the promises of the rest of the night, still cannot find it in himself to sacrifice his opinion to pursue carnal needs. “I will keep my opinion to myself,” is what he settles on.

Expectedly, Furina scoffs and crosses her arms. “Prophecies change all the time. Just a few stories of them coming true is bullshit. Besides, that’s more on par with not being able to change fate.”

“That is if we assume a divine being exists in the first place,” Neuvillette says. “Otherwise neither fate, destinies, nor prophecies would exist.” 

“I’m not going to let you come until you admit I’m right,” says Furina, slipping back into a seductory tone with the way she leans down to hover over him. 

Something settles in the bottom of Neuvillette’s tummy, a certain pleasant ache that sets his veins alight. “I will not falter in my steadfast ideas to pursue baseless desire such as an orgasm,” he says, their eyes locked on each other, hearts beating fast. 

“Okay,” Furina smiles. “Then you’ll have no issue holding out.”

By the end of the night, he has cried out Furina’s victory more times than he can count. 

Chapter Text

The first time Furina meets Neuvillette in the store, she doesn’t even process it until much, much later. The play goes swimmingly well, and she rewards all her colleagues and actors with tight hugs and small snacks. “I’m so proud of you all,” she says, tearing up, and bristles jokingly when they laugh at her.

“You shouldn’t have had the wine,” says Dulphy, and Furina swats her across the shoulder. 

She is dragged to this bar and the next, all of them celebrating a performance gone well, and by the time the clock strikes early morning, she is – as the youths say – shitfaced. “I love you all,” Furina says, and this time starts crying for real. “I love you all so much. I’m so proud of you. You did so well. It’s like a dream come true.” 

Dulphy, who can’t drink on her new meds, clasps her hands and orders her a glass of water. “Okay, Miss Furina,” she says. “It’s time to go home.”

“No,” Furina laments, stretching out the o. “I haven’t kissed all of yours cheeks yet.”

“You have, several times,” Dulphy says, and everyone waves goodbye to the sobbing Furina as Dulphy helps her walk to a taxi that she got her. “You have your keys on you?” 

Her brain spends a while catching up, and only when the cold air outside hits her does Furina dig through her purse to check. “Yeah,” Furina says.

“Alright,” Dulphy hauls her into the car seat and then gets in next to her, leaning over to buckle up her seatbelt. She then rattles off Furina’s address and other unimportant nonsense to the driver, and Furina feels herself come to tears again. 

“I love you,” Furina says, again. “You all are such treasure. I loved working with you. Do you know that? I hope you know that.” The car starts moving in such an intense rumble that Furina has to lean over and cling to Dulphy’s arm with a tight grip. 

Dulphy strokes her hair and nods along, stifling giggles at seeing their serious and hardworking director in such a state. “I do know that,” she says, “You’ve said it about fifty times today. Are you nauseous at all?” 

“I’m not,” Furina frowns. (In Dulphy’s opinion, it should rather be called a ‘pout’.) “I didn’t even drink that much.” 

This sets Dulphy off into a series of giggles, and although Furina doesn’t get what’s funny, she laughs with her. She loves seeing Dulphy happy. She loves seeing all of her colleagues and actors happy. But especially Dulphy. She’s so nice. And warm, and her clothes are so soft to hold. 

With that in mind, Furina cuddles even closer, and muffles her laughter into Dulphy’s shoulder. 

The world passes in a blur, a mess of leaving the taxi and having Dulphy stumble into the flat with Furina hanging off her side, Dulphy struggling to get Furina’s shoes off, and then tucking her into bed with a glass of water and painkiller on the nightstand. “Honestly, Miss Furina,” Dulphy mutters as she brings the covers all the way up to Furina’s neck, “You put on such a brave face, but you’re so silly. I like seeing this side of you more.”

“‘m not silly,” Furina protests, but finds herself too sleepy to properly articulate her point. “I have to be serious to you, guys. So you don’t panic when something goes wrong.”

“Aww,” Dulphy smooths out the fabric and checks Furina’s forehead for a fever. “That’s so considerate of you. We love you too, Miss Furina.” 

Dulphy leaves with the impression that Furina is asleep, but Furina stays awake for several minutes later, fiddling with her phone.

The first thing Furina thinks of when she wakes up is; Oh, my god. Neuvillette. And although she wasn’t nauseous the night before, this is what sends her straight to the bathroom. “I hate everything,” Furina croaks into the phone, picking up Venti’s call with reluctance. “I’m never drinking again.”

“You drafted a really weird e-mail yesterday, so I deleted it before it could sent,” Venti says, and doesn’t sound like he pities her at all. Honestly, the audacity! “I assumed you were drunk when writing it.”

“I didn’t write any e-mails,” Furina groans. “Stop bullying me. I hope everyone else got home okay.” 

On the other side, Venti finally shows a hint of emotion – he laughs at her, in the way he usually does. “Neuvillette,” he begins, “I loooved meeting you last night, you are sooo pretty and I kind of wanted to kiss you, is that weird? You are soo fascinating and like a rat in a maze, I just wanna feed you fruits and nuts, do you like the story of Achilles? You are so so gorgeous and I wanna see what you look like when you–”  

“Okay!” Furina yelps. “Okay, that’s enough! I remember!” 

“You didn’t even input an e-mail address,” Venti cackles. “What’s this all about? ”

Furina, although more awake than before, is still draped over the toilet and full of regrets over what she consumed last night. She doesn’t remember the e-mail, but knowing her drunk state, she wouldn’t like hearing any more. It’s embarrassing enough that Venti read all of it. “It’s a guy I met before the play,” she says. “I know him. He watches me online.”

“Oh,” Venti says, noncommittally. “Okay.”

“I don’t know his e-mail address, I don’t know why I wrote that message at all– God, that’s so embarrassing. Thank god it didn’t send.” 

Within minutes, Venti recites the guy’s e-mail address, even including the ending domain and the dot com. 

“I’m not sending him an e-mail, Venti,” Furina groans. Again. It is way too early in the day to think about this. “And don’t stalk him. He’s nice.” Probably.

Truthfully, she still worries that he’ll show up at her doorstep at 3 in the morning and demand her hand in marriage, or something. That’s just the kind of weirdos her online content attracts. But Neuvillette seemed  very sophisticated, and she wants to trust him. (Wait, that’s what all the people said about secret murderers, isn’t it? Oh, god, she doesn’t know!)

“He’s single,” Venti hums, and Furina shrieks before insulting him with every Fontainian insult she can think of, and hangs up. 

Neuvillette’s e-mail address appears in her messages with Venti in the next 10 seconds, and she swipes away the notification with a sigh. 

She’s friends with a bunch of freaks.

The second, third, fourth, and fifth and other amount of times she meets Neuvillette, she ends up calling Venti and laying on her bed like a teenage girl from a romance movie. “He’s just so considerate and kind,” she says, kicking her feet and twirling her hair. All that’s missing is giggling and biting her nails. “I think I’m in love with him. I need him in my bed, like, yesterday.”

“He might be a murderer,” Venti says. “Ei might be right. He might be waiting to strip you of your skin and make you into a leather handbag.”

“I wish he stripped me,” Furina sighs wistfully. “He’s so nice and respectful, it’s like he isn’t even into me at all.”

Venti makes a disapproving noise, chewing on something before responding. “He watches you online. There’s no way he isn’t into you.”

“How did you know Zhongli was into you?” Furina ends up asking, miserable and desperate. 

The other side stays quiet as Venti thinks it over, humming. “I dunno,” he says. “I just kinda went for it without crossing any lines, and when I wasn’t very sure, I asked. I doubt you need to be careful. I’d just kiss him if I was you. You’re overthinking it.”

“That’s not very nice of me,” Furina murmurs. “What if he doesn’t like kissing? What if he’s only into me online, but doesn’t like the real me very much?” 

“Definitely overthinking. I’m not supporting your fetish for being berated anymore. Just go for it!”  

That same week, she ends up frantically texting the groupchat that she is taking Neuvillette home. 

One of these times, when she is living out her honeymoon dreams with Neuvillette, Venti shows up at her doorstep with a backpack and a coffee to-go. “Hi,” he beams, and almost drops the coffee as Furina tackles him into a hug. 

Venti visits her every once in a while, usually unannounced, when it strikes his fancy. Furina would call him careless and also another adjective that ends with less and starts with home, but ever since she met the guy, she’s had to come to peace with the conclusion that despite Venti owning a home (inherited), he rarely ever spends time there. Instead, he is fleeting from one place to another, usually staying with Zhongli or his other friends. 

When they first met, Furina thought of this as severely annoying. How can you handle having such little certainty in anything? She would ask him. It terrified her, knowing that he hopped from one friend’s place to another, or suddenly deciding to leave on a 2-week trip to another country with no prior planning. Are you just secretly rich?

Dear Furina, Venti said to her once, I have money for what I truly want to do– existing.  

(And then he also proceeded to say that his hacking is done for free and that he’s secretly returned her every paycheck she insists on paying him. She really has no idea how this man is still alive.) 

Actually, when they first met, it was through Zhongli. She desperately needed Venti’s mindset then, someone who could help her get back on her feet when her ‘normal’ has shattered at her feet, and she would have to find a new life that would become her ‘normal’. She just didn’t realise it. 

Furina needs it now, too. She needs it all the time. Someone like Venti to remind her of how fleeting life is, and how useless it is to worry about the small things. 

On another hand, she values Zhongli’s grounding perspective on life. Venti reminds her to enjoy every moment she has, and Zhongli reminds her to not forget about the future. (And Ei reminds her to never trust anyone. Ei never really got out of that phase.) 

If Venti visited her like this in the past, she would shriek and lecture him on his spending habits. Now, she pulls him to her living room, and hugs him until the oven starts beeping and she has to go back to her cookies.

“I’m thinking about doing something new this Friday,” Furina says as she sits back down, and hands him a glass of water. “There’s probably gonna be a few weird people.” 

Sipping on his water, Venti doesn’t even look phased. “Is it roleplay again? It was such a pain last time. I didn’t even know I could ban that many people in one day.” 

“No, no,” Furina waves the thought away. She knows. Knows. “I was thinking about doing something more dominant.” 

“Oh,” Venti blinks. “Do I need to change the rules? Some people are getting too good at finding loopholes. It’d be much easier if you just let Zhongli look at it.” 

That’s a horrifying thought. She can handle Venti, but Zhongli is another topic entirely. Thing is, Venti isn’t phased by anything at all. She could tell him that she committed manslaughter and he’d ask if she got rid of the evidence. Zhongli is way more judgemental, not in a bad way – they all know what she does, she just doesn’t want Zhongli… involved. He’s helped her before, but if he saw the bullshit she has to put up with, he’d discourage her.

Zhongli only helps her with taxes and other law-related things. The last time she asked Ei for help was with training how to stop being intimidated by death threats. She calls them all her moderators anyway, because they help in their own special way. 

Despite her thinking, Venti seems to come to his own conclusion. “Oh, my god. Furina, you’re so stupid. Have Neuvillette look at it.” 

A beat of silence passes.

“Oh, my god,” Furina says. “I am stupid.” 

“Wriothesley has trouble with his eyesight,” Neuvillette says. It is a day filled with peaceful sunlight, and they are dozing off together in Furina’s bed. They are laying on opposite sides and only connected by their hands, because it is so warm that they would sweat instantly if they touched in any other way. “Do you wish to join us in convincing him to get a doctor’s advice?”

The idea instantly sparks humor in her. “I know exactly what you mean,” she tells him, eyes closed and ears listening to the sound of the city outside. “Ei has chronic pain from the army, but she refuses to get it looked at. It’s infuriating. And Venti has random flare-ups of chronic fatigue, they’re both the exact same! Pfft, I don’t need a doctor, I’m fine on my own! ”

“They have no sense of self preservation,” Neuvillette notes. “It brings me great distress. Wriothelsey could potentially be legally blind, and sue his nemesis for taking advantage of his poor sight to strip him of money.” 

“I’ll bully him with you,” she says, a fond smile playing on her lips at the thought of fitting into their little group a little. They seem so close, it warms her heart that she could expand her palette of friends. Her colleagues are people she admires, but they aren’t there forever, and aside from them… it’s only Venti, Zhongli, and Ei. She really is a bit of a hermit, isn’t she? 

“You should talk to Venti about mythology sometime,” Furina ends up saying. “He’s insane about it. He keeps naming stuffed animals after all kinds of characters from different religions.” 

Her eyes remain closed, but she hears the smile in Neuvillette’s voice. “That seems very in-character of him. I am not surprised at his disrespect of ancient beings.”

“He says he keeps them alive this way,” Furina laughs. “He’ll find an explanation for everything.”

In the silence, Neuvillette’s sigh of fondness is loud. “I am looking forward to it greatly.” 

Another performance at the opera brings with it a whole array of new problems. 

“I don’t know why the costume won’t fit,” Vilmant cries, voice trembling with panic. “It fit just fine yesterday!” 

Lauwick, overridden with stress and nerves, does a little panicked dance before he tries to force the fabric down Vilmant’s shoulders. “This is all your fault, did you rip a stitch or something?” 

In the background, Dulphy’s voice dominates the entire opera production, and they recognise the words as Lauwick’s cue to return to the stage. “Fuck,” Lauwick whines, running off. “I can’t stay any longer, just have someone else help you with it!”

Now alone in the dressing room, Vilmant almost rips the delicate sewing with how quickly he tries fitting the costume over his wide torso. “I never should’ve gotten into working out,” he mutters to himself. “Did I actually gain that much muscle over a single session?” 

A few more minutes pass, and Vilmant can feel the sweat drip down his back from stress. In that moment, the door makes a creaking sound and Furina pops her head in. “Vilmant,” she hisses, “Why aren’t you ready? Lauwick’s scene is ending soon!” 

“I can’t get the costume to fit,” Vilmant says, borderline tearing up with nerves. Oh, my god. This is a nightmare.

“What do you mean, you can’t get it to fit?!” Furina rushes over to him, and groans when the fabric won’t budge. “It fit just fine yesterday!” 

“I said the exact same thing,” Vilmant says, astral projecting to another dimension where he never started going to the gym. There is no other explanation for this.

Keeping a level head, Furina tuts at him in disapproval before vanishing out the door, returning within seconds with a mini sewing kit he’s seen her run around with a few times. “Are you serious?”

“Turn around,” Furina hisses again, and Vilmant listens out of pure instinct. “I’ll rip it and stitch it back up when it’s on.” 

Vilmant thinks he is experiencing psychosis. “You are insane,” he says, voice highest it’s ever been – which is a lot to say, considering his job as an opera singer. “Please, don’t stab me.”

The sound of fabric ripping makes him jump and howl in nerves. Oh, god. They’re so getting sued for this. 

“Ow,” Vilmant whimpers, “You’re pulling it too tight–”

“So it doesn’t fall off in the middle of the performance!” Furina says under her breath, focusing on the stitching. This has to be a nightmare. There’s no way this is happening. 

Staring up at the ceiling, Vilmant tries to ignore the suffocating fit of the fabric, now that Furina is pulling it extremely tight to have some leeway in the stitches. “We’re gonna get sued,” he laments, “I’m gonna get fired. This is the worst day of my life.”

Tying off the stitches and ending with a final snap of her manicure scissors, Furina pulls the fabric a little to test if it gives way, and then pushes him out of the dressing room. “Less talking and more moving to the stage,” she says, “Now shut up and sing your lungs out!” She kicks her knee into his back and hurriedly does their tfoo tfoo luck routine before running off to somewhere else.

It’s like her cast is a bunch of children. Honestly, her talent is wasted here! (That is absolutely not true, it is the nerves talking. She watches Vilmant perform from the wings, and wipes away tears of joy. Pauleau asks her if she’s crying, and she shrieks (quietly, to not disturb the performance) in surprise, dabs a tissue at her eyes and tells him to go make himself useful in helping Lauwick change costumes.) 

The rest goes… alright. There are no more costume mishaps, and Furina watches them all stand in line and give one large bow to the audience. (And definitely doesn’t cry, like she always does.)

“Hey,” Dulphy gathers them all before they prepare to leave (and get drunk, again). “Has anyone seen my thief costume? I only found the bigger one, but that’s supposed to be Vilmant’s…” 

Lauwick turns to Vilmant so fast, Dulphy is surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “The bigger one?”

“I’m wearing the bigger one,” Vilmant says, voice detached. 

“You better be,” Furina yells, “You put on Dulphy’s, and were surprised it didn’t fit?!” 

“You took my costume?!” Dulphy startles

“I took the one that was left!” Vilmant says, defensive. “How was I supposed to know which one it was?! It was in the men’s dressing room!” 

“For the last time, it’s not a men’s dressing room,” Pauleau says, in the background. “We just chase Dulphy out!” 

Everyone ignores him. “You had me tear up an official costume because you grabbed the wrong fucking size?” Furina asks. “Are you serious?” 

“You tore it up?!” Lauwick cries. “We’re gonna get banned from this studio!” 

“I had to tear it up and stitch it back up because it didn’t fit otherwise!”

“Because it’s for me!” Dulphy laments. “It’s for my tiny waist! It has extra fabric so tits fit in it! How the fuck did you think it was yours?!” 

“I don’t know, I was panicking!”

Chapter Text

Head thrown back against the sheets, mouth open on a strangled cry – this is how Furina will meet her end, surely. Her hands are clutching the pillows above her, holding on tight as Neuvillette’s thumb holds her open a little more, fingers inside her while his mouth licks and prods at her clit. The pleasure he brings is overwhelming, so incredible, so much that she can barely think. A drop of sweat rolls down the stretch of skin between her breasts, and she cringes at the feeling before her focus is yanked away to his fingers stroking her to oblivion. 

“Oh, my god,” she whines, high and nasaly. “Please, I-”

Neuvillette does something wicked with his tongue, and she wails her pleasure into the night, her legs – propped up on his shoulders – squeezing tight. The hand that was holding her open moves to spread her legs again, and the feel of his strong grip on her thigh is ethereal. 

She’s so close, her peak so within reach that her muscles tense and she clenches around his fingers, suddenly overcome with a craving so primal that she actually gets a little dizzy. “Neuvillette,” Furina gasps, “Please, can you– inside?” 

They’ve discussed this. They’ve talked about this. A lot. There is no reason for the amount of time it takes for him to lay back against the sheets, chin still glistening, eyes hazy and body prepared. Still, the delay of her orgasm makes Furina cranky, and she straddles his hips with an impatient sort of determination that drives her to forego the logic of preparation for the cock that Neuvillette is sporting. 

With a sigh of want, she takes him in her hand, and uses her other one to guide the tip to her inadequately prepared entrance. His fingers are big enough, Furina huffs to herself. The feel of him against her folds is so addicting, despite the texture of the condom irritating her the slightest bit, and there’s a weird tickling against her cheek that makes her scrunch her face up multiple times. It’s no matter – Neuvillette watches her, out of breath and flushed, and all of a sudden reaches his hand out to tuck a lock of hair behind ear. “Oh,” Furina breathes, “Thank you.” 

“I love you,” he says, mostly out of habit, the feelings bubbling up within him before he could stop himself. “Please, go at your own pace.” 

“Don’t be arrogant,” she hisses, jokingly. Furina sinks down, little by little, and instinctively clenches as she feels the – honestly unreal – size push at her walls. It’s delicious, the slight tang of pain that appears before the head slips inside, so agonizingly good–

It’s not going in. 

Furina huffs and slips two fingers inside herself, stretching the sides before trying to slip his dick inside once again. By experience, she knows this– it’s a brief moment of tension before it breaches, and yet:

It does not go in. His dick remains painfully outside her, hard and hot in her hand. She looks up, slightly panicking, but Neuvillette has his eyes shut tight, and Furina startles into a fit of laughter as she realises she must be torturing him by doing this over and over again. “Sorry,” she says through giggles, and Neuvillette’s eyes slowly open.

“Hm?” He asks her, panting, and she snorts before another fit of laughing overtakes her.

“Neuvillette,” she says, “It’s not going in.” 

Silence fills the air. Neuvillette blinks several times in rapid succession. “What?” He says, voice hoarse. (Probably because she used his legs as a necklace just a few minutes prior.) 

She can’t help it. Furina starts laughing again. “You’re too big,” she howls, “It won’t fit.” 

However, her altered mindset catches up within seconds, and her fit of laughter trails off into sniffles and hiccups as she suddenly feels tears forming in her eyes. This was meant to be special, they talked about this, she hasn’t even come yet–  

“Furina, no,” Neuvillette exhales, and scrambles to sit with her - face to face. His hands hold her shoulders, and his touch invites her to hide her sniffling face into his chest. “Furina,” he says again. “That is alright. Please, do not be upset.”

“I wanted to,” she whines, muffled. Furina wraps her arms around him, appreciating the warmth, and then she feels his (rapidly softening) (but still very huge) cock against her leg and bursts into tears again. “Fuck,” she says through hiccups, “I really wanted to. I wanted to. I wanted it so much.” 

A relaxing feeling takes over as she feels his hands stroke through her hair, lips pressing kisses against her scalp. “Furina,” he murmurs. “Please. Do not be upset. I do not think any less of you.” 

“I know that,” she huffs, defensive. She does know that. “I still wanted to.” 

Humming, Neuvillette pulls back to wipe her tears away, reaching for a towel to wipe down her sweat. “I know you wanted to,” he says. He blinks at her, again, pursing his lips. “I’m… sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Furina wails even harder. “I hate you. What fucking use does it even have if you can’t put it inside me. Does it drag behind you when you walk, too? Does it make a big mark in the snow when you fall over?!”

Neuvillette can’t help himself. A laugh escapes him.

“You’re laughing at me,” Furina says, and now she’s half laughing and half crying. “I’m in misery. You’re mocking me.”

Wordlessly, Neuvillette rises from the bed. She almost, almost finds it in herself to be mad at him, but he comes back moments later, and drops her harness (with the dildo still in it) in her lap. It’s one of hers, one of the ones she’s used during her streams, and she looks up at Neuvillette with wide eyes.

“We can use this instead,” Neuvillette says. “I will put it on and lay back like before.”

Furina bursts into tears again. 

“You’re so fucking nice,” Furina speaks as she is, once again, burrowed into Neuvillette’s chest. His hugs are so good. It’s infuriating. “I love you. Maybe later though, because–” She hiccups, sniffles again. “I just want to hug you now.”

“Alright,” Neuvillette hums, and traces circles into her bare back. “I love you, too. It is alright, Furina. I love you.” 

“If you saw me with my hair put up,” Neuvillette asks, “Would you still recognise me?”

Wriothesley is in the middle of a particularly good looking bowl of pasta. It is cheesy in texture, and looks particularly delicious when he brings a bite to his lips, because the cheese stretches and the sauce looks so good. Neuvillette can’t decide between asking for a recipe or straight up stealing the bowl and booking it out of the office. 

“Please, stop ogling Wriothesley,” comes a voice from behind them, and Neuvillette startles as Clorinde pulls up a chair. Her lunch today is a whole meal, it seems, as she unpacks the several bowls Miss Navia has packed her for work. “It’s very unsightly.”

“Please, give me the recipe for your pasta,” Neuvillette says, instead. “I will perish without it. I have been ogling your pasta for the past five minutes and I am unashamed of admitting it.” 

Wriothesley chews in peace, looking on cloud nine. He ignores both of them in favor of enjoying his lunch to the fullest. Honestly, Neuvillette can’t even blame him. 

Huffing, Clorinde starts on her own lunchbox, speaking only after she has swallowed each time. “You aren’t going to ask for the recipe to my food? Miss Navia will be heartbroken when she hears it.” 

“Furina does not enjoy salads,” Neuvillette says absentmindedly. Wriothesley drops his fork and chokes on a piece of ravioli. 

“You want the recipe for your partner?” Wriothesley wheezes out. “Someone fucking shoot me. I knew he’d be annoying.” 

Distressed, Neuvillette pats his back. “Do not perish, Wriothesley. I need the recipe first.” 

“Give Furina my regards,” Clorinde says, blessedly unsurprised. “Anything Wriothesley makes is bound to end up inedible.” 

“Nu-uh,” says Wriothesley, and speaks over Clorinde’s sputtering. (“Did– did you just say nu-uh?”) “I ordered this from a local place. I’m perfectly safe. I’m not willing to risk getting food poisoning from my cooking. Again.” 

Neuvillette looks at him disappointedly. His eyes fall half-lidded, his mouth curving into a pointy frown – It instantly makes Wriothesley shrivel up in shame, although he stands his ground. “It was just a couple hundred Mora,” he huffs, “That amount here and there won’t help me become a millionaire. I already quit smoking, and my foretold life free of debts is yet to arrive.” 

“I’m mostly disappointed that you made your eyes try to work out the words on the menu board,” Neuvillette tuts. “Besides, your life free of debts is yet to come because you keep spending a couple hundred Mora on takeout.” 

“You’re impossible,” Wriothesley scoffs, and looks to Clorinde for agreement. Clorinde raises her eyebrows in question, as if asking if he really thinks she will agree with him, and Wriothesley throws his arms up in defeat. “You’re both impossible. Why do I put up with you?” 

“You still did not answer my question,” Neuvillette says. “If I put my hair up, would you still recognise me?”

Clorinde’s eyes widen a little. “What kind of question is that?” She says. (Wriothesley, meanwhile, takes offense. “You’re asking me? I can’t see! I barely recognise you as is!”)  “Of course I would. What, are you turning into a vigilante? Are you going Clark Kent on us?” 

“I am simply wondering,” Neuvillette says. “It’s a simple question.” 

Wriothesley groans. “I wish it was ever ‘simple’ with you. It never is. I’ve given up at this point.”

Despite their answers, the next time Neuvillette goes out with Furina, he asks her to braid his hair into a bun. He wears a slightly different outfit to work, and it is startling how long it takes people to notice it’s him. It’s a simple change, but even a tiny alteration of his usual appearance makes him unrecognisable to the usual eye. 

He settles into bed on Friday, watching Furina do her job effortlessly as always, and imagines. It makes his heart tremble, and something like excitement pools in his belly, arousal filling his veins. It would be so easy to– To– 

“No,” Neuvillette whines, tears spilling down his cheeks as Focalors slows down, bringing her thrusts to a slow halt. She grinds lazily inside him, laughing, and he makes small, needy noises that are muffled into the pillow. 

“What was that, baby?” Focalors trails a hand under his chin and tugs his face out of the sheets, and he opens his eyes, vision blurry from crying– 

He looks directly into the camera that stands by the bed, sees the tripod and the mic stationed above it, and closes his eyes against the onslaught of arousal that floods him. “I don’t know what to give you if you won’t tell me,” Focalors drawls, her tone overly sweet and innocent.

“More,” he stutters, and attempts to hide again. Her grip on his hair tugs his face back into view of the lens, and it sends pleasure to his dick so rapidly that he almost comes right then and there. “Please, please–” 

“Good boy,” Focalors murmurs, and Neuvillette moans at the thrust that follows. 

It doesn’t take long for him to come. It doesn’t take long at all, and he should be embarrassed, but he is mostly pawing at Furina to pull out so he can slip off the bed and check the recording– His legs feel akin to jelly, and he stumbles as he brings the camera (tripod and all) back to bed and presses play. 

It wasn’t a livestream, not for his first time doing this, but the noises he makes… The way he looks, and the way Furina looks at him, it is too much for him to handle. It is everything he could ever want, and the wave of emotions makes him muffle his whine in Furina’s neck. 

“You did so well,” Furina murmurs, “When they see you, they won’t be able to get enough of you. Do you know how you sound? How you move? ”

“I love you,” Neuvillette says. 

“Are you still sure about this?” Furina asks him.

Neuvillette responds by kissing her, holding her face in his hands, trembling from the amount of love he holds inside his body. 

For the first time in a while, Focalors posts a video instead of starting a livestream. It’s been edited and altered slightly, especially so that Neuvillette’s face is out of frame, and yet the comments are instantly ravenous. 

Going from ‘oh my god i need that man obliterated again’ to ‘ive always been a top but im willing to change for you miss focalors please me next’, they mention perhaps every single thing in the video, from his eagerness to Focalors’ dominance. 

“lady focalors has BITCHES?????” Furina reads out loud, “Question mark, question mark, question mark.” 

Neuvillette laughs. 

“It’s not funny,” Furina says. Neuvillette keeps chuckling. “Oh, my god. Stop laughing!” 

“No one has recognised me,” Neuvillette says, a little in awe. “It seems the lack of visible hair and clothes erases the most obvious assets of my identity.” 

Huffing, Furina climbs over into his lap. “Even if they did,” Furina says, “You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just letting a really pretty lady put her dick into you.” 

“Don’t be so crass,” Neuvillette says, his hands sneaking around her waist. 

“I’m not being crass,” Furina says. “Your dick is on the internet now. That’s crass.” 

Their lips meet, again and again, and Neuvillette cannot seem to bring himself to care.