Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You. You son of a bitch.”

Neuvillette has only just registered the words when a man shoves through a small crowd and grabs him roughly by the arm. The man’s grip is surprisingly strong for a human male, his arm bulging with muscle. Even through the heavy layers of his stole, his coat, his shirt, Neuvillette thinks he might bruise.

The man pulls back his fist.

This, Neuvillette thinks almost idly, is why he only rarely visits the Fortress of Meropide. To the convicts and exiles, he is an irritant better forgotten, and he does not blame them for that attitude. Especially now. With the Oratrice gone, he is the sole cause for their sentences. Their ire is not misplaced, even if it is, perhaps, not entirely deserved.

And so if he must interact with Duke Wriothesley, he calls the other man to him. For precisely this reason.

“Forgive me,” Neuvillette says, watching the man’s face instead of his fist, “but I am late for a meeting with His Grace.” He is not late, but the convict doesn’t need to know that. “Would you kindly release me?”

The man laughs and propels his fist forward.

Neuvillette shifts his weight, preparing to twist out of the way of the punch, but he need not worry.

A gloved hand intercepts the convict’s fist, catching it well away from Neuvillette’s face.

Duke Wriothesley stands there, wearing a pleasant expression, as if holding off this man’s assault is no great trouble for him. Perhaps it is not. He is quite strong for a human man. “Now, now,” the duke says, “that’s no way to treat one of my guests.”

The man snarls, jerking away from the duke—and, to Neuvillette’s surprise, hauls off to drive a punch at the duke’s face.

This one, too, the duke catches almost casually, knocking the man’s fist aside with a studied disregard.

Something catches in Neuvillette’s chest. Not a breath, no; his breathing remains even and steady. It is a sensation, a strange and foreign feeling, something that scrapes through him with a curious exhilaration and anticipation. He needs no protecting, certainly not after Focalors sacrificed her throne for the restoration of his power, and yet the duke defends him.

“You sure you want to pick this fight with me, Donatien?” the duke asks, still so nonchalant. He shoves against the convict’s hands—against Donatien’s hands, pushing him back.

“That fucking thing—”

“That man is the Chief Justice of Fontaine,” the duke says, giving Neuvillette a brief glance as though asking for permission.

Neuvillette cants his head ever so slightly to one side before giving an imperceptible nod. Of course he can easily defend himself, but this is… appreciated. Especially in front of the gathering crowd. How strange it is to be protected for a change.

How… comforting.

“And he deserves your respect.”

The convict hisses, pressing into the duke’s space, but the duke remains coolly indifferent to the threat. “He fucking took me away from my kids. He—”

“Wasn’t the one who smuggled sinthe,” the duke replies calmly.

Donatien jerks a finger at Neuvillette. “I deserve a chance to defend myself.”

“Was that not the purpose of your trial?” Neuvillette inquires.

The man makes an inhuman sound and hurls himself at Neuvillette.

Once more, the duke interposes himself between Donatien and Neuvillette, shoving the convict back hard. “And that’s enough of that,” the duke snaps. “But I’ll be nice. You’ve got two options, Donatien: you meet me in the ring, win, and we all forget this happened, or you’re working double shifts and restricted to the dormitories and the production area for the next two weeks.”

“That’s not a choice at all.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

Neuvillette inhales deeply, his eyes drifting down the duke’s back. His shoulders slope easily; there’s no tension in them. This situation hasn’t upset the duke in the least. How utterly…

Interesting, Neuvillette decides after a moment. This is merely interesting. He has so few occasions to see Duke Wriothesley in his natural environment that of course he would find it interesting.

Donatien looks over the duke’s shoulder at Neuvillette, and Neuvillette meets his gaze, expression perhaps a touch too bored. The convict glares. Swings his gaze back to the duke. “Fine. You. Me. The ring.” He sneers. “When?”

The duke spreads his arms. “Why not now? Get this all taken care of before dinner.” He nods toward the entrance to the Pankration Ring.

“To the ring,” Donatien says, pulling away. He strides with purpose, heading directly toward the ring. As he goes, several men peel away from the gathered crowd, joining him, slapping him on the back. Their laughter rises briefly until the sudden upswell of conversation all around Neuvillette consumes it.

The duke turns to Neuvillette, a pinched expression on his face. “I suppose I owe you two apologies,” he says.

Neuvillette lifts his brows. “Two? I cannot imagine you needing to apologize for any one thing, Your Grace.”

Chuckling, the duke holds up a finger. “First, for someone here assaulting you like that. It shouldn’t have happened. You should be able to visit the Fortress without someone putting their hands on you.”

Yes, he should, but Neuvillette doesn’t mind. He shakes his head. “It is no concern. The people here are understandably less than fond of me.”

“Not an excuse.”

That catches Neuvillette by surprise.

“No one gets handsy with anyone else here.” The duke grins. “Except me, when I have to.”

“Hence the fight,” Neuvillette says.

“Hence the fight,” the duke agrees. “The second apology—”

“Which is equally unwarranted, I am sure,” Neuvillette murmurs, settling his hands on his cane as he eases into a more comfortable stance.

“Hah, not quite. I’m sure you could’ve handled yourself. I apologize for intervening.”

Neuvillette studies the duke for a long moment, barely paying attention to the crowd that moves away from them and toward the Pankration Ring.

Of all the possible things Neuvillette could have imagined Duke Wriothesley apologizing for, this didn’t make the list. But he is strangely gratified—because he could have taken care of himself quite handily. Was prepared to take care of himself.

And yet the duke stepped in, offering him a defense that while not strictly needed was… welcome.

It is hardly unpalatable that someone might care enough to defend him. To the contrary, it is quite welcome. Though he is more than capable of protecting himself, to have someone else who might care enough—not, he is quick to remind himself, that the duke cares in anything more than a professional matter—is a refreshing change.

Furina never would have defended him. Clorinde likely believes him above needing any kind of assistance. And who does that leave? The Traveler? Lumine is reliable only insofar as one can help her in her search for her brother. She would not defend him.

But Duke Wriothesley did.

That same strange feeling swells within him, a spreading warmth. Idly, Neuvillette lifts one hand to his chest, brushing his fingers over his sternum through his waistcoat.

“Are you well, Monsieur?” the duke asks.

Neuvillette startles, dropping his hand to his cane once more. He inclines his head ever so slightly. “I am. And now I must beg your forgiveness for implying I was not.”

“That’s unnecessary, Monsieur,” the duke says.

A small smile tugs at the corners of Neuvillette’s lips. “As unnecessary as your own apologies, then,” he says, enjoying the way the duke looks askance. “Truly, Your Grace. You owe me no apologies. This is your domain, and you must intervene in any altercation as you see fit.”

The duke looks surprised, as if he wasn’t expecting an incisive review of his actions. “I… Thank you?”

“You are the ultimate power in the Fortress,” Neuvillette continues. “It is important that you be thus respected.”

Is it his imagination or does the duke flush ever so slightly? He certainly ducks his head and looks away, as he so often does when Neuvillette gives him any kind of praise. Ah, but he must not be accustomed to such compliments. Neuvillette understands. Leading Fontaine has always been thankless, but in the past, Furina would beg for his presence, for his intercessions. Now he is… alone.

Shaking himself, Neuvillette nods toward the thinning crowd, seeking to use them as a distraction. “Should we not join them?”

The duke turns back to him, rubbing the side of his neck with a faint grimace. “You sure you want to see this?” he asks. Then, catching himself, adds, “Not that you’re not—” He breaks off, closing his eyes and exhaling heavily.

Neuvillette favors him with a quiet huff. “I am not so fragile that I cannot watch a fight,” he says mildly.

“Fuck me,” the duke mutters, so quietly that Neuvillette thinks he may have imagined the words. But, no, the duke’s lips move, if barely. Louder, he says, “I should just issue a blanket apology for everything that comes out of my mouth today, it seems.”

“No such apology is needed, Your Grace.” Especially because Neuvillette doesn’t mind. Certainly, he is capable, but having someone express concern for him is—

Again, that warm feeling spreads through him, accompanied by a strange fluttering in his belly. A strange desire to press closer to the duke swells within him, a need to bend his nose to the duke’s throat and inhale.

Neuvillette’s fingers curl tighter around his cane. He is still, yes, but he holds himself with a sudden tension.

He knows little of what it means to be a dragon; he has spent his entire life among the people of Fontaine, once oceanids and now truly humans. Everything he does know about dragons, he has uncovered himself through trial and error and the occasional bit of obscure research. But this, at least, he recognizes.

Mating instincts.

By protecting him, the duke is behaving like a dragon seeking a mate, and that has triggered Neuvillette’s own instincts to judge the duke’s adequacy.

Madness.

Neuvillette stomps ruthlessly on those instincts, pressing them deep as he has done so many times before. Oh, not these instincts particularly, but others. He is accustomed to denying himself. Must deny himself, a dragon among humans, with precious few knowing the truth of his existence. He cannot reveal it now.

His chest pangs with loneliness, but he reminds himself he is with the duke now. He is not lonely. He is surrounded by people. One cannot be lonely in a crowd, even if it is thinning.

Once more he inclines his head toward the entrance to the Pankration Ring. “Let us go,” Neuvillette says, “and see the end of this.”

“I’m happy to see you to my office if you’d rather not,” the duke says, taking a step forward.

Neuvillette follows, allowing the duke to take the lead. “I believe it will be interesting to watch you engage in combat, Your Grace.”

“You know you can call me Wriothesley. Especially when we’re—” The duke gestures vaguely. “More or less alone.”

This isn’t the first time the duke has made such a statement. He is a casual creature, one who understands the rules that govern polite society without particularly caring for them. Neuvillette has always disregarded the invitation to be more casual as a means by which to protect himself and his secrets, but now…

He is so very lonely.

“I will endeavor to do so.” Neuvillette pauses. “Wriothesley.”

There is a subtle shifting in Wriothesley’s scent, all bergamot and metal and leather. Neuvillette cannot place the change, cannot pinpoint the exact meaning, and so he puts it from his mind as he trails after Wriothesley.

“I suppose it is only fair, then, if you also address me as Neuvillette.”

Wriothesley’s eyes widen infinitesimally. Then he laughs, the sound low and smoky and coiling in Neuvillette’s belly with another foreign warmth. No, not entirely foreign, but occurring so rarely as to be utterly alien. “I’m honored.” His laugh turns into a broad smile, one that pulls at the scar beneath his eye. “I’ll have to put on a good show for my new friend the Chief Justice Neuvillette.”

Friends. Is that what they are?

Their relationship is a personal one, deeper than mere coworkers, yes, but Neuvillette has never had much in the way of friendships. He considers his relationship with the Traveler, wondering if that counts as a friendship. It is, he thinks, the closest benchmark he has. But the Traveler knows his secrets. If the knowledge of secrets is the measure of a relationship, than he and Wriothesley are not friends.

And yet he doesn’t want to gainsay the duke.

“If only I had known the exchange of names would a friendship make,” Neuvillette says instead. “Perhaps I would have volunteered such a thing myself.”

Wriothesley glances at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Glad we can be friends as well as business associates.” There are layers of meaning in those words, meaning that Neuvillette cannot parse.

Though the exiles of Meropide have accumulated around the lift that descends to the Pankration Ring, they pull back to allow Wriothesley and Neuvillette to ride together.

“Does this happen often?” Neuvillette inquires as the lift lowers.

“Hm? What?” Wriothesley sets his hands on his hips, tipping his head back to regard the lift’s ceiling.

Neuvillette gestures broadly with one hand. “Fights against irate convicts.”

“Ah.” Wriothesley gives a small shrug. “I wouldn’t say it happens often, but it’s not unheard of. Sometimes, people hear how I became administrator, and they think they can make the same leap.”

Neuvillette snorts quietly.

A grin pulls across Wriothesley’s lips. “Yeah, exactly that. Every so often, I have to put someone on their back in the ring. Helps keep things functioning smoothly.”

“Might makes right?” Neuvillette volunteers.

“Something like that.”

That, too, tickles those ancient instincts that roil inside him. It is not the tyranny of rule that intrigues Neuvillette, no, but rather the strength of conviction, of body, of will that Wriothesley must have to maintain control of the Fortress of Meropide. No lesser man could manage such a thing.

And no lesser man would defend Neuvillette as Wriothesley has.

Again, Neuvillette inhales deeply. Again, he breathes in Wriothesley’s scent. It fills his lungs, warms him through, and he fights the urge to lean close to the duke and indulge in that scent directly from the source.

How irritating these instincts are. How strange it is to feel them after—centuries. It has been centuries since they last roused within him. 

The lift comes to a stop and Wriothesley gestures Neuvillette forward. “There are box seats away from the general population,” he says. “And while I don’t want to insult your abilities for a third time, I would strongly recommend you sit there.”

“I will bow to your greater knowledge,” Neuvillette replies, inclining his head. He gains the stairs to the box seats, removing himself from the general population of the Fortress, keenly aware that as many eyes are on him as rest on Wriothesley.

He wonders what they make of him, of his presence. This is the first time in Wriothesley’s brief tenure as administrator that Neuvillette has bothered with a fight in the Pankration Ring. He doesn’t consider himself above such things, but they have never been relevant to him. How Wriothesley manages the tempers of his convicts is none of Neuvillette’s concern, provided they are not being abused.

Settling in a hard seat, he curves his hands over the handle of his cane and watches.

The convicts file in, filling in the seats around the ring, and as they do, Wriothesley shrugs out of his jacket. He folds it over a bench near the side of the ring, everything about him loose and unconcerned. Opposite him, Donatien stands surrounded by his group of friends. They clasp his shoulders and speak directly into his ear. Their eyes cut toward Wriothesley as he pulls his tie lose and sets it aside.

More heat coils in Neuvillette’s belly, sweet and smoldering, an entirely unfamiliar sensation. But not an unpleasant one.

Swallowing, Neuvillette sweeps his gaze over the crowd, a little surprised to see coupons exchanging hands throughout. There is organized gambling at the foot of the ring, but even in the stands, the people of Meropide make their casual bets. How bizarre it is, he thinks, to watch them put money on Wriothesley’s body, as though buying pieces of his defeat or victory, as though buying pieces of his flesh. It makes Neuvillette uneasy, and he wishes they wouldn’t. But if Wriothesley isn’t putting a stop to the gambling, it must surely serve a purpose.

There is little the duke does without purpose.

Wriothesley strips off his waistcoat, his shirt, revealing a heavily scarred and well-muscled chest. The muscles in his back flex as he folds his shirt, bunching and loosening, the sight… Neuvillette swallows, tearing his eyes from Wriothesley’s body in an attempt to measure Donatien, but his gaze drifts back to Wriothesley anyway.

There is something magnetic about the duke, about the way his muscles flex and release, about how he moves with power and purpose. He is utterly controlled, while Donatien paces and moves in fits and bursts, prowling his circle of friends. Wriothesley takes his time with his clothes and then in the assessment of the bindings on his hands.

Neuvillette wonders what he sees. Wonders how Wriothesley’s mind turns over the situation. Were this him, he would not have engaged with Donatien at all, but his calculus is far different than Wriothesley’s. Revealing his strength is a danger. Wriothesley needs to leverage his strength, to display it, to remind the convicts and exiles of his power.

And what power he has. The strength in Wriothesley’s body is so different from Neuvillette’s own. Wriothesley is a wall of muscle, powerfully built compared to Neuvillette’s lithe strength. That he uses that strength to protect Neuvillette is—

Neuvillette swallows, fingers tightening around his cane.

Absurd. He is being absurd. And yet he cannot stomp out the desire to touch, to run his fingertips along the contours of Wriothesley’s body. What would he feel like? How warm, how firm, how—

Closing his eyes, Neuvillette takes in a long, slow breath.

A dragon would display himself as Wriothesley does to entice a mate, yes, but Wriothesley is not a dragon and has no idea that Neuvillette is.

Dredging deep for the remains of his somewhat tattered self-control, Neuvillette takes a calming breath—and somehow inhales even more of Wriothesley’s scent.

Absurd. He is being absurd. There is no way he can scent Wriothesley from this distance no matter how sensitive his nose may be.

Neuvillette opens his eyes to see Wriothesley and Donatien climbing into the ring together. A heavily muscled man stands between them at the center of the ring, beckoning them forward. His voice carries as he calls out the rules of the match, which Neuvillette doesn’t understand, and encourages sportsmanlike conduct between the two combatants, which Neuvillette doubts will be present at least from Donatien’s end.

Indeed, when the man tells them to have a clean fight and shake, Donatien turns away from Wriothesley.

Wriothesley merely shrugs, and the audience roars with laughter and cheers. Clearly, Wriothesley is the favorite. But there are those who cry out for Donatien, too, either rooting for an underdog or favoring a man who challenges the representation of authority. Or maybe they merely call for blood, excited by the violence promised to them.

Neuvillette’s lips press into a thin line.

He is no stranger to violence, but turning blood into sport sits poorly with him.

The referee calls a start to the match, and Neuvillette finds himself tense as he sits on the very edge of his seat. He is not concerned that Wriothesley will lose; Wriothesley would not make this play if he did not have every expectation of victory. And yet Neuvillette remains nervous.

Both men raise their hands, defending their faces as they begin to circle each other, and Neuvillette finds his breathing heavier, accelerated. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, eclipsing the roar of the crowd as Donatien ventures a probing strike against Wriothesley.

Wriothesley bats it aside and retaliates with a swift, darting punch of his own.

There is an incredible beauty in the ripple of muscle in Wriothesley’s back as he moves, utterly efficient. A clear gulf of skill exists between him and Donatien. As Donatien strikes back, his blow swings wide, opening him up for a counterstrike that Wriothesley takes, driving his fist deep into the other man’s solar plexus.

Neuvillette’s breath catches. He expects Wriothesley to end the match there, but he doesn’t. He pulls back, waiting for Donatien to recover—and Neuvillette realizes why a moment later. A flash of teeth from Donatien, a vicious sneer, and then he rushes forward. Wriothesley is goading him, and the tactic works. Donatien takes wild, aggressive swings, pushing Wriothesley across the ring.

A tension fills Neuvillette.

And he jerks back when Donatien feints with one strike only to drive his fist into the side of Wriothesley’s face.

With a quiet snarl, he begins to rise, only to catch himself. There is no reality in which his intervention is warranted. This is not the Opera Epiclese. He has no jurisdiction here, no right to step in and—and what? Protect the man who seeks to protect him? Undercut Wriothesley’s authority in front of a solid portion of Meropide’s population? Instinct demands he act, but he is not so base to be driven by mere instinct.

Forcing himself back into his chair, he glances toward the crowd. None of them seem to have noticed his reaction. Their attention is fixed squarely on the fight.

Wriothesley recovers from the blow to his face, wiping his split lip on the back of his hand. Blood immediately pools in the cut, dripping slowly down his lip, his chin, and Neuvillette cannot stop the quiet growl that rumbles through his chest.

The sound catches him by surprise, and that surprise cuts the rumbling growl off.

Wriothesley is not his mate. Wriothesley is not even a dragon. Neuvillette is—His behavior is utterly inappropriate.

Is he truly so lonely?

But there is Wriothesley in the Pankration Ring, battling as much for the respect of his people as for Neuvillette’s honor. Precisely as a dragon would.

The two men circle each other. Blood drips from Wriothesley’s wound. Donatien’s expression is twisted with smug satisfaction, but Wriothesley remains neutral. Focused.

Donatien launches forward, delivering another barrage of blows. Neuvillette knows nothing about boxing and cannot tell how well Wriothesley weathers the brutal assault, but he doesn’t go down. Doesn’t even flinch. He twists out of the way of a particularly vicious kick. For all his bulk, he is fleetfooted and nimble, readily dodging Donatien’s increasingly unhinged assault. It is the lack of a response, Neuvillette thinks, that has begun to frustrate Donatien, who calls out taunts between his blows.

“Can’t do anything but defend, can you?” Donatien demands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Too cowardly to attack? Where’s the Duke’s bite, huh?”

None of it seems to land. Wriothesley is patient—and that patience intrigues Neuvillette. Humans lash out. They are impulsive. But Wriothesley is not. He bides his time, and Neuvillette watches him with increasing anticipation.

And when he finally strikes, he is incomparable. He cuts beneath Donatien’s guard and pummels him with a series of furious blows that knock the other man back.

Warmth spreads through Neuvillette, a lingering heat that smolders low in his belly. His lips part.

Decades. It has been decades since he felt any burning of desire. But as he gazes down on Wriothesley, nimble and deadly in his violent elegance, he cannot help but want.

Wriothesley’s foot connects with Donatien’s head, knocking him off balance, and Neuvillette aches. He slaps aside Donatien’s guard and slams his fist into the side of the man’s head, and Neuvillette smothers a soft groan.

Donatien collapses to the ground.

Wriothesley skips back a few steps—and lowers his guard. He is so confident, so sure of himself, and Neuvillette wonders if he would bring that same confidence to the bedroom. If he would act with the same, measured intensity, efficient in his economy of action. If he—

No.

He is not so lonely that he should lust after a colleague.

The referee, crouched beside Donatien, counts to ten. Donatien does not rise.

A loud cry goes up from the crowd, and Wriothesley lifts a hand, waving to the onlookers. But his head turns ever so slightly and his eyes lift to Neuvillette’s.

Neuvillette’s breath catches.

As Wriothesley towels off his sweat, Neuvillette descends from the box seats. He measures his advance against the people who approach Wriothesley to offer hearty congratulations, giving them plenty of time to lavish their duke with the accolades he deserves. And this gives Neuvillette more time to compose himself. Time that he needs.

Measuring his breath against the beating of his heart, he waits for the crowds to fall away from Wriothesley, half his attention on the ring where Sigewinne tends to Donatien. The man is surely concussed, but Neuvillette can’t bring himself to feel badly about it.

Imagine having to face the repercussions of one’s actions. What a shame for him.

As Neuvillette draws closer, Wriothesley shakes off his admirers. A smile stretches across his face, opening his split lip. Fresh blood pools there as he cuts through the crowd.

“And that’s that,” Wriothesley declares.

“An admirable showing,” Neuvillette replies. “Has Sigewinne tended to your lip?” He knows she has not.

Wriothesley waves him off. “It’s nothing.” He turns, reaching for his shirt, and shrugs into it. The muscles of his chest bunch and release, and Neuvillette fights to keep his gaze above Wriothesley’s throat.

It is a much harder task than it should be.

“Considering that you’re still bleeding, I wouldn’t call that nothing,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley laughs. “I’ve taken worse hits.” His fingers do up the buttons quickly, leaving the top several undone, as always.

Neuvillette’s fingers itch to reach out and finish buttoning up Wriothesley’s shirt. To make him more presentable of course. Not because he wants Wriothesley’s scent on his gloves. Not because he wants an excuse to be closer.

He is not as strong as he would like to be, and he sets aside his cane and reaches for Wriothesley’s waistcoat. “Allow me,” he says, holding the waistcoat up.

Wriothesley slides into it without hesitation, and Neuvillette inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of sweat and violence. Good. On Wriothesley, the scent is unexpectedly good.

Settling the waistcoat in place, Neuvillette steps back. It takes all his willpower not to run his hands down the fabric and smooth it over Wriothesley’s back.

“Thanks. I probably should shower before putting all this back on, but we’ve still got a meeting.”

The image of Wriothesley standing beneath a spray of warm water fills Neuvillette’s mind immediately. Droplets sluice down his neck, his shoulders, his chest. They gather in rivulets to drip over his abdomen and—

Neuvillette clears his throat. “If you would like to shower, I am quite happy to wait in your office.” Where he will most assuredly not continue imagining Wriothesley wet and naked as steam billows around—

He cannot pinch the bridge of his nose, but he is sorely tempted.

“If it doesn’t bother you, I’ll manage,” Wriothesley says, grabbing his tie and slinging it around his neck.

The idea of having to sit in Wriothesley’s office surrounded by his sweat bothers Neuvillette quite a bit. But since he has no interest in explaining himself—and since he’s feeling masochistic—he inclines his head. “It does not. Come, let us put this unpleasantness behind us. We have much to discuss.”  

“Unpleasantness? That’s one way to describe it.” Wriothesley beckons for Neuvillette to follow him as he grabs his jacket and strides toward the lift.

Once more, the convicts and exiles part like water before Wriothesley—perhaps even quicker this time, as though catalyzed by the reminder of Wriothesley’s power.

“You’re alright, yeah?” Wriothesley asks as they step into the lift, alone for the moment.

Neuvillette nods. “Of course.” He hesitates before continuing, “While I was never in any danger, I appreciate your concern. Dealing with Monsieur Donatien myself would have been undesirable.”

“Well, hopefully that’ll be the last time someone here puts a hand on you.”

It will not be, but it might be for Wriothesley’s tenure, and for that, Neuvillette is grateful. “Let us hope.”

They exit the lift and walk in silence to Wriothesley’s office. The convicts give them a wide berth, but they are not shy in watching Wriothesley and Neuvillette pass. Whispers follow, too, muffled behind raised hands. Neuvillette’s keen ears pick up the murmured observations; they are nothing to worry about, mere commentary on Wriothesley’s fight and prowess. Good. Meropide’s occupants should understand and respect Wriothesley’s power.

Neuvillette shakes himself once, subtly, as Wriothesley opens the door to his office tower. “After you.”

The first floor of Wriothesley’s office is spartan and bare, likely deliberately so. Wriothesley treats the entrance to his office like an afterthought—and presumably, everyone else who enters does, too. No one would ever think that one of Fontaine’s most dangerous secrets was stored beneath the Fortress of Meropide.

Now, of course, the Primordial Sea is no threat.

There is a profound comfort in that truth, in the knowledge that none of the people of Fontaine risk dissolution.

Neuvillette gains the stairs to Wriothesley’s office proper, drifting across the open space toward the couch and table set to one side. A tea service is already on the table, waiting for them. The water in the pot has certainly gone cold. Neuvillette reaches for it.

“If you’re about to reheat the water, please. Don’t.”

He stills, glancing over his shoulder. “Don’t?”

“There’s tea in there already. Reheating it—” Wriothesley snorts as he approaches, so close that Neuvillette feels the heat of his body through even the weight of his clothing. “You wouldn’t melt snow to drink, would you?”

“No,” Neuvillette replies immediately, nauseated by the thought.

“So, we don’t reheat the teapot.” Blood drips over his lip, a thin trail of it.

Straightening, abandoning the teapot, Neuvillette rounds on Wriothesley. “You are still bleeding.”

“Hm?” Wriothesley touches his fingers to his lips. Brings them away, bloody and red. “Huh. I’ll—”

Neuvillette cannot help himself. His fingers catch on Wriothesley’s wrist, drawing that bloody hand away from his lip. Need churns in his gut. “Allow me. You took that hit on my behalf, after all.” Like a dragon would do to impress a mate. “The least I can do is—help.”

“Oh?” Neuvillette is sure the breathlessness in Wriothesley’s voice is a product of his imagination.

“Oh,” Neuvillette says. Releasing Wriothesley’s wrist, he brings his gloved fingers to the man’s lip, conjuring Hydro at his fingertips.

Wriothesley hisses.

“It is only water.” But Neuvillette lifts his fingers away. He does not want to cause more harm.

“Still stings.”

“It should not. Be still, Wriothesley.”

With the admonition, Wriothesley obeys.

They are, Neuvillette thinks, far too close. A mere breath of space separates their bodies, and Neuvillette leans his face closer to examine the split in Wriothesley’s lip.

How easy it would be to kiss the duke. How easy it would be to press his mouth against the corner of Wriothesley’s, to tell him his behaviors were noticed, are accepted, are—

No.

Wriothesley is no dragon, and Neuvillette is not slave to the instincts that churn in his gut.

Gently, he sets his fingers against Wriothesley’s cheek. His pinky finger presses against the curve of Wriothesley’s jaw. And his thumb pulls over the split in Wriothesley’s lip, slow and even, a barely there caress.

Not a caress, he reminds himself. This is perfunctory. A healing. Nothing more than that.

And yet he cannot help but wonder what Wriothesley might do if Neuvillette did eliminate the last of the distance between them. Cannot help but wonder if Wriothesley would turn into a kiss. If Wriothesley would draw him into his arms, embrace him, cradle him close, and—and what? Treat him as a dragon would?

Absurd. He is being absurd.

Hydro drips from his thumb as he focuses on his task. He is not adept at healing, but even he can manage a split lip. With Hydro, he repairs broken blood vessels and split flesh, knitting Wriothesley’s skin back together with a careful application of his power.

He brushes his thumb against Wriothesley’s lip again, trying not to think about how soft Wriothesley’s skin is. Trying not to feel the warm rush of Wriothesley’s breath against his thumb.

The wound is mostly healed. A few more days, and it will be fine.

“Try not to smile too much,” Neuvillette says, dropping his hand and stepping back. “You are repaired, but the skin will be fragile for a day or two.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Wriothesley says, watching him.

The air tastes electric, filling Neuvillette’s mouth like ozone and his nose like petrichor. And beneath the scent of fresh rain is another, spicier one. Leather and bergamot and something more.

Neuvillette is tempted, so tempted, to close the distance between them once more, to slide his hand into Wriothesley’s hair and urge their mouths together. To find out if Wriothesley tastes the way he smells. He suspects he would be welcome.

But that is a line he will not cross.

He turns to the teapot. “If we cannot use this teapot, shall I replace the water within?” Hydro coalesces in the air above his palm.

When Wriothesley doesn’t immediately reply, Neuvillette glances back at him.

Consternation twists Wriothesley’s face.

“Ah. A no, then,” Neuvillette says.

“I’ll—get us a fresh pot,” Wriothesley says. “Make yourself at home.”

Wriothesley hurries down the office stairs, his heart pounding in his chest. His lip still tingles where Neuvillette touched it, and when he runs his tongue over the unbroken skin, he swears he can taste the remains of Neuvillette’s Hydro.

Clutching the teapot in one hand, he strides toward the kitchenette on the first floor of his office, reeling.

Healing. That was a healing. That wasn’t—

Wriothesley swallows and rakes his hand through his hair.

That wasn’t flirting. Couldn’t have been flirting. He’s known Neuvillette for years now. Has made his subtle invitations. Neuvillette never once picked up on them—or he has and he’s chosen to ignore them. Wriothesley has told himself that’s for the best. Whatever Neuvillette is, he’s ancient. He’s powerful. He doesn’t need someone like Wriothesley clamoring for his attention.

But today—fuck.

He pushes into the kitchenette and goes to the sink, emptying out the teapot while trying not to think about Neuvillette’s presence in his office. There’s something surreal about Neuvillette sitting up there on a couch, waiting for him. Surreal and—and strangely intimate. Sure, they’ve had a few meetings here and there, but he’s never left Neuvillette alone in his office before.

Not, he thinks, that it should matter. It’s just an office, and there’s nothing in there he wouldn’t trust Neuvillette with.

Wriothesley shakes the last of the water out of the teapot and sets it on the counter as he grabs the kettle and goes to the tiny refrigerator with its filtered water. One of the previous Administrator’s extravagances, now Wriothesley’s boon. He pours water in the kettle, doing everything in his power to put Neuvillette from his mind and utterly failing.

Today, Neuvillette watched him with what Wriothesley can only describe as ravenous interest. He felt the weight of Neuvillette’s eyes through his entire fucking fight, the gravity of Neuvillette’s regard inescapable.

People watch him for a lot of reasons. Respect. Fear. A misplaced desire to uncover his weaknesses.

But that wasn’t why Neuvillette watched him. Well. Maybe the respect. But that’s not the impression Wriothesley has.

Water spills over the top of the kettle, pouring down his wrist and onto the floor.

“Fuck.”

Jerking the kettle away from the spigot and setting it on the counter, he grabs a towel to mop up the floor.

Bad form. He can’t let his mind wander like this, not even in the privacy of his own office. If he makes it a habit, his mind will wander somewhere else, somewhere important, and that’s how a man like him ends up dead.

Throwing the wet towel into the sink, he sets the kettle on its plate. As it heats, he braces his hands against the counter and lets his head hang.

That wasn’t flirting, he tells himself again. It was just one friend helping another. It was a kindness, a healing, nothing more.

But it feels like more.

“You’re a fool,” Wriothesley mutters to himself, shoving away from the counter. He opens the cabinet containing his tea collection, rooting through the glass jars for the right flavor. Neuvillette won’t drink it, of course, so he’s not worried about finding something that will satisfy the Iudex, but something for himself. Something to calm his nerves. Something to settle him down. Chamomile? No, the honeyed cider. It’s bright and cheerful, but it’s soothing and familiar, one of his favorites.

He pulls the jar down, spooning the tea into a fresh infuser and leaving the old one in the sink with the towel.

The kettle screams its readiness, and Wriothesley slips the infuser into the empty teapot, pouring the hot water over it. He checks the clock on the wall, setting a timer in his head, and then pauses.

A meeting with Neuvillette after—

Whatever that was.

A kind gesture between friends. Between colleagues.

Nothing. It was nothing. It has to be nothing, because if it was something—

Wriothesley cuts the thought off, picking up the teapot and striding out of the kitchenette. He gains the stairs, measuring his steps so that he doesn’t appear too eager. At the top of the stairs, he finds Neuvillette seated on the couch, legs crossed, his expression pleasantly neutral.

“Tea,” Wriothesley says, gesturing to the teapot.

Fuck, but that was a stupid thing to say.

Neuvillette spares him a comment, merely inclining his head in silent agreement.

“Would you like a cup?” Wriothesley asks as he crosses the office to join Neuvillette. He already knows the answer will be no, but he offers out of longstanding tradition.

“I would not mind one,” Neuvillette says, absolutely shattering Wriothesley’s reality for the second time that day.

Wriothesley goes still, half bent over the table. He forces himself to set the teapot down, to act casually, to not betray his surprise any more than he already has. “You—Alright, then.” A small grin pulls at his face. This is just as meaningless as everything else that has passed between them. It has to be meaningless. But it still warms him.

Maybe there is some hope—

No. Absolutely not.

Reining himself in, he reaches for one of the reports on the table between them, circles around to the couch, and settles himself down at a respectable distance. “While it finishes steeping, shall we?” he asks, lifting the report.

Neuvillette shifts on the couch, uncrossing his legs. “Indeed, let us begin.”

Chapter Text

A week passes.

At first, Neuvillette keeps his distance from Wriothesley out of an abundance of caution. If his reactions to Wriothesley are due to a cycle of heat, he will need to maintain tighter control and greater separation. But he checks his math against a calendar and realizes he is nowhere near close to either a cycle of heat or rut. There is, he is displeased to realize, no biological reason for his failing self-control.

He can admit to himself that he is lonely—even more lonely now than ever before. At least before, he had Furina. She did little to help him oversee the day-to-day troubles of a nation, (he knows now why), but he still had her presence, irascible and inconsistent though it was. He had her.

Now, he has no one.

Neuvillette rubs his thumb and middle finger into his temples as he sits at his desk in the Palais, a headache burning at the base of his skull.

Lonely. He is lonely, and at the first sign of someone acting the way a dragon might—shows of strength, of protectiveness—every instinct in him demanded he roll over. He is better than that.

He lowers his hand, and his eyes catch on the tea service on one of his side tables, the tea service he purchased at the start of the week. A moment of weakness.

Is he better than that? Or is he truly so desperate for company?

Tension radiates along his skull, and Neuvillette sets his fountain pen down, leans his head back, and groans. His eyes slip shut, and he remembers Wriothesley stepping between him and Donatien. Remembers Wriothesley catching Donatien’s fist, an impressive display of strength and protective instincts.

Heat coils through him.

He recalls the sight of Wriothesley stripping down to his pants, his body a latticework of scars and knotted flesh, of wounds old and new. His mouth goes dry as he mentally maps the peaks and valleys of Wriothesley’s abdominal muscles, detailing every inch of skin. Would his skin taste of sweat? Would it be sticky and salty beneath Neuvillette’s tongue if he—

Groaning, Neuvillette sags in his chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he forces his eyes open, staring into the middle distance.

If only his mental state could be blamed on biology. Instead, he can only assume that years—decades—perhaps nearly a century of loneliness and pent-up desire are coalescing into a tormenting need, all surrounding Wriothesley.

  It is a shame he cannot take a vacation and flee Fontaine. But where such a thing was previously difficult, it is now impossible. The nation relies on him for Pneumousia, the only adequate substitute for Indemnitium. Without him, there will be no power for the meks and machines. If there were another substitute, he could—what? Flee?

He grimaces. Is he the type of man to flee? Would he truly run from whatever this is with Wriothesley? Is he so cowardly?

When it comes to personal relationships, yes. He has avoided them for so long, and yet, with Wriothesley, there is… Perhaps it is not friendship, but they are more than colleagues. And now Neuvillette regards him with the assessing eye of a potential lover, barreling straight past any semblance of professional relationship into something exceedingly personal.

A knock sounds against his door before it opens.

Neuvillette goes preternaturally still as Wriothesley steps into his office, carrying a small bag in one hand and a thick, leather-bound folder in the other.

“Monsieur,” he calls, and Neuvillette peels himself away from the back of his chair, reaching for his date book.

He runs his finger over the ledger for the day, confirming he has no meetings with Wriothesley—as he shouldn’t. He canceled all of them. And yet there Wriothesley stands, just inside the door as he shuts it.

As he approaches Neuvillette, his expression is congenial, as if he has no idea he is an uninvited, unwelcome interruption.

Heat spreads through Neuvillette, a warm wanting that suffuses his limbs. He fights the urge to rise from his desk and go to Wriothesley.

The truth is that Wriothesley is not unwelcome. And that is precisely the problem.

“Your Grace,” Neuvillette says as Wriothesley places the bag on his desk.

“I thought we agreed to drop the titles when it’s just us.”

Neuvillette inclines his head. “So we did, Wriothesley.” The duke’s name is sweet, cool water on his tongue, refreshing and satisfying. “What is this?” he asks, gesturing to the bag.

Rubbing his chin, Wriothesley eases backwards, settling in one of the chairs across from Neuvillette’s desk. “A bit of something for you. I’ve heard through the Melusine grapevine that you haven’t been eating as well as you should be.”

“This is… food,” Neuvillette says, reaching for the bag.

“Just a little something,” Wriothesley says dismissively, as if bringing food for Neuvillette is nothing, as if it isn’t something a dragon’s mate would do, as if it doesn’t show kindness and care.

Neuvillette opens the plain paper bag and removes from it a package of deviled eggs, what must be a sandwich wrapped in foil, and a sealed cup of what smells like tomato soup. Though the eggs are not particularly to his liking, he is keenly aware of Wriothesley’s eyes on him, lingering weights of concern and expectation both. There is a coiled tension about Wriothesley’s body, an anticipatory eagerness.

Opening the package of deviled eggs, Neuvillette takes a wary bite. He is pleasantly surprised to find the yolk filling creamier than it often is, and much more savory than sweet. The taste is hardly unpalatable, and he glances toward Wriothesley as he swallows.

Relief softens Wriothesley’s face. He was, Neuvillette realizes, afraid his offering would be rejected.

Neuvillette should have rejected the food, but human mating rituals are not the same as a dragon’s. While a dragon would take Neuvillette’s acceptance of the food as an acceptance of interest, surely a human would not. This is—fine. There is nothing to confuse here. And the soup smells quite delightful.

Neuvillette unwraps the sandwich to find a croque monsieur, and a faint smile curves his lips. “Thank you,” he says at last. “I fear my day is busy enough that I would not have found time to eat.”

Wriothesley nods. “Like I said: heard through the Melusines that you could be eating better. I know it’s not what you usually like.”

Lifting a brow, Neuvillette dips the sandwich into the cup of soup, softening the bread and making everything much more palatable. The taste is stronger than he prefers but no less enjoyable. “Not what I usually like?”

“You seem to like mild soups more than anything else,” Wriothesley says, bouncing his knee.

Surprised, Neuvillette lowers the sandwich from his mouth. He studies Wriothesley with renewed interest, noting how the man looks everywhere but at him, at how he taps his fingers against his bouncing knee. Neuvillette’s acceptance of the food hasn’t eased all his anxiety, it seems. “You have noticed my preferences?” he asks, that warmth growing inside him.

A strained laugh breaks from Wriothesley’s chest. “Little things, here and there,” he says, waving his hand dismissively.

A dragon would notice. A dragon would pay attention to those little things and act on them. But Wriothesley, Neuvillette reminds himself firmly, is not a dragon.

Humans sometimes notice these sorts of things also, and when they act on their observations, it is an indication of friendship, not courtship.

“Anyway,” Wriothesley continues. “There are a few upcoming trials I wanted to discuss with you, so I figured we could have a working lunch.”

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “We did not have an appointment.”

“We did until you canceled it,” Wriothesley says cheerfully. “I figured that was a mistake since it’s been a week since we sat down together.”

By design.

“And I’m sure you’re not eating.”

He is not. “I am,” Neuvillette says, taking a bite of his soup-soaked sandwich to prove his point.

“Yeah, now.” Wriothesley’s eyes sparkle with something like mirth.

Neuvillette places the sandwich on the foil wrapper and pushes away from his desk. “If you mean to stay, then I must offer you something in return.” This is polite.

Wriothesley waves him off. “Not necessary. I’m fine.”

But Neuvillette ignores him, crossing the room to the tea service. He picks up the tray and brings it back to his desk along with a pitcher of Sumeran water, and he is keenly aware of the way Wriothesley’s eyes go wide.

“You drink tea now?” Wriothesley asks.

He does not, aside from that one cup in Wriothesley’s office. But Wriothesley does. “You are here so often that it seemed like a prudent purchase,” Neuvillette says by way of explanation as he sets the tray down, realizing only now how his actions would look to another dragon.

He has anticipated the needs of a prospective mate, attempting to impress him with his own forethought.

No, he assures himself. The purchase of the tea set was self-serving and had nothing to do with catering to Wriothesley’s needs and desires.  

Returning to the side of the room, he opens a drawer in one of his bookshelves and removes from it a small, wooden box. Within is an assortment of teas purchased, as with the tea set, specifically to cater to Wriothesley. But not because Neuvillette is trying to showcase his own attentiveness, no. Certainly not that.

He reflects again on his calendar, as though calculating the days to his next cycle for the third time will change something. It doesn’t. He is approaching neither heat nor rut, and he resists the urge to drag his hand down his face.

He is lonely. Surely, this can all boil down to the fact that he is lonely and his instincts are overreacting to the first person to show him genuine kindness in years. Decades.

Returning to his desk with the box, he offers it to Wriothesley. “Hopefully one of these meets your stringent criteria.”

Wriothesley accepts the box with a small laugh. “Well, it’s all bagged tea,” he says, as if that is an adequate response.

When he doesn’t continue, Neuvillette realizes he thinks that it is. “Is there something wrong with tea in a bag?” he asks slowly, carefully, settling in his chair and reaching once more for the lunch Wriothesley has provided.

Wriothesley’s fingers freeze briefly as they pick through the bags. “Nothing wrong necessarily,” he says a little too quickly, and Neuvillette knows there is, in fact, something quite wrong with tea in a bag.

An uncomfortable feeling tightens his chest. He has let Wriothesley down. He has disappointed—

No, he thinks savagely, stamping down that feeling. They may be more than colleagues, but they are not anything more. And he is not so young as to be ruled by his baser instincts, no matter how strong they are in Wriothesley’s presence.

“Loose tea does give you a better flavor,” Wriothesley continues, and Neuvillette focuses his attention on Wriothesley’s words as he dips his sandwich into his cooling soup and takes another bite of it. They are not anything more, but he is still interested in what Wriothesley has to say, and he wants to provide his colleague with a good experience if he is to serve him tea. “Tea bags are made with tea dust and are often packed too tightly, so there isn’t as much room for the tea to expand and release its flavor.” Wriothesley plucks a bag from the box. “Let’s give this one a shot. Do you have a kettle for the water?”

Neuvillette’s lips press together. “Ah. I have overlooked a critical element, it seems.”

Wriothesley shakes his head. “No, don’t worry.” He rises from his chair, reaching for the jug of water.

Neuvillette frowns. “I should—”

“Prepare the tea? With respect, Monsieur Neuvillette, you should probably leave it to me.”

“Are we not—” Ah, but there is a glint of humor in Wriothesley’s eyes. The title is a tease. Neuvillette returns to his lunch. “Very well. I will leave the tea in your more than capable hands.”

Wriothesley makes short work of preparing the tea, using his Cryo Vision to siphon all the cold out of the jug of water to heat it to the proper temperature. A curious and impressive use of his Vision, one that Neuvillette wouldn’t expect from a human. But Wriothesley is always full of unexpectedly pleasant surprises.

The cut of his muscles. The skill with which he fights. The—

Neuvillette brushes those thoughts aside as he finishes his sandwich and spoons up the last of the tomato soup.

Returning the empty cup to the paper bag it came in, Neuvillette sets the bag aside and turns his attention to Wriothesley. “Now, then.”

“Wait.” Wriothesley leans forward. One hand braces on the desk. With the other, he reaches out. “You’ve got a bit…” His thumb brushes the corner of Neuvillette’s mouth, and Neuvillette freezes.

Wriothesley’s thumb is warm and callused, the pad thick and a little rough against the soft skin of Neuvillette’s face. Skin pulls across skin. When Wriothesley draws back, Neuvillette glances down. A streak of tomato soup lines the edge of Wriothesley thumb—and to Neuvillette’s surprise, Wriothesley presses his thumb between his lips to lick away the remnants of the soup.

Heat floods Neuvillette’s body. The fit of his pants seems suddenly poor. He curves his hands around the arms of his chair, squeezing as he focuses on his breath and not on Wriothesley’s thumb between his lips.

Pulling his thumb from his mouth, Wriothesley grins. “Tit for tat,” he says.

Neuvillette stares at him. At his eyes and not his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“You healed me a week ago with a touch of your thumb. Now, I get to take care of you.”

Every instinct Neuvillette possesses screams at him all at once. Need and desire braid together in his gut, achingly sweet and ruthlessly insistent. He wants so very desperately to be taken care of. But he is the Iudex of Fontaine, Chief Justice, functional Archon. To allow someone else to care for him in any capacity would be to admit to a weakness he cannot allow himself to show. He must always maintain the integrity of his station.

“I do not need to be taken care of,” he says, managing to keep his tone gentle, almost neutral.

“Of course not,” Wriothesley says easily, leaning forward to take the teapot in hand.

His hands are thick, stocky, almost unsuited to handle something as delicate as the ceramic teapot. Yet he is careful as he picks up the teapot, his gestures practiced and sure as he pours not one but two cups.

“But, sometimes,” Wriothesley continues, “it’s nice to take a break and let someone else help you out.”

Neuvillette is not a fool. He catches the underlying invitation in Wriothesley’s words, and, once more, his instincts scream at him to accept. To go to his knees at Wriothesley’s feet, to lay himself in Wriothesley’s strong and capable hands. He would be a good mate. Protective, caring, solicitous. He would—

No.

Fontaine cannot afford Neuvillette’s divided attentions. He has been responsible for so much of Fontaine these past five centuries, and now, he holds the fragile nation in his hands. Furina was—No. He will not defame Furina for being a pawn in Focalors’ scheme. But pawn or no, the result remains the same: Neuvillette has maintained Fontaine and, now, must maintain it even more.

He cannot allow himself to be distracted. And he is happy, is he not, tending to Fontaine? He has purpose and direction, which is more than many can claim. He is—content. Yes. This stasis is contentment.

It must be.

And this familiarity growing between him and Wriothesley serves no one, least of all him. It makes him want what he cannot have. It encourages his instincts in a way that isn’t healthy for anyone.

After today, he resolves, he will better avoid Wriothesley, even if he must recruit the Melusines’ assistance.

He cannot rely on anyone but himself.

“How is the tea?” he asks Wriothesley, reaching for his own cup.

Wriothesley smiles, and Neuvillette’s heart doesn’t thud against his ribcage. His body does not warm with desire. He does not want.

“It’s good,” Wriothesley says, and Neuvillette is not pleased that Wriothesley is pleased by his very meager offering. “Next time, though. Loose tea.”

There will not be a next time, and in that, Neuvillette finds relief.

There’s no way Neuvillette will ever let Wriothesley back into his office.

Wiping the Chief Justice’s mouth?

With his bare thumb?

As Wriothesley shuts the door to Neuvillette’s office behind him, he rakes his hand through his hair and considers just never showing his face in the Palais again. Which, really, won’t actually help him, since he’ll have to see Neuvillette after trials when he comes for the convicts.

He’s done some stupid shit in his life but wiping Neuvillette’s mouth is up there among the stupidest. He hasn’t let his dick do that much thinking on his behalf in a long time. Shouldn’t have let his dick do that much thinking for him. There’s so much godsdamn danger in letting his dick do that much thinking for him, and he knows it. Has lived through it. Acting like that in his youth in Meropide would’ve gotten him killed.

Dragging hand over the back of his neck, Wriothesley trudges out of the Palais, barely acknowledging the gestionnaires who raise their hands to him in greeting.

He should know better. He should have a better handle on his own damn desire. But for the past week, his desire has burned out of control.

Every night, he lays in bed, palming his cock to the memory of Neuvillette’s gloved thumb on his lip. Not even skin on skin.

And, worse, he knows that touch didn’t mean anything. Doesn’t mean anything. But it lives in his memory, vibrant and bright, and it makes him ache.

Fuck, but he’s got it bad.

He strides out the doors to the Palais and onto the streets of the Court of Fontaine, lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. After so much time spent beneath the surface of the sea, he’s not used to bright sunlight anymore. He appreciates it, sure, but in moderation. Better to view it through a window than directly, though he still enjoys it. The warmth of the sun on his skin is refreshing, revitalizing.

But, fuck, does it have to be so bright?

Exhaling heavily, he sets off for the aquabus station, still thinking about his thumb on Neuvillette’s mouth. Soft skin beneath his touch. The look of surprise in Neuvillette’s steely gaze. He didn’t pull away, which, Wriothesley tells himself, doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he was taken aback but too surprised to react. Maybe he was just being polite.

Maybe he—

No. Absolutely not. He cannot allow himself to think the Chief Justice might be even the slightest bit interested in him. Knows that Neuvillette isn’t. If Neuvillette was, he would’ve given some indication by now.

But Wriothesley doesn’t blame himself for being confused, especially after he became the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide. He assumed that position and discovered a shocking truth: that Neuvillette had organized the Marechaussee Phantom to investigate and apprehend every member of the trafficking ring that had abused Wriothesley and his siblings. He’d thought it happenstance when those people arrived in Meropide. Had thought it the normal course of justice. And if he’d helped them find a more permanent justice, well. No one needed to know that. But when he’d gone through their case files and his own, he’d discovered the truth: that the Chief Justice had personally ensured the demise of each and every one of them.

In the aftermath of that discovery, he’d wondered at the Chief Justice’s apparently personal interest in his case.

And then Neuvillette had advocated for Wriothesley’s title, elevating him. Giving him power that not even the previous Administrator had; the man had been a weasel, not a duke. And Wriothesley, a murderer, was given a title. A station.

It shouldn’t mean anything that Neuvillette fought for him, but it did. It does. He’d misread the situation then and assumed then that Neuvillette’s regard indicated interest. He’d been annoyed—he wanted to earn his titles—until he realized Neuvillette wasn’t interested. And then he’d been disappointed. Had tried to flirt and offer subtle invitations anyway. Each one had been completely and utterly ignored.

He should’ve just let it go. He should let it go. But he can’t because Neuvillette fighting for him does matter to him.

And he wants to matter to Neuvillette more than he does.

He’s old enough that he shouldn’t have such a dumb crush, but there he stands in the Court of Fontaine, dumb crush and all.

The pad of his thumb still tingles from touching the corner of Neuvillette’s lips. If Neuvillette’s touch on his lip fueled fantasies for a week, this memory—and the way Neuvillette’s eyes lingered on his mouth when he licked off the soup—will keep him for at least a month.

Fuck, but he can’t stop imagining what might’ve happened if Neuvillette had turned and licked the soup off his thumb. Maybe he would’ve pulled Wriothesley’s thumb into his mouth instead. Sucked on it like—

No.

Archons above, he doesn’t need to imagine Neuvillette’s mouth on his dick while he’s walking through the Court.

And, more importantly, he needs to focus on the fact that Neuvillette did not and would not suck on his thumb.

But what if—

For fuck’s sake.

He never should’ve touched the man. Shouldn’t have even bothered swinging by the Palais. Working lunch. What a joke.

At least in the quiet of his own mind he can admit the truth: he’s missed Neuvillette this past week.

The return trip to Meropide is miserable. Wriothesley sits on the aquabus with plenty of space between him and everyone else—no one ever wants to sit too close to him, as if Meropide will rub off on them—but he spends the entire ride wrestling with his thoughts and fighting an erection. Every time his thoughts start to wander, they go right back to his thumb on the corner of Neuvillette’s mouth. He reels them back in mercilessly.

Tomorrow, he thinks as he strides toward the Opera Epiclese, he’ll stop thinking about Neuvillette entirely tomorrow. He’ll put all this from his mind.

He’s two steps into Meropide when Sigewinne appears around a corner, a clipboard in hand. Her expression shifts as she catches sight of him, morphing into a broad grin.

“How was your lunch date?” she asks.

Wriothesley groans, wishing he hadn’t told her he was going to the Palais. “It was not a date.” He wishes it was a date. Wishes Neuvillette would look at him and see a potential lover. But, fuck, for five hundred years Neuvillette has been the Chief Justice and there isn’t even the hint of a rumor of a tragic love story, of him taking a mortal lover.

Sigewinne squints up at him. “If it wasn’t a date, then why were you showing off to the Chief Justice the other day?”

Wriothesley does not misstep. He doesn’t. He stumbles forward and catches himself, glowering over his shoulder. “Has no one fixed that floor plate yet?”

Snorting, Sigewine crosses her arms, mindful of her clipboard. “Sure. The plate tripped you.”

“It did.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Wriothesley fixes his gaze ahead. “What question?”

“If you weren’t on a lunch date with Monsieur Neuvillette—” He could choke her for speaking so casually and without lowering her voice. “—then why were you showing off last week?”

“I wasn’t showing off. I don’t show off, Sigewinne.”

 “You don’t think your stunt in the Pankration Ring was showing off?” She huffs.

Oh. That. Yeah. That was definitely showing off. “That wasn’t showing off, Sigewinne. That was—I was defending the Chief Justice’s honor.”

Sigewinne sniffs. “Monsieur Neuvillette doesn’t need someone else to defend his honor.”

“Then I was reminding Donatien of the pecking order.”

Another delicate sniff. “Seems an awful lot like showing off. You even took off your shirt. You never take off your shirt.”

“Sigewinne,” Wriothesley says, low and warning—but that’s an empty threat, and they both know it.

Which is probably why she grins at him. “So, it was a bad date.”

“It wasn’t a date,” he hisses. “You told me he hasn’t been eating.”

“He hasn’t.”

“I went to help a friend.”

Sigewinne looks up at him with wide eyes. “Monsieur Neuvillette doesn’t have friends,” she reminds him.

This conversation is one landmine after another, and Wriothesley knows he’s if he keeps blundering through it, he’s going to lose. Miserably. “You’re right, he doesn’t. But he’s the de facto ruler of Fontaine, now, and if he doesn’t take care of himself, the whole nation will suffer.”

A sly look crosses Sigewinne’s face. “So you’re appointing yourself his caretaker?”

Wriothesley glares at her. “I hate you,” he says.

“I am your favorite,” she replies, saccharine and sweet, and she skips away from him in the direction of the infirmary, leaving him standing in the middle of the Fortress.

He stays there for a long second before raking his hand through his hair—he’s going to pull it all out at this rate—and viciously muttering, “It wasn’t a fucking date.”

He really wishes it had been a date.

Chapter Text

Avoiding Wriothesley is going well. Neuvillette has informed Sedene and the rest of his staff that he must approve of any meeting Wriothesley wishes to schedule with him—and when the requests come in, Neuvillette denies them, ignoring the ache in his chest when he does. He is giving entirely the wrong impression, he knows, but there is no cause for him and Wriothesley to have frequent meetings. The Fortress operates independently. They need not liaise about prisoner transfers. They have no need to meet, even if Neuvillette wants them to.

That is, more than any other reason, why he denies every one of Wriothesley’s requests: because he wants to see him so badly.

His nights have been consumed with thoughts of Wriothesley’s thumb against his mouth. Every time he closes his eyes, he remembers the warmth of Wriothesley’s touch, the rough stroke of his skin. And he imagines his lips around Wriothesley’s thumb, pulling it deep, and he wants—

Neuvillette drops his pen and presses his face into his hands.

Desire has never come easy to him. He has heard colleagues speak of looking at someone and wanting them, and he has never understood. But now, desire burns in his veins. It comes over him at the strangest moments, sinking into his spine with needy heat that makes him ache. Makes him crave.

He speaks with a gestionnaire about the evidence in an upcoming trial, and the way the man smiles reminds him of Wriothesley’s smiles. Reminds him of how the scar beneath Wriothesley’s eye pulls and crinkles when he grins, of how Wriothesley smiled that day in Meropide. He reviews a complex case with a junior justice, and the young woman’s focus reminds him of Wriothesley’s intensity.

And when he retires—day by day, ever later—he falls into a bed that no longer smells quite right. The scent on the sheets is purely his own, and it lacks. It reminds him of his loneliness, of how utterly set apart he is.

Wriothesley, too, is set apart. A man who is not welcome in the overworld but likewise feared in the underworld. 

Neuvillette utters a quiet oath as he turns over. He cannot draw parallels between himself and Wriothesley, cannot allow his instincts to overwhelm his reason. Reason. He must take refuge in reason, in impartiality. He must remain impartial.

But impartiality is hard to muster when Wriothesley consumes his thoughts. Every day, he fights his own mind. Every day, the fight grows increasingly arduous.

He signs off on a prisoner transfer, and he imagines seeing Wriothesley after the trial, imagines catching his eye and—and what?

Rubbing his temples, Neuvillette tries to refocus, but a muffled commotion outside his office door draws his attention. When it doesn’t resolve quickly, he rises from his desk and crosses his office, opening the door to find Sedene in a heated argument with Wriothesley.

The gestionnaires working nearby immediately turn away at Neuvillette’s appearance, suddenly busy with their work, and Sedene and Wriothesley both freeze. They look at Neuvillette, the former with nervous apprehension and the second with something like relief.

“I knew you were in,” Wriothesley says.

“The Chief Justice is busy,” Sedene replies sharply.

Neuvillette lifts one hand to silence them both. “Not so busy,” he says, even though that is not entirely true. He is exceedingly busy. But turning Wriothesley away directly would be too rude, and he will not beggar himself of his manners in front of what suddenly feels like half the Maison Gestion. He turns to Wriothesley. “Your Grace, did you need something?”

Wriothesley looks suddenly flustered, and one of his hands goes to the side of his hip. “I—Just a moment of your time, Monsieur Chief Justice.”

Beckoning Wriothesley to follow him, Neuvillette steps back into his office, holding the door for Wriothesley, who enters after him. A nervous energy surrounds the duke as Neuvillette shuts the office door. Uncharacteristic, Neuvillette thinks. Strange.

He does not like seeing Wriothesley so affected. “What is so urgent that you had to come here?” he asks, returning to his desk.

Wriothesley follows. “I—should apologize. This isn’t precisely urgent.”

“Oh?” Neuvillette settles in his chair, keenly aware of his frosty tone. “Then I must ask you to be quick. I do not have much time today.”

“Seems like you don’t have much time generally,” Wriothesley says. “Are you—?” He breaks off, shaking his head, which saves Neuvillette the trouble of reminding Wriothesley that it is not his place to look after him. “I—Here.”

Wriothesley approaches Neuvillette’s desk, reaching into his pocket and removing a small box that fits easily within his palm. “No matter what you’re wearing, you’ve always got the same cravat pin, so I thought—” He gestures vaguely with his opposite hand, setting the box on Neuvillette’s desk. “It doesn’t really matter, I guess. You’re busy, so I’ll leave you to it.”

And Wriothesley flees.

Neuvillette has no other way of describing how Wriothesley turns on his heel and rushes from the office. He watches Wriothesley go, watches the closed door, and then he sighs, reaching for the box. It’s for the best that Wriothesley doesn’t stay.

The box is simple. Hinged on the back, wrapped in black velvet, a small golden latch on the front. Neuvillette flips the latch and opens the box, revealing a cravat pin of sapphire set in gold. The design is simple, the pin shaped like a romaritime flower, but Neuvillette cannot imagine it was inexpensive.

Abruptly, he realizes he’s purring. He stops, snapping the box shut.

He will never wear it.

Wriothesley hangs in the shadows, in the far wings of the Opera Epiclese. Neuvillette has announced his intent to move the trials out of the opera house and into what he has described as a more appropriate venue, but change is slow to come in the wake of—everything. Wriothesley imagines Neuvillette has more important issues to deal with than the where of the nation’s most critical trials.

Frankly, he’s amazed that Neuvillette is still overseeing any trials at all. But he does. He refuses to leave the most important trials in the hands of any of the junior justices—and all of them are junior by Neuvillette’s standards. Without the Oratrice, Neuvillette’s oversight is more necessary than ever before.

Wriothesley crosses his arms and sinks deeper into the shadows. He waits at the base of the stairs to the defendant’s box, poised as always to act.

The man in the box has been accused of the serial murder of children, and the case against him is strong. There’s no way he won’t go to Meropide. And Meropide won’t be kind to him during what will be a very brief occupancy.

Neuvillette emerges from his office, a sheaf of papers in one hand, his cane in the other. Wriothesley drinks in the sight of him like a man parched, even though he just saw him yesterday. It still feels like a small eternity. They’ve seen so much less of each other lately, and Wriothesley has the distinct impression that Neuvillette is avoiding him.

A strange feeling chews at him, some weird combination of remorse and guilt. He knows his feelings are unrequited. Knows he should just move on, but he wants to give Neuvillette whatever support he can in the aftermath of Furina’s abdication.

He heaves out a sigh, sweeping his eyes over Neuvillette’s face, studying him, drinking him down. There are bags under his eyes, visible even from this distance. He grips his cane in a tight hold, leaning too heavily on it. He doesn’t look like he’s sleeping. He—

He’s wearing the cravat pin Wriothesley bought him.

Wriothesley’s heart hammers in his chest. His pulse beats so loud in his ears he’s certain everyone in the opera house can hear it.

It doesn’t mean anything. It’s not like the cravat pin means anything. But after weeks of not having even a business meeting with Neuvillette, the Chief Justice is wearing his gift. He’s wearing Wriothesley’s gift in court, on a day where he’s delivering a verdict that will almost certainly be guilty, on a day where he and Wriothesley are incredibly likely to cross paths.

Once more, Wriothesley tells himself that Neuvillette wearing the cravat pin doesn’t mean anything. Isn’t indicative of anything, but his heart is a fucking traitor as it pounds against his ribs, as his palms sweat and excitement, heady and sweet, sings in his veins.

He almost misses Neuvillette delivering the verdict.

Guilty.

Unsurprising.

Wriothesley wastes no time. He glances at the two gardes behind him, nodding toward the stairs to the defendant’s box. With the gardes at his back, he climbs those stairs, opening the door to find the defendant seated, defeated, in a chair.

Reactions to guilty verdicts are always a crapshoot, especially with the violent criminals. Some, the narcissists and psychopaths especially, are furious in their disbelief, harrowed by a reality that doesn’t conform to their designs. Some get violent, rejecting the verdict. And then some, like this man, are utterly defeated.

Wriothesley claps one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says, tugging his handcuffs free from his belt.

He’s always ready for resistance, but the man folds into himself with a heavy sigh. “Knew that little boy was a mistake.”

A cold fury punches through Wriothesley, and his hand tightens on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he says again, his voice as icy as his touch as he channels his Vision.

The man shivers, looking over his shoulder at Wriothesley with fear in his eyes.

Good.

He should be afraid, though Wriothesley is about to be the least of his worries.

Snapping the cuffs around the man’s wrists, Wriothesley pushes him toward the door. Urges him down the steps. He keeps the man in the wings, chatting amiably with the guards as they wait for the opera house to empty. The trials remain public—Neuvillette insists on it, something to do with accountability—but they aren’t the farces they used to be. Neuvillette has no patience for showmanship when he presides over the court, and the junior justices have begun taking their lead from him. In Furina’s absence, justice is becoming less of a show.

It's got a long way to go, but it’s improving.

Only when the murmuring of voices fades does Wriothesley push the man out of the wings and toward the opera house’s exit, still flanked by the gardes.

They’re in the empty foyer, headed for the door, when Neuvillette rounds a corner and comes to an abrupt halt.

Wriothesley stops, too, nodding his head. “Monsieur Chief Justice.”

The convict in front of him stiffens.

Wriothesley rests one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Easy, friend,” he says, wrapping his fingers around the chain connecting the handcuffs together. Just in case. To Neuvillette, he says, “Your cravat pin’s new, yeah?”

A startled expression crosses Neuvillette’s face before his eyes narrow.

“It’s a nice change of pace,” Wriothesley says. “It suits you.” Maybe it’s gauche, complimenting his own gift in this way, but he doesn’t care. He’s thrilled that Neuvillette is wearing it. Is thrilled that it looks good nestled at the base of Neuvillette’s throat. And what Wriothesley wouldn’t give to be that cravat pin, to push his nose into that hollow and breathe in the scent of Neuvillette’s skin, to nip and kiss and—

Nope.

This isn’t the time or the place for those fantasies.

Neuvillette studies him for a long moment before inclining his head. “Thank you,” he says. “It was a gift from a… friend.”

Pleasure suffuses him. Elation sweeps over him.

A friend.

Wriothesley will be coasting on this high for at least the next year.

The grandfather clock in Neuvillette’s office chimes midnight. Neuvillette sighs heavily, setting his pen down. He rubs his closed eyes, losing a battle with a tension headache.

There is so much to do and not nearly enough time to do it in. Thankfully, Furina’s abdication hasn’t turned too much on its head. The nation ran itself well enough without her support even when she was acting as Archon. But now that Neuvillette has assumed his full power, there are some responsibilities that he has been sure to subtly acquire. More executive authority now rests with the Chief Justice than is good or right, but until he finds an alternative, someone must fill the void left behind by a deposed Archon.

And it is this work that keeps him at the Palais late into the night, long past the hour he should have left and retired to bed.

His office door clicks open, and he opens his eyes. Sedene bustles inside, her arms full.

Frowning, Neuvillette folds his hands over his desk. “Why are you still here, Sedene?” he asks, gently, kindly.

She smiles at him as she approaches, a bag in one hand and a travel cup in the other. The scent of spices and cooked meat emanate from the bag, and Neuvillette’s stomach growls. He would, as always, prefer soup if he must anything, but he cannot deny that he is starving.

He doesn’t remember when last he ate.

As Sedene places the bag and the cup on his desk, his frown melts into a smile. “Thank you,” he says. “I trust you acquired a meal for yourself as well.”

“Oh, no,” Sedene said. “I ate earlier. This is from His Grace.”

Neuvillette goes still. “From… Duke Wriothesley?”

“Is there another?” Sedene asks.

There is not. At least, not one who would dare send a meal to him.

Absently, Neuvillette brushes his fingers over his cravat pin. Since Wriothesley gave it to him several weeks ago, he has taken to wearing it every day. He should not, he knows. Wearing the pin encourages whatever Wriothesley is doing, and Neuvillette should be doing everything in his power to discourage this behavior.

But he likes it. Gods help him, he likes it so much. Too much.

“His Grace left a note, too,” Sedene adds, and there is a sly look in her eyes that Neuvillette isn’t entirely sure he trusts. She passes him a folded slip of paper, sealed with a dollop of wax pressed with Wriothesley’s personal mark. At least he can be certain she did not read the letter—which he would not put past her.

“Thank you, Sedene. Please. Go home for the night.”

Sedene crosses her arms. “Are you going home, Monsieur?”

Maintaining a neutral expression, he shakes his head. “I have a few more tasks to accomplish this evening.”

“Morning,” Sedene corrects. “It just rang midnight. It’s morning, now.” She puts both hands on the edge of his desk. “Monsieur, how can you do your job if you are exhausted?”

He startles, but only slightly. “I am not so tired as that.”

She gives him a narrow-eyed look.

With a sigh, he reaches for the bag of food and the cup of coffee. “I will have my meal as I finish up, and then I will return home. Will that satisfy you?”

Sedene considers this for a moment before nodding. “I’ll walk home with you, Monsieur,” she says, trapping him.

But Neuvillette merely nods. “I would appreciate the company, Sedene. Thank you.”

She exits the office with a wave, ducking out the door but leaving it ajar, as if to remind him he should finish his work swiftly.

Neuvillette opens the bag, finding a box containing several ribs slathered in a thick sauce with a side of carrots and potatoes and a sprig of what looks like rosemary. Not his usual, but acceptable nonetheless. The cup, he discovers, contains piping hot coffee. His nose wrinkles. Surely Wriothesley knows he detests coffee.

Removing his letter opener from a drawer, he breaks the seal on the letter Sedene delivered with the meal.

Neuvillette runs his thumb over the bold script, his gaze lingering on that singular W. Wriothesley is, of course, correct. This is an impressive breach of propriety and highly inappropriate. And yet Neuvillette cannot find it in himself to care.

Briefly, he glances at the door. Then he lifts the letter close to his face and inhales through his nose. Beneath the scent of ink and paper, his sensitive nose detects the hint of bergamot and leather and metal. Wriothesley’s scent.

He allows himself yet another moment of weakness, closing his eyes and breathing in that scent again.

Everything in him wants that scent wrapped around him. He wants to sink into it, wants to be embraced by it. Ludicrous. He should not want that at all, but he will admit to himself that his impartiality is crumbling where Wriothesley is concerned.

How can it not?

Wriothesley’s every action is that of a dragon courting his mate, and Neuvillette—he wants to be courted.

It has been a century since he last took a lover. A century since someone last held him, since he allowed himself the illusion of companionship.

He conjures the fantasy too easily, of him and Wriothesley at a table, enjoying these ribs together, Wriothesley with a cup of tea and Neuvillette with water from Cider Lake. He imagines quiet laughter and easy warmth, of Wriothesley brushing his thumb along Neuvillette’s mouth to wipe away a smear of sauce, just as he did with the soup. Imagines Wriothesley’s touch lingering as he leans across the table and presses a soft, inviting kiss to Neuvillette’s lips.

Wriothesley is a kind and generous man, forbidding only when his trust is betrayed. It is easy to imagine him as a kind and generous lover.

Neuvillette swallows, mouth suddenly dry.

No, it is not easy to imagine Wriothesley as a lover. He will not imagine Wriothesley as a lover—a mate.

Placing the letter down, Neuvillette turns to the meal Wriothesley has sent him. He finds a knife and fork at the bottom of the bag and cuts a bite of meat, swirling it through the thick sauce. Tangy flavor bursts on his tongue, once more leaning more savory than sweet. He is not overfond of sweets, and he wonders if Wriothesley has surmised that. All his offerings of food have been savory.

There is, he assumes, a wide gulf between his assumptions about Wriothesley’s gifts and how Wriothesley intends them to be received. He is not being courted. These are the actions of… a friend, as he named Wriothesley that day in the foyer of the Opera Epiclese. As much as Neuvillette has tried to push Wriothesley away, Wriothesley has resisted, as a good friend might.

He takes another bite of meat.

Perhaps it would not be so bad to allow Wriothesley friendship. Oh, every moment of that friendship will be a torment if Wriothesley continues to behave like a dragon courting a mate, but Neuvillette would not mind the companionship.

Of all the people in Fontaine, Wriothesley is, perhaps, the safest. As the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, as a duke, he answers to no one. There can be no abuse of Neuvillette’s power if he pursues a friendship with Wriothesley.

He exhales heavily.

No.

No matter how much he desires more, he cannot allow himself to have it. Cannot give in.

Regardless, he is not good with people. He cannot be reading these overtures properly. There is no reality in which Wriothesley is courting him. He is being foolish, his loneliness coloring his perception of reality.

But he saves the note, tucking it safely into the drawer where he keeps his correspondences with the Melusines.  

Sigewinne is a cruel mistress. They could order her sticker paper, but she won’t settle for that, no. She is out now, in the present, and it is imperative she has more paper immediately, so she has sent Wriothesley from the Fortress to the surface to make her purchases for her.

He goes because he knows better than to ignore her. Knows what awaits for him if he does not go and get the paper. Endless haranguing. That creepy attitude she sometimes affects when she tries too hard to emulate human behavior.

So, he enjoys the cool evening as summer begins to give way to fall, strolling through the Court of Fontaine in spite of the pouring rain. His umbrella is serviceable enough, though not so serviceable that it protects his bottom half. The driving wind blows the rain into his legs, soaking him from the hips down. He steps over one puddle and into another, swearing softly as water splashes over his ankles and boots. The leather keeps out the worst of it, thankfully; he has few indulgences, but good shoes, now that he can afford them, are one such indulgence.

But it’s not bad, the rain. It’s a nice change of pace.

Rounding a street corner, Wriothesley ducks his head against the driving rain, angling the umbrella to try to protect himself just a little more.

With the umbrella eclipsing the bulk of his vision, he almost misses the sight of Neuvillette on the edge of an elevated street, standing alone in the rain, no umbrella in his hand.

Wriothesley hesitates, standing in a puddle in the middle of the downpour, just watching the Chief Justice.

Neuvillette hasn’t seen him. He could pass by unnoticed.

But gods help him that’s the last thing he wants to do.

Neuvillette is soaked, absolutely drenched by the rain, his robes sticking to his lithe frame. The least he can do is offer his umbrella, even though that’s not the least he wants to do at all. The least Wriothesley wants is to lick water from Neuvillette’s cheeks, to kiss the rain from his lips, to—

He curtails those thoughts and, against his better judgment, approaches.

Only when he’s within arm’s reach does Neuvillette notice him with a start, pulling back ever so slightly as he glances toward Wriothesley. When he recognizes Wriothesley, the tension in him eases swiftly. “Ah. Wriothesley. How unexpected to see you this evening.”

“Likewise.” Wriothesley studies Neuvillette, soaked to the bone and yet utterly unbothered by the rain. “Forgive me if this is too forward, but what are you doing out so late without an umbrella?” he asks, extending his own umbrella to shelter them both.

There’s a stretch of silence as Neuvillette looks over the Court. From their vantage point on the road to the Navia aquabus line, the city spreads before them, all sapphire and slate. There’s an ethereal quality to the world, as though the haze of the rain has painted it in smudges of color instead of sharp lines. Neuvillette holds his hands folded over his cane, leaning heavily on it as the rain pours down around them, pattering against the cobblestones like so much thunder.

“I find I enjoy the rain,” Neuvillette says at last. “I understand this is not an opinion most humans share, but there is a serenity in the fall of the water.”

“Serenity,” Wriothesley says.

“When one is indoors, yes.” Neuvillette tips his face up and closes his eyes. “Outside in the deluge, it is… different. More… emotional.”

Wriothesley can almost relate. “There’s no rain in Meropide, so this is… refreshing,” he says. “Sure, the downpour is annoying, but—” He lifts his umbrella just a little and rain pours off it in a waterfall. “—with an umbrella, it’s not bad. It’s nice to experience weather.” A grimace pulls across his face. What a stupid thing to say. It’s nice to experience weather. Who is he, some bumbling teenager who has no idea how to talk to his crush?

Fuck, but it’s so much worse than that. Neuvillette isn’t a crush, he’s—he’s not for Wriothesley, Wriothesley reminds himself.

Neuvillette turns toward him. “In my experience, most humans dislike the rain.”

Another reminder that Neuvillette is different, is set apart, isn’t human. Wriothesley needs the reminders. They keep him from making rash decisions—like when he pulled his thumb across the corner of Neuvillette’s lips. He can’t do shit like that again.

“Maybe some of us, but not me. I—” Wriothesley considers his next words carefully. “When you don’t get to experience regular weather, you come to miss it. The rain, the sun, the snow, the wind. We don’t get any of it in Meropide, so it’s all… nice,” he finishes lamely.

“I cannot imagine,” Neuvillette says, turning back to the city, though Wriothesley has the distinct impression that Neuvillette isn’t looking at the city at all but rather the streaks of water slicing through the air. “To be without the rain, to be so close and yet so separate from the water…”

Wriothesley shrugs. “You get used to it. It’d be more concerning if the water dripped onto our heads.” He laughs, but Neuvillette does not join him, so he lapses into silence.

This, he thinks, is awkward. He shouldn’t have stopped. Should’ve just kept on walking. But Neuvillette standing in the rain was a lodestone, drawing him in.

No. It wasn’t Neuvillette in the rain, it was Neuvillette. Always, it’s Neuvillette drawing him close, his gravity inescapable.

“I should—”

“The rain,” Neuvillette says, “carries with it so many emotions. I like to imagine I can taste them when I stand in the deluge.”

Wriothesley says nothing, just watches Neuvillette with no small amount of curiosity. People tend to say more when you don’t fill the silence. He doubts Neuvillette is one of those kinds of people; the Chief Justice knows when to hold his peace.

Neuvillette surprises him. “Water has long been a vehicle for emotion, a pathway for us to feel. It carries the past into the present and winds into the future, washing over the shores of our lives relentlessly. What is more inexorable than the tides? What is more guaranteed to us than the next rain?” He lifts his gloved hand, holding it beneath the pouring rain.

Water collects in the curve of Neuvillette’s palm.

Wriothesley licks his lips. “What about drought?”

“The rains always come,” Neuvillette replies. “Eventually, even when we are parched, the rains come.” He drops his hand. “I find that the rain allows me to connect with the people, to know them better. They pour out their hopes and fears, their dreams and nightmares, into the waters, and it falls back down to me, conveying their sentiments. As Iudex, it behooves me to listen to what the water tells me.”

“What’s it telling you now?” Wriothesley asks quietly, curious.

Neuvillette rests his hand once more on his cane. “That we have emerged from five hundred years of drought, but that the people are frightened of what awaits them in the future.” His expression is haggard, drawn. Threadbare and thin. “We stand on the precipice of something new. The world is changing, and the Traveler is the catalyst. How, I wonder, will we come out of it?”

“Surely, you have some thoughts.”

“As, I imagine, do you.” Neuvillette turns to him, his expression unreadable. “You had your ark.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Yeah, to combat a prophecy. There aren’t any more of those.” He hesitates. “Unless you’re about to deliver one.”

And Neuvillette laughs. He actually laughs, the sound low and rich and everything Wriothesley could have hoped it would be. Sonorous. Melodic. It strokes down his spine sweetly and settles low and warm in his gut, and Wriothesley wants nothing more than to hear Neuvillette laugh again.

“No,” he says. “Prophecy is well outside my realm of skill.”

“Thank Celestia for small favors, huh?”

A sound emanates from Neuvillette, something almost like a growl, and Wriothesley wonders why. Wonders what he said to piss the other man off. But, he supposes, he didn’t upset Neuvillette enough for the other man to go. Neuvillette remains, staring over the city he now rules.

“What are you doing so far from the Fortress so late at night?” Neuvillette inquires.

Wriothesley barks out a laugh of his own. “Sigewinne ran out of sticky paper. It’s better to just get her the paper instead of making her wait until the next requisition goes through.”

A smile curves Neuvillette’s lips. “I am pleased she is well cared for.”

Wriothesley briefly considers telling Neuvillette that Sigewinne turns into a monster when she doesn’t have a creative outlet. Considers how much Neuvillette cares for the Melusines generally and the interest he’s shown in Sigewinne personally. And he decides against damning himself.

“Well, you know. What else am I going to do as the Duke of Meropide aside from get sticky paper for my Head Nurse?”

“Challenge men to fights of honor,” Neuvillette suggests, tone so mild that Wriothesley can’t help but laugh again.

“I do that, yeah. But it’s not a habit or anything.”

Something sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes. “Then I am special.”

“Yeah, you are.” The words are out before Wriothesley can stop them, and he panics. “I mean, you’re our Iudex after all, and we need you to run the nation now that Furina has stepped down. You’re—important, you’re—” Fuck. He grasps wildly for words.

But Neuvillette waves him off. “I fill a necessary role,” he says, and that sparkle is gone, replaced by exhaustion.

Even in the growing darkness and the gloom of the rain, it’s easy to see the bags under Neuvillette’s eyes.

“You do. So, how about you head home and change out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold, hm?”

Neuvillette startles once more, swinging his head to fix Wriothesley with another of those unreadable expressions. “That is… not the worst of ideas,” he says, but Wriothesley gets the distinct impression those words are a mask for others.

What, he wonders, is Neuvillette censoring? What is he holding back? He wants to offer to hear those words, to be a confidant. Wants to invite Neuvillette in, but he doesn’t know how without overstepping the boundaries of their working relationship. And he’s already overstepped plenty, what with the cravat pin and the food.

He really should stop sending food to Neuvillette, but he knows Neuvillette isn’t eating.

The Melusine gossip network has its perks.

At least none of them are here to see Wriothesley with Neuvillette in the rain.

“I’ll walk with you,” Wriothesley offers, shaking the umbrella again and showering raindrops around them. “Keep you dry.”

“That is not necessary.”

“Maybe not, but I’d like to.” He’s pushing, he knows he’s pushing, but he can’t help himself. “Otherwise, you’re walking home in the rain, and while you might like the rain, it’s a chilly night.”

Neuvillette is silent for a long moment, watching him, considering him. Weighing and measuring. Finally, he nods. “Very well. Though I am already soaked, I suppose it would not do to catch a chill. And your company is welcome.”

Welcome. His company is welcome.

Wriothesley quashes the soaring of his heart. No time for that. “Lead the way.”

Neuvillette turns, and Wriothesley falls in step beside him. Together, they walk through the winding streets of the Court. They don’t chat as they walk; Wriothesley wracks his brain for something to break the silence but can’t come up with anything that doesn’t sound either foolish or desperate.

Eventually, they arrive before a simple townhome in a modest part of the Court, one that Wriothesley remembers from his childhood. He’d always wanted to live here. Had thought if he did, he’d have made it in the world.

But that was another life—and a lifetime ago.

“I figured you’d live in the Palais,” he says as they climb the steps.

“No,” Neuvillette says. “Well. I did at first, but I found I needed a degree of separation from—” His voice catches on a title that no longer applies. “—Furina. Perhaps now, in her absence, it would be wise for me to return to the Palais.”

“Can’t say I could give you good advice. I live where I work, too.”

Neuvillette’s lips quirk in a smile. “Indeed. Perhaps we both need a greater degree of separation from our work.”

Wriothesley cocks his head to the side. He’s never considered it, never considered leaving the Fortress behind to live somewhere else. But now that Neuvillette mentions it, he entertains the idea. It’d be appealing, he thinks, to go home to somewhere that isn’t an underwater fortress. Especially now that the Primordial Sea is no longer a concern for the people of Fontaine.

“Maybe,” Wriothesley says. “But where would I live? Here?”

Neuvillette lifts a brow.

Fuck, now he can’t stop wondering what it would be like to live in Neuvillette’s home with him, to wake up to the man every morning, to roll over in their bed and kiss—

No.

Absolutely not.

“I mean—I mean the Court.” Once more, Wriothesley fumbles for his words. He’s usually so good at maintaining his composure, but he cracks like thin ice in spring around Neuvillette. “Or just the overworld. This place… I’m not sure it’s for me anymore. You know?” Wriothesley rubs the back of his neck. “I left it all behind a long time ago.” But he’d come back to it for Neuvillette. Fuck, he’d drop everything if Neuvillette asked him to stay.

Not that Neuvillette is going to do that. They’re barely friends, and Wriothesley is fantasizing to waking up in a shared bed to lingering kisses and morning breath.

“You are not the boy you were when you left the overworld,” Neuvillette says, and his voice is so soft, so gentle. He holds a silver key in one hand, and he slots it into the door as he speaks. “You have changed, as has the overworld. It is something to consider. But for now, I shall bid you goodnight.” He opens the door to his townhome.

It’s dark. Unwelcoming.

If they lived together—but they don’t. They don’t live together, and Wriothesley wouldn’t be home before Neuvillette to turn on the lights and cook them a shared dinner.

“Good night, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley says, needing to say Neuvillette’s name, needing to remind Neuvillette that they are not so distant from each other.

Neuvillette’s expression is warm. “Good night, Wriothesley.” He slips inside his townhome and closes the door behind him.

Wriothesley remains until he hears the deadbolt tumble into place.

Wriothesley makes quick work of getting Sigewinne’s sticky paper and returning to the Fortress, dropping off the paper in the infirmary and then going straight to his apartments. It’s late. He’s tired.

But when he collapses into bed, his mind conjures the image of Neuvillette’s dark, empty townhome. Longing fills him. He wants to be the person to make Neuvillette’s home warm and welcoming—wants to be the person who welcomes Neuvillette home with a hot meal and hotter kisses.

Fuck, he’d even take soft kisses, gentle kisses, chaste kisses if those kisses meant sharing Neuvillette’s bed.

On his back, in nothing more than sleeping pants, Wriothesley settles one hand beneath his head and the other on his stomach.

He imagines an opulent room done up in golds and blues, a massive bed with layers of fluffy pillows, a soft comforter, and silky sheets. Imagines Neuvillette, naked, in those sheets, rolling to his side to reach for Wriothesley as he climbs into that bed.

Soft fingers on his cheeks, sinking into his hair. A softer mouth against his as he bends over Neuvillette’s body.

Desire curls low in his gut. His cock stirs.

Wriothesley exhales heavily, his eyes drifting shut and his hand gliding back and forth over his skin. More desire coils inside him, mounting with those faint caresses.

He imagines Neuvillette’s hands on him, the tips of his fingers stroking down Wriothesley’s chest, tracing lines of muscle lower, lower. A strangled sound catches in his throat as Neuvillette’s finger hooks in the soft hem of his sleeping pants, and his cock fills, half-hard and already aching.

How would Neuvillette look? He’s five hundred years old, surely he knows what he’s doing, but Wriothesley imagines him a little shy, a little uncertain. He hasn’t responded to Wriothesley’s attempts to flirt, after all; he has to be somewhat inexperienced. Maybe it’s been a while.

Wriothesley’s cock twitches at the thought, at the idea that he might reintroduce Neuvillette to pleasure.

Need smolders in him as he pictures that pale hand pushing into the hem of his pants. His own hand slips down until it pushes beneath his pants. He finds his cock mostly hard, palming it as he imagines Neuvillette’s hand sliding down the length in a long, slow caress.

Groaning, he arches into his touch.

Fuck, but he shouldn’t be fantasizing about Neuvillette. Coworkers, friends, whatever the fuck they are, Neuvillette has repeatedly ignored Wriothesley’s overtures. But he can’t help himself. Can’t help imagining Neuvillette scooting closer to him in the bed as his fingers curl around Wriothesley’s cock. Can’t help imagining Neuvillette’s free hand sinking into his hair, curving around the back of his neck, and drawing him close for a slow kiss, a lingering kiss, one that’s too chaste with his hand on Wriothesley’s dick.

Squeezing beneath the head of his cock, Wriothesley starts a slow, even rhythm to the thought of Neuvillette stroking him. He’d make soft little sounds of pleasure against Wriothesley’s lips, and Wriothesley pants, pulling his hand from behind his head to drape his arm across his eyes.

In his fantasy, Neuvillette urges him to his back on the bed, leaning over him, pressing against him. Neuvillette’s hand continues to move, pace lazy and indulgent.

Wriothesley arches into that touch with another groan, teeth biting into his lower lip.

“Let me hear you,” Neuvillette murmurs, and Wriothesley swears, pleasure singing through him. His hips arch and roll into Neuvillette’s touch—no calluses in sight; Neuvillette must have smooth, soft palms, hands protected by his gloves, a decadent counterpoint to Wriothesley’s own, rough hands.

His moans grow louder as his hand strokes faster, as he squeezes beneath the head of his cock, urging precum to dribble down the side of it. He drags his thumb through the liquid, using it to ease the slide of his palm, and imagines Neuvillette sighing with pleasure.

“Wet for me,” he says, his voice a low and wicked rumble. “Will you come for me? Or should I ride you?”

Wriothesley gasps, hips jerking hard into his fist.

Pleasure burns, a needy, insistent ache that steals his breath. Harder. Faster. He pulls down the length of his cock with deliberate intent as he imagines Neuvillette sitting astride him, cheeks pink and flushed, ass loose and slick with lube.

“Fuck,” he groans as Neuvillette sinks down the length of his cock, wet and hot and so very tight. “Fuck, Neuvillette. Just—just like that.” Wriothesley arches, driving his cock into his hand.

Precum spills down his length. Drips onto his belly.

Will Neuvillette moan at the penetration? Will he cry out? No, he’ll take shaky breaths as he sinks down the length of Wriothesley’s cock. Will keen softly as his hips move in slow, easy revolutions. And Wriothesley, his hands on Neuvillette’s hips, guides him slowly, arching deep into him, bottoming out so his cock nudges against Neuvillette’s prostate, and it’s good, it’s so good.

Wriothesley squeezes harder around his cock, desperately trying to mimic the tight clench of Neuvillette’s ass around him as he loses himself in the fantasy. Neuvillette’s hands braced on his chest. Neuvillette grinding against him, every rock nudging Wriothesley just a little deeper, Neuvillette’s own cock hard and dripping onto Wriothesley’s belly.

“That’s it,” Wriothesley breathes, as much for himself as for the fantasy. “Take what you want, sweetness. Take what you need.”

Neuvillette does, rocking harder against Wriothesley until his skin is flushed a dark and beautiful red, until he’s panting, until each thrust pushes a gasping moan from his lips. Tension lines Wriothesley’s body, drawing him tighter and tighter as he fucks into Neuvillette’s heat.

“Come for me.” He imagines stroking his hand down Neuvillette’s cock as he fucks into his lover, as they lose themselves in rapidly mounting pleasure. “Let me see you, baby. Let me—”

Neuvillette breaks with a quiet, aching moan, and that’s all Wriothesley needs, too. As cum splatters on his chest and belly, his orgasm sweeps over him like a wave. It drags him into bone-deep pleasure that leaves him trembling from the force of it, leaves him gasping and moaning. It takes him a minute to realize the rapidly cooling liquid on his chest is his own cum, and he drops his arm from his face with a groan.

Hollowed out in the best way, he lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

This really is becoming a problem.

Chapter Text

Neuvillette returns from the Opera Epiclese to find the Palais Mermonia in an uproar. The gestionnaires rush about in a fervor, shouting at each other and waving papers. Gardes hurry through the hall, in such a flurry of activity that several nearly run directly into Neuvillette. He sidesteps them only at the last possible second.

Deep concern etches his brow. The gardes are never so blasé as to run him down in the Palais.

He catches only snippets from the gestionnaires—shouts of “too close” and “ruined the meks” and “the expense is obscene.”

Slowly, he pieces together a picture of what might have happened. Something has attacked the Court. Something is close enough to threaten his people, his city, and no one has come to find him. Just as his fury begins to boil within his veins, one of the gestionnaires notices him, a man in a sergeant’s uniform.

He bounds over to Neuvillette, red-faced. “Monsieur Chief Justice!”

The hall quiets.

Neuvillette does not lift his gaze from the man standing before him. “Sergeant.”

“Have you heard the reports, sir?”

“No.”

The sergeant grimaces, casting a glance to the side as if to assess whether or not there is someone more senior nearby to deliver the news. When he realizes that he is, unfortunately, the most senior gestionnaire in the immediate area, he snaps into form. “A trio of breacher primuses were discovered lurking just outside the Court earlier this morning, sir. The Palais deployed contingent of gardes and meks to deal with them, but it… didn’t go well. The meks were all destroyed. None of the gardes died, but there were numerous injuries.”

“How bad?” Neuvillette asks.

“Broken bones and concussions. The gardes fled before it could get too bad, leaving the meks.” The sergeant shakes his head. “We’ve put in a commission with the Adventurer’s Guild, but it’s impossible to know when they’ll fill it. Until then… We’re securing the Court’s exits. We don’t want anyone leaving the Court on the ground level to the north.”

Alarm skitters down Neuvillette’s spine. “The breacher primuses are so close that they threaten travel?”

“Respectfully, Monsieur Chief Justice, those things are close enough that they threaten the Court itself.”

A commission with the Guild is not enough. If Lumine were still in Fontaine, perhaps she’d be able to deal with the trouble quickly and efficiently where the gardes could not, but she has left for Natlan.

“I will deal with this personally,” Neuvillette says.

The sergeant stares at him. “S-Sir, that’s—”

“You said the breachers are to the north?”

The sergeant, slack-jawed, nods.

“Thank you, sergeant. Please inform the salient parties that I have gone to deal with the issue.” Neuvillette turns away, striding back through the Palais before the sergeant—or anyone else—can say a thing to stop him.

This is not something that the Iudex should handle, but Neuvillette is protective of the new Fontaine, and three breacher primuses are no small threat. If they are close enough to threaten travel, they are too close, and they must be dealt with swiftly.

Personally.

Perhaps he is taking on too much. Perhaps it is too much to be Chief Justice and defender. Perhaps he should call in Clorinde and the other duelists, but a duel is not a fight with three breacher primuses. He does not doubt Clorinde’s skill, but he is certain of his own. Better for him to tackle this.

Pushing open the doors to the Palais, he descends to the terrace—and is surprised to see a familiar face emerge from the crowd of people.

Wriothesley jerks back, eyes widening when they land on Neuvillette. “Monsieur,” he says.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I do not have time,” Neuvillette says, brushing by Wriothesley.

But instead of being put off, Wriothesley falls into step beside him. “I heard about the breachers. You going to deal with that?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll come with you.”

Neuvillette almost says no. Almost tells Wriothesley to stay behind lest he get in the way. But Wriothesley is a capable combatant and was willing to put himself in danger to hold back the Primordial Sea. And their elements complement each other. Freezing one or two of the  breacher primuses while focusing on the other will buy them additional time. Will help keep them alive in what will surely be a pitched battle. Refusing Wriothesley would not be wise. Would only serve to make his mission more difficult.

There is, too, a part of Neuvillette that is tired of fighting alone. There is a part of him that craves the companionship of a fellow combatant, of someone who will fight alongside him—of someone he knows he can trust.

Wriothesley has proven himself trustworthy. And in Wriothesley’s case, Neuvillette has proven his impartiality. Certainly, there is a chance that Wriothesley may once again do something that calls him before Neuvillette’s court, but Neuvillette doubts that strongly. He would not have argued for Wriothesley to be made a duke if he believed that Wriothesley would sin again.

Not that Neuvillette has ever considered Wriothesley’s previous actions much of a sin. The law is not always synonymous with justice. He has learned that well over the past five hundred years, and particularly well in these past few months.

He has learned, too, that Wriothesley is trustworthy. If he is to have a companion—a friend—at his back, defending him, Wriothesley is an excellent choice.

“Very well,” Neuvillette says at last, though his assent perhaps comes a bit too late; they are already well on their way.

Curious whispers and wide-eyed, barely concealed stares follow them through the Court as they consume the ground in long-legged strides. Neuvillette once more catches only snippets of what is said. There is concern, of course, over the sight of the Duke of Meropide walking side by side with the Iudex—not over the breachers, no, but over a potential arrest. Excitement stirs among the crowd, and Neuvillette finds himself vaguely annoyed.

Even if they were to arrest someone, it should not be a spectacle. Truly, Fontaine has a long way to go when it comes to the sensationalizing of criminality and the enforcement of the law. 

“You know,” Wriothesley says casually as they approach the border of the Court, “I’ve never seen you fight.”

That is, perhaps, a good thing.

Neuvillette inclines his head. “You are a close-quarters brawler, yes?”

“Yeah.” Wriothesley raises his fists and mimes a quick one-two punch.

“Then I believe our styles of combat will be well-suited to each other. I prefer to maintain a certain distance from my enemies.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Wriothesley says with an almost studied casualness.

Neuvillette cants his head toward Wriothesley, one brow raised.

“Everyone heard how you took out the Eleventh Harbinger in a single hit,” Wriothesley continues. “That wasn’t exactly maintaining your distance.”

“That,” Neuvillette says, expression souring slightly, “was a unique situation. It demanded immediate and direct intercession. And I am surprised you heard tell of it.”

With a rough chuckle, Wriothesley pauses at the edge of the court, where paving stones gives way to grass. “Everyone was talking about it. How could they not? You put down a Harbinger.”

There is danger in this line of conversation. The Harbingers are all a little more than human, a little more immortal, a little special. Neuvillette does not want Wriothesley making any connections between their uniqueness and Neuvillette’s own. Does not want Wriothesley to suspect the truth of what he is. Especially when he can barely maintain control of his instincts in Wriothesley’s presence.

Even now, he wants to step into Wriothesley’s space, tuck his nose into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck, and breathe in. He wants to inhale that scent of bergamot and leather, wants to drown in it, wants to—

No.

There are much more important things to focus on at the moment. The safety of the Court takes precedence over Neuvillette’s suddenly overactive… instincts.

“When you have lived as long as I have, a Harbinger provides no particular challenge,” Neuvillette finally says, which is true enough and reveals little more of what he is.

“I suppose you have five hundred years of practice.” Wriothesley grins. “Am I going to get in your way with these breachers?”

“Hardly. As I said, our combat styles are complementary. And our ability to freeze at least one breacher while focusing on the others will be invaluable.”

Wriothesley gives a sharp nod. “That the plan? You go in first and soak them and then I follow up with a blast of Cryo to freeze them?”

“That would be ideal,” Neuvillette replies. “We take the one not frozen and then move onto the next. Focus your fire. I will…” He hesitates for just a moment. “I will follow your lead.”

Strange, he thinks, to let someone else take point, but Wriothesley will be better suited to it, able to see more clearly and make quicker decisions about their enemies from the front lines. It is better to defer to Wriothesley in this—and there is something relieving about that. He makes so many decisions every day. To leave decision-making to someone else…

A little terrifying, yes; he knows he can trust himself.

But he can also trust Wriothesley.

How odd, for he could never trust Furina.

Together, they move cautiously across the rolling plains beyond the Court. Neuvillette is a half-step behind Wriothesley, but he extends his senses outward, through the very moisture in the air, searching, searching—and there, at last, finding.

Catching Wriothesley’s shoulder, Neuvillette points to the left. “Beyond that hill,” he says, voice low though it surely won’t carry so far as the breachers.

Wriothesley utters a soft sound of surprise but doesn’t gainsay Neuvillette. Instead, he checks the wraps around his hands and gives Neuvillette a brisk nod before setting off toward the hill. Neuvillette follows, pacing behind him, all senses on alert.

Reading the moisture in the air is an effort, but he continues to monitor it and the shifting pressure around the breachers, ensuring they don’t move.

As he and Wriothesley crest the hill, they crouch low, taking in the scene before them.

The three breachers float on a patch of burnt grass, drifting idly with the breeze. Occasionally, they swirl their plaques around them. As Neuvillette and Wriothesley watch them, one forms a shield of Geo and the other two form shields of Dendro.

Neuvillette’s jaw flexes with annoyance.

“Not a fan?” Wriothesley asks, voice pitched low.

Neuvillette gives a brief shake of his head. “Have you ever fought one before?”

“No.” Wriothesley gives him a lopsided smile. “Hard to fight anything other than people and meks in the Fortress.”

Ah. “My apologies. That was tactless of me.”

Wriothesley waves him off. “What do I need to know?”

Quickly, Neuvillette explains the breachers’ attack patterns. “It is their stressed state that is most dangerous, when they shield themselves. The overgrown breacher will attack with Dendro missiles, and the shatterstone with a smashing Geo-based attack.”

“Fuck me,” Wriothesley mutters.

A jolt goes down Neuvillette’s spine. Saliva floods his mouth. Now, he reflects with no small amount of irritation, is not the time. And yet.

“Luckily, an Arkhe attack will shatter the shield. It is imperative to prioritize any breacher that shields,” Neuvillette continues.

Wriothesley nods. “Freeze two, focus fire on the one, but break away to deal with any of them that put up shields.”

His quick assessment is impressive, and Neuvillette nods. “Correct.”

With a confident grin, Wriothesley jerks his chin at the breachers. “After you, Monsieur.”

Neuvillette rises, taking two steps forward. Reaching out with one hand, he tests the flow of elemental energy through the air, plucking the strands of Hydro that resonate with him, with the very essence of who and what he is. Power reverberates through him, a rippling resonance that echoes in his very bones.

Sinking his fingers into the weave of power that suffuses the air, he grasps the moisture. Collects it in a sweeping arc. Sends it in a deluge over the breachers.

And Wriothesley surges forward. No sooner has the water soaked the breachers than Wriothesley is at the center of them, slamming a fist into the ground. A corona of ice spirals out from his fist, a whirlwind that coats the grass and freezes two of the breachers in place.

Wriothesley rounds on the remaining one—the shatterstone—and blasts projectiles of ice into its core.

There is a moment of stillness where Neuvillette does not move. Where he cannot move. Where he is so overcome by the sight of Wriothesley that he cannot even think.

He’d thought Wriothesley in the ring was attractive, thought the economy of motion was enticing. Wriothesley had controlled the entire fight, a necessary lesson for a fool, but against the breacher, Wriothesley is poetry in motion. He is sublime, as beautiful as he is terrifying. He is still efficient, certainly, but he moves with a killing intent that sharpens his motions and makes him yet more dangerous.

Each strike bleeds into the next, Wriothesley’s body moving with a dancer’s elegance and grace. He is nimble and fleet-footed, easily dodging strikes from the shatterstone as it lashes out—and the sight of one stony plate slicing across Wriothesley’s face is enough to break Neuvillette out of his trance.

He swirls Hydro around the creature, soaking it so that each of Wriothesley’s icy strikes can land a freezing blow. They keep it pinned down, carving away at it until the last plate collapses to the ground just as the breachers at Wriothesley’s back crack and thaw.

“Behind!” Neuvillette calls.

Wriothesley whirls, launching himself at the thawing overgrown breachers. He sidesteps as he goes, placing himself between Neuvillette and the monsters, and Neuvillette’s fool heart twists in his chest.

It is a tactical move, he assures himself as he draws spears of water from the very air and blasts them into the breachers. Certainly, Wriothesley doesn’t mean to protect Neuvillette by interposing himself between Neuvillette and the breachers.

But Neuvillette’s instincts clamor that Wriothesley is protecting him, that Wriothesley is defending him. They insist that Wriothesley is behaving as a good dragon would, protecting his mate, and Neuvillette grinds his teeth with frustration as he clenches his fist. Water bursts like a bomb from within one of the breachers, and Wriothesley turns that liquid spray into piercing shards of ice.

Wriothesley is not his mate. Wriothesley would not wish to be his mate, and Neuvillette needs to control these foolish instincts. They cannot continue to hold him in such a vicelike grip. Truly, avoiding Wriothesley these past few weeks has done him some good, but now his instincts are overwhelmingly insistent, demanding.

Mate, they clamor, and Neuvillette is hard-pressed to focus on the battle. Mate, they demand, and Neuvillette’s control slips. Mate, they demand as heat coils low in Neuvillette’s gut, emphatic, forceful.

A shudder runs through Neuvillette’s body, and his hand lowers. He falters.

And in that moment, both overgrown breachers shield. Their hard plates whirl around them, swirling so quickly that they resemble nothing so much as ropes. One of those swift-moving plates takes Wriothesley across the chest. Another slams into his belly. The first sends him flying backwards. The second spins him through the air, and Neuvillette hears Wriothesley’s breath explode out of him.

Time does not slow down. It does not stall. Wriothesley soars through the air and collides with a nearby tree with a sickening crack.

Neuvillette does not see red, as he has heard some describe their anger—a strange idiom, one he has never understood and does not even now. No, he does not see red, but his vision tunnels and sharpens.

Blood pounds in his ears, his pulse as violent as his fury.

Mate, mate, mate—hurt, hurt, hurt.

Instincts scream, demanding action, and Neuvillette cannot contain them.

Power surges through him. He becomes acutely aware of every particle of water in the air around him, around the breachers—inside the breachers. The liquid is trace, but it is there, and it is enough.

Neuvillette tears every drop of moisture from the breachers, splattering it across the grassy hill like so much translucent blood. With one hand, he collects water in his palm. With the other, he twists moisture into writhing vortexes of water, trapping the breachers. One punch from each vortex dismantles their shields, rendering them paralyzed.

They float, docile, above the ground, and Neuvillette slams his hand forward, blasting them with a torrent of water.

Each breacher breaks apart, crumbling into plates before dissolving into nothing. Neuvillette has turned his back on them before they even become dust.

Fear clogs his throat as he rushes toward Wriothesley.

The duke is barely conscious on the ground, eyes glassy and dazed. “Hey,” he croaks.

Alive. Wriothesley is alive. His—No. Wriothesley is alive, and that is enough.

The fear releases its chokehold on him but doesn’t fade entirely. No one slams into a tree at speed and walks away unscathed. Blood stains Wriothesley’s lips—a very bad sign. His fingers twitch—a much more positive sign. He lays mostly on his side, no limbs at awkward angles.

“Do not move,” Neuvillette says, placing one shaking hand on Wriothesley’s shoulder and the other on the curve of his hip. He sinks his awareness into Wriothesley’s body, into the flow of his blood, the currents carrying him.

“That—” Wriothesley groans. “That was—”

“I told you not to move.”

“Talking isn’t moving.”

Neuvillette fixes Wriothesley with a stern look. “Is your mouth opening and closing?” But the truth is that Neuvillette is relieved. If Wriothesley is talking, he can’t possibly be dying.

An abbreviated laugh catches in Wriothesley’s chest, turning into another long groan. “And people say you have no sense of humor.”

“Be silent, Wriothesley.” Neuvillette’s attention returns to the flow of blood through Wriothesley’s body, and he finds it pooling in all sorts of places where it should not: his lungs, his stomach, in pockets along his spine. Thankfully, remarkably, none of it pours from Wriothesley’s bones; those remain whole and unbroken.

He isn’t sure he can heal broken bones. But torn flesh and muscle, broken capillaries and torn arteries—these, he feels much more capable of mending.

Wriothesley coughs, wet and wracking.

Neuvillette’s hands press firmly against Wriothesley’s body. “Remain still. Even your mouth. I will—I will heal what I can.” He glances at Wriothesley’s face, waiting.

Only when Wriothesley nods does he act, sinking his consciousness into the ocean of Wriothesley’s body. He follows the currents of Wriothesley’s blood, repairing the ruptured rivers and streams of his body. He pours elemental energy into Wriothesley, an overabundance of it that strains the confines of Wriothesley’s skin.

Wriothesley grunts softly, and Neuvillette pulls his attention away from the healing just enough to glance at Wriothesley’s face, twisted with pain. His breathing is ragged and harsh. Sweat beads on his forehead. 

The healing should not hurt. It is, Neuvillette realizes, the amount of power he pours into Wriothesley’s body. Too much. It is far too much, and it strains what a human can sustain. Any more and he will scald Wriothesley from the inside, rending instead of repairing, but he does not know how to wield Hydro to heal with subtlety.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulls back the tidal wave of his own power, trying instead to wash his power over Wriothesley’s body like gentle waves against a sandy shore.

The grimace on Wriothesley’s face eases. His breathing evens.

Neuvillette does what he can with this trickle of power, this thin stream. He runs it through Wriothesley’s veins and arteries. Floods his capillaries as gently as possible. Carefully, he clears and repairs Wriothesley’s lungs, focusing his attentions there. The entirety of the damage is not undone. He heals a meager amount of it, just enough to stabilize Wriothesley’s condition. It is better than nothing, this battlefield triage, and he removes his hands from Wriothesley’s body.

Relief courses through Neuvillette, leaving him chilled and shaken. “Better?” he asks.

Wriothesley grunts, slowly pushing himself up. One hand goes to the small of his back, and he flinches. “That’s going to bruise.”

“Minimally,” Neuvillette assures him.

Wriothesley’s gaze flicks up to his. Narrows with consideration. “I’ve got a question for you.”

Neuvillette exhales. “I am no healer. I—”

“No, not about that. It’s—Is there a reason you brought me along?”

Neuvillette freezes. “I am unsure what you mean.”

“You obviously could’ve dealt with all this on your own, without me.” Wriothesley coughs, and the sound is no longer wet and wracking. “Why’d you bring me?”

“You held back the Primordial Sea,” Neuvillette says, glad he has a response that has nothing to do with his own desperate, clawing loneliness and the screaming of his basest instincts. Even now, he fights the desire to press his face into Wriothesley’s neck, breathe in his scent, and be reassured that he’s alive. Alive, alive, alive. His—Wriothesley is alive. “I knew you would be a capable companion.”

Choking on a laugh, Wriothesley makes a small gesture toward his body. “Companion, huh? That a step up from friends?”

Neuvillette looks away from Wriothesley’s face, staring instead at his hands, folded in his lap. A tremor runs through him, one he tries hard to suppress. There is something alluring about being so close to Wriothesley, even when Wriothesley is injured. Neuvillette blames those base instincts, instincts he does not want to contemplate. Especially in light of Wriothesley’s question.

Friends. In Neuvillette’s mind, there is no harm in letting Wriothesley assume they are friends. Plenty of people assume a closer relationship with Neuvillette than he actually allows, and he is comfortable with that. Is comfortable letting people assume an intimacy of relationship that does not exist—provided they don’t cross several carefully curated lines.

Friends. Wriothesley has crossed a few of those carefully curated lines. Neuvillette has touched him. Has allowed his touch in turn. Neuvillette has made purchases—one purchase, he corrects himself—specifically with Wriothesley in mind. Had another colleague been so harmed by a breacher primus, Neuvillette would not have been so enraged. Would not have lashed out with the full force of his power.

Friends. Neuvillette has granted Wriothesley concessions of familiarity, but he cannot place the blame solely at the foot of his instincts. It was not draconic instinct that drove him to clear out the trafficking ring Wriothesley’s foster parents belonged to. It was not draconic instinct that prompted Neuvillette to support the young Administrator when he usurped the previous one. It was not draconic instinct that supported Wriothesley’s ducal appointment. Some of those actions could be written off as political maneuvering, yes, but Neuvillette does try to be honest with himself. He took none of those actions to gain political power or buy Wriothesley’s favor.

Friends.

He does not want to be Wriothesley’s friend. Every cell in his body wants to crawl into Wriothesley’s, to take up residence inside him, to drown in the scent of him, to touch and be touched.

He should do everything in his power to promote distance between them.

Instead, he says, “You are competent and tolerable, Wriothesley. More than tolerable. And I value our working relationship deeply.”

“Our working relationship,” Wriothesley drawls, far too smart for a man as injured as he is.

“Our working relationship,” Neuvillette confirms, even though he doesn’t want that either.

Perhaps Wriothesley, of all people, would be an appropriate lover. Neuvillette has chosen previous lovers sparingly and carefully, doing his best to ensure there could be no conflict of interest. He picked the boring, the bland, the rigidly law-abiding, and he made sure theirs were meetings of the body but never the heart. The specter of the Oratrice always hung over his head like the executioner’s sword it was, a reminder that he must keep emotional distance to maintain impartiality.

But Wriothesley has been weighed and measured already. Their relationship already stretches beyond that of colleagues. They are friends, after a fashion. Could they perhaps be more?

If Neuvillette were to allow himself to take a lover again, could he not be excused for taking Wriothesley?

Once more, he reminds himself that just because Wriothesley acts like a dragon seeking a mate doesn’t mean that’s his intention.

And yet Neuvillette finds himself swaying close to Wriothesley. He cannot stop himself from reaching out, from placing his hand against the side of Wriothesley’s face. “Do you have a headache?” he asks, once more calling a thread of his power to hand.

Surprise widens Wriothesley’s eyes, but he doesn’t pull back. No, he, too, sways closer. His fingers curl loosely around Neuvillette’s wrist not to trap but to… hold? Neuvillette isn’t sure. “A bit. Why?”

Neuvillette gently extracts his hand from Wriothesley’s hold and pulls his knuckles across Wriothesley’s forehead in a soft caress. Though he is exhausted from the healing, he conjures more Hydro. It follows his touch, soothing but not enough to heal a potential concussion.

“Ah,” Wriothesley breathes.

Pulling back, Neuvillette lowers his hand to his lap once more. He is, he realizes, shaking. He smothers his shivering, tightening all his muscles to the point of pain, and hopes Wriothesley doesn’t notice. “Can you stand?” he asks, rising and extending his hand.

Wriothesley takes it, and Neuvillette grunts softly as he exerts his considerable strength to do most of the work levering Wriothesley to his feet.

Stumbling forward, Wriothesley collides with Neuvillette’s chest, and Neuvillette, without a moment’s hesitation, wraps a stabilizing arm around Wriothesley’s waist.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley mutters.

In the space of time between that quiet utterance and Wriothesley pulling back, Neuvillette breathes deep.

Bergamot. Leather. The tang of metal. The kiss of ice.

Wriothesley’s scent is addictive, and it takes all of Neuvillette’s strength not to lick his lips and bury his face in Wriothesley’s neck. Unfortunately, exercising that self-control leaves him even more exhausted.

That doesn’t stop him from slipping Wriothesley’s arm over his shoulders. “Come. I will see you back to the Court.”

Wriothesley sags against Neuvillette, his head hanging forward. Then he looks up, a faint smile on his face. His eyes meet Neuvillette’s. “You know, this wasn’t how I saw my afternoon going.”

“I imagine not.”

“But, hey, the sunset sure is beautiful.”

Neuvillette shifts his gaze from Wriothesley to the horizon where the sun has just begun to dip below the distant hills. It is nothing particularly remarkable. He glances back at Wriothesley, whose eyes remain fixed on him. “As you say,” he says. “Come. Lean on me.”

Over Wriothesley’s protests, Neuvillette does not take him to the aquabus line but rather through the Court to Neuvillette’s own townhome. By the time they make it to the Court proper, the evening rush is over and the sun has nearly set, casting them in long, deep shadows, which saves Wriothesley some dignity. He appreciates that since his legs remain too shaky to support him, and he clings to Neuvillette like a child.

At least Neuvillette smells nice. Clean, like a crisp mountain lake, with an underlying floral scent not unlike romaritime flowers. And he’s strong, too. Fuck, but he’s strong enough to support even Wriothesley’s considerable bulk, and Wriothesley knows he isn’t light. He’d kill to learn what Neuvillette looks like beneath those heavy robes, because he has to be covered in lithe, ropey muscle.

A delirious little laugh escapes him.

Neuvillette is carting his sorry ass through the streets of the Court, and all he can think about is what the Chief Justice looks like naked. Typical him.

But, honestly, thoughts of Neuvillette naked keep him from thinking about how much he hurts. Sure, he’s not hacking up blood anymore, but his lungs burn with each breath. Pain radiates through his back. His legs are like jelly, shaking with every step, even now, and his head throbs even though Neuvillette used Hydro to soothe it not thirty minutes ago. His vision blurs, the darkness becoming thick smudges of shadow that all blend together. Wriothesley doesn’t consider himself anxious, just watchful, but he can’t see anything, and his stomach twists itself into knots. Every shadow becomes something to fear when each is indistinguishable from the next.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The world spins. His vision clouds. Nausea twists in his belly. He takes shallow breaths through his mouth, and that helps, but then he can’t smell Neuvillette, and that’s somehow worse.

He’s not going to make it back to Meropide on the aquabus. He’s absolutely going to pass out on the aquabus. That’ll do wonders for his reputation both on the surface and below.

He groans.

“Not long now,” Neuvillette says.

Has his voice always been so hypnotic? It rises and falls like a song, burbles like a brook. It’s soothing and comforting and Wriothesley wants to listen to him read a godsdamn dictionary. That’d be nice. Yeah. Yeah, that would be fucking divine.

“I’m good,” Wriothesley says, his tongue thick in his mouth.

His head starts pounding in time to his steps. His scalp feels like it’s peeling off his skull. Weird. Unpleasant, too, but mostly weird.

“You can—you can lemme go,” Wriothesley slurs as they stumble up a flight of stairs.

Were there always stairs in the aquabus station?

“Not yet,” Neuvillette says, all low and smooth like—like—

Wriothesley’s brain fails him on the simile. He doesn’t need the simile. He needs to lay down for maybe five minutes. The cobblestone should be comfortable enough. Oh, but that rug would be even better.

Wait.

Rug?

Wriothesley blinks against the sudden bright light of a lamp, finding himself in the foyer of a dark townhome.

“This—This isn’t—” He tries to wet his tongue. “Aquabus?”

“Your condition isn’t stable enough for you to take the aquabus,” Neuvillette says. “This is my townhome.”

“Oh.” Wriothesley squints, reaching up to shade his eyes. “Can we turn off the sun?”

Neuvillette snorts. “That is beyond even my capabilities. Do you think you can manage the stairs?”

No.

“Yeah. Sure.” Wriothesley regards the stairs in question. They stretch up from the ground (as stairs do) toward the gaping maw of a second floor—or maybe that’s just an eternity of darkness, some endless black void occupying Neuvillette’s townhome. “Easy as you please.”

Neuvillette makes a soft sound that Wriothesley registers as disbelief. He chooses not to respond to that because he’s the bigger man. Literally.

How is Neuvillette just carting him around? He really must be something else beneath all those robes, and Wriothesley would be a liar if he said he wasn’t curious.

Putting his foot on the first step, he mentally strips Neuvillette. Removes the stole, the jacket to reveal the expanse of Neuvillette’s waistcoat. He imagines a fitted white shirt beneath the waistcoat, one he could peel off with his teeth. Yeah. Yeah, that would be—

Impossible, he thinks blearily as he gains the second step.

“Huh,” he says.

“What is it?” Neuvillette’s hands touch his shoulder and the small of his back, caging him.

He appreciates that. “There are a lot of stairs.” He puts his foot on the third step. The world spins.

“I assure you, it is a usual amount of stairs. Perhaps you are merely unused to them, spoiled by all the lifts in the Fortress of Meropide.”

Wriothesley barks out a laugh. It makes his head throb. “Two jokes in one afternoon? Are you really the Chief Justice?”

“Yes.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I cannot imagine much slips past you, Wriothesley.”

Pleasure sings down his spine and fizzes in his veins at the sound of his name on Neuvillette’s lips. Good. That’s so good.

Wait.

“Are you making fun of me?” Wriothesley’s foot hits the fourth step. “Why do you have so many stairs?”

“No. And, again, this is a standard amount of stairs.” Neuvillette’s hand presses gently into the small of Wriothesley’s back, and Wriothesley wonders what it would feel like just a little lower, curving over his ass.

A stupid smile curves his lips.

He’s injured. He can’t be held accountable for his actions. Maybe now is the perfect time to proposition Neuvillette directly.

No, no. He already knows he’ll be shot down.

Together, they climb up the rest of the stairs, though it’s slow going. Wriothesley’s head continues spinning, and he teeters on his feet. Once more, Neuvillette uses that impressive strength of his to keep Wriothesley steady. Once more, Wriothesley wonders just what the fuck Neuvillette is. Wonders if he turns down propositions because there’s something weird going on beneath his robes.

Wriothesley’s pretty sure they could overcome whatever weirdness Neuvillette might have going on. With a face like his, with his strength of character and iron will, with a sense of justice like his—

Groaning, Wriothesley pauses on the top step to scrub at his face.

His balance wavers, but Neuvillette keeps him steady. “Just down the hall,” Neuvillette says. “We’re almost there.”

“There?”

Neuvillette flips a switch on the landing, turning on another lamp, and the blinding light has Wriothesley flinching away and groaning.

“Worse than sunlight,” he mutters.

“I would not go so far as that. Come. One foot in front of the other.”

Wriothesley stumbles forward under Neuvillette’s steady, guiding hands. They make their way down the length of the hall, passing closed doors, until they reach the only open one at the hall’s far end.

Breathing heavily, Wriothesley grabs at the door frame. Weak. He’s so weak. Weakness is vulnerability, and he can’t—But he’s not at the Fortress. He’s with Neuvillette. Neuvillette who protected him. Who healed him. Neuvillette who has always supported him. Surely here he can afford a little bit of vulnerability.

His gorge rises. Not at the thought of being vulnerable with Neuvillette, no, that feels comfortable, but just generally.

“I might throw up,” he groans.

“That would be very bad for your healing body,” Neuvillette says. “And my rug.”

Wriothesley looks down. A very finely crafted Liyuan rug covers the bulk of the bedroom’s hardwood floor. “That’s a nice rug.”

“Thank you.” With a gentle pressure against the small of Wriothesley’s back, Neuvillette guides him deeper into the dimly lit bedroom, urging him toward a bench at the foot of a massive bed. “Sit.”

Wriothesley sits. Slumps forward. “Why’re we at your house?”

“Because you are concussed and still very injured,” Neuvillette replies, kneeling at Wriothesley’s feet.

Wriothesley wishes his head wasn’t pounding. Wishes he didn’t feel like he was about to vomit. Wishes this was a very different scenario. He’s in a guest room in Neuvillette’s townhouse. They could be doing so many other things. Like each other.

Instead, Neuvillette’s long fingers pluck the buckles on Wriothesley’s boots, easing them off.

Shit. Fuck, is Neuvillette—Are they actually—What—Wait—

Wriothesley’s head pounds, his thoughts piling up into a confusing tangle, and he sags backwards with a groan, half sliding down the foot of the bed. “I can get my own shoes.”

“Have you not pointed out that it is sometimes beneficial to allow another person to assist you?” Neuvillette asks.

“Why do you have to use so many words to ask a simple question?”

A soft sound like laughter falls from Neuvillette’s lips. “My apologies for trying you while you are unwell.”

Neuvillette sets Wriothesley’s shoes nearby and rises, reaching for his jacket. Wriothesley’s breath hitches as Neuvillette removes his jacket, folding it and laying it over the side of the bench. Doesn’t matter that Neuvillette is being methodical and distant, he’s still stripping Wriothesley’s clothes off, and Wriothesley is incredibly interested. Too interested. Fuck, is his dick really half-hard just from this cursory contact?

“Into the bed with you,” Neuvillette says.

Instead of sitting up and going around the side of the bed like he probably should, Wriothesley flops over and drags himself up the length of the bed. His head is still pounding. His stomach continues to spasm and twist, and his throat convulses, and he idly wonders if he wouldn’t feel better if he did throw up. But that sounds like effort, and he doesn’t particularly want to expend any more effort.

Collapsing into the pillows, Wriothesley closes his eyes and groans. Inhales. Groans again.

Romaritime flowers. Ink. Paper. Neuvillette’s scent surrounds him.

“Neuvillette.” He flops to his back and forces his eyes open. It takes way too long for him to focus on Neuvillette’s shadowed form as he approaches the side of the bed.

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette sits on the edge of the bed.

“This—This isn’t a guest room.”

Neuvillette makes an indistinct noise. “None of my guest rooms are equipped to handle guests.”

Neuvillette’s bed. He’s in Neuvillette’s bed, surrounded by Neuvillette’s scent, with Neuvillette sitting in arm’s reach. He could easily grab the other man and—and what? Pull him down for a kiss and then get sick? Pass out? There are still two Neuvillettes on the bed with him, and he feels like shit. Not exactly the time to make a pass at someone, especially someone who has ignored all his previous passes.

A faint blue light illuminates the room, and Wriothesley squints. Neuvillette’s eyes glow. So do the blue what’s-it’s on his head. That’s… neat.

Turning up his palm, Neuvillette conjures a small, glittering blue orb. “This,” he says, “should help me better direct the elemental energy to heal you. May I?”

Wriothesley squints more, glancing from the Hydro orb to Neuvillette’s face and back again. He’s not too exhausted to run a risk assessment on this situation—alone in Neuvillette’s house (which is great in a shitty sort of way), Neuvillette concerned about him (if only he was concerned about other, very specific parts of him), Neuvillette distinctly not a healer (probably the riskiest thing about all this), him too fucked up to get dragged back to Meropide (Sigewinne would be a better healer, but he doesn’t want Sigewinne the way he wants Neuvillette). He already let Neuvillette do some battlefield healing. And the guy’s got centuries of experience doing… stuff. Presumably, stuff like this.

“It’s not like you could make this any worse,” Wriothesley says, gesturing to himself. “Do your worst.”

“I shall do my best.” Neuvillette leans toward Wriothesley, turning his wrist and pressing the cool collection of Hydro power against Wriothesley’s temple.

It’s somehow wet and dry at the same time, chilly and damp but leaving nothing on Wriothesley’s skin. The sensation is unsettling, but the waves of Hydro energy emanating from it are—good. Really fucking good.

With a sigh, Wriothesley relaxes into the bed, his eyes drifting shut.

More power ripples through him, moving along his head in comforting strokes. The pain eases into a tension, and then that, too, evaporates. He’s not clearheaded by any measure, but at least the aching has gone.

Power slides into him at the temple, cool and gentle, refreshing. A tingle rushes down Wriothesley’s spine as he sinks deeper into the bed, exhaling. More tension eases out of him.

Two fingers trace along his jaw and down his neck, and it takes every bit of self-control he possesses not to moan. His eyes blink open, and he meets Neuvillette’s glowing gaze.

“I did not wish to alarm you by removing my touch,” Neuvillette says, answering Wriothesley’s unasked question.

“Ah,” Wriothesley croaks. He swallows hard, wetting his suddenly dry throat. “Appreciate that.”

Neuvillette’s fingers draw down the center of Wriothesley’s chest, but he doesn’t watch them. He keeps his eyes on Neuvillette’s, taking in that glow. Something about the glowing eyes is—not necessarily familiar but the glow eats at him, like it should mean something to him.

Regardless of that, Neuvillette’s glowing eyes are strikingly beautiful. The faint blue cast illuminates the planes of his face, rendering his delicate features ethereal, inhuman.

This is the stuff of fantasies. Him, laying in Neuvillette’s bed, surrounded by his scent, looking up into that gorgeous face. He’s wanted this for years. Just, you know, not like this. Not with him concussed and half broken, his body aching.

But the more Neuvillette sinks those droplets of water into him, pulsing with an easy power, the more his aches fade away. They leave a pleasant tingling in their wake, a warmth that spreads through him and settles in his bones despite their coolness.

Neuvillette’s hand on his chest is equally warm, even through the layers of their clothing. No, it’s so much more than warm. Neuvillette’s touch burns. Seeps into Wriothesley’s skin. With his every inhalation, he presses his chest against that touch and can almost imagine it drawing down the length of his body, can almost imagine those long fingers tracing lines of muscle and scar until they reach the hard length of his cock.

And, fuck, he really is hard. Every breath, every ripple of Neuvillette’s power beneath his skin gets him harder. Power washes through him, gentle waves against the shore of his body, until the pain abates, carried to a distant sea far from his flesh.

A little groan slips out of him.

Neuvillette’s fingers flex against his chest. “Am I hurting you?”

Fuck, no. But he can’t say it that way.

“It’s a weird feeling.” Which it is. “But it doesn’t hurt. Feels nice.” Really nice.

Neuvillette’s hand flattens against his chest once more, and the touch scalds.

They watch each other in the darkness, Neuvillette sitting on the edge of the bed, Wriothesley sprawled across it.

This, Wriothesley thinks, is the moment. He should wrap one hand around Neuvillette’s wrist and sink the other into his hair. Should pull Neuvillette down and across him. Kiss him. Except that he knows—he is sure he knows—that Neuvillette isn’t interested. Neuvillette definitely isn’t interested.

Except that Neuvillette’s eyes keep flicking away from Wriothesley’s. Sure, he’s most likely looking at his hand on Wriothesley’s chest, but Wriothesley hopes Neuvillette’s looking at his mouth. Fuck, if only he was looking at Wriothesley’s mouth.

Maybe several centuries have numbed Neuvillette to flirtation and overtures. Or, maybe, whatever he is doesn’t flirt like a human does. Maybe he hasn’t had a clue that Wriothesley is interested. Maybe they needed a moment like this, soft and cozy and intimate.

Maybe Wriothesley is losing his mind.

It’s the horny, he thinks. The horny and his own still dazed and disconnected thoughts.

He clears his throat. “I should go—”

“You will stay the night,” Neuvillette says.

All those dazed and disconnected thoughts immediately fill with fantasies of Neuvillette naked in the bed with him, their limbs tangled, their breath hot on each other’s skin as they move together.

“Really, I—”

“Your Grace.”

A stupid smile pulls across Wriothesley’s face. “Back to the titles, are we?”

“When merited.” Neuvillette lifts his hand. “Roll over.”

Heat surges through him. Any other time, he wouldn’t react positively to a command like that one. Sleep with your back to the wall and a blade in your hand; never roll over for anyone, never give anyone easy access to your vitals. But this is Neuvillette, and if Neuvillette were going to cause him harm, he’d’ve done it a long time ago.

Wriothesley rolls, smothering a groan as his hard cock presses into the softness of the mattress. Fuck, but the pressure is almost too much.

Neuvillette’s hand settles at the base of his neck. He tenses. Neuvillette goes still. Waits. Only once Wriothesley has relaxed does he pull his hand down the length of Wriothesley’s spine. It’s not a caress, not really, but it feels like one, and Wriothesley tenses to suppress a tremble of need.

Neuvillette pauses. “Is that a tender spot?”

Wriothesley’s whole body feels like a tender spot. “No. You’re good.”

Again, Neuvillette pulls his hand down Wriothesley’s spine. Cool tingling spreads across his back, leaving him somehow overheated and achingly hard. He forces himself to relax beneath Neuvillette’s hand, and then just goes limp and boneless.

“When you return to the Fortress, be sure to seek out Sigewinne for an exam.”

Wriothesley sighs, relaxing even more, trying to ignore the insistent throbbing coming from his cock. “Sure.”

“I am quite serious, Wriothesley. Her skill far outstrips mine, and you will need a thorough examination to ensure you are hale and whole.”

Wriothesley turns his head, peering at Neuvillette over his shoulder.

There’s a tightness to Neuvillette’s face, a pinched expression that might be concern. Wriothesley is content to imagine that it is concern, that Neuvillette actually cares about him.

Working relationship.

Fuck working relationships, but better to have that than nothing at all.

“I’ll check in with Sigewinne,” Wriothesley promises, yawning. Now that he doesn’t hurt, exhaustion weighs him down.

Neuvillette withdraws his hand. “Very good. How do you feel?”

Horny. “Good. Tired.” Disappointed Neuvillette’s hand isn’t on him anymore.

Neuvillette shifts off the edge of the bed, taking the heat of his body with him, and Wriothesley fights against the urge to roll into the spot he just occupied. He has some shame. Not very much, admittedly, but enough to keep himself from burrowing into the warm sheets where Neuvillette sat.

“Here.” Neuvillette removes several decorative pillows from the head of the bed, laying them on the floor, and then folds back the corner of the blankets. “Climb beneath the covers.”

Shit.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Wriothesley has indulged in so many fantasies featuring Neuvillette, but he rarely allows himself the fantasy of Neuvillette’s bed. And here he is, concussed and injured and pathetic, about to crawl beneath those covers and spend the night there. Except if he rolls over, Neuvillette’s going to see how hard he is.

Willing his erection down, he braces his hands beneath his shoulders and pushes himself up, arching his back. Hangs there for a minute, staring at the wall behind Neuvillette’s headboard. It’s a nice headboard. Plush. Soft. Upholstered with a light fabric. Looks like it’d be comfortable to sag against while someone—Neuvillette—sucked him off.

Yeah.

Not helping the erection.

He drops back down to the bed with a grunt, thinking of Sigewinne.

Cool leather brushes against his temple. “I will adjust the covers around you if your head is still troubling you.”

It’d be so easy to turn his face and press his lips against the palm of Neuvillette’s hand. He should do it. Should make a blatant overture, one that cements once and for all that Neuvillette is not interested.

But he can’t bring himself to do it.

And that withers his erection faster than even thoughts of Sigewinne.

Rolling to his back, Wriothesley slides beneath the covers. He’s still wearing his waistcoat and shirt and pants—too many clothes to sleep in, but he’s not about to strip himself down in Neuvillette’s bed. This is already intimate enough, and Neuvillette doesn’t want him. Is just being kind.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive the night.

No sooner has Wriothesley’s head sunk into Neuvillette’s pillow than he is asleep, his breathing slow and heavy. Neuvillette gently lays the blankets and comforter over Wriothesley’s limp form and steps back, ignoring the burning desire to strip off all his clothing and slide into the bed beside him.

Ah, but he is pleased, immensely so, to see Wriothesley safe in his bed. To see him restful, even if that rest is born from injury. Neuvillette has no doubt that Wriothesley would not sleep, injured or not, if he did not trust Neuvillette at least somewhat.

His—friend trusts him.

Yes. Friends. They can be friends. In the safety of Neuvillette’s own mind, friendship is permissible.

Turning away from the bed, he crosses the room to his closet, stripping off his stole and jacket. He removes his spats, his shoes, his waistcoat, his gloves, leaving only his shirt and slacks. Pulling the cravat pin free, he loosens the fabric around his throat before pulling it aside and laying it on a shelf in the closet. The pin, he takes to the jewelry box on his dresser. As he reaches for the box’s lid, a sound from the bed disturbs him. Leaving the pin on the counter, he returns to the bedside.

Wriothesley has curled onto his side, tucking himself into a tiny ball at the very edge of the bed. His brow is drawn, his expression tight. A soft sound of distress issues from his lips. Neuvillette’s form shifts against his will, claws curling from his fingertips and small fangs pressing into his lower lip. A snarl rises in his throat. The need to tear into whatever causes that awful sound from his—friend—it is too much.

But he cannot rend flesh; there is no one in the room but the two of them. Whatever distresses Wriothesley is in the mind.

Exhaling, Neuvillette gathers his control, his claws shifting back into blunt, human nails. He picks up the larger decorative pillows and carefully places them on the bed at Wriothesley’s back.

Without waking, Wriothesley shifts back until his spine presses into the wall of pillows. The tension in his face eases, his brow relaxing. One of his hands smooths over the bed as though looking for something, and Neuvillette trills softly, taking a step forward.

He catches himself just before he reaches out to take Wriothesley’s hand in his own.

Wriothesley is not his mate. Is not attempting to be his mate. But all of Neuvillette’s instincts say that his mate is in his bed, that his mate needs protection.

Dragging himself away from the bed, Neuvillette folds himself into the armchair in the corner of the room. Just to the side of one window, it stands in a shaft of moonlight, and the faint lamplight from the street below reaches past the panes to illuminate it and the circular table tucked against its arm. From that table, Neuvillette picks up a book.

He needs significantly less sleep than a human, and so he will stand guard, watching over his—friend.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley sags against the wall surrounding the Pankration Ring, panting. Sweat slicks his hot skin, and his chest heaves, his lungs a bellows as he sucks in heavy breaths. He hasn’t gone that long and that hard in ages, and he feels incredible. Sure, his legs are shaking and his arms feel like jelly, but he went three times as long as he usually does, calling in partner after sparring partner, leaving a wasteland of bodies in his wake.

His most recent opponent leans over the side of the ring and groans, choking.

Pushing off the wall, Wriothesley crosses the ring to the man’s side and claps him on the shoulder. “Get some water in you.”

The man groans again.

“Seriously. Drink something. You’ll feel better.”

He gives the man’s shoulder a comforting squeeze and crosses the ring to his own water and towel. It’s been a long time since he’s gone this hard in the ring. A decade, maybe? Oh, he’s still in shape, sure, but his knees are going and the wrong movement tweaks his back every fucking time. Today, though? Today, he feels like he did when he was fifteen. Invincible. On top of the world. Like he’s just kicked out the former Administrator for a second time.

Grabbing the water, he throws back a mouthful, soaking his parched throat. When he’s satiated his thirst, he trades water for towel, scrubbing the sweat off his face.

Weary muscle protests the movement, but even that feels good. This is the pleasant kind of exhaustion that comes with hard work.

As he drags the towel down his neck and across his chest, movement at the entrance to the ring catches his attention. Convicts move out of the way as—fuck—the Chief Justice enters.

They haven’t spoken in two days, not since Wriothesley woke up in his bed with a hard on, his nose buried in Neuvillette’s pillow, and the fantasy of his body curled around Neuvillette’s, breathing in the scent of his hair. He’d had his hand halfway to his pants before he remembered where the fuck he was. And then he’d quite literally thrown himself out the front door without his boots on. Directly into a sudden and inexplicable downpour. Trudging back to Meropide with soaking wet socks shoved into his boots had been… shitty.

But you do what you have to do to save your dignity, and Wriothesley had precious fucking little at that point. He’d had to salvage what he could.

“Your Grace,” Neuvillette says as he approaches, his gaze fixed on Wriothesley’s face.

Fuck, but no man has the right to be that fucking handsome, that fucking beautiful. But there’s Neuvillette, pretty as a painting with his silvery hair and steely eyes and weird blue head things. He really wants to touch those weird blue head things. Find out if they’re soft or squishy or something else altogether.

He really wants to touch Neuvillette.

“Hey,” he croaks. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Monsieur Chief Justice. Hello. Wasn’t expecting you today. We don’t have an appointment, do we?”

Shit, is he late for an appointment with Neuvillette? Has he blown precious minutes boxing with convicts to work off some of the bizarre energy he’s had for the past few days?

“We do not,” Neuvillette replies, approaching the edge of the ring closest to Wriothesley.

Wriothesley rubs the towel across his belly, looking down. “Ah, good, good. For a minute, I was worried I’d forgotten something important.”

Is it his imagination or do Neuvillette’s eyes drop briefly before lifting to meet his once more? Must be his imagination.

“No,” Neuvillette says. “I merely wanted to thank you for your assistance the other day.”

“Didn’t do much,” Wriothesley drawls.

Neuvillette ignores him. “And to inquire after your health.”

Well, that’s not a conversation he’s about to have surrounded by convicts who, while genial enough most days, are certainly far too interested in any weakness Wriothesley might show. Slinging the towel over his shoulder, Wriothesley grabs his water bottle and his shirt, hurrying down the stairs. He jerks his head toward the exit, and Neuvillette falls into step beside him.

It’s kind of absurd, really, that he’s walking next to the Chief Justice half naked.

“Let’s grab some tea and talk shop back at my office,” Wriothesley says, deliberately too loud, and Neuvillette flinches. He drops his voice. “Sorry.” He wonders how sensitive those ears are. Wonders if they’d be as sensitive to his mouth on them as—for fuck’s sake.

A small, wry smile curves Neuvillette’s lips. “You needn’t apologize. I am quite accustomed to loud noises.”

“You still flinched.”

“Hm.”

By some unspoken understanding, Neuvillette doesn’t bring up Wriothesley’s health until they reach his office—and the silence isn’t all that awkward. It’s nice just being around Neuvillette, just soaking up his presence. If this is all he’ll get for the rest of his life, well, he’ll be content with that. He’ll have to be.

Wriothesley shrugs back into his shirt as they reach his office, leaving the fabric hanging open and the towel draped around his neck. It’s not like Neuvillette’s interested, and Wriothesley doesn’t have much modesty left in him.

As Wriothesley goes about brewing a pot of tea for them both, Neuvillette settles on the couch, crossing his legs. “You are doing well, then?” he asks. “You saw Sigewinne?”

Wriothesley grins at him, settling on the chair opposite the couch, and places the teapot on the table to let the tea steep. “I saw Sigewinne.” He smooths his hand over the side of the pot, extracting the chill from it until it reaches the right temperature beneath his palm. “She cleared me. Said I’m in better health than she’s seen me in years, and she’s not wrong. Since you healed me, my back hasn’t bothered me once. My knees aren’t popping. It’s like I’m twenty again.”

Instead of being relieved, alarm flashes across Neuvillette’s face. He leans forward, extending one hand toward Wriothesley’s chest only to catch himself. “Forgive me. May I?” His hand moves an inch closer.

Grin melting into a frown, Wriothesley nods. “Sure.” Not that it’s a great idea to have Neuvillette’s hands on him. Well. It’s a great and terrible idea. “Is something wrong?”

Neuvillette shifts to the edge of the couch and reaches across the table. Wriothesley scoots the chair forward until his knees hit the table, and Neuvillette’s gloved hand presses against his chest.

Fuck. Fuck, but it’s different now that he’s entirely conscious and his head isn’t pounding and he’s not half delirious with pain. The weight of it, the warmth of it. The leather is soft and warm. Neuvillette’s touch is light, gentle, as he spreads his fingers wide over Wriothesley’s sternum. Those steely eyes glow faintly blue. So do the frond-like things on his head.

Wriothesley’s throat goes dry. His pulse hammers in his ears, and he hopes Neuvillette isn’t paying attention to the sudden increased rate of his heartbeat.

It’s easy to imagine that hand sliding down his naked chest and over his abdomen, to imagine those fingers hooking into his pants and—no. No, he’s not imagining that.

A glow of elemental energy emanates from Neuvillette’s palm, and something in Wriothesley surges like the surf in a storm. He gasps, grasping Neuvillette’s wrist in one hand and the arm of the chair with the other.

“What,” he asks hoarsely, “was that?”

“I apologize,” Neuvillette says immediately.

They really need to stop apologizing to each other. “For what?”

“It seems when I healed you, I… poured a bit too much of my energy into you.”

Slowly, Wriothesley recovers from that strange feeling. He unwinds his fingers from around Neuvillette’s wrist, releasing him, but he doesn’t pull back. Neuvillette’s hand still glows; whatever he’s doing, he’s not done yet, and Wriothesley knows better than to break a working of elemental power.

“Yeah? So, what, are you going to take that energy back?”

The glow dims. Goes out. Neuvillette’s fingers drag against Wriothesley’s chest as he withdraws his hand and curls his fingers into a loose fist. “No. It is too integrated with your own power. You will find…” He trails off.

“What?” Wriothesley prompts. “My own elemental energy’s going to be disrupted now, from all that Hydro you pumped into me?”

“Nothing like that,” Neuvillette says. He lowers his hands to rest in his lap, his expression… pinched? Perturbed? Definitely a little mortified. “The amount of undirected power has… rejuvenated you considerably. You will find that you have perhaps ten additional years of life.”

What.

“I must offer my most sincere apologies, Wriothesley. When I was healing you, I did not consider the impact of so much elemental power—”

Neuvillette has ten years of elemental power just hanging out, ready to be used at a moment’s notice?

“—on your person. It was not my intent—”

“Stop.” Wriothesley says, holding up a hand, needing a moment of quiet to process everything Neuvillette is saying. “Ten years?” He shoves a hand through his hair as he shoots to his feet and paces away from the couch and coffee table.

He’s known for a long time that Neuvillette isn’t human. That Neuvillette’s power transcends whatever humans borrow from the gods. He’s been alive for five hundred years and doesn’t need a Vision. Wriothesley is many things; stupid is not one of them. Whatever transpired between Neuvillette and Focalors made him even more powerful, elevated him to the level of an Archon, gave him enough elemental energy that he can return ten years to someone.

And Neuvillette used that power on him.

To heal him.

“You healed back ten years of my life?”

“Yes. Again, I—”

“You don’t need to apologize for that,” Wriothesley says, holding up a hand. “Just… maybe don’t do that again? Without asking first?”

Something flashes in Neuvillette’s eyes. “No. Of course not. I would—Had I realized, I would never have done such a thing without your permission.”

No, Neuvillette wouldn’t. Wriothesley drops his hand and stands there, a little at a loss. He wants to be mad at Neuvillette, but Neuvillette is as alarmed and surprised as he is. He supposes he should be grateful, too, but instead he’s just frustrated, and the roiling conflict of emotions only serves to increase that frustration.

He wants to go back in the ring and work himself to the bone, work off the rapidly accumulating energy and all his feelings.

“I will go,” Neuvillette says abruptly, rising, and Wriothesley is struck by just how perceptive the man is. “It was my intent to check in on your health. You are well. I will not overstay my welcome.”

If he were polite, he’d tell Neuvillette it’s fine, that he can stay, but Wriothesley really needs the space. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.” Just, you know, completely stymied.

“Do let me know if that changes,” Neuvillette says, and he strides past Wriothesley, taking the stairs at a brisk speed.

A moment later, the door to Wriothesley’s tower office opens. Closes.

Alone, he stares at an indiscriminate point on the floor.

“Ten fucking years,” he says to himself, setting both hands on his hips and exhaling heavily.

He’s not mad about it, he’s… He, well. He doesn’t know what he is. Still shocked, definitely. It’s been a while since he thought about his own mortality. The idea that Neuvillette just moved back his expiration date another decade is—weird.

There are plenty of people who seek immortality. Wriothesley hasn’t ever been one of them. Most people only get one life; he’s been lucky enough to get two for the price of one. To extend the one he’s got seems like cheating, like demanding more than he’s owed. And there are better people out there, people who deserve second chances who never get them, who deserve another ten years but instead get their lives cut ten years short.

He rakes both hands through his hair, pulling it back from his face and holding it for a long minute as his eyes lose focus on the sheet metal flooring.

It’s not like Neuvillette deliberately set out to give him more time. It’s not like this was some kind of trick or ploy. He should be grateful for a gift absolutely no one gets. Should be grateful he gets another ten years—ten years he can use to spend circling Neuvillette’s orbit.

Or to get a hobby.

Dropping his hands from his hair, he folds himself into the chair and regards his tea. It’s steeped too long, but he’s too numb and weird to make a fresh pot. He pours what he has, lifting the steaming mug to his lips and inhaling the floral scent.

Ten years.

Who has the power to give someone ten years? An Archon, sure, but Neuvillette hasn’t claimed that title. Refuses the title when people try to give it to him. Which, Wriothesley supposes, doesn’t mean anything in the long run.

Maybe he absorbed Focalors’ power. Maybe he is an Archon. He’s always been powerful.

Wriothesley sips his tea.

There are no male Melusines—supposedly. Maybe Neuvillette is just what a male Melusine looks like. In which case, it’s good that there’s only one of him; Wriothesley can’t imagine a host of creatures as beautiful as Neuvillette running around the Court. What a mess that would be, distracting everyone. Distracting him in particular. And Melusines live for centuries. They see things other people don’t. But Sigewinne has a Vision.

Not a Melusine.

Some kind of Hydro familiar, unfettered now that Furina has abdicated? One of those phantasms that haunts the waters’ edges? Or a super-evolved slime?

He chokes on a laugh.

Neuvillette? A slime?

No, not that, either.

More powerful than that. Something like the Hydro hypostasis? It, too, can distort its shape, but it always returns to a cube form. Now, he can’t stop imagining a silvery-blue cube in Neuvillette’s bedroom, holding vigil for him as he slept off his concussion.

The door below opens. Shuts.

Wriothesley rises and crosses the office to his desk. Is just sitting down when Sigewinne skips up the final step, a secretive smile pulling at the corner of her lips.

“Sigewinne,” he says cautiously.

“Monsieur Neuvillette just left.”

There’s a trap in that statement. Sigewinne suspects too much of his crush—and she hasn’t left him alone about spending the night in Neuvillette’s townhome. He, thankfully, was smart enough to make up a lie about a guest room, so at least she doesn’t know he was in Neuvillette’s bed.

“He was checking on me.” Wriothesley settles into his chair, reaching for a stack of reports from the gardes. The usual stuff, nothing exciting. He flips the cover page over and freezes. Sets the page down. Looks directly at Sigewinne and her oh-so-innocent expression. “You knew.”

Her eyes go owl wide. “Knew?”

“About the elemental energy he—” Wriothesley gestures vaguely. “—left behind.”

Her expression turns smug. “Oh. Yes. But I didn’t know you knew.”

He stares at her. “As my doctor, shouldn’t you have told me?”

“It’s not like it was killing you.”

He drags a hand down his face. “He told me.”

“Congratulations on your extended lifespan!” She grins, leaning forward with her hands on her hips. “That’s something a human would say, right?”

Dropping his hands into his lap, he goes back to staring at her. “Next time something like that happens, tell me.”

“Next time Monsieur Neuvillette stuffs you so full of elemental energy—” Is she leering at him? She’s leering at him. His face burns and he presses his hands to his temples. “—I’ll be the first to tell you exactly what side effects you’re facing.”

“If you’re just here to roast me, you can leave.”

She pouts. “But I enjoy roasting human so much!”

The trouble with Sigewinne is that she could, in fact, mean that literally, and that is starkly terrifying. “And the Chief Justice is worried about people bullying you,” Wriothesley grumbles.

Sigewinne’s grin returns, and she holds a finger to her lips. “It can be our secret.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Your favorite menace.”

“Get out.”

Neuvillette’s home has never been so empty now that Wriothesley has been in it. Drifting down the hallway on the second floor, his stole laying over one arm, Neuvillette is acutely aware of the quiet. Of all the voids within his home. Of his own loneliness.

Absence, humans are fond of saying, makes the heart grow fonder. And now that he has had, Wriothesley’s absence cleaves through him.

His ears strain for the sound of absent breath, for the beating of a human heart somewhere within his home. He inhales deeply, breathing in the faintest remnants of Wriothesley’s scent: bergamot, leather, and metal. In his bedroom doorway, he pauses, regarding his bed.

For the past two days, he has not come home from the Palais, afraid of his own longing. But he is not a coward, and though he needs less sleep than a human, he still needs it.

Pushing away from his doorway, he steps into his room.

Wriothesley’s scent lingers here, captured by the fabric of his sheets, his pillows. Every breath carries more of that sweet, mellow scent.

Saliva floods Neuvillette’s mouth. Desire curls in his gut, aching and insistent.

He sheds his clothes as he approaches his bed, stripping down to his shirt. He forces himself to sit on the edge of the bed and remove his spats, his shoes, his socks. Naked, his clothes abandoned on the floor, he rolls into the bed, burrowing beneath the covers as he presses his face against the pillows.

Breathing in deeply, he inhales Wriothesley’s scent. It tangles around him, heavy in the air, a weight against Neuvillette’s naked skin. He buries his face in the pillow, grasping at it, groaning softly.

Friends, he insists. They are friends.

But he wants more, and he can’t deny that, not anymore, not to himself.

He has denied himself connection for so long, for more than a century, and his last lover—no. He won’t think on his last lover. Just Wriothesley, only Wriothesley, who has accidentally made Neuvillette crave. Made Neuvillette ache.

Wriothesley, who does not know, cannot know, what Neuvillette is. Who courts him as a dragon would a potential mate, who slept, injured, in this very bed as Neuvillette held vigil for him. Wriothesley cannot possibly know that he has reduced Neuvillette to this aching, needy state, has convinced him he desires intimacy deeper than that between colleagues, deeper than friendship.

Friendship cannot satisfy him, but it must, because Wriothesley is not his mate.

mate mate mate

His instincts scream at him, but he has learned over the many years that they are not always correct. Has learned to smother them to make his life more manageable.

Groaning, Neuvillette rolls to his back.

His hand pulls down his face and over his neck. His fingers linger in the hollow at the base of his throat, playing over soft skin, and he remembers the cravat pin. The cravat pin he promised himself he would not wear, but he could not bring himself to set it aside. A gift from his—his friend. Instinct demanded he show off the cravat pin, to show that someone cares enough to consider him—to show Wriothesley that the gift was accepted. Instinct wouldn’t leave him alone, and so he’d taken to wearing that cravat pin in place of his other.

His hand slides over his chest.

Between his legs, his cock twitches, and Neuvillette exhales a long breath. And yet he does not feel shame as he strokes his hand lower, down his abdomen to curl around his cock. Perhaps he should—perhaps he should be disgusted by himself for desiring a coworker, a friend, but his instincts are too loud, his need too great.

Lightly, he strokes his fingers along the length of his cock, teasing velvety soft skin as he thinks about all the other gifts Wriothesley has given him, the meals that have sustained him these past few weeks. His cock grows harder, and his back arches. Another breath hisses from between his lips as he rubs his thumb beneath the head of his cock. He remembers the note, the heavy script cutting across the pale parchment, as bold as the man himself.

Wriothesley knows what he likes. Has paid attention to his interests.

His cock twitches against his fingers, growing harder.

Wriothesley has defended him.

His cock grows harder still.

Protected him.

He wraps his fingers around his length, recalling the duke without his shirt in the Pankration Ring, and a moan spills from his lips. A wall of strong muscle, broad and beautiful, built to defend and protect.

What would it be like to seek solace from Wriothesley’s body?

Neuvillette pulls his fingers down his cock, arching into the touch with a roll of his hips.

What would it be like to feel those rough hands on his skin? On his chest, his stomach, his cock?

He groans, turning his face to press it into his pillow. A mistake, for he breathes in more of Wriothesley’s lingering scent, and it goes straight to his cock, making the length twitch in his hand.

What would it be like to kiss Wriothesley? Would he be rough or gentle? Gentle at first, Neuvillette thinks; Wriothesley is well enough aware of the rules of propriety to pick and choose when he will obey them. Yes, gentle at first, his lips soft and inquiring. Invitations instead of demands, his tongue coaxing on Neuvillette’s lips. Only when Neuvillette parts his lips on a gasp would Wriothesley sink his tongue into Neuvillette’s mouth, and Neuvillette—he groans again, sliding his hand down the length of his cock in a long, slow caress.

Lingering kisses, gentle and easy, placed on Neuvillette’s jaw, his neck. Wriothesley intuits Neuvillette’s reservations in the way his body curves both toward and away from Wriothesley’s own; he is attentive and thoughtful. His kisses are soft, suckling things as his lips brush lower, as they find one of Neuvillette’s nipples.

With light fingers, Wriothesley replaces Neuvillette’s hand with his own. “Let me,” he murmurs, and Neuvillette sighs, his legs falling wide in blatant invitation.

Wriothesley’s hand is rough, rougher than Neuvillette’s own, covered in calluses, but the texture is a delight against Neuvillette’s sensitive cock. His breath shudders out of him as he rocks into his hand again, imagining that it is Wriothesley’s, that Wriothesley is leaning over him, braced on one arm. That Wriothesley’s mouth suckles on one of his nipples, worrying the little nub with his teeth as he strokes Neuvillette.

He is gentle but relentless, his pace even and steady. As a needy whine catches in Neuvillette’s throat, the sound more dragon than human, he doesn’t falter, doesn’t give in to that demand. He maintains that even pace, driving pleasure through Neuvillette with a masterful touch, making Neuvillette, a creature of liquid and Hydro, burn like he’s flame.

Arching his back, Neuvillette rocks harder into his own hand as he imagines Wriothesley’s mouth trailing lower still. Another reedy sound sticks in his throat as his imagination runs away from him, conjuring the fantasy of Wriothesley’s lips on his hips, his thighs.

He smooths his hand over the tip of his cock, collecting the precum beading there, and smears it down his length as he strokes himself.

Heat curls through him, burns in his veins. He gasps, throwing his head back as Wriothesley’s tongue flicks against the head of his cock—as he draws his own thumb over soft skin, through more precum. He moans when Wriothesley suckles on the tip, when Wriothesley sinks deeper down his length.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, his rational brain insists this is neither good nor right, but the animal part of Neuvillette, the part that wants and aches and burns, does not care.

Wriothesley’s lips pull Neuvillette deep, and he sinks into Wriothesley’s throat as Wriothesley’s nose brushes his stomach.

His hips stutter, momentarily losing their rhythm. He finds it again as Wriothesley sucks around him, as Wriothesley drags the flat of his tongue up Neuvillette’s length, laving his tip only to sink back down.

Wet, scalding heat.

A purr rumbles in Neuvillette’s chest as he drives his free hand into his hair, pushing it back from his face. His nose buries in his pillow. His hand works himself harder.

He inhales—bergamot, leather, metal.

Pleasure like a wave crashes over him. He gasps out Wriothesley’s name as his cock twitches in his hand. Heat burns through him even as he drowns, as his body shudders, as cum spills across his fingers and his belly. The force of it hollows him out, leaving him keening as he rolls to his belly and ruts mindlessly against the bed, desperate for just a little more friction, just a little more pleasure.

“Was that not enough?” his fantasy Wriothesley asks, bending over his back, lips against Neuvillette’s ear. “Do you need more?”

“Yes,” Neuvillette gasps as his orgasm continues, so deep in his gut that it hurts.

“Do you need me to breed you?”

The sound Neuvillette makes is broken and obscene. His fingers tear at the bedsheets as a second orgasm hits him hard, as it drowns him, steals his breath, consumes him. He shudders, keening Wriothesley’s name, and the burning does not abate. It grows worse, more intense, spreading through him like a curse, and Neuvillette hisses.

He flips to his back, pulling his hand away from his body, kicking off his sheets. Even the smooth glide of cotton is too much on his oversensitive skin, from his chest to his cock.

Heat burns through him, and he groans, pressing his hands to his face.

This is more than desire. He realizes it all at once. This is the burning of a heat. A heat that has come out of season, that has come unexpectedly. Perhaps he can blame Wriothesley’s courtship for its appearance—perhaps he will. No, he certainly will.

It’s not impossible to have an unseasonable heat. Such heats have come upon him before a handful of times. Thankfully, these false heats pass quickly. He takes solace in the fact that he will only be indisposed for a few days.

Neuvillette wakes the next morning to the ache of his cock, the burn of desire, and an unmistakable tightness in his belly. Dread courses through him as he stands at his bathroom vanity, hands braced on the edges of it, naked.

An egg.

His body has produced an egg.

Which means this is not a false heat at all. Wriothesley has triggered a genuine heat cycle out of season, causing his body to produce an egg. Neuvillette cannot help but feel like an adolescent, for this only happened when he was young and hormonal and could barely control the raging of his own instincts.

Against his better judgement, he washes up and dresses for the day. He should send a runner to the Palais, to Sedene, excusing himself for the week, but there is too much to be done, and he cannot spare the time. The first day of a heat is never so bad that he cannot focus. Even though he would much prefer to be at home, he can manage.

He departs his home for the Palais, winding carefully through the crowd. The idea of touching anyone but Wriothesley twists his stomach. He cannot remember the last time his heat had a focus, but it was long enough ago that he forgot how frustrating a focused heat can be. The smells that assail him on his walk—a mix of different soaps, of coffee and tea, of breakfast wafting from various cafes—nauseate him; they are not Wriothesley’s scent. Voices rise and fall around him, each more grating than the last; they are not Wriothesley’s voice.

Heat rolls through him in waves, and the pressure in his abdomen increases with each passing moment.

A mistake. Coming to the Palais was a mistake, but he cannot afford this first day at home. If he can only get through today’s work, if he can rearrange his schedule for the remainder of the week, he can bundle himself into a nest at home without guilt.

One of the gestionnaires at the entrance to the Palais holds the door for him, and Neuvillette is so wrapped up in his heat, in the ache that burns through him, that he doesn’t even acknowledge her. He strides briskly into the Palais, his vision focused on the door to his office.

Heat threatens to overwhelm him.

He just needs to get to his office.

Need burns through him, insistent, demanding, and he sweat collects in the divot of his spine, on his brow.

One foot in front of the other.

Too many people crowd around him, calling out greetings, asking for a moment of his time.

Just one more step. One. More. Step.

Neuvillette makes it to his office without speaking a word to anyone, his body shaking and tight with heat. Sweat beads on his forehead. A low ache pulses in his belly, and his cock is half-hard in his pants.

He shouldn’t have come to the Palais.

He’s barely seated himself at his desk when the door flies open and Sedene storms in. She shuts and locks the door behind her, and Neuvillette knows immediately what she wants.

“Sedene—”

“You should be at home, monsieur.”

Lips pressed into a thin line, he folds his hands over his desk. “I haven’t the slightest what you mean,” he replies. If he cannot head her off, he will put her off.

She narrows her eyes, crosses her arms, and strides directly up to his desk wearing a look that could flay skin from bone. She’s had centuries to perfect that look, and she turns it on him frequently. “You should not be here in such a state,” she says.

“I am fine.”

“You are not.” That look intensifies, her scowl deep. “Monsieur, you are—” She breaks off, pursing her lips.

“I am fine,” he repeats, reaching for his date book and opening it. “There is too much to get done for me to take a day off.”

Her eyes go owl wide. “You cannot mean to work through this.”

“I do not.” He runs his fingers lightly down the page, reviewing his meetings for the day. None of them are urgent. A few of the ones tomorrow are, but he can foist them off on other justices.

Her expression pinches with obvious concern, and Neuvillette relents.

“Sedene, be easy,” he says gently. “I will work today and then stay home the remainder of the week.”

“Even today is too much,” she insists. “How many years have we been together, monsieur?”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“I’ve seen you in this state enough to know that any work you do manage to accomplish today will need to be redone to meet your standards after this passes. You cannot afford to double your work. There’s too much of it already. Monsieur, please. Go home. Rest. Care for yourself.”

Perhaps the trouble is that he does not wish to care for himself. He wishes for Wriothesley to care for him. He does not want to return to an empty home and a nest made of memories and gifts; he wants Wriothesley. He wants what he cannot have.

But Sedene is correct. If he remains, all his work will need to be redone when he returns. He lacks the mental capacity to perform to his own exacting standards.

Exhaling, he reaches for his stationery. “Allow me to send my apologies to those I was supposed to meet with this week, and then I will return home,” he says.

Relief washes over Sedene’s face. “I’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed. But, monsieur, if you’re not finished by lunch time, I’ll drag you out of the Palais myself.”

His lips twitch in a faint smile. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

It’s just after lunch when Wriothesley climbs the steps to the door of the Palais Mermonia, determined to confront Neuvillette about what he is. He’s had plenty of time to think about it, and while he hasn’t come to any conclusions on his own, he has decided he has a small right to know what kind of person can heal back ten years of his life.

He greets the gestionnaires as he goes, pausing to chat with a few, all of whom seem surprised to see him, but it’s only when he reaches Neuvillette’s door and Sedene emerges from behind her own desk that he finds out why.

“Monsieur Neuvillette is not in today,” Sedene tells him.

Wriothesley cocks his head to one side. “He’s overseeing a trial, then?” Huh. He hadn’t seen anything on the dockets, but maybe he misread.

Sedene shakes her head. She steps closer to Wriothesley, lowering her voice. “He is ill, Your Grace, and went home early.”

Alarm skitters down his spine. Wriothesley can’t remember a single instance of Neuvillette coming down with something in the past fifteen-odd years he’s been serving as Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide. For him to leave work, he must be on death’s door.

“You’ll need to schedule an appointment for next week—”

But Wriothesley has already turned away from Sedene. His pace is hurried as he strides down the hallway, ignoring everything and everyone in favor of the door at the far end.

He doesn’t need to check on Neuvillette. Neuvillette is a grown adult—an immortal grown adult—but that doesn’t slow Wriothesley down. How many times has he wished someone, anyone, aside from Sigewinne, cared enough to come visit him when he’s under the weather? How many times has he wished someone would bring him soup or make him a pot of tea while he wallowed in his own misery?

A friend would check in.

So Wriothesley hurries through the Court, heading directly to Neuvillette’s house. Distantly, he thinks he shouldn’t arrive empty-handed, but he’s far too worried about the man’s health to stop somewhere along the way. He can pick something up later. That’ll be the friendly thing to do. Make sure Neuvillette is alright and then grab something for him to eat.

By the time he reaches Neuvillette’s door, he’s sweating despite the chill of early fall.

He raps on the door before realizing there’s a doorbell, and then he jams his thumb against it twice for good measure.

Long minutes pass. He’s just about to ring the bell again when the lock clicks and the door opens, revealing a man who only barely resembles the Chief Justice.

His silvery hair falls over his shoulder in a thick braid. He wears only a dressing gown—though it is of a deep azure, it is nothing like the robes he usually wears. Red stains his cheeks, a flush that creeps down his neck and beneath the folds of the dressing gown, and his eyes are wild and glassy.

If he wasn’t sick, he’d look half-ravaged, like he just came from a lover’s bed. But that flush in his cheeks must be from fever, and he looks dazed in a way that has nothing to do with pleasure.

“Sedene said you weren’t feeling well,” Wriothesley says. “I wanted to check in on you. Ask if there’s anything you need.”

Neuvillette blinks, as though stunned, as though confused, as though his head is too thick with congestion for him to form a cogent thought. Finally, though, he says, “I am well,” his voice low and raspy.

The sound coasts down Wriothesley spine and settles in his gut like liquid heat, and he’s more than a little disgusted with himself. Sure, that sounds like a bedroom voice, but it also sounds like the voice of a man whose throat is swollen and aching.

“Respectfully, you sound like shit,” Wriothesley says, and he takes a step forward.

To his shock, Neuvillette takes a step back, dropping his hand from the doorframe—tacit permission for Wriothesley to enter.

He does.

In the light of day, Neuvillette’s home is warmer, more welcoming. There are paintings on the walls (they make no sense to Wriothesley, all avant garde splashes and streaks of color), curio tables laden with curiosities, thick and plush rugs on the hardwood floor.

“I assure you,” Neuvillette says. “I am—”

“You look like shit, too, Neuvillette.”

That shuts Neuvillette right up, and he looks almost… offended?

“Upstairs. Come on. Bed.”

Neuvillette’s eyes widen ever so slightly. His lips part, his expression softening, and he sways toward Wriothesley, who catches him with gentle hands on his shoulders.

“Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay.” Wriothesley softens his tone, easing his arm around Neuvillette’s shoulders, and Neuvillette goes rigid. Heat pours off Neuvillette, and he trembles beneath Wriothesley’s touch. “Let’s get you back into bed, yeah?”

Neuvillette doesn’t fight as Wriothesley guides him up the steps and down the hall. His gait is slow, shuffling, and he shivers almost violently under Wriothesley’s hand, his fever intense.

When they reach the bedroom, Wriothesley almost misses a step. The bed is a mess of pillows and blankets, resembling nothing so much as a nest. As they approach the side of the bed, his eyes widen. The cravat pin he bought for Neuvillette glitters in the dip of one pillow. A piece of paper sticks up between two other pillows, suspiciously familiar handwriting on it.

Is that really his letter? Neuvillette kept it?

Shaking his head, Wriothesley helps Neuvillette climb onto the bed. As he settles, Wriothesley reaches for the cravat pin, curling his fingers around it.

Neuvillette snarls, the sound barely human, and Wriothesley goes still. “You… want this? In your bed?” he asks, releasing the pin and letting it drop back onto the pillow.

“Yes.”

Alright, then. Weird, but alright. He points to the letter. “That, too?”

“Yes.”

Far be it from him to disagree with a sick man. He pulls a blanket over Neuvillette’s shaking body and presses his hand to Neuvillette’s forehead.

Neuvillette flinches. Closes his eyes and grimaces.

His skin is blazing hot.

“You settle in. I’m going to grab you some water.”

Neuvillette blinks those glassy eyes open, and all the air punches out of Wriothesley’s chest. The Chief Justice of Fontaine looks vulnerable in his bed, and no one should ever see this man vulnerable. Not even him.

“I do not need water,” he rasps.

“Yeah, that’s bullshit.” Wriothesley withdraws his hand. “You’re burning with fever. You absolutely need some water.” He pulls away and is out of the room before Neuvillette can protest again, hurrying down the stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs, he slings off his jacket, leaving it draped over the railing’s bottom post. He pauses before tugging his Vision free of its clasp and tucking it into one pant pocket. Cryo Visions are particularly effective at combating fevers, regardless of whether or not the wielder is a healer. Might as well keep it close.

It’s been a while since he’s been in a Fontainian townhome, but they’re all built to the same basic floor plan: living space in the front, working space in the back. He strides down the hallway to the kitchen where he goes through all the cabinets until he finds the one containing the glasses.

Knowing Neuvillette, Wriothesley goes to the cryobox and pulls it open. Cool air wafts over him, and he stares.

Water fills the shelves. Glass bottle after glass bottle of water.

“What does the man eat?” Wriothesley asks himself. Now that he isn’t rushing through the cabinets in search of glasses, he realizes they were relatively empty, too. With a baffled shake of his head, he reaches for one of the bottles at random. Nothing is labeled, so he has no idea what he’s grabbing. Can only hope for the best. He takes the jug and the glass and climbs the stairs, returning to Neuvillette’s bedroom.

Neuvillette is where Wriothesley left him: curled in the bed, his fingers brushing the cravat pin as if it offers him some comfort. When he sees Wriothesley, he pushes himself up, and the dressing gown gapes open over his chest and slides down one pale shoulder.

Interest curls in Wriothesley’s gut, an interest he smothers. Yes, Neuvillette is the most attractive man to exist on Teyvat. He is also sick and uninterested. There’s no place for desire in this room.

“Water,” Wriothesley says, making his way to the nightstand. He pours water into the glass and passes it to Neuvillette, whose fingers tremble as he takes it.

Neuvillette steadily downs the water and then holds out the glass for more. Wriothesley tops him off two more times.

“You have any food in your house, or just the water?” Wriothesley asks.

For a bizarre moment, panic flickers across Neuvillette’s face, and Wriothesley has no idea why. But he’s also caught up in how strange it is to see Neuvillette emote so freely. He’s not completely closed off but rather guards his expressions carefully, so this is—it’s just strange.

“I often eat out,” Neuvillette says.

“Apparently,” Wriothesley replies, not entirely buying that. Maybe Neuvillette really is a creature of pure Hydro and nothing else. Maybe he subsists on water alone.

Taking the glass back from Neuvillette, he sets it on the nightstand.

He just stands there for what feels like a small eternity. He could offer to lower Neuvillette’s fever. He’s no healer, but he’s used his Cryo Vision to moderate his own body temperature before. Figures it can’t be too much different to offer that to someone else. But this is Neuvillette, and Wriothesley can’t bear the idea of causing him harm. He likes the idea of Neuvillette suffering with a fever even less, though.

“I can try to lower your fever,” he says before he can second guess himself. He eases onto the very edge of the bed, keenly aware of how Neuvillette tenses, of how Neuvillette’s breathing suddenly comes harder, faster. “It’s like the trick with the tea—if you remember.”

“I remember.”

“Yeah, good. It’s—it’s like that. Would… you like me to try?”

Neuvillette watches him, expression once more guarded. “This is not a fever,” he says, wary.

Wriothesley lifts a brow. “You’re literally burning up.”

With a shake of his head, Neuvillette looks away. “You should go.”

“Did you abandon me when I was concussed?”

“That was different.”

“I don’t see how.” Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair. “Neuvillette—”

“I will be fine.”

Spoken like a man who, in the moment, is definitely not fine. Who is afraid to be vulnerable, weak. Fuck, but Wriothesley knows how that feels. Knows how much it sucks to be miserable and alone. “Neuvillette, you protect Fontaine every day. You support an entire nation. For once, let someone help you.”

Let me help you.

Neuvillette’s gaze lifts slowly to Wriothesley’s. He sinks into his dressing gown. Exhales. Closes his eyes. “Very well. You may try.”

Relief washes through Wriothesley, and he fights to keep from sagging with the force of it. “Lay down for me?” He pitches the words as a question, wanting to give Neuvillette the choice to do as he pleases.

Neuvillette lays down, sinking into the nest of pillows as he adjusts the dressing gown to cover his shoulder. His steely eyes blink open and fix on Wriothesley as he settles on his back and folds his hands over his belly. “Will this do?”

Being the subject of Neuvillette’s unrelenting gaze is—a lot. Wriothesley’s heart pounds, his body warms. He wants to do so much more than just relieve Neuvillette’s fever. “That’s great.” Shifting deeper into the bed, he reaches for Neuvillette. “One hand on your forehead, the other on your chest. Do you mind?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “No.” But his jaw flexes and creases form around his eyes, and Wriothesley knows he’s tense.

The palm of one hand smooths over Neuvillette’s hot, sweaty forehead. The other nudges between the panels of his dressing gown, pressing against his sternum. Neuvillette’s sucks in a sharp breath. His heart races beneath Wriothesley’s hand.

Shit. He has to be really sick for his heart to hammer like that.

“Alright,” he says, beginning to draw on his Vision. Ice runs through his veins, chilling him. “You’ll feel my hands grow colder, yeah?”

Neuvillette, eyes fixed on Wriothesley’s, exhales with a shaking breath. A moment later, he says, “Yes.”

Wriothesley takes a breath. Focuses on how the air feels in his nose, how it fills his lungs. He expands his focus outward, to the chill of his own power coursing through his veins as it travels to his palms, his fingers and then beyond. Cryo energy eases from his hands into Neuvillette’s body in a slow trickle.

He has no idea how fevers work, doesn’t understand the biological mechanisms behind them at all, but he pulls that energy through Neuvillette, circulating it alongside the energy that hums in Neuvillette’s veins and arteries. As he works, he becomes acutely aware of how little power he has compared to Neuvillette. Hydro brushes against him, rising in response to a possible threat, and the sheer volume of elemental energy is enormous, terrifying.

What is Neuvillette?

With that much power, surely he’s become an Archon. What else could he be? A dragon? Now that’s a laughable idea.

He waits for the Hydro energy to settle, to accept him, and then goes about circulating his own Cryo energy through Neuvillette’s body. He takes his time, careful not to cause harm. His power doesn’t linger in any one place but rather continuously moves, sweeping from Neuvillette’s head to his chest to his belly and back again in a slow figure eight. Beneath Wriothesley’s hands, Neuvillette doesn’t exactly relax, but his skin cools and some of his trembling subsides.

“Alright?” Wriothesley asks.

Neuvillette swallows, his throat working. “Good,” he manages, his voice tight and strangled. He shifts on the bed, one leg drawing up beneath the sheet.

Wriothesley keeps his attention focused on the power he wields. Attentive to the force and flow of the elemental energy, he guides it on a few more loops through Neuvillette’s body and then withdraws it, pulling it back into himself before dispersing it. He presses his one hand firmly to Neuvillette’s forehead.

“Better,” he says. “You’re not as hot.” The hand resting on Neuvillette’s chest flexes.

A broken gasp stutters from Neuvillette’s lips, and his head falls to one side.

Wriothesley freezes. “Shit. Shit, did I hurt—”

“No.” The word is sharp, emphatic. Neuvillette’s gaze meets Wriothesley’s once more, and there’s something in those glassy eyes that makes Wriothesley’s heart hammer against his ribs. Something hot, something… something almost needy.

He’s making that up. Has to be imagining it.

“No,” Neuvillette says again. “You caused me no harm.”

Wriothesley exhales and lifts his hands. “Good. You feel a little better?”

Neuvillette’s cheeks aren’t as flushed, but his body still shakes and his eyes are still glazed. “I—do.”

He’s lying.

It’s a kind lie, but it’s still a lie.

“I’ve never known you to get sick,” Wriothesley says slowly, feeling the words out as he goes, testing.

Neuvillette doesn’t rise to the bait, but his gaze remains fixed on Wriothesley.

“Is this something we need to be concerned about?”

“No,” Neuvillette says. “No, it is—a personal matter.”

A frown works its way across Wriothesley’s lips. A personal matter. The fuck kind of personal matter leaves someone feverish and weak, glassy eyed and shaking? One that doesn’t plague humans, presumably. He wishes now he’d had some kind of formal education, that he knew more about Teyvat’s creatures. He’s spent some time perusing the books in the Fortress, reading up on Teyvat’s myths and legends, but he has yet to find one that aligns with whatever Neuvillette might be in a way that satisfies, that makes sense.

“You’re not contagious?” he asks, only half-joking. “Not going to spread a plague among the people of Fontaine?”

Neuvillette’s expression turns flat and decidedly unamused. “I am—No. This is not—” He breaks off, falling silent.

Wriothesley waits, giving him plenty of time to resume. But when he doesn’t, Wriothesley pushes. “Not what?”

“This is not an illness.”

“You want to tell me what it is, then?”

Neuvillette’s expression falters. Softens. Oh, he wants to, Wriothesley realizes. Wants to confide in someone. Wants to explain himself. “No,” he says, instead, and Wriothesley’s chest aches.

Well. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. “Aren’t we friends?” he asks, trying to sound like he’s joking instead of hurt.

Neuvillette’s brows contract. His lips part. He looks—broken. “It is… not a matter of friendship,” he says, voice strained.

Sure. It’s a matter of trust, and Neuvillette doesn’t trust him enough. “I get it.” And he does. He doesn’t trust anyone enough to give up his secrets, either. “But if that changes, you have someone in your corner.” He nods toward the door. “I’ll settle in on the couch, yeah? If you need anything, just shout for me.” He rises, drifting away from the bed.

Neuvillette’s hand shoots out. Grabs his wrist.

Wriothesley’s eyes widen at the strength in Neuvillette’s hold. For a sick man—or whatever Neuvillette is—that grip is formidable.

“Stay,” he says, still strained. There’s that wild look in his eyes again, and a flush creeps back over his pale skin. “Join me.” Wriothesley’s mouth goes dry. “I—Your presence is—”

Neuvillette, Wriothesley thinks, is the god of mixed signals. Whatever this is isn’t a matter of friendship, but he doesn’t want Wriothesley to go.

And Wriothesley, well.

He’s weak. He’s so fucking weak.

Chapter Text

“Let me have my hand so I can take off my boots, and I’ll stay,” Wriothesley says, certain this is a mistake but unable to deny Neuvillette.  

Neuvillette releases Wriothesley immediately, and Wriothesley, his skin burning where Neuvillette touched him, makes quick work of his boots. He nudges them to the side and yanks his tie off before clambering into the mess of blankets and pillows, careful not to disturb the letter or the cravat pin.

“These,” he says, indicating both, “would be safer on the nightstand.”

Neuvillette regards them before sweeping that glassy gaze to Wriothesley. Fuck, but those steely eyes look even glassier, even more dazed. A rosy flush covers his cheeks and creeps down his neck, plunging beneath the panels of his dressing gown. “Very well,” he says slowly.

Wriothesley moves the letter and the cravat pin to the nightstand and then eases himself against the headboard.

As he settles in, Neuvillette shifts away from him, maintaining an easy foot of distance between them.

Yeah. God of mixed signals.

Neuvillette goes so far as to roll to his opposite side, curling into a shaking ball, one hand covering his face.  

Embarrassment? Shame? Wriothesley isn’t sure, but he hates both options. Fuck, the sight of Neuvillette is breaking his heart.

“Hey,” he says gently. “This is your bed. You have the right to it. If you’re going to curl up and be miserable, I’ll go to the couch.”

“No,” Neuvillette says, voice muffled by his hand. He rolls back over, an imploring look on his face. “No, don’t—” He catches himself, but there’s a whole novel in his eyes. Wriothesley wishes he could read it fast enough. “Don’t go.”

“You’re shaking again,” Wriothesley says, refusing to push into that vulnerable spot. “Come here. I’ll keep you cool.”

Neuvillette’s brows draw tight. Agony flits across his face, but Wriothesley makes no comment. Just waits, patient, while Neuvillette fights with himself. He keeps his body loose and his expression neutral, leaning toward friendly, but he’s rife with his own tension. He can’t force Neuvillette to accept his help, but, fuck, he hopes he’ll take it.

And he’s relieved when Neuvillette shifts closer. He rests his head on the pillow near Wriothesley’s hip, and Wriothesley settles his hand on Neuvillette’s back. He’s burning hot once more, like Wriothesley’s earlier work did nothing for him. So Wriothesley draws on his Vision again and sends waves of icy elemental energy into Neuvillette’s body, doing what he can to cool the other man.

Neuvillette makes a soft sound against the fist he’s pressed to his mouth, but, slowly, his shaking ceases. He eases, relaxing against Wriothesley’s side. And if he shifts a little closer, resting his forehead against Wriothesley’s thigh, that’s none of Wriothesley’s business, is it? If that’s what Neuvillette needs, if he’s that hungry for touch, far be it from Wriothesley to deny him.

No, Wriothesley wants to give him everything he could possibly want, everything he could possibly need. Neuvillette has no idea how much Wriothesley wants to give and give, how much he wants to lay himself at Neuvillette’s feet. This is agony, yeah, but it’s so sweet. It’s a fantasy come true, caring for Neuvillette.

Absently, Wriothesley begins humming a lullaby, something Sigewinne sometimes sings to her patients when she wants them to relax or trust her. His hand drifts over Neuvillette’s back, and Neuvillette relaxes even more, sinking against Wriothesley’s hip, against his thigh, his leg.

Ever so slowly, Neuvillette’s hand curves over Wriothesley’s leg. Wriothesley doesn’t so much as glance down. The touch burns, but he refuses to tense, to give Neuvillette any reaction at all that might indicate he doesn’t welcome that hand on his thigh.

A dream. This is a dream.

To have Neuvillette surreptitiously shifting ever closer, to have him pressed against his leg, one hand curved over his thigh, is nothing short of a fantasy come to life.

Wriothesley continues to hum until Neuvillette’s trembling has stopped entirely, until he’s boneless and soft, his breathing even and gentle. Only then does he look down, and his heart aches.

Neuvillette’s forehead rests against Wriothesley’s hip. Long lashes feather lightly over his flushed cheeks. Those full lips are parted ever so slightly. He looks peaceful. Content.

Not an illness. Whatever this is, it’s not an illness.

Wriothesley thumbs his nose, leaning against the headboard and letting his eyes drift shut.

It’s something deeply personal—intrinsic, most likely, to whatever Neuvillette is. And that’s the question, isn’t it. What is Neuvillette?

Beautiful, powerful, possessed of an unfathomable elemental strength. The answer is there, wrapped up in his strength.

Wriothesley yawns. It’s not particularly late, but he’s expended a good amount of his own power to keep Neuvillette cool. Even now, Cryo drips from his fingers and into Neuvillette, spreading through the other man to stave off that burning heat, exhausting Wriothesley’s reserves.

A bone-deep weariness creeps over him, pulls him under, and he, too, gives himself over to sleep.

Wriothesley isn’t the type of man who wakes up slowly. He blinks his eyes open and is immediately alert and on guard—and this morning, that means being keenly aware of the body pressed against his side. Neuvillette. They fell asleep in Neuvillette’s bed. He slumped down the headboard and onto his back in the middle of the night, and, now, the body laying over his is Neuvillette’s.

And Wriothesley’s own body is very interested in how Neuvillette is draped over him. Neuvillette is pressed against Wriothesley’s side, his face tucked against Wriothesley’s throat. One leg is thrown over Wriothesley’s thigh, one hand rests on Wriothesley’s chest, and his every breath ghosts against Wriothesley’s neck like a fucking caress.

Smothering a groan, Wriothesley ducks his head and presses his nose into Neuvillette’s hair. Romaritime flowers, ink, and paper. Soft and soothing, warm and welcoming.

Early morning light spills across the room, not nearly hot enough to justify the thin layer of sweat coating Wriothesley’s body. That’s likely the result of being tangled up in Neuvillette, who continues putting off enough heat to rival a forge. Red still stains Neuvillette’s cheeks.

Whatever’s going on with him, it didn’t pass in the night.

Wriothesley shifts, determined to extricate himself from Neuvillette’s embrace without waking the other man and subjecting him to the embarrassment of Wriothesley’s hard on. Except that, as he moves, he realizes he’s not the only one who’s hard. And Neuvillette’s fingers curl in Wriothesley’s shirt as he presses closer, as a quiet moan spills from his lips.

Well, shit.

Reminding himself that this is just a function of biology and has nothing to do with actual desire (except in his case; in his case, it has everything to do with waking up to Neuvillette all but wrapped around him), Wriothesley begins to ease out from under Neuvillette.

Neuvillette stirs.

Wriothesley freezes.

And Neuvillette looks up at him, those steely eyes glassy and dazed just as they were last night.

Long fingers press against Wriothesley’s chest. As if he can’t help himself, Neuvillette arches against Wriothesley’s body, his eyes heavy-lidded and—and that glassiness has nothing to do with sickness and everything to do with hunger, Wriothesley realizes. Neuvillette wants him.

His throat goes dry, but he refuses to let lust override concern.

“You said this isn’t an illness,” Wriothesley says, voice low.

Neuvillette’s lips part. “It is not. It is—a function of what I am.”

What. Not who. Archon. He has to be the Archon, but that doesn’t explain Neuvillette’s immortality prior to Furina’s abdication, doesn’t explain how he had the power to put one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers on the ground without suffering injury.

“You want to tell me what that is?” Wriothesley asks gently. He’s still tired from using his Vision so much, but he pulls Cryo into the palm that remains against Neuvillette’s back and syphons it into Neuvillette’s burning hot body. “Want to tell me how I can help you?”

Neuvillette looks away, but his fingers curl tighter in Wriothesley’s shirt.

This isn’t getting them anywhere. Frustration curls in Wriothesley’s gut, but he tamps down on it, refusing to let it show. Neuvillette’s secrets are his to give and keep, but, fuck, knowing would help so much.

“I just spent the night in your bed.” Holding him, apparently. “I think I deserve something, Neuvillette. Please, let me in. Tell me how I can help you.”

A shudder pulls through Neuvillette’s body, leaving him tense in the wake of it. He lifts his face slowly to Wriothesley’s, and there’s faint calculation behind the dazed look in his eyes.

“I just want to help.” Wriothesley’s hand strokes down Neuvillette’s spine.

Wordlessly, Neuvillette braces himself against Wriothesley’s chest. Pushes himself up. He leans over Wriothesley’s face, his braid sliding over his shoulder to fall against the pillow beside Wriothesley’s head. A trembling hand touches Wriothesley’s jaw. Neuvillette’s thumb presses against his chin, and Wriothesley takes a shuddering breath, his whole body just as tight and tense as Neuvillette’s.

They stand on a precipice, on the edge of change. The air around them is staticky and heavy, charged.

And then Neuvillette lowers his face to Wriothesley’s.

Wriothesley’s heart stops beating. His chest hollows out as he inhales a shocked breath, as Neuvillette’s lips brush lightly against his own.

A dream. This is a dream. He must still be asleep, because there’s no way Neuvillette would kiss him. There’s no way Neuvillette’s body would settle half atop his, cock hard and nudging against the crook of Wriothesley’s hip. No way Neuvillette would—

But Wriothesley wants. Burns with the force of his own desire. If this is a dream, he’s going to take advantage of it.

He slides one hand around the back of Neuvillette’s neck, fingers sinking into the hair at his nape, cradling Neuvillette’s head. He urges Neuvillette closer, and Neuvillette shifts against him, settling between his legs, a soft groan spilling from his lips as their mouths part only to meet again in another kiss, a hungrier one.

Wriothesley lets Neuvillette set the tempo and cadence of their kisses, lets Neuvillette dictate precisely what he wants—partially because Wriothesley’s brain continues to scream that this can’t possibly be happening. Neuvillette is—well, he’s not sick, but he’s something, and though Wriothesley can’t imagine that kissing is going to fix whatever plagues Neuvillette, he’s not going to question what’s happening. Not when he’s ached for this, dreamed of this, for so long.

And Neuvillette feels so good in his arms. He continues to stroke his hand down Neuvillette’s back, letting himself actually feel the strength in Neuvillette’s body, all lithe and corded muscle beneath the thin, silk robe. A little groan escapes him, and he fights to keep from arching his hips against Neuvillette, to keep from rocking his cock against the other man’s stomach.

Soft. Neuvillette’s lips are so soft and warm, a wicked contradiction to the hardness of his body, and Wriothesley can’t stop himself from nipping lightly at them.

Neuvillette makes a feral sound at the back of his throat, surging against Wriothesley’s mouth as his kisses turn hungry and demanding.

Fuck, alright. Neuvillette likes it a little rough, then. Wriothesley can do a little rough. Can do whatever Neuvillette wants. Will do whatever Neuvillette wants. Archons, but he’s been gone for this man for years, pining quietly from a distance, and there’s no way he’s going to fuck up this perfect dream of a moment.

Their lips part. Their tongues touch.

Heat surges through Wriothesley’s body; Neuvillette arches against him, dragging the hard line of his cock into the crook of Wriothesley’s hip.

How easy it would be to lose control with Neuvillette, to drown in him and the desire his touch conjures.

With a groan, he pulls his mouth free. To his surprise, Neuvillette immediately turns his lips to Wriothesley’s jaw, his throat. Sharp teeth rake down his neck, and Wriothesley gasps. This time, he arches into Neuvillette, bracing his feet on the bed and rolling his hips in silent entreaty. His mind threatens to shut down, but he drags himself back to some semblance of coherency.

“How much?” he asks as Neuvillette’s tongue laves over his skin. “How much do you—” Want? Need? This seems like so much more than wanting, and Wriothesley is more than willing to be slave to Neuvillette’s desires. “What can I give you?”

Neuvillette rocks into Wriothesley’s body, burning hot, a furnace of heat. “Everything,” he murmurs against Wriothesley’s throat.

Pleasure surges through him. Makes his cock twitch. He aches, he burns, he wants to roll Neuvillette under him and fuck into his body until he’s panting and moaning and keening Wriothesley’s name. And Neuvillette wants that, too—or something like it.

Definitely a dream, one he’s not going to pass on.

Neuvillette pulls away. He straddles Wriothesley’s hips, the dressing gown falling around his shoulders and spread open over his thighs. Hands braced on Wriothesley’s chest, he grinds their cocks together through Wriothesley’s pants, his expression a little hazy, a little delirious, and a lot hungry.

“I want everything, Wriothesley.” 

Mouth dry, Wriothesley drops his hands to Neuvillette’s thighs, rubbing his thumbs into firm muscle. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I can—I can give you that.”

Neuvillette’s fingers pull at the buttons of Wriothesley’s vest, his shirt, his belt. They make quick work of his clothes, and when Wriothesley is mostly naked except for his pants, Neuvillette bends to drop suckling kisses across his skin.

Groaning, Wriothesley sinks his fingers into Neuvillette’s hair. He doesn’t push Neuvillette, doesn’t guide his head, just holds lightly to him as he moves, as his tongue charts a course across Wriothesley’s body. Hot, wet heat scalds him, every stroke of Neuvillette’s tongue going straight to his aching cock. When Neuvillette’s mouth closes over one nipple, Wriothesley gasps. His hips rock upward, driving himself against the curve of Neuvillette’s ass, and Neuvillette purrs with pleasure, the sound distinctly inhuman.

Wriothesley, half-drunk on pleasure, doesn’t have the wherewithal to think about that sound, to file it away with all the other notes he has about what separates Neuvillette from human beings. And then Neuvillette bites him, and Wriothesley barely has the mental capacity to keep breathing.

Pleasure burns through him, sears him. His cock twitches in his pants, and he digs his heels into the soft sheets to arch harder into Neuvillette’s body.

“Good,” he gasps. “That’s—that’s so good.”

Neuvillette rakes his teeth over Wriothesley’s nipple again, thumbing the other. He grinds against Wriothesley’s cock, hungry little sounds spilling from his chest, and Wriothesley knows he’s lost.

He’s been lost, yeah, but this just cements the situation. No one else will ever do for him. No other lover will ever satisfy now that he’s felt Neuvillette’s mouth on his skin.

With a soft grunt, Wriothesley tugs Neuvillette’s mouth back to his, capturing it in a hungry, demanding kiss. His tongue sinks into Neuvillette’s mouth, tasting, devouring, and Neuvillette moans for him, trembles for him, arches his body into Wriothesley’s own.

Neuvillette’s hands sweep down Wriothesley’s sides, pushing between their bodies to pull apart his belt, his pants. Wriothesley kicks off his remaining clothes as Neuvillette turns one hand on his dressing gown, yanking at the tie that holds it together.

Breaking away from their kiss, Wriothesley watches Neuvillette sit up once more. Watches him duck his head as though suddenly shy as he shrugs out of azure silk.

Miles of pale skin, unblemished, stretched taut over delicately defined muscle. A flush that creeps from cheek to neck to chest. And his cock, full and hard and arching over Wriothesley’s stomach, precum smeared across the tip.

Saliva floods Wriothesley’s mouth. His cock twitches against the curve of Neuvillette’s ass, and all he wants is to roll Neuvillette to his back and suck that perfect cock into his mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes.

Neuvillette’s eyes widen, jumping to his.

His hands sweep up Neuvillette’s thighs, his sides. “Look at you.” Too much. He’s giving away too much with his reverent caresses and worshipful tone, but he can’t help himself.

Wriothesley levers himself up, nuzzling into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck to press suckling kisses against his skin, to bring their bodies flush, to feel the unbearable warmth of him. “What’s your preference?” he asks, one hand sliding over Neuvillette’s ass and tugging him closer.

With a low groan, Neuvillette rocks against him, rubbing the line of his cock against Wriothesley’s stomach. “You inside me,” he says, his voice breathy as his head rolls to one side and a whimper catches in his throat.

Fuck. Fuck.

To be buried inside Neuvillette, to be swallowed by the already unbearable heat of him? Wriothesley shudders, mouthing along Neuvillette’s throat as he slides his fingers between Neuvillette’s legs, brushing them lightly over that puckered hole. “Lube?”

Neuvillette’s hips jerk, the gesture sharp, involuntary, before he presses back against Wriothesley’s fingers. “I—” Neuvillette’s own fingers dig into Wriothesley’s shoulders, nails biting into flesh. “Hydro will suffice.”

Something viscous and thick coats Wriothesley’s fingers, and he huffs out a quiet laugh. Now that? That’s a clever use of Hydro.

Wriothesley circles one slick finger against Neuvillette’s ass, mouthing at his throat. “How long has it been for you?” he asks, stretching to catch Neuvillette’s earlobe between his teeth. He tugs gently, and a broken, needy moan stutters from Neuvillette’s lips. His hips roll back, and the tip of Wriothesley’s finger sinks into him.

The heat of Neuvillette’s body is indescribably good. Wriothesley groans, slowly pushing his finger deeper, his other hand clutching Neuvillette’s hip.

Above him, Neuvillette drops his forehead to Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Quite a while,” he says. “But I need—” He breaks off with a frustrated little sound, and Wriothesley eases his finger deeper into that enticing heat.

“Tell me what you need,” Wriothesley says. Practically begs. “Tell me everything.”

Neuvillette’s face turns, pressing into the crook of Wriothesley’s shoulder. “More. I need—more. I—” He makes a strangled little sound as Wriothesley sinks his finger to the base and crooks it inside him. “Like that,” he breathes.

So Wriothesley curls his finger again, rubbing against velvety muscle.

With a soft cry, Neuvillette clings harder to Wriothesley’s shoulders. His hips arch and roll, and he begins a slow, steady rhythm that has him pushing deep onto Wriothesley’s finger.

“More,” he groans.

Wriothesley obliges him, pressing a second slick finger against his tight hole.

When Neuvillette sinks down against it, he moans. When it pushes into him, he keens. And Wriothesley, desperate to hear that sound again, moves his free hand between their bodies. His fingertips ghost down Neuvillette’s chest, through the thin trail of hair running down his abdomen, and wrap around Neuvillette’s cock.

“Let me hear you again, sweetness,” he murmurs, the pet name from so many nights spent fantasizing about Neuvillette coming unprompted.

But Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind. No, he moans again, louder, and rocks back onto Wriothesley’s fingers. “More.” Fuck, but he sounds broken and desperate and so very needy, as if he’ll come apart if he doesn’t get what he wants. And there’s enough tension in his body that Wriothesley thinks that might happen, that Neuvillette might snap and break.

Wriothesley drags his fist down Neuvillette’s cock in time to the rolling of his hips, matching his rhythm. He curls his fingers to drag them over Neuvillette’s prostate with every undulation, once more letting Neuvillette set the pace, letting Neuvillette take what he wants, what he needs. Letting Neuvillette fuck himself on those two fingers and into his fist.

“Take what you need,” he says, squeezing his fist just a little tighter beneath the head of Neuvillette’s cock.

The sound Neuvillette makes is obscene, is so hot that Wriothesley bites the inside of his cheek to keep from coming. His own cock, neglected and aching, drips precum down its length and onto his hips, but he pays himself no mind. All his attention is focused on the man in his lap, riding his fingers as he pulls them wide, fucking himself into Wriothesley’s fist.

“That’s it, sweetness.” Another aching moan from Neuvillette. “Move for me. That’s so good.” Wriothesley presses a third finger into Neuvillette’s body, groaning at how Neuvillette stretches to accommodate him, at how Neuvillette whimpers and keens and continues to rock into his touch like he’s addicted to it, like he craves it. “Is this enough?”

Neuvillette’s teeth close on a tendon in Wriothesley’s throat. “No. I—I need—Inside me, Wriothesley. I need you inside me.”

Fuck.

Overwhelming pleasure surges through Wriothesley’s body. He gasps for air, fighting the force of his own need, the desire to yank Neuvillette onto his cock and fuck him to tears.

All of this is a fantasy come to life; the sounds Neuvillette makes, the way he clings, the words he says. Too much, it’s almost too much, but it’s not enough, either. Wriothesley aches, he craves, he pulls his fingers from Neuvillette’s ass to the sound of a reedy whine and strokes his own cock once, twice.

“Can I get a little more Hydro, sweetness?”

More liquid drips down his fingers, and Wriothesley wraps his hand around his cock once more, slicking himself down.

“Wriothesley.”

A strange edge colors Neuvillette’s voice. Even drunk on pleasure, the neediness concerns him, as if Neuvillette doesn’t just want this but might break without it.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, releasing Neuvillette’s cock to press gently on his hip. “I’ve got everything you need.” His cock presses against Neuvillette’s hole, loose and grasping.

Neuvillette leans back, catching Wriothesley’s jaw in both hands. Tipping Wriothesley’s face up, he bends his lips to Wriothesley’s. “I am yours,” he breathes, and then his mouth is on Wriothesley’s, the kiss deep and needy as he sinks onto Wriothesley’s cock.

I am yours. It can’t be true, but Wriothesley wants it to be, craves it, needs it more than he needs to breathe, but then he’s caught up in the feel of Neuvillette’s body wrapped around his own and he doesn’t have the mental capacity to think and feel at the same time.

Tight. Hot. Impossibly hot. Neuvillette sears him as he slides down Wriothesley’s length with aching moans and hungry gasps. His kisses are devouring, his tongue sliding deep into Wriothesley’s mouth. The drugging, redolent scent of sex and romaritime flowers fills Wriothesley’s nose, and he groans as Neuvillette’s ass settles against his thighs.

He burns, too, his cock twitching inside Neuvillette’s decadent warmth, the press of their bodies trapping Neuvillette’s cock between them. Beneath Neuvillette, he doesn’t have much leverage to move, so he drops his hands to Neuvillette’s hips and urges him into slow, grinding revolutions.

Neuvillette breaks away from Wriothesley’s mouth to throw back his head and moan.

Faint light glows beneath his closed eyelids. The blue whatevers on his head shimmer, just like they did when he healed Wriothesley, and Wriothesley can’t help himself. He lifts one hand to ever so gently stroke along one of those… strands? Things? Soft. A little spongy, giving. Warm.

Neuvillette shudders and cries out, his ass clenching around Wriothesley’s cock.

“Good?” Wriothesley asks.

“Again,” Neuvillette whispers, and Wriothesley obeys, stroking him as Neuvillette grinds himself against Wriothesley’s body, as they move slowly, lethargically, like they have nowhere else to be.

Fuck, but it’s good, it’s so good. None of his fantasies compare to the reality of Neuvillette moving against him, every roll of his hips rubbing the slick tip of his cock across Wriothesley’s stomach.

Wriothesley loses himself in the heat of Neuvillette’s body, in the rapture that spreads across Neuvillette’s face, and knows he’ll do anything Neuvillette asks of him.

Distantly, he wonders when he gave his heart away, when he let it leave his chest for Neuvillette’s.

But then Neuvillette pushes on his shoulders, urging him down, and Wriothesley can’t think about anything except Neuvillette’s hands braced on his chest and the embrace of the pillows and sheets around them. Can’t think, can only feel as Neuvillette rocks onto his cock, as he fucks himself harder, faster.

Digging his feet into the bed, Wriothesley arches to meet him, angling his hips to hit Neuvillette’s prostate with each thrust—and he’s rewarded with fractured moans and broken gasps of pleasure. Neuvillette’s head hangs between his shoulders. His braid slides forward, pooling on Wriothesley’s chest, and Wriothesley drops his hands to Neuvillette’s hips to guide him, to move him.

“That’s it,” he croons, thumb rubbing over the jut of Neuvillette’s hipbone. “That’s it. I’ve got what you need. Just take it from me, sweetness. Take your pleasure.”

Neuvillette shakes, his fingers curling against Wriothesley’s chest. “Touch me,” he gasps, and Wriothesley does not hesitate to obey.

One hand curls around Neuvillette’s cock, slick from dripping precum, and he strokes it in time to the rocking of their bodies. His gaze drops from Neuvillette’s face to that hand, watching as he strokes, watching as Neuvillette works himself against Wriothesley’s body.

For all the fantasies he’s had, nothing can compare to the reality of Neuvillette riding him, of Neuvillette taking his pleasure. Wriothesley’s imagination was good but it didn’t conjure the needy ache in all of Neuvillette’s sweet moans, didn’t quite capture the hitching in Neuvillette’s gasps and keens.

His thumb sweeps over the tip of Neuvillette’s cock, smearing precum into his skin, and Neuvillette cries out softly, his nails scouring Wriothesley’s skin. The pain is a delicious garnish to the pleasure pounding through Wriothesley’s body like a second heartbeat.

He moves his hand faster over Neuvillette, his fist tightening until Neuvillette’s every exhalation is aching, is shuddering and broken. He is relentless in the pursuit of Neuvillette’s pleasure, giving everything he can, and when Neuvillette’s back bows, when he stiffens and cries out, it’s Wriothesley’s name on his lips as he comes.

Fuck, but it’s a gorgeous sight. His glow intensifies, light pouring off him as he shakes apart, as cum splatters on Wriothesley’s stomach in thick ropes. His ass squeezes tight around Wriothesley’s cock, the grip of his body wicked and sweet and absolutely perfect. But it’s Wriothesley’s name that does him in, that shatters Wriothesley, too.

Gripping Neuvillette’s hip, he comes with a long, low groan, his body fracturing like shattered glass. The world narrows down to the tight heat of Neuvillette’s body around his cock, to the aching moans spilling out of him as he shivers through his orgasm, each little noise making Wriothesley’s cock twitch and give up that much more of his spend.

Instead of pulling off him, Neuvillette sinks against Wriothesley’s body. His hands push into Wriothesley’s hair, and he tugs him close for another drugging kiss, lingering and sweet. His tongue flicks into Wriothesley’s mouth.

When Neuvillette arches against Wriothesley’s body, he feels the hard line of the other man’s cock, and he groans into their kiss, baffled. He’s got a short enough refractory period, especially with all that extra lifeforce Neuvillette pumped into him, but not even he can be ready again so fast, like he didn’t come at all.

With a whimper, Neuvillette presses his lips to Wriothesley’s jaw, his throat. Urgency edges his kisses, makes them sharper, hungrier.

“Not enough?” Wriothesley asks, and though he can’t quite believe it, he’s not upset about the situation. Not at all.

He’ll wake up from this dream eventually. Reality will set back in. Neuvillette will make some statement about them being colleagues, and they’ll go back to how they were. But, for now, Wriothesley will take everything he can get.

Cradling Neuvillette’s body, he rolls them over, putting Neuvillette on his back.

“Wriothesley,” he gasps, sliding his hands over Wriothesley’s shoulders. “I—” He swallows hard, audibly. That needy, urgent edge is in his voice, too, in the trembling of his body as he arches his back and groans.

Wriothesley draws back, pulling out of Neuvillette’s tight body, but he doesn’t go far. Nosing beneath Neuvillette’s jaw, he strokes his hands over the other man’s sides. Kneels between his spread legs. Rubs his thumbs against jutting hipbones, as much to soothe as arouse—not that Neuvillette needs much help there.

As Wriothesley presses suckling kisses down Neuvillette’s neck and across his chest, he’s very aware of how hard Neuvillette is, how his cock—and body—remains hot like a furnace beneath his. Every brush of Wriothesley’s skin against Neuvillette’s cock has Neuvillette gasping and jerking beneath him, his hips lifting from the bed in silent entreaty.

“More,” Neuvillette groans, throwing an arm over his face.

Wriothesley bends his lips to Neuvillette’s cock. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, the words a promise. Neuvillette might only want him for the duration of this wicked dream, but Wriothesley promises eternity with those three words.

A shuddering gasp pulls from Neuvillette’s chest. “Your mouth, Wriothesley. I need—”

“I’ve got you,” Wriothesley says again, and he licks Neuvillette from base to tip.

Neuvillette groans. His legs skate wide, and Wriothesley settles easily between them, licking him again, flicking his tongue over the tip to taste him. Bitter, sharp, a little salty, altogether delicious.

With a soft, hungry sound of his own, Wriothesley takes Neuvillette’s cock between his lips, sucking him halfway into his throat. Neuvillette drives himself the rest of the way, all but choking Wriothesley with the arch of his hips and a desperate, gasping noise. Long fingers sink deep into Wriothesley’s hair as Neuvillette’s hips fall back to the bed.

And then he’s pulling back, trying to escape from Wriothesley’s mouth. “Forgive me. I didn’t—Forgive me.”

Oh, but that felt good, and Wriothesley won’t let Neuvillette beat himself up for taking what he so clearly needs.

Sucking on the tip of Neuvillette’s cock for just a moment, Wriothesley nuzzles against his length. “Don’t apologize. You losing control gets me hot.” His thumb rubs just beneath the head of Neuvillette’s cock, pulling little shudders through him. “You want to fuck my mouth?” Wriothesley’s mouth finds Neuvillette’s hip and presses suckling kisses against velvety skin.

“That would be—” Neuvillette’s fingers drag against Wriothesley’s scalp, and Wriothesley moans, flicking his tongue over Neuvillette’s slit. A groan breaks from Neuvillette, aching and sharp. “I shouldn’t.”

“But do you want to?” His tongue laps at the precum beading on Neuvillette’s cock, and a shudder runs through him.

He’s sucked dick before, yeah, but it hasn’t hit him as hard as this does, hasn’t felt like this does. Maybe because it’s Neuvillette, maybe because he’s ached and wanted for so long. And if Neuvillette wants to fuck his face until tears spill from his eyes and he’s choking on cock, that’s just fucking fine with him.

“Yes,” Neuvillette breathes, his glowing eyes fixed on Wriothesley’s face. “I—I’ve—” He swallows hard, and Wriothesley desperately wants to know what he isn’t saying. That he’s dreamed about this? That he craves it? But instead of finishing that thought, Neuvillette scrapes his nails across Wriothesley’s scalp and exhales a shaking, “Please.”

That one word shivers through Wriothesley’s body, making his cock twitch against the soft sheets of the bed beneath them. It’s not going to be long before he’s hard again. Neuvillette just—He just wants Neuvillette too much, and everything Neuvillette does makes him ache.

“Anything for you,” Wriothesley murmurs, overplaying his hand again and not giving a damn.

In a single stroke, he pulls Neuvillette deep into his mouth, sucking that cock straight to the back of his throat.

Neuvillette’s nails rake over his scalp. His hips arch off the bed, driving his cock yet deeper, and Wriothesley relaxes his throat, ruthlessly smothers his gag reflex, and takes everything Neuvillette gives him. And he’s rewarded with the song of Neuvillette’s pleasure, a rising and falling of sweet moans.

Wriothesley hadn’t taken Neuvillette to be a demonstrative man, but, fuck, he is. He’s vocal with his pleasures. Every time Wriothesley does something he really likes—sucking a little harder, dragging his tongue over the shaft, the tip of his cock—he gasps and moans and his nails pull across Wriothesley’s scalp. Pleasure simmers in Wriothesley’s veins, hot and undeniable. It rushes through him, coiling in his belly, as his cock begins to fill and harden.

But his own needs are, once more, distant. He lets Neuvillette use his mouth, relishing the drag of Neuvillette’s cock over his tongue and deep into the soft muscle of his throat. There’s little awareness in the way Neuvillette moves; he’s mindlessly chasing a need that rides him hard.

Fuck, but Wriothesley wants to ride him hard, too. Wants to turn him over and take him until he’s clawing at the bed beneath him.

Soon. If Neuvillette’s hunger is any indication, then soon.

He loses himself in the slick slide of Neuvillette’s cock deep into his mouth, in the fleeting pain of Neuvillette’s nails dragging over his head. The rhythm of Neuvillette’s hips entrances him, and he moves with Neuvillette, their bodies moving in scintillating harmony. Neuvillette is wickedly easy to read, his blatant need telegraphed in every clutching of his hands and cant of his hips. Wriothesley gives him everything he asks for. When his fingers tug at Wriothesley’s hair, he pulls back. When he drives his hips up and off the bed, Wriothesley sinks down his cock until saliva spills from his lips and pools on Neuvillette’s hips and belly.

They’re slick and wet and making a mess, and Wriothesley couldn’t care less.

Blinking his eyes open, he looks up the length of Neuvillette’s body, and is surprised to find Neuvillette watching him, gaze intense. Pleasure-drunk, glowing eyes. Flushed cheeks. Parted lips. Thin strands of silvery hair stick to those lips.

“I—” His head falls back. The rhythm of his hips stutters, increasing in urgency. “Wriothesley.”

The sound of his name on Neuvillette’s lips is enough to have him hard again. That’s it, that’s all it takes. Sure, sucking Neuvillette off has definitely contributed, but he goes from half hard to aching with two syllables, and he grinds his hips against the bed for some kind of relief. Doesn’t find it.

He takes out his need on Neuvillette, sucking harder, moving more quickly, matching the silent demands of Neuvillette’s body as he shifts onto one arm. As he strokes his hand up one of Neuvillette’s perfect, milky thighs. As he pulls one finger over Neuvillette’s hole, still loose and soft.

Groaning, Neuvillette drives himself against Wriothesley’s finger. The tip of it pushes inside, and Wriothesley, finding little resistance in Neuvillette’s body, slides his finger deep. Curls it against needy muscle.

Neuvillette comes with a broken cry. Both his hands drive deep into Wriothesley’s hair as his cock drives down Wriothesley’s throat. The way pleasure burns through him is indescribable, is so good Wriothesley has to dredge every drop of willpower not to come on the comforter.

Swallowing eagerly, he drinks down every drop that Neuvillette gives him, sucking him through that orgasm and drawing it out as long as he can. Neuvillette’s gasping breaths turn into urgent little mewls, quiet and aching groans. His hips move in abbreviated jerks against Wriothesley’s mouth as they both work to eke out as much pleasure as they can.

Slowly, Wriothesley lifts his mouth from Neuvillette’s cock, but his finger doesn’t stop playing against Neuvillette’s prostate.

He’s still hard, but Wriothesley doesn’t care. Aches too much to consider how fucking ridiculous it is to come twice in the span of twenty minutes and still be rock solid.

Leaning over Neuvillette, he nuzzles against his cheek, his ear. Flicks his tongue over the pointed tip.

Neuvillette makes a cracked and broken sound, grinding his hips into Wriothesley’s hand, fucking himself on Wriothesley’s finger like he can’t stop.

“More?” Wriothesley asks him, a little bewildered but not so bewildered that his brain clicks on. Sure, this stamina isn’t human, but Neuvillette isn’t human, and, honestly, that’s fucking hot. That does it for him.

Arching beneath him, Neuvillette rakes his nails—and, fuck, they’re sharp—down Wriothesley’s back. “More,” he says, his voice thin and tight. His hips keep moving, keep grinding his body onto Wriothesley’s finger. “I—I need—” Breaking off, Neuvillette closes his eyes and buries his face in his pillow, groaning.

Yeah, Neuvillette does need. With an intensity that’s frankly terrifying. But Wriothesley is more than pleased to give.

“I know, sweetness,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against Neuvillette’s, not sure he’ll want kisses after Wriothesley just swallowed his cum.

But Neuvillette surprises him, turning into Wriothesley’s mouth and then licking between his lips. He moans, drawing Wriothesley close, and Wriothesley falls over him as much as he can with one finger still deep inside him.

Their tongues meet in a hungry kiss, Neuvillette licking through Wriothesley’s mouth as if he craves the taste of his cum on Wriothesley’s skin, and, fuck, that’s hot, it’s so hot. Wriothesley groans, brushing his thumb along the corner of Neuvillette’s lips. His hips move against Neuvillette’s, his cock rubbing against Neuvillette’s thigh. The friction is sweet agony; adding a second finger to Neuvillette’s body, not because he needs to but because he can, makes the agony even sweeter.

Pulling back, Wriothesley rests his forehead against Neuvillette’s. “One more orgasm like this?” he asks. “On my fingers?”

Neuvillette looks up at him, dazed and beatific, like he’d agree to anything Wriothesley asked for, and that power goes straight to Wriothesley’s head—and then to his dick. “Yes,” he says, swallowing hard. “More. I need more.” His hips roll, working against Wriothesley’s fingers, and, fuck, he’s so beautiful, he’s impossible, he’s unreal, and he’s in Wriothesley’s arms, naked and hungry and wanting.

Curling his fingers against Neuvillette’s prostate, Wriothesley keeps their rhythm even and steady. His gaze stays intent on Neuvillette’s face, even when Neuvillette’s eyes flutter shut and his head tips back. Every twitch of muscle, every gasp, he notes each and what kind of touch earned it. He learns Neuvillette’s body in between his quiet moans and aching sighs, and then he uses that knowledge to drive Neuvillette to the edge, to make him writhe against the bed.

Neuvillette’s nails drive deep into the meat of his shoulders. His moaning gasps rise and fall like hymns. And when he comes again, when his ass squeezes tight and clenches around Wriothesley’s fingers, Wriothesley pulls the pointed tip of his ear into his mouth.

The sound that breaks from Neuvillette is exquisite. Fuck, but it’s divine. Beneath Wriothesley, Neuvillette arches off the bed and all but sobs with his pleasure.

Releasing Neuvillette’s ear, Wriothesley turns his head to watch. To watch Neuvillette twist and writhe. To watch him paint his belly even whiter with his cum.

Wriothesley can’t remember the last time he was so hard.

When Neuvillette settles against the bed, he’s panting, he’s gasping, and his eyes are still ever so beautifully glassy and unfocused. And his cock is still hard.

“Wriothesley,” he gasps.

Gently, Wriothesley pulls his fingers out of Neuvillette’s ass. “More, yeah?” he asks.

Neuvillette groans, his fingers bearing down on Wriothesley in protest. “More,” he agrees, still shaking beneath Wriothesley’s body, still burning hot, like a conflagration.

Propping himself on his arms over Neuvillette’s body, Wriothesley pulls his thumb across Neuvillette’s lips. “You wanna tell me what this is?”

“I—I cannot. Wriothesley, please.” Fuck, that cleaves through him, both the refusal and the plea. “I need so much I hurt. I—” With pupils blown so wide they’re eating into the glow of his eyes, Neuvillette pushes himself up and seizes Wriothesley’s lips in a hungry, demanding kiss.

He bites at Wriothesley’s lips, goading. Demanding. He slings one leg around Wriothesley’s hip, arching beneath him, grinding against him.

“I need you inside me,” he breathes against Wriothesley’s mouth. “Do not leave me wanting, my—my Wriothesley.”

He doesn’t mean that. He can’t mean that. But, fuck, the things that does to Wriothesley’s insides. My Wriothesley.

“Please,” he murmurs, kissing along the curve of Wriothesley’s jaw, and Wriothesley moves against him, grinding their cocks together until Neuvillette is keening softly with every roll of their hips. Neuvillette’s lips press against Wriothesley’s ear. “Please, Wriothesley. Fuck me.”

And Wriothesley’s brain shuts down, all thought aside from getting back into Neuvillette going up in smoke.

“Roll over, sweetness,” he says, drawing back and applying an urgent pressure to Neuvillette’s hip.

Neuvillette rolls, turning toward Wriothesley, his eyes fixed on Wriothesley’s. As he goes, Wriothesley can’t stop himself; he bends his lips to Neuvillette’s shoulder and brushes it with a tender kiss. A strangled sound catches in Neuvillette’s throat, and then he’s on his belly and Wriothesley is easing over him, draping himself across Neuvillette’s back. He grabs one pillow, pushing it beneath Neuvillette’s hips, grinding into the curve of Neuvillette’s ass with soft gasps and hungry little growls of pleasure.

With a needy cry, Neuvillette braces his hands against the bed and pushes himself into each of Wriothesley’s thrusts. His braid, mussed and pulled from all their activity, falls over one of his shoulders, bearing his neck, and Wriothesley can’t help himself.

Ducking his head, he seals his lips against the crook of Neuvillette’s neck. One mark. Just one mark, so that Neuvillette remembers this, remembers the pleasure they shared. Wriothesley bites.

And the sound Neuvillette makes his feral, is unhinged. Light flares from the blue strands in Neuvillette’s hair, and he shoves hard into the next roll of Wriothesley’s hips. “Fuck me,” he says again, the words a stuttered gasp but no less insistent. “Fill me, Wriothesley.” Slick, viscous Hydro drips over Wriothesley’s cock, making the slide of it against Neuvillette’s ass even easier. “Take me. I—I need—I need you—Inside me, Wriothesley.”

With his teeth worrying the skin of Neuvillette’s throat, Wriothesley takes his cock in hand and pushes himself against Neuvillette’s hole. Neuvillette keens, pressing backwards.

A single stroke to fill him, and Neuvillette’s head drops to the pillows.

A hard, fast thrust to shake his body, and Neuvillette’s nails rake down the bedspread, tearing at threads.

Fuck, but Neuvillette’s body is still so tight, and he’s scalding hot all around Wriothesley’s cock.

“More,” Neuvillette gasps.

There’s no denying that plea. Wriothesley plants one hand on the bed and the other on Neuvillette’s hip and starts a pace that is borderline brutal. Beneath him, Neuvillette lets out a soft cry of delight.

“Harder,” he demands, and Wriothesley obliges him. Cannot do anything else, does not want to do anything else.

He fucks hard into Neuvillette’s body, licking at the marks he’s left in Neuvillette’s neck. As Neuvillette begs for more, as he pushes hard into each of Wriothesley’s thrusts, Wriothesley clings to his hip with a vice-like grip. There, too, he thinks he’ll leave a mark, but he cannot bring himself to care. Anything to write himself into Neuvillette’s flesh, to make this something that Neuvillette never forgets.

“Don’t stop.” Neuvillette throws his head back, resting it against Wriothesley’s shoulder, his back bowed and ass pressed into the curve of Wriothesley’s hips.

“Never,” Wriothesley promises. “Anything you need, sweetness.”

And Neuvillette moans, Neuvillette keens, Neuvillette takes Wriothesley’s hand in his own and guides it to his cock.

Lacing their fingers together, they stroke Neuvillette in time with Wriothesley’s unrelenting thrusts. It’s not elegant but it’s effective, every pull of their hands and thrust of Wriothesley’s cock punching broken moans from Neuvillette’s lips. His pleas become senseless, wordless things, and his head falls back to the pillow as he drags his nails over the sheets until they split.

Fuck, but that’s hot. Neuvillette’s pleasure—his desire, his need—it’s all so fucking hot, curling desire tighter and tighter in Wriothesley’s gut.

Not yet. He can’t come yet. Biting his lip hard, he nuzzles against Neuvillette’s ear, and lets himself indulge in this moment just a little more, lets himself pretend this is more. “Let go for me, baby. Let me hear you come.”

His hand twists around Neuvillette’s cock. His thumb pulls over the slit, smearing precum into Neuvillette’s skin, and Neuvillette lets out a cracked, broken cry shaped like Wriothesley’s name as he shudders, as he shatters, as his cock twitches and jerks in Wriothesley’s hand. His body clenches hard around Wriothesley’s cock, the pleasure searing and exquisite, but it’s Wriothesley’s name, again, that really does him in.

Because Neuvillette sinks bonelessly into the bed, keening Wriothesley’s name over and over, whispering it like a prayer, like a promise, like he’s possessed by the same, visceral need to climb into Wriothesley’s skin.

With his hands wrapped around Neuvillette’s hips and his mouth pressed against the crook of his neck, teeth raking down his skin, Wriothesley shudders through an orgasm that is bone-deep and searing. He, too, groans out Neuvillette’s name, the sound muffled by Neuvillette’s skin, his body trembling with the force of his pleasure.

Only when he’s empty and still does he pull out of Neuvillette’s body, collapsing onto the bed beside him, gasping.

Neuvillette turns his face toward him, no longer glassy-eyed and dazed. “Wriothesley,” he says, sounding drowsy.

With a faint smile, Wriothesley turns to his side and runs his fingers down Neuvillette’s back. It’s a lover’s caress, but Neuvillette doesn’t seem to mind, and Wriothesley tells himself he’s just checking Neuvillette’s temperature. Cool. His skin is much cooler, and his expression is no longer drawn and tense.

“Let me get some towels for us,” Wriothesley says, pressing his hand flat to the small of Neuvillette’s back before rolling out of the bed. He pads across the hardwood floor to the bathroom, locating two hand towels hanging above the vanity. He grabs them both, wiping himself down with one.

By the time he returns to bed, Neuvillette, still on his stomach, is asleep. No tension creases his brow. No agony pulls at his lips. He is soft and beautiful, untouched by discomfort in his sleep, and Wriothesley allows himself a tender smile. A smile that would reveal far too much if Neuvillette were awake.

“I am well and truly fucked,” he murmurs to himself as he bends over the bed. With a gentle touch, he wipes cum and Hydro from Neuvillette’s thighs.

He’s ruined.

He’s gone for this man, this impossible man. Wants to crawl into the recesses of Neuvillette’s body, his soul. Wants to take up residence beneath his skin, become an integral piece of his very existence.

A strand of silver hair falls across Neuvillette’s face.

Wriothesley brushes it aside, urging it behind Neuvillette’s delicately pointed ear.

His body no longer radiates heat.

Not an illness. A function of what I am.

A function that drove Neuvillette into his arms, full of need.

Is this weird Archon shit? Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair. No, whatever this is, whatever Neuvillette is, he’s not the Hydro Archon. He’d have claimed the title if he was. But what else has the kind of power that Neuvillette has? What other creature burns with heat—a heat that apparently demands some kind of sexual outlet?

His stomach growls, and Wriothesley groans. Yeah, whatever Neuvillette might be, whether he’s sick or not, after sex like that, they both need to eat. And there’s no food in the house, just water.

That, he thinks, means something, and he chews on it as he gets dressed, moving silently through Neuvillette’s room. He chews on it as he descends the stairs, as he finds a key on a ring by the front door, as he slips out of the townhome, locking it behind him, and onto the Court’s streets.

But his mind wanders away from thoughts of cabinets full of water to bellies full of food as his growls yet again.

He hurries down the street.

Neuvillette fell asleep satisfied, satiated. He wakes to burning need. Heats always addle his thoughts, jumble them into fragmented snippets, but he remembers Wriothesley—the smell of him, the taste of this tongue, the feel of him. When he breathes in, he inhales the fresh scent of bergamot and leather and sex, and that soothes some of the need blazing through him.

His mate is here.

Opening his eyes, he reaches out.

And finds his nest empty.

His eyes go wide—and then the panic sets in.

Chapter Text

Neuvillette lurches out of the bed. The scent of his mate surrounds him, but his mate isn’t here. His nest is empty even of the two trinkets he brought to remind himself of Wriothesley, and he—he reaches blindly for the nightstand, his vision tunneled and dark, grasping wildly for the letter and the cravat pin. He knocks over a little timepiece before he closes his hand around the cravat pin and squeezes down.

The sharp edges dig into the meat of his hand, the pain offering momentary focus.

His mate—Wriothesley. One morning of intense sex does not a mate make, he reminds himself.

Wriothesley is gone. Perhaps he assumed this was—what do the humans call it?—a one-night stand.

A fury kindles in Neuvillette’s belly, directionless and unhinged. He is angry that Wriothesley left, but not angry at Wriothesley himself, because every time he thinks of Wriothesley, fury turns to a lust that blazes out of control and all-consuming. Was he too much? Did Wriothesley flee because Neuvillette made too many demands of him? He doesn’t remember the details of their morning, just flashes of need and heat and hunger. Wriothesley’s hands on his cock, his hips. Wriothesley’s mouth around him, hot and wet and so deliriously good. The feel of Wriothesley inside him, filling and satisfying, every thrust jostling the egg in his belly.

Wriothesley’s teeth in his neck.

The cravat pin slips from his hand and thuds to the rug as he makes a low, aching sound of need.

Not a mating bite. Wriothesley is not a dragon, and that was not a mating bite, but his body acted as though it was. Had he not been on his hands and knees, he would have pressed his mouth into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck and returned the bite.

Which would have been hideously wrong of him.

He knows little of dragons, but he knows well enough that giving a mating bite is not done lightly or impulsively. Knows that binding someone to him for eternity without discussing it first…

Neuvillette groans.

He burns, he aches, he needs, and Wriothesley’s scent fills the bedroom. He needs to escape it, needs to drown in it, needs to find the source of it.

Naked, he stumbles toward the bedroom door. He reaches blindly for the threshold, bracing himself on the wood before stepping into the upstairs hall, inhaling deeply. Wriothesley’s scent travels down the hall, and Neuvillette follows after it, throwing open the doors to his empty guest rooms, where spiderwebs collect in corners and the sun bleaches the hardwood floors. As he takes the stairs, his nails lengthen into claws. Small fangs prick at his lips. His sense of smell sharpens, leading him to the back of the townhome.

The kitchen is equally empty, but Neuvillette, in a fit of madness, rips open all of the cabinets as if Wriothesley might have stuffed himself inside one. He throws open the pantry door, pushes into the butler’s pantry, and he finds nothing. No one. No sign of Wriothesley, just his fading scent.

Alone.

He’s alone.

He’s deep in his heat and he’s alone—which shouldn’t be a problem. He’s made it through all his previous heats by himself. Except that he had Wriothesley’s mouth on him, his hands on him, his cock inside him, and he cannot go back to dealing with this by himself, not after that experience.

With a faint warble, Neuvillette stands in the middle of the kitchen, caught in a maelstrom of fear and anger and lust. Each emotion competes with the next until his head spins and aches, and he presses the heels of his hands into his closed eyes as his tail, long and lithe, flicks from side to side with his frustration.

Gone.

His mate is gone. He’s been—abandoned.

No, that’s foolish. He cannot hold Wriothesley to that standard.

But his instincts—

He is above instinct, he must be. He is the Iudex of Fontaine, acting as a functional Archon. This storm of emotions cannot control him, cannot overwhelm him, cannot take him apart and leave him broken even though all he wants to do is sink to his knees and keen with frustration—or go back to his bed and take himself in hand—or tear through Fontaine to find his mate and drag Wriothesley back to his bed and—

Out of his mind. He’s out of his mind.

He needs to find some cool center, needs to—

The front door opens.

Neuvillette all but throws himself down the hallway, heedless of his own nakedness and more draconic form, and finds a damp Wriothesley standing in the foyer as he nudges the front door shut with his toe. Bags hang from his wrists.

The scent of food—of meat, sweet and rich—fills Neuvillette’s nose, but that scent is nothing compared to Wriothesley’s bergamot and leather scent, nothing compared to the way Wriothesley’s eyes go wide with shock and confusion and, oh, he has completely lost control of his form. His rhinophores glow and flutter behind him, long and ephemeral as he rushes forward. Glittering scales of iridescent aquamarine shimmer down his arms, his belly, his legs. Claw-tipped fingers dyed a rich, azure blue reach for Wriothesley, dig into his vest and shirt as Neuvillette collides with him.

“Neuvillette?” Wriothesley sounds breathless, confused.

Neuvillette’s tail lashes behind him. Too much, he is revealing too much, but this is his mate. Who can he trust if he cannot trust his mate, his Wriothesley?

With a needy sound, he presses against Wriothesley’s body, nuzzling into his neck where his scent is strongest.

Wriothesley drops the bags. His arms slowly wrap around Neuvillette’s waist.

“Shit,” Wriothesley says, and Neuvillette is too needy, too hard and hungry and desperate, to be able to parse Wriothesley’s tone. “Shit, you’re—you’re not the Hydro Archon.” He’s not so far gone that he can’t be offended that Wriothesley even considered he might be an Archon. “You’re the Hydro Dragon Sovereign.”

There is nothing more terrifying in the world than to be known. For someone whose opinion matters to see to the core of him.

Neuvillette makes an aching noise, pressing his face deeper into Wriothesley’s neck.

And, of course, that discovery must come now, when Neuvillette is at his least put together, when he is aching and needy and pathetic.

“So, this… fever,” Wriothesley says. “It’s a function of some… weird dragon biology?” His hand touches the small of Neuvillette’s naked back, and the sound that Neuvillette makes is unhinged.

“Yes,” he manages, sliding his fingers into Wriothesley’s hair and turning his face to press open-mouthed kisses to Wriothesley’s neck. “I—need.”

“Alright,” Wriothesley says, mostly to himself. “Alright,” he says again, settling both hands on Neuvillette’s waist. “I think I need an explanation. I think I deserve one.”

Yes, Wriothesley more than deserves the most detailed of explanations, but Neuvillette isn’t sure he has the patience and coherency to give him that more, not right now. And, worse, he’s never explained this to anyone. Isn’t sure how to explain this to someone—a human—to Wriothesley, whose opinion of him matters so much.

Clinging to Wriothesley’s shirt, Neuvillette takes a shuddering breath, inhaling Wriothesley’s scent. It is stabilizing. Soothing. It should not be, but his instincts have already decided that Wriothesley is his mate, and his body reacts as though this is a fact and not, still, a fantasy. “I am—in heat,” he explains.

“Heat? Like an—” Wriothesley breaks off abruptly. Coughs delicately. “Alright. What’s that mean for you?”

Neuvillette breathes in Wriothesley’s scent again, anchoring himself. Wriothesley’s hands, warm and firm on his hips, help somewhat, but they are equal parts soothing and distracting. Neuvillette makes a soft, needy sound. He shifts back, tugging gently, trying to get Wriothesley to move toward the stairs with him. His tail flicks with agitation behind him before curling loosely around Wriothesley’s ankle.

Wriothesley jumps, startled, and glances at that tail before turning his attention to Neuvillette, his face etched with concern. “Neuvillette,” Wriothesley says, patient. Kind. “I’m not leaving the foyer until you tell me, in detail, what this means for you.”

That is a threat, and Neuvillette growls softly.

Something flashes across Wriothesley’s face—something hot and sweet. Interest. Desire. Neuvillette can smell it, the need that burns in Wriothesley, too, a need that mirrors his own.

“Wriothesley,” he says, imploring.

“No,” Wriothesley says, still gentle. His hands bear down on Neuvillette’s hips, and though Neuvillette could throw him off easily, the weight of that touch goes straight to his cock. To both of his cocks. He has two in this form, lightly ridged and blue at the tip, and he wonders briefly what Wriothesley will make of that. “Use your words, sweetness.”

Ah, but that pet name makes Neuvillette weak. It strokes down his spine and settles low in his belly, and he knows from the firmness in Wriothesley’s voice and his hold that he’ll get nothing more until he speaks.

Dredging up his self-control, digging deep into something that resembles the calm center of the storm within him, Neuvillette talks.

“Dragons go through cycles of heat and rut,” he says, voice trembling. He rests his forehead against Wriothesley’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at Wriothesley’s face and risk seeing disgust or revulsion or fear. “I am—in the midst of a cycle of heat. It is as you have likely assumed.” But that won’t be enough for Wriothesley. “Like an animal in heat, I—I need—” This is a matter of physiology, yes, but it is so embarrassing to put into words. “I need my—my chosen partner to… to take me. To—to fuck me, Wriothesley, to breed me, to fertilize the egg inside me.”

Wriothesley’s eyes widen. He mouths the word egg but does not interrupt.

“It is an all-consuming need, an instinctive need, one that will last for a week. It is—a compulsion, one that I cannot ignore, and you—”

He breaks off. Tremors wrack his body. Heat burns within him. Wriothesley’s scent surrounds him, and his hands scald him where they rest on his hips.

“Chosen partner, huh?” Wriothesley asks, his lips brushing along the shell of Neuvillette’s ear.

Neuvillette shudders, clutching at Wriothesley’s sides, trying not to sink his claws into fabric and shred it to pieces. Naked, he wants—needs—Wriothesley naked. Swallowing hard, he nods. “Yes.”

“I’m flattered. I’ve got some questions.”

Groaning, Neuvillette presses himself against Wriothesley’s body. “Not too many, I hope. I—”

“Need more?”

With a little whine, Neuvillette nods.

“Do you even like this?” Wriothesley asks softly. “Do you want this?”

Neuvillette jerks back, eyes wide, and meets Wriothesley’s concerned gaze. “I—I don’t take your meaning.”

Wriothesley’s thumbs start a slow back and forth against Neuvillette’s skin. “Being forced into sex because of your biology. Do you even want me here?”

A blind terror carves through Neuvillette. “Do not go,” he gasps, he pleads. He slides his fingers deep into Wriothesley’s hair and pulls his mouth down. Their lips touch, and Neuvillette whines again, desperate, needy. “Do not leave me like this.”

“Shit,” Wriothesley mutters before pressing a long, reassuring kiss to Neuvillette’s lips. Wriothesley tries to keep the kiss measured; Neuvillette is barely sane. His tongue pulls across Wriothesley’s lips, urgent and demanding, and Wriothesley’s lips part.

Their tongues tangle, the kiss deep, hungry. Neuvillette fits himself to Wriothesley’s body, groaning with relief when he feels the faint press of Wriothesley’s half-hard cock against his thigh. Wriothesley still wants him, isn’t put off by all of this—by his heat, by his draconic features, his clawing need.

Wriothesley sinks back against the door, and Neuvillette eliminates all the space between them with more greedy kisses and draws of a tongue that is a little too long to be human.

Some of the burn eases. Some of his clarity returns. Wriothesley isn’t shoving him away; Wriothesley accepts him.

“Is that answer enough?” Neuvillette asks at last, panting.

Wriothesley stares down at him with an almost stymied expression. “Yeah, that… that was pretty clear.”

Neuvillette slips his hands between their bodies, pulling at the buttons on Wriothesley’s vest. “Your other questions.” The words are a demand. Some of his need is banked, yes, but he knows that won’t last long. His—His Wriothesley is with him, and he will not maintain this control.

“Questions, yeah. Alright. You said—You said you need your chosen partner to—” Wriothesley’s face flames. “—to breed you. Because you have… an egg.”

A shudder pulls down Neuvillette’s spine. His cocks twitch between his legs. “Yes.”

“You—Is the breeding thing a kink, or…?”

Though it causes him physical pain, Neuvillette peels himself away from Wriothesley’s body. He catches Wriothesley’s wrist in one clawed hand, and he is keenly aware of how Wriothesley stares at his blue-tipped fingers. Gently, he draws Wriothesley’s hand to his belly. He smothers a moan at the faint pressure and presses harder, until Wriothesley’s eyes widen once more.

“That’s…”

“An egg,” Neuvillette confirms, trying not to whimper piteously, needily, at the feeling of Wriothesley’s palm pushing against the egg inside him. Clinging to his threadbare self-control, he guides Wriothesley’s hand down, toward his cocks.

Wriothesley mutters a curse. “Claws, tail, and two dicks?” he asks, sounding more intrigued than horrified.

“A facet of dragon biology,” Neuvillette replies, his voice smooth despite his nerves. He is not human, and his body is not human, either, not in this hybrid form. He guides Wriothesley’s hand lower, to the slit between his legs from which his cocks emerge. Soft scales edge his vent, delicate and velvety. Slick spreads across his skin, dripping down his legs. “Dragons are… flexible with their reproductive organs.” His eyes fix on Wriothesley’s, and he braces himself for disgust. “I have a vent. A cloaca—”

At that, Wriothesley’s lips twitch.

“And were you to engage in intercourse with me by means of my vent, yes, I could be… bred. You would fertilize the egg inside me.”

Wriothesley swallows. Hard. There is no disgust in his face, only increased interest. His fingers slide against the slickness of Neuvillette’s vent, gliding over sensitive flesh, his thumb brushing the base of Neuvillette’s cocks, and Neuvillette smothers an aching moan.

“You didn’t have a vent this morning,” Wriothesley says. His fingers do not pull away. He does not pull away. No, he steps closer, into Neuvillette’s body, and a thrill runs through Neuvillette, settling like liquid heat low in his belly.

“No,” he says, inclining his head. “This is a hybrid form. When my emotions run too high, I cannot manage my human body so well, and my features… slip. Become more draconic.” His trail twitches.

Wriothesley licks his lips, and Neuvillette’s eyes track the pull of his tongue. “Right, so. Is it… more effective to—” He grimaces, but Neuvillette has the impression that the grimace has more to do with finding the right language rather than anything to do with his draconic body. “—to fuck your… vent?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “Any form of intercourse will do.” He swallows as Wriothesley’s fingers continue to pet, stoking the heat that burns in his belly. “I will be more than satisfied by other acts.”

“Yeah?” Wriothesley shifts closer still, his wet fingertips pulling up the length of one of Neuvillette’s cocks.

Lips parting, Neuvillette reaches for Wriothesley, draping his arms over Wriothesley’s shoulders. He expected and anticipated rejection. But his mate is so good to him. His mate isn’t turning away. His very human mate is intrigued and aroused by his very inhuman body.

“What other acts have your chosen partners performed to satisfy you?”

Neuvillette exhales heavily as Wriothesley’s hand closes around both of his cocks, squeezing them gently together. “I have—You are the first,” he admits, his fingers playing in the hair at the base of Wriothesley’s neck. “I have always seen to myself.”

Expressions play across Wriothesley’s face, too many in too quick a succession for Neuvillette to make sense of them. “Now, that’s a crime,” Wriothesley says.

“It is not,” Neuvillette assures him.

Laughing softly, low and husky, Wriothesley gives Neuvillette’s cocks another squeeze as he brushes their mouths together. “It should be.” A hungry sound catches in Neuvillette’s throat. Wriothesley’s teeth catch his lower lip, and Neuvillette growls softly. The light from his rhinophores fills the foyer.

Something in one of the bags clunks against the floor.

Wriothesley frowns against Neuvillette’s lips. “The Hydro Dragon Sovereign thing. That’s why you only have water in your house, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Mm.” Neuvillette bites at Wriothesley’s lips, rolling his hips into Wriothesley’s touch, seeking more friction, more stimulation. He has no interest in this conversation. “Do you have any other questions?”

“You said a week?”

“Approximately.” Neuvillette whines softly, claws pricking at Wriothesley’s neck as he arches against Wriothesley’s hand. “Wriothesley…”

“Let me take care of the food, sweetness, and figure out how to let the Fortress know that I’m going to be indisposed for a week.”

It takes Neuvillette’s brain a few extra seconds to process Wriothesley’s words, but when it does, heat surges through him. His mate is good to him, too good to him, setting his work aside to tend to his needs. Crooning wordlessly, all but purring, Neuvillette nuzzles into Wriothesley’s neck. “There is a telephone in my home office,” he manages. “As I recall, the Fortress also had one recently installed at the front desk.”

Wriothesley groans. “Yeah. Yeah, it—Fuck, Neuvillette, you—” Abruptly, Neuvillette finds his back pressed against the front door. Wriothesley bends over him, crowding into his space, his hand moving in faster strokes over Neuvillette’s cocks.

Precum drips from both tips. They are flushed and blue at their heads, and they ache as Wriothesley strokes them.

“What of me?” Neuvillette gasps, rolling his hips into Wriothesley’s touch, fucking himself into Wriothesley’s palm.

Wriothesley bends his lips to Neuvillette’s. “You’re so fucking hot,” he says, voice low and rich and rumbling, and Neuvillette, who was not expecting any kind of praise, coarse or poetic, simply breaks apart.

He comes with a soft cry, his cocks twitching in Wriothesley’s hold, his hips stuttering. His head falls back against the door, and he moans as his eyes flutter shut and pleasure seizes him. The force of it steals his breath, reduces him to nothing more than embers.

He’s still shuddering when Wriothesley lifts his hand to his mouth and licks Neuvillette’s spend from his skin. Still shuddering when Wriothesley kisses him again, his own taste on Wriothesley’s lips.

“Let me put the food away,” he murmurs, curving his hands over Neuvillette’s hips. He draws their bodies together, and his own desire is unmistakable. The hard length of his cock presses into the crook of Neuvillette’s hip, and Neuvillette can barely focus on Wriothesley’s words. “I’ll call the Fortress to let them know I’ve got a personal issue I need to deal with. In the meantime, why don’t you go back to bed, sweetness?”

Neuvillette makes an aching little noise, clutching at Wriothesley’s sleeves. “I don’t—Not alone.”

“Just for a little while,” Wriothesley murmurs, his voice coaxing and gentle. He rocks their hips together, a slow bump and grind. Neuvillette, who didn’t soften after that sweet orgasm, rocks his hard cock against Wriothesley, too, desperate again for more. “Just until I can take care of these two things. Why don’t you touch yourself while I do? Why don’t you think of what I’m going to do with you when I get back to you?”

Electric pleasure sparks down Neuvillette’s spine, and he gasps. His hands curl tighter around Wriothesley’s arms, his lips parted and his gaze unfocused.

“And then you can tell me what you fantasized about, yeah? How you want me to fuck you.”

The sound that claws from Neuvillette’s throat is hungry and draconic, and Wriothesley doesn’t flinch away. No, he presses closer, brushing his lips back and forth over Neuvillette’s.

“How’s that sound, sweetness?”

“That,” Neuvillette gasps, “is a ridiculous pet name.”

“Yeah? Do you not like it?” Wriothesley bites at his lower lip. “Would you prefer something like Neuvivi? Maybe Neuvivichéri? Ah, I know. Neuvichou?”

Neuvillette snarls softly, his claws biting into Wriothesley’s skin, and Wriothesley laughs.

“So, which of those do you want?”

“Sweetness,” Neuvillette growls, “is tolerable.”

Another laugh from Wriothesley, one that rumbles in his chest and does wicked things to Neuvillette’s raging libido. “Then go up to bed, sweetness. Go touch yourself and pretend it’s me, and I’ll be there as soon as I can to make all those fantasies real for you.”

Instead of pulling away, Wriothesley surges against him, pressing a hungry, devouring kiss to Neuvillette’s lips. Neuvillette sinks against the door at his back, sinks into that kiss. He drowns in the overwhelming taste of Wriothesley’s kiss, in the hungry push and pull of their tongues, in the weight of Wriothesley’s hands on his hips, holding him still as Wriothesley rocks their hips together.

Only when broken, panting mewls fall from Neuvillette’s lips does Wriothesley step back.

“To bed,” he says.

Neuvillette goes, acutely aware of Wriothesley’s eyes on him as he climbs the steps. Halfway up, he pauses and looks over his shoulder, and Wriothesley’s expression is—ravenous. Need clenches Neuvillette’s belly, and he groans softly. If he remains on the stairs, he will chase Wriothesley into the kitchen and demand to be fucked on whatever surface can best support them, and he—well. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want that. But he wants the comfort of his nest more, and so he flees up the remainder of the stairs before he can give into the desire to go to Wriothesley.

Flinging himself into his nest, Neuvillette rolls to his back. He drags the pillow Wriothesley slept on against his face with one hand and drags his other down his belly. Pressing the heel of his hand against his abdomen, he finds the curve of the egg, and he groans, he moans, he rolls his hips off the bed and keens almost helplessly.

Objectively, he knows he does not want a child right now.

Every instinct in him screams to have Wriothesley in his vent, to have Wriothesley fuck him and fill him with cum until the egg is fertilized, until it’s ripe and ready to be laid.

Need burns through him, turning rational thought to ash. His hand presses lower, curving around his cocks. He jerks himself roughly to the fantasy of Wriothesley pressed deep inside his vent, whispering wicked, filthy words about breeding him, about fucking him until it takes.

A reedy wail catches in his throat, and he comes suddenly, unexpectedly. Pleasure burns through him, seizing every muscle, but it’s not enough, not when his sensitive ears pick up the sounds of Wriothesley moving through the kitchen below.

His mate. His mate is so close and yet not on him, in him, fucking him, breeding him.

Can he hear Neuvillette’s cries? Does he know how much Neuvillette aches? How much he needs?

Releasing the pillow, letting it fall to the side, Neuvillette slides his other hand down his body. His fingers drag over the velvety scales around his vent, dipping inside to stroke over hot, slick muscle.

He shouldn’t play with himself like this. Shouldn’t push two fingers into his vent and imagine it’s Wriothesley. The fantasy is too dangerous, but it does ease some of the burning need within him. Ultimately, that’s what a heat demands: a cock buried deep in his vent, pumping him full of cum, fertilizing the egg in his belly.

A moan spills out of him, and he digs his heels into the sheets beneath him. His fingers play, pushing deep and squeezing around his cocks. He just came, he’s sensitive, yes, but it’s not enough. More, he needs more.

The fantasy isn’t enough. It takes the edge off, but it doesn’t satisfy. Just makes him crave more, makes him ache more.

With a soft cry, he pushes three fingers into his vent. He’s so slick that thick, viscous fluid spills onto his thighs and down his ass. Those three fingers don’t fill him the way he wants to be filled, don’t stretch his vent to its limit the way he knows Wriothesley will. No, no, they can’t have that, they can’t do that, but he wants it. He wants it so desperately, especially with the low rumble of Wriothesley’s voice reaching his ears. He can’t make out the words, is too drunk on his own need to comprehend what he’s hearing, but that doesn’t matter. The rise and fall of Wriothesley’s voice is enough to tease him, the sound a faint caress, a promise that his mate will be with him soon.

And that’s how Wriothesley finds him: his back bowed, one hand on one cock and the other hand buried in his vent, covered in slick.

Neuvillette devours the sight of Wriothesley as he strips off his clothes, as he eases, naked, into the nest. Neuvillette keens, unable to lift his hands from his body, too needy for more friction, more pressure, more pleasure. Wriothesley settles beside Neuvillette on his side, one hand slipping beneath Neuvillette’s head, cradling it. The other drifts down Neuvillette’s abdomen and tentatively brushes against his vent.

“Please,” Neuvillette gasps, spreading his legs wide in invitation. He turns his head to watch Wriothesley, to drink in the sight of his hungry features, no trace of disgust or hesitance on his face.

Wriothesley’s fingers trace the edge of his vent. “You sure you don’t want to get fucked here?” he asks.

Oh, yes, Neuvillette wants that very much, but he stomps ruthlessly on instincts that are running out of control enough as it is. “Do not test my self-control, Wriothesley. Neither of us wants to be parents.” He’s amazed he has enough presence of mind to say that.

Wriothesley sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s…” His hand pulls away from Neuvillette’s vent, brushing lightly over his abdomen. “You really… An egg?”

Wrapping his slick hand around Wriothesley’s wrist, Neuvillette presses his palm to his belly. “I promise you,” he gasps, “that if you come in my vent, you will fertilize the egg inside me.”

“Right. Alright. No fucking the vent.” Wriothesley’s palm presses against Neuvillette’s belly, and he leans over Neuvillette’s body, pressing a kiss to his lips. Slow, smoldering. Not at all what Neuvillette needs. But before he can plead for more, Wriothesley lifts his lips and says, “No fucking the vent, but I want to finger it while I fuck you.”

Neuvillette’s whole body lights with pleasure, burning, aching. His cocks twitch in his hand, and he groans, arching off the bed. “You—You’re taking all of this very well.”

Wriothesley grins, pulling his hand down Neuvillette’s body to gently knock his hand away from his cocks. “It’s been a few months since I last got laid, so that’s helping.” He hesitates as he curls his hand around Neuvillette’s cocks once more, and Neuvillette groans softly, arching into that touch. “And… Neuvillette?”

He turns to look at Wriothesley, dazed with pleasure, his hips working to drive his cocks against Wriothesley’s rough and callused hand. “Mm?”

“It helps that it’s you.”

Moaning, Neuvillette reaches for Wriothesley. Mate, his mate, his mate wants him, speaks so sweetly. Those are more than bedroom words, he knows. Those words are—They are a tender promise, revealing ever so much.

One of his hands curves around Wriothesley’s jaw, and he draws his mate close for a hungry kiss, a needy kiss. Wriothesley surges against him, pressing their naked bodies together as their tongues tangle and his hand strokes. He pulls his palm over the tip of one cock and then the other, slicking their lightly ridged lengths, and Neuvillette arches into that touch, twists into it, desperately chases the draw of Wriothesley’s hand.

With a touch of his thumb, Wriothesley turns Neuvillette’s lips away from his own, and Neuvillette, whimpering, allows it. Gasps as Wriothesley presses suckling kisses to his jaw, his throat. He keens when Wriothesley’s tongue pulls over a tender spot on his neck, the spot Wriothesley bit the previous night.

“Please,” he moans, threading his fingers into Wriothesley’s hair and urging him closer.

But Wriothesley cannot possibly understand what Neuvillette wants, and Neuvillette isn’t ready to explain mating to him, doesn’t think he could. Not right now. Later, he promises himself. Later, after—

Wriothesley moves lower, pulling his tongue over one of Neuvillette’s nipples. Neuvillette lets out an aching cry, scratching his nails over Wriothesley’s scalp and driving his hips hard against Wriothesley’s hand. All conscious thought blanks, and he becomes little more than an aching nerve that craves some kind, any kind, of satisfaction.

And his Wriothesley gives to him. His hand continues to pull over his cocks, the friction of his palm a delicious contrast to the way Neuvillette’s lengths rub together. Wriothesley licks Neuvillette’s nipple a second time and then a third, and on the fourth pass of his tongue catches the nub in his teeth and bears down gently.

Electric pleasure snaps through Neuvillette’s veins, soliciting a low and aching groan. He arches beneath Wriothesley’s mouth as Wriothesley increases the pressure of his bite until it’s just shy of pain, until Neuvillette is arched and panting. He releases Neuvillette’s nipple, kissing across his chest to deliver the same wicked attention to the other nub.

Beneath him, Neuvillette is alight with need, burning with it. He is a creature of pure Hydro, liquid and placid, and yet Wriothesley turns him into a live wire, into something more Electro or Pyro, something that crackles and burns and churns with desperate need.

He rakes his claws gently up Wriothesley’s back, tail lashing across the bed, his hips moving in hungry undulations as Wriothesley strokes him—and when Wriothesley’s hand hits the base of his cocks, his thumb pushes into the slit they emerge from.

Head thrashing to the side, Neuvillette cries out softly.

“You like that?” Wriothesley rumbles against Neuvillette’s chest. “Let’s give you more, needy thing.”

Wriothesley’s tongue maps down Neuvillette’s body, wet and hot and not nearly enough. Every stroke has Neuvillette gasping, has him grasping at Wriothesley’s shoulders. He tries to be mindful of his claws, but they scrape across flesh and raise red welts in their passing.

“Forgive me,” Neuvillette manages, rubbing his thumb over one red line.

Wriothesley looks up at him, and there is something warm and intense in his gaze. “If every mark on my body were ones you left, I would treasure them,” Wriothesley says.

Panting, Neuvillette stares at him, borderline uncomprehending. Bedroom talk. That must be bedroom talk, but it feels like something more; he wants it to be something more. His hand curves around Wriothesley’s jaw. His thumb pulls across Wriothesley’s lower lip, and Wriothesley takes it into his mouth, sucking it deep as his eyes flutter shut.

“I would not be content to mark your body,” Neuvillette murmurs, speaking in hypotheticals because he cannot betray his heart too much.

Wriothesley’s tongue drags over the pad of Neuvillette’s thumb. His teeth rake over Neuvillette’s skin. He releases Neuvillette with a quiet pop and nuzzles into his hand. “You’ve got all of me, sweetness,” Wriothesley says.

And then his lips drop to the tip of one of Neuvillette’s cocks, and Neuvillette doesn’t have the mental capacity to deal with that statement. Can’t do anything except feel the intense heat of Wriothesley’s mouth parting around one of his cocks. Wriothesley’s hand squeezes tight around the other as he sucks the first between his lips, and Neuvillette groans. His fingers sink into Wriothesley’s hair.

A flash of memory, of Wriothesley telling him to fuck his mouth, and Neuvillette’s hips jerk off the bed, driving his cock deep.

Tight, wet heat. The sound of Wriothesley groaning—with pleasure, not pain or upset.

More, he needs more.

Rolling his hips, he pushes his cock deeper into Wriothesley’s throat, and Wriothesley lets him take what he needs. The hand on his cock keeps moving as Wriothesley shifts between his legs, kneeling bent over Neuvillette’s body like a priest at worship.

And then two fingers slide along the edge of his slit.

Neuvillette’s entire body bows. Pleasure sings in his veins, so sharp it’s almost cutting. It’s a torrent, a tidal wave. It swamps him, dragging him into an ocean of ecstasy. He drowns in that pleasure as those fingers push into his slit, and he is overcome.

He has taken lovers before, but none have tended to him in his heat. None have seen this form on him. None have touched him how Wriothesley does now.

It’s too much. It’s far too much, and he breaks apart, drowning in the ecstasy that Wriothesley lavishes on him. He cries out, spilling into Wriothesley’s throat with one cock and over his own belly and Wriothesley’s fingers with the other.

Wriothesley sucks and strokes and fingers him through the orgasm, pulling every drop of pleasure from Neuvillette’s body, until Neuvillette kicks at the bed in an effort to escape that touch. His cock pulls free of Wriothesley’s mouth, still hard, as he slides a few inches up the bed.

And then Wriothesley’s hands are on his hips, pulling him back down. “Not a chance, baby,” Wriothesley says.

Absurd. That nickname is absurd—and so is the heat that curls in Neuvillette’s gut at the sound of it.

“You said you need to get fucked, yeah?” Wriothesley asks, holding Neuvillette in place as he eases up the length of his body.

Neuvillette goes still beneath him, breathing heavy, eyes wide. His hands are still buried in Wriothesley’s hair, but he drops them to the bed, curling his claws in the sheets until they begin to tear.

“You need someone to breed you, Neuvillette.”

Pleasure lances through him like a lightning bolt. He’s just come, yes, but he’s still hard, still aching, still needy. “Yes,” he whispers, the word spilling past his lips unbidden as his eyes fix on Wriothesley.

Wriothesley leans over him, a wall of delicious muscle. One arm over Neuvillette’s head, bracketing him in. One hand pulling down Neuvillette’s thigh, urging it wide. Wriothesley touches his mouth to Neuvillette’s, his eyes open, their gazes locked. Light spills across Wriothesley’s face; Neuvillette’s eyes must be glowing. But how could they not, with the pleasure Wriothesley gives him?

“Should I, sweetness?” Wriothesley asks, and he brings their bodies together. Wriothesley’s cock drags over Neuvillette’s vent, over his cocks, and Neuvillette lets out a shuddering cry of pleasure.

His claws curl deep into the sheets, his back arches.

“Should I breed you?” Wriothesley sounds almost conversational, as if they’re not sweat-soaked, as if they don’t smell of sex and need, as if Neuvillette isn’t clinging to the last vestiges of his sanity.

“Yes.”

Wriothesley presses the softest kiss against Neuvillette’s upper lip as he rolls his hips, rubbing his cock between Neuvillette’s, coating it in Neuvillette’s slick. “Should I fill you with my cum, baby?”

An obscene noise catches in Neuvillette’s throat as need and desire braid together in his gut. His hands are on Wriothesley’s back a moment later, his claws raking down flesh. He cannot help himself, but he is not a monster; he keeps his touch light, leaving only red lines in his wake.

“You like that,” Wriothesley says, his voice a low and wicked rumble. “Oh, baby, I’m going to fuck you so full of my cum.”

And yet he doesn’t. He continues to rub his cock against both of Neuvillette’s, the glide made easy by the slick dripping from Neuvillette’s vent.

“I’m going to make you give me that egg.”

Neuvillette keens, throwing his head to one side, bearing his throat, desperate, aching, needy, so hungry, so empty. “Please.”

Still, Wriothesley grinds against him. Wriothesley’s mouth finds the curve of his jaw, the lobe of his ear. “How many times do you need me to come in you to breed you? We’ve got all week, don’t we? All week for me to come in you, to fill you up until it spills down your thighs.”

Neuvillette lets out a broken sob, burying his fingers in Wriothesley’s hair and urging his mouth into the crook of his neck. He needs, desperately, for Wriothesley to bite him, to give him something, to give him more. This teasing is agonizing, stringing him tighter and tighter until he thinks he might break.

But, oh, what a sweet breaking it will be.

“Wriothesley,” he groans.

Wriothesley’s tongue drags up the column of his throat. He releases Neuvillette’s thigh to grasp his hip, angling it up before pushing a pillow beneath Neuvillette’s body. “I’m not going to let you out of this bed, baby,” Wriothesley purrs, sounding so much like a dragon that Neuvillette cries out, that Neuvillette slides his hands down Wriothesley’s back to grasp his ass and pull their bodies hard together.

The tip of Wriothesley’s cock presses into his slit, and Neuvillette keens, Neuvillette moans, Neuvillette hears himself begging, pleading, for Wriothesley to fuck him, fill him. “Breed me,” he gasps. “Wriothesley, Wriothesley, I need—”

“Hydro,” Wriothesley says. “I need Hydro.” His fingers press between Neuvillette’s legs, beneath his slit, and Neuvillette, with a desperate sound, coats them in Hydro.

They don’t need the slick liquid, really. Neuvillette is soft and loose and open, and those fingers slide into him easily. They push deep, curling, beckoning, dragging over Neuvillette’s prostate, and Neuvillette sobs. But Wriothesley still doesn’t fuck him. His lips press against Neuvillette’s ear, and he whispers filth as he plays his fingers over Neuvillette’s prostate.

Delicious tension winds tighter in Neuvillette’s belly. Every wicked word that Wriothesley drips into his ear reverberates through him. He is struck crystal, fragile and shaking beneath his mate’s body, desperate for whatever Wriothesley will give him.

His toes curl in the sheets. His claws prick at Wriothesley’s back.

“Please,” he groans, straining, fucking himself on Wriothesley’s fingers, desperate to be filled to his limits, to the very breaking point, so empty and needy and nowhere near fulfilled. Every roll of his hips brushes his cock against Wriothesley’s abdomen as he hangs over Neuvillette’s body, gaze hot and intense. “Wriothesley, I—I need—” Neuvillette swallows back a gasping sound as Wriothesley’s fingers curl over his prostate, the pleasure a torrent.

“Say it. Tell me again. Tell me what you need.”

A whine catches in Neuvillette’s throat. “I need you to breed me. Need your cock in me, need you to fuck me. Wriothesley, please, I can’t—”

Wriothesley’s fingers pull out of him, and, for one heartbreaking moment, Neuvillette is adrift, unmoored, almost unhinged. He cries out, grasping at Wriothesley’s shoulders as Wriothesley catches Neuvillette’s knees in his arms, as Wriothesley rests Neuvillette’s ankles on his shoulders. Wriothesley presses a suckling kiss to the inside of one ankle as the head of his cock presses against Neuvillette’s ass, and Neuvillette reacts without thinking, slicking Wriothesley’s length with Hydro.

And then he’s pushing into Neuvillette’s body, gliding deep in a long, slow thrust that has Neuvillette dropping his hands to claw at the sheets.

“How’s that, baby?” He presses more suckling kisses to the inside of Neuvillette’s ankle, as if he can’t bear not to have his mouth on Neuvillette’s skin. “How’s it feel, having me inside you?” Teeth rake over Neuvillette’s skin, and Neuvillette shudders, groaning. “Good and full?”

Neuvillette sinks his claws into the mattress and purrs, staring down the length of his body to where Wriothesley is pressed against his ass. “Good,” he manages, the word strangled, as he looks up to meet Wriothesley’s heated gaze. Liquid ice. Eyes soft and tender. “My—my Wriothesley.”

Those eyes go even softer. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I—I’m—” He groans, nuzzling against Neuvillette’s ankle. And then he starts to move. Hard snaps of his hips, driving him deep with each thrust, the angle perfect. Every stroke has his cock dragging over Neuvillette’s prostate.

It’s exquisite, it’s overwhelming, and it’s not enough.

Empty. He’s still empty.

Keening softly, Neuvillette runs one hand down his chest, his abdomen. Through heavy-lidded eyes, he watches Wriothesley track the movement of his hand, and when his fingers bypass his cocks for his vent, Wriothesley makes a very draconic, very hungry growling sound.

But Wriothesley doesn’t let him touch himself. No, he knocks Neuvillette’s hand aside.

“That’s for me,” Wriothesley says, and Neuvillette’s entire body seizes with pleasure. He moans, long and low, as Wriothesley rubs his knuckles against Neuvillette’s vent, pushing between the edges of it to stroke over velvety muscle.

More pleasure hums in Neuvillette’s veins, burning through him. It is an impossible thing to burn and drown at the same time, but Neuvillette somehow manages both. His body is a flame, an aching nerve, even as Wriothesley’s every touch drowns him in a sea of pleasure.

Gasping, keening, he rolls his hips to take Wriothesley’s cock deeper, to drive it against his prostate and urge those fingers deeper into his vent. And Wriothesley obliges him. Two fingers push gently into him, filling him, and Neuvillette cries out softly.

Full. He’s so impossibly full, with Wriothesley’s cock stretching his ass wide and those two fingers easing deep into his vent.

“More,” he gasps, desperately aching.

Wriothesley gives him more. His fingers fuck deep into Neuvillette’s vent as his cock thrusts into his ass, and Neuvillette is lost. Lost to the pleasure, the aching sweetness of being so filled. It borders on too much, and that’s a revelation—nothing is ever enough when he’s in heat, but Wriothesley might be, Wriothesley could be. Wriothesley, who takes him with relentless abandon, who whispers wicked words against his ankle as he fucks Neuvillette harder, faster, as he drives all the breath from Neuvillette’s lungs and leaves him incapable of anything but feeling.

This is what he’s needed. For centuries, he’s tended to himself, and it’s been fine, he’s managed, but this—this fullness—this sweet stretch of his body around fingers and cock—this is what he’s craved.

Wriothesley is what he’s craved.

Throwing his head back on the pillows, Neuvillette rakes his claws through the sheets, shredding them as the pleasure builds and builds, as he loses himself to it. The fingers in his vent are sweet, making his body ripple and clench, making his cocks twitch. Every thrust of Wriothesley’s cock jostles him, pushing those fingers deeper, making his cocks drag across his belly in the most deliciously fleeting caress.

He keens, back bowing.

Only Wriothesley’s teeth in his throat—only his teeth in Wriothesley’s throat—could make this better.

“Neuvillette,” Wriothesley groans. “Fuck, you—you feel—” His thumb drags over the joined base of Neuvillette’s cocks as his fingers press deeper, as his cock drags over his prostate. “Come on, baby, come for me. Let me breed you full.”

A broken mewl spills from Neuvillette’s throat, those words stringing him even tighter. Close, he’s so close, and he cannot think, can barely breathe, is little more than a sieve for pleasure.

“Let me see you come, baby,” Wriothesley murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “Let me—Fuck, Neuvillette—”

Neuvillette keens.

Wriothesley slips a third finger into his vent, and that pressure, that stretch, that fullness in his vent, is what breaks him.

Crying out, Neuvillette sinks his claws deep into the mattress to keep from gouging them into Wriothesley’s thighs. He clings to the sheet as his hips stutter and arch, as cum paints his chest and belly, as pleasure ricochets through him and drowns him. Agonizing ecstasy cuts through him, turning his wordless cries into the broken syllables of Wriothesley’s name, and he drags his hands from the bed to Wriothesley’s thighs, because he needs to touch, he craves the feel of Wriothesley’s body beneath his palms. His mate, he needs more of his mate.

Neuvillette’s touch must spark something in Wriothesley, who grips his hips hard and fucks a handful more times into him before groaning long and low, before spilling liquid heat into Neuvillette. It’s not the same as getting fucked in his vent, but it’s Wriothesley, and that is enough.

Easing down, Wriothesley covers Neuvillette. Neuvillette wraps himself around Wriothesley’s body, clinging to him, pressing his face into Wriothesley’s neck and resisting every instinct that screams to take, to bite, and Wriothesley groans softly.

“So good to me,” he murmurs, and Neuvillette purrs.

The days blur together. They spend most of their time in Neuvillette’s bed, wrapped around each other, Wriothesley drowning Neuvillette in the pleasure he needs to make it through his heat. Every day, Neuvillette struggles somehow more and less with the urge to bite Wriothesley and mark him—the desire grows even as the instinct wanes. When they aren’t tangled together in bed, they’re in the bathroom, in the spacious tub Neuvillette had installed, or in the kitchen to have something quick to eat. Wriothesley leaves only with Neuvillette’s permission, and only to collect more food when they run out of his original purchases.

Neuvillette’s heat eases with each passing day, his need to be filled ebbing, and the marathon sex turns into something sweeter, something gentler, something Neuvillette cannot bear to describe even in the quiet of his own mind. There is an intimacy to how Wriothesley touches him, curls around him, holds him between those moments of ecstasy, and Neuvillette doesn’t dare hope Wriothesley might want more. He has already asked for so much, and he knows he will ask for yet more—both on the final day of his heat, and in the future.

That final day comes slow and sweet, with a lazy sunrise that filters through the windows in shafts of golden light. Wriothesley is particularly tender with him that morning, tucked against Neuvillette’s back, his fingers buried in his vent as he fucks him long and slow. Neuvillette’s orgasm is an easy, spiraling thing, spreading through him like the ripples on the surface of water, catching his breath and stealing it—and it leaves behind and edge that has him curling his fingers deep in his sheets.

He feels the egg shifting inside him, feels it pressing low on his belly, and he groans.

“Again,” he whispers into the pillow.

Wriothesley curls between his legs, sucking on his cocks and licking into his vent, coaxing another orgasm from Neuvillette as his own body recovers. And then he pulls Neuvillette on top of him, and Neuvillette rides Wriothesley to an orgasm that is bone-deep and utterly unsatisfying.

A broken sound catches in his throat.

He forgot how awful it can be to lay an egg, how needy it makes him, how nothing satisfies until he pushes that egg from his vent.

“What do you need?” Wriothesley asks him, lacing their fingers together as Neuvillette bows his forehead to Wriothesley’s own.

“Everything,” Neuvillette gasps.

They come together again in the bathroom, and then against the wall just outside the bathroom door, Neuvillette’s need burning fresh and intense.

When Wriothesley swings them back into the bed, his fingers pressing into Neuvillette’s hair, concern etches his features. “Wasn’t this waning?” he asks.

“It is the egg,” Neuvillette gasps, arching against the body that rests heavy against his own. “I—I need to lay it, and I am—”

Wriothesley’s thumb pulls over Neuvillette’s lip. “Is this a private thing?” he asks. “The… the whole egg thing?”

Neuvillette grasps Wriothesley’s wrist, a snarl rumbling in his chest. “Do not abandon me, my—my Wriothesley.”

And Wriothesley softens against him. “No,” he says, the word a promise. “I won’t. How do you deal with this on your own?”

A flush spreads across Neuvillette’s face, and he turns away. “Though my cycles of heat are regular, my body… has not produced an egg in… a while.” Because no suitable mate has presented themself.

Chuckling, Wriothesley presses his thumb into the corner of Neuvillette’s mouth, urging his lips apart. His tongue dips between Neuvillette’s lips in a fleeting kiss. “How long’s a while, sweetness?”

“Three or four centuries.”

Wriothesley groans, dropping his forehead to Neuvillette’s shoulder, but he shakes with laughter. “Archons, Neuvillette—”

Neuvillette growls. The Archons have no place in his bed.

“—you can’t just drop reminders like that on me.”

“Reminders like what?” Neuvillette asks, his anger set aside for curiosity.

“That you’re ancient.” Wriothesley turns his face, pressing suckling kisses to the underside of Neuvillette’s jaw. “Cradle robber.”

“There comes a point,” Neuvillette manages, arching into the heat of Wriothesley’s mouth, “where the difference in age is irrelevant.”

Wriothesley drags his teeth over the throbbing pulse in Neuvillette’s throat. “So, why no eggs until now? What’s different?”  

You.

“Who can say?” Neuvillette says instead. “But if you wish to help…”

“Fuck, but I really, really want to help.”

Neuvillette’s lips quirk. Throughout their week together, Wriothesley has embraced all of what he calls Neuvillette’s “weird dragon shit” incredibly well. He adores the prick of Neuvillette’s claws, relishes the squeeze of Neuvillette’s tail, delights in how easily he can make Neuvillette’s eyes and rhinophores glow. And he has spent hours between Neuvillette’s legs, using mouth and tongue and fingers to worship Neuvillette’s cocks and vent until tears stream down Neuvillette’s face and he begs for release.

“Then take me again,” Neuvillette says, arching into Wriothesley’s body.

Wriothesley groans softly. He has been more than admirable in keeping up with Neuvillette’s demands, finding creative ways for them to come together even when he was certainly exhausted. It is to his credit that he doesn’t balk now but grinds himself against Neuvillette’s hip with a breathless little moan.

“Really?” he asks. “You need to lay an egg and you want me to fuck you?”

“The more aroused I am, the easier it will be,” Neuvillette explains, sliding his fingers into Wriothesley’s hair to guide their mouths back together.

They kiss, a slow and tender meeting of lips, and Neuvillette knows this will not be fast and hard, like the other times this morning. Though he already aches, though his cocks are already hard and his vent already slick, Wriothesley moves slowly against him in a rhythm that is languid and easy.

“Then let’s get you good and slick,” Wriothesley murmurs, licking the line of Neuvillette’s lips.

“Please,” Neuvillette sighs, parting his lips for more.

Their tongues tangle lazily, the kiss lethargic and languid. Their breath mingles as they sink into a languorous back and forth that has Neuvillette keening softly. One of his legs wraps high around Wriothesley’s waist, but Wriothesley doesn’t move faster. No, he keeps the same, even pace—just gentle enough to be the wickedest tease.

Beneath him, Neuvillette shifts. His hips move in restless jerks, trying to encourage more out of Wriothesley, but his mate is persistent, his focus unwavering.

“Gently,” he murmurs against Neuvillette’s lips, taking his mouth in another kiss, long and deep.

One hand pulls down Neuvillette’s side, fingers whispering over the ladder of his ribs, and Neuvillette twists into that touch. Wriothesley’s cock slides over his vent, pushes between his own cocks, and he thinks this might be a little unfair to his mate. Neuvillette will almost certainly enjoy himself, but Wriothesley—

Wriothesley bites his lower lip, and Neuvillette jerks almost violently beneath him. With a soft chuckle, Wriothesley pulls his tongue over Neuvillette’s lip to soothe the sting of his bite, and Neuvillette whines.

“Focus on me, sweetness,” Wriothesley croons, and that pet name, that absurd pet name, is its own caress, visceral and sweet. It has grown on him over this past week, worming beneath his defenses—he has never cared much for pet names, finding them saccharine and presumptive. But on Wriothesley’s lips, that word is a promise.

Neuvillette hums in response, arching beneath Wriothesley’s touch, and Wriothesley turns his lips to Neuvillette’s neck. He has learned that Neuvillette is particularly susceptible to biting kisses at the crook of his shoulder, and he turns there now. Lips and teeth pull and Neuvillette’s skin, leaving him aching, leaving him burning.

More pressure builds between his legs, and he groans as the egg shifts more within him. He needs—he needs more. More touch, more pleasure, more of Wriothesley.

“Wriothesley,” he breathes, tipping his head back, giving Wriothesley even more of his skin.

Wriothesley shifts, going to his knees over Neuvillette’s body. The hand that pulled down his body drifts across his hips, painting fire over his sensitive skin. His palm drags over Neuvillette’s hard cocks, stroking back and forth over them both. The friction is exquisite agony, the pleasure somehow sharp and almost cutting.

Though Neuvillette arches into that touch, Wriothesley offers him no more than that slow drag, that lingering friction. It’s enough to have him going half mad. He needs, and that need is rapidly eclipsing reason as the egg shifts yet again, pressing low in Neuvillette’s belly.

A groan catches in his throat.

Abruptly, Wriothesley draws back. “Sit up, baby.”

That pet name, too, was such a nuisance at the start of their week. Infantilizing. Repugnant. But now when Wriothesley murmurs those two syllables, they are laden with affection, with the desire to give, to pleasure. To protect and hold and—cherish.

Neuvillette sits, but sitting is not enough. With a whine, he crawls to his knees, spreading them wide.

Wriothesley watches him for a minute and then slides behind him.

Immediately, Neuvillette winds his tail around Wriothesley’s waist, pulling him close as he curves over Neuvillette’s back. One of Wriothesley’s hands presses to Neuvillette’s sternum. The other drifts back between his legs to where Neuvillette’s cocks drip with precum, leaking down soft skin to leave small stains on the bedsheets.

They have changed the sheets multiple times throughout the week, and one of Wriothesley’s trips out was to buy a new set. They will ruin this set of sheets as well, Neuvillette is certain.  

“How’s this?” Wriothesley asks, pushing two fingers into Neuvillette’s vent as his thumb rubs over the base of his cocks. “Is this what you need?”

Neuvillette whines again, rolling his hips into Wriothesley’s fingers, pushing them deeper. Though Wriothesley has touched him so many times this past week just like this, it remains a somewhat strange feeling to have fingers pushing into him where they so rarely can. “Yes,” he breathes, throwing his head back and resting it on Wriothesley’s shoulder.

Wriothesley’s cock is a hot, hard line against the curve of his ass, and Neuvillette groans. That Wriothesley is at all turned on at the moment is—well, perhaps it isn’t surprising. Wriothesley has proven himself more than eager time and time again, but he hasn’t yet confronted the reality of a dragon in a hybrid form laying an egg.

Neuvillette is already too worked up to be particularly nervous about that. He aches, he needs, and Wriothesley fucks his fingers into Neuvillette’s vent with a single-minded intensity, as though he, too, is a dragon and understands the urgency possessing Neuvillette.

Slick drips from Neuvillette’s vent. It drips down his thighs in thick rivulets. It is wet and obscene, and nothing has ever made Neuvillette so hard. Even passing eggs on his own in centuries past wasn’t half as arousing as this.

“Come on, baby,” Wriothesley murmurs against his ear. “Show me how well I bred you.”

Neuvillette cries out, his hands grasping at Wriothesley’s thighs as he comes all at once, shocked by the aching pleasure of Wriothesley’s words. His claws dig too deep into skin; he inhales the faint, coppery scent of blood, but when he goes to pull back, Wriothesley catches one of his wrists.

“All good, sweetness. I like a little bite.”

Ah, ah, but those words, they don’t mean what Neuvillette so desperately wants them to mean, but he turns his face into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck anyway. Drags his teeth over Wriothesley’s throat anyway. Moans and fucks himself harder onto Wriothesley’s fingers.

And Wriothesley has learned him well. Within minutes, Neuvillette rides that sweet edge once more, only to tumble over it a second time. His cocks twitch, and cum drips down them, mingling with the slick between his legs as Wriothesley fucks him with unrelenting intensity.

As Neuvillette’s muscles clench and contract, the egg pushes lower, a sweet pressure that has him gasping. “Wriothesley.”

“I’ve got you.” The words are a reassuring rumble. Wriothesley has no idea what he’s doing, but he still offers assurances. Kindness. Affection.

Neuvillette whines, back bowing, tail squeezing him tighter. Wriothesley’s name becomes a chant, pouring from his lips like honey.

The pressure of the egg moving through his body triggers another orgasm, this one dry as his cocks are only half hard, but he doesn’t care. The pleasure is blinding, it’s body-shaking, it leaves him trembling and moaning, and Wriothesley’s hands are still on him, still holding him. The fingers in his vent keep petting him.

“Do I need to stop?”

“No,” Neuvillette gasps, and Wriothesley doesn’t. “Wriothesley, please. Please, I need—I need—” He groans. “I want you inside me.” Except he wants Wriothesley buried in his vent, fucking the egg back into him. “Want your cum on my thighs.” He’s too far gone to be embarrassed, too far gone to care about how crass and uncouth these words are. He is a raw, aching nerve desperate for more.

Wriothesley groans. “Fuck. Fuck, Neuvillette, you—you really don’t.”

He doesn’t, but he does, and that dichotomy is exquisite agony.

“Breed me,” Neuvillette begs, driving Wriothesley’s fingers deep with the snapping of his hips. “Breed me, Wriothesley, I need you to—”

Wriothesley tips back his chin and seizes his mouth in an awkward kiss. He pulls his sticky fingers from Neuvillette’s vent, pressing the heel of his hand against Neuvillette’s belly, and Neuvillette sobs against Wriothesley’s mouth as he comes, as his body seizes up, as pleasure scalds him, drowns him, sweeps him out to an impossible sea.

The egg pushes through his channel, sliding down, down, down, spreading Neuvillette wide. With every clench of his muscles, it travels lower, and the pressure of it is as exquisite as Wriothesley’s fingers inside him, as Wriothesley’s cock carving through him.

He whimpers, he moans, he tears his mouth from Wriothesley’s to gasp for air and keen his mate’s name.

Slick heat burns through him as the egg passes. It hits the bed with a quiet plop, and Neuvillette sags against Wriothesley’s body with an agonized groan. His body still shudders with pleasure, and Wriothesley bundles him close, looking over his shoulder to study the egg.

Neuvillette does not care about the egg. It isn’t important, but Wriothesley is, and he presses closer to Wriothesley, trying to push beneath his very skin.

Gently, Wriothesley eases back, falling against the headboard. He pulls Neuvillette with him, leaving the egg forgotten on the bed. Two fingers press against Neuvillette’s jaw, urging their mouths back together.

Between drugging kisses, Wriothesley purrs out praises. “So good,” he murmurs. “You did so good, baby, the way you gave us that egg.” Neuvillette keens senselessly, reaching for one of Wriothesley’s hands.

Lacing their fingers, Wriothesley sips more kisses from Neuvillette’s lips. “That was so hot, sweetness. The way you moved, the sounds you made.” He growls, biting at Neuvillette’s lower lip, and Neuvillette slowly realizes that Wriothesley isn’t hard anymore, either.

Drawing back, he stares at his mate, confused. “You…?”

“Me.” Wriothesley gives him a lopsided smile.

“You’re not… You were hard.”

And for the first time in a week, a flush steals across Wriothesley’s face. He chokes on an embarrassed laugh. “Let’s just say that, uh, I am really into all your weird dragon shit.”

Neuvillette exhales, curling into Wriothesley’s chest. “Thank you,” he says.

Wriothesley makes a startled sound. “For what?” he asks, as though this has been no imposition on him, as if Neuvillette hasn’t taken him from his duties and his life for a week.

“For—being here. With me. Through all of this.”

A rueful laugh. “Neuvillette, you’ve got to believe me when I say it was my pleasure.”

And in the haze of post-coitus bliss, with an egg on his bed and his body exhausted at last from the passing of his heat, Neuvillette does.

Chapter Text

Sigewinne is waiting for him when he returns to the Fortress.

Wriothesley gives her a narrow-eyed look. “What are you lurking here for?”

“You,” she replies, falling in beside him, practically bouncing with every step. “You’ve been gone for a week.”

And he knows she knows. It’s the glint in her eyes, the pull of her lips, the smug expression settling over her face. “I was.”

“You need an exam.”

He rakes a hand through his hair. “It’s not as if I was plowing my way through the Court, Sigewinne. I was with one person.”

“Uh-huh. Still need an exam.” She doesn’t drag him. She doesn’t have to. Wriothesley accepts his fate and follows her to the infirmary. This late in the evening, it’s abandoned—and he wonders if he shouldn’t have left Neuvillette so soon. But with the laying of the egg, everything seemed to take care of itself, and he hadn’t wanted to overstay his welcome. So he left with a promise to check in on Neuvillette at the Palais the following day, hoping that would be enough.

At the infirmary, Sigewinne pokes and prods, examining him in ways that only a Melusine can. When she’s finished, she grins at him.

He braces himself.

“So,” she says.

“So,” he replies, wary.

“Was it everything you’ve dreamed?”

He glares at her. “I’m not discussing my—my private life with you.”

Sigewinne leers at him. It’s not an impolite leer—as far as a leer can be polite at all—it’s more knowing. “No one’s ever spent a week with—”

“I know,” he hisses, glancing pointedly at the very thin sheet that separates the bed he’s on from all the others. It’s late in the day, late enough that most people have left the infirmary for their bunks, but there’s at least one person still in here with them, and Wriothesley doesn’t need anyone knowing his personal emergency was fucking the Chief Justice incoherent for a week. “He told me.”

Sigewinne’s leer turns into a wicked sort of smile. “You’re special.”

He is, and he knows it, but he doesn’t think that’s going to amount to anything. “Whatever,” he says, blowing her off and hopping off the edge of the bed. “We’re good here, yeah?”

She touches his arm, stopping him. Her expression turns serious. “His biology is unique.” She knows. Of course she knows. He’d bet all the Melusines know. “Did you use protection?”

He wants to die. “I didn’t—Not—” Swallowing thickly, he bends toward her, pitching his voice very low. “We didn’t fertilize any eggs, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Nodding, she withdraws. “Good. Glad to know you weren’t an idiot.”

He rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Sigewinne.”

With that, he leaves the infirmary behind. It’s late, yes, but a week’s worth of work has piled up in his office, and it’s not so late that he can’t get something done, even though he’s bone-tired. The exhaustion catches up to him as he’s halfway up the stairs, sinking into his muscles and dragging on his eyes.

Pausing, he rubs thumb and forefinger into closed eyes and wonders if he is an idiot. If he should’ve just turned Neuvillette down gently and left him to his own devices for a week. Except he remembers Neuvillette’s face in the early light of that first morning, vulnerable and needy, and he knows he would do the same thing over and over again. Every time Neuvillette goes into heat, Wriothesley wants to be there for him, wants to help him. Not just because the sex was good—it was—but because it’s Neuvillette.

He’s fucked. He’s so fucked.

A week of fucking Neuvillette to tears and senseless pleading definitely didn’t help him separate out his crush from all his other feelings.

Crush.

Hah. Who’s he kidding? This isn’t a crush, isn’t some youthful infatuation. This is—He’s been in love with Neuvillette for a long time, and he doesn’t know what changed. Doesn’t know why Neuvillette suddenly noticed him.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Wriothesley forces himself up the last few steps. Forces himself to his desk, where he collapses into his chair. Papers and folders are piled high on the surface of his desk, but he barely notices them.

Was he just a convenient body? No, he doesn’t think so. If Neuvillette wanted a convenient body, he had his pick. Plenty of people in Fontaine would willingly climb into the Iudex’s bed and do whatever he wanted.

You are the first. I have always seen to myself.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley breathes, slouching in his chair, sprawling in it until he’s borderline uncomfortable.

He can’t get his hopes up, but he’s also not going to let Neuvillette run away. Not this time. He has no doubt that Neuvillette will cancel their meeting tomorrow afternoon, has no doubt Neuvillette will try to avoid him as he’s done before. He can respect that. He can understand it. So he’ll give Neuvillette a day, maybe two, but that’s it. Neuvillette doesn’t get to hide this time. This time, they both face reality, consequences be damned.

Wriothesley would be a fool to let this go.

He touches his fingers to his chest, imagining he can feel Neuvillette’s Hydro energy coalescing there.

He’s been fool enough for one lifetime. No more.

Neuvillette returns to work the day after his heat passes. The gestionnaires express their relief that he is feeling better, and the Melusines give him pointed looks while offering him similar well-wishes laden with innuendo. They, of course, see Wriothesley’s elemental energy all over him, an intimacy that Neuvillette cannot wash away. And, secretly, he does not wish to. It is pleasant to wear Wriothesley’s scent and power, even now that he is not half out of his mind with lust and need.

That does not stop him from immediately rearranging his schedule and Wriothesley’s. He cancels the meeting Wriothesley has booked for later that first day—and the one for the following day. Distantly, he wonders how Wriothesley managed to get on his calendar so quickly, but he dismisses the thought, wanting to put Wriothesley from his mind entirely.

Their time together has passed, and Neuvillette…

He does try to be honest with himself, so he can acknowledge, in the silence of his own mind, that he is afraid of Wriothesley knowing the truth of who he is. Granted, he does not try overmuch to hide his identity. The absurdities of his existence keep the people of Fontaine guessing at what he really is—but they only guess. Wriothesley knows. Wriothesley knows him in a way no one else does. To be known, to be seen, to be stripped of his artifices and his manners and to be exposed for what he truly is…

Neuvillette swallows.

He does not wish for Wriothesley to see him again. Is afraid of Wriothesley’s reaction if he does. Now, with space between them, with the distance of time and the diminishing of lust, Wriothesley will almost certainly regard him with disdain.

Wriothesley knows his deepest secrets, and Neuvillette cannot bear the intimacy of that knowledge.

Especially when he continues to fight his overactive instincts. He went through a heat, a real heat, without claiming his mate, and his body revolts against him in punishment. A headache throbs behind his eyes and need pounds in his veins. He wants, he wants, he wants, even now. This last bit of his heat is unfulfilled, and it lingers beneath his skin.

If he gave in, if he marked Wriothesley, this aching need would abate, but he cannot bring this to Wriothesley. What is he to say? Ah, but the words spring to his mind easily: Your Grace, you saw every inch of my body, observed all but one of my secrets, and fucked me within a gasping breath of my own sanity, and I would like to keep you for the rest of your mortal life.

Even he, with his poor understanding of human culture and emotion, knows that one does not go from casually fucking someone to proposing marriage.

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Neuvillette exhales heavily.

They should, he knows, have a conversation about his heat. About how that can never happen again. Wriothesley can never come to him in his need again, can never service him like that.

He exhales again, his breath shaking.

Wriothesley asked him if he was comfortable, if he wanted Wriothesley with him, but Neuvillette never extended the same courtesy. Never once thought to ensure Wriothesley wanted to be there. Ah, but would Wriothesley have stayed if he did not? Wriothesley is not the type of man to force himself to remain in an unpalatable situation.

Neuvillette’s heart pounds heavy and hard against the cage of his ribs.

Would it be fair to assume, then, that Wriothesley wanted as Neuvillette did? That Wriothesley desired? That he craved?

The ache of need spreads through him, and Neuvillette groans. Two days out from his heat and sex should be the last thing on his mind. Yet here he sits, thinking on Wriothesley, on Wriothesley’s desire, and his own burns in response.

A knock sounds against Neuvillette’s office door.

“Come,” he calls, not looking up from a docket spread open on his desk. There is much to catch up on, and he is glad he heeded Sedene’s advice and didn’t try to do more before his heat.

Sedene enters, kicking the door shut behind her, and holding a pile of papers in her hands. As she approaches, Neuvillette realizes the pile is a considerable amount of mail. “Monsieur,” she greets.

Neuvillette refuses to let himself groan. He has too much to manage to deal with correspondence, even official correspondence, but he supposes he will find a way to manage. He always does. And now that he’s not addled by his heat, he’ll be able to work his usual—long—hours. Hours that will distract him from Wriothesley.

“Sedene. Good morning.” He sets his pen down as she approaches his desk and heaves the letters onto its surface.

The pile tips over and pools across the surface, a swamp of words and needs. Exhaustion lays itself across Neuvillette’s shoulders, a heavy and familiar blanket.

“How are you feeling?” she asks as she sets her hands on her hips. “Better?”

He offers her a wan smile. “Much. Thank you for your concern.” He hopes that will be the end of the discussion, but he knows it won’t be.

“I heard that Duke Wriothesley had a personal emergency last week,” Sedene says, tipping her head to one side and giving Neuvillette a long, knowing look.

The wan smile turns a little fragile. He is not ashamed that he spent his heat with Wriothesley—and even now, the memory is warm in his gut, sweet and aching—but that isn’t something he wants to discuss with Sedene. Or any of the Melusines with their sly smiles. “Sedene,” he says with a sigh.

She beams at him. “So it was him. It’s his Cryo energy all over you.”

Neuvillette resists the urge to put his face into his hands and—cry? Scream? One of the two. Maybe both. Keeping his composure, his smile turning even more fragile, he says nothing.

“Well,” Sedene says. “Congratulations.”

His smile falters. “Congratulations?”

She makes a vague gesture with one hand. “For figuring out whatever’s been going on between the two of you.”

He stares at her.

She stares back.

With a heavy sigh, Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sedene, nothing has been going on between us. His Grace is—a friend. And he helped me through my heat as a kindness, not out of anything… more.”

Sedene continues to stare back at him. “A friend.”

Neuvillette lowers his hand, wary. Sedene watches him with a shark-like intensity, calculating and dangerous. “A friend,” he repeats.

And then she sighs, putting her hands back on her hips. “Respectfully, Monsieur, friends don’t help friends through heats—”

Neuvillette presses his lips together to bite back an indignant retort.

“—and, the last time I checked, you don’t have friends.” She doesn’t say it cruelly, and the words don’t cut him. She is right: he does not have friends. “What is it you always say about personal entanglements?”

He waves her off. “I find it best to avoid interpersonal relationships.”

“And especially romantic entanglements.”

“What exists between His Grace and me—” He breaks off at the severe expression on her face.

“I know you’re not about to tell me that you have no romantic interest in Duke Wriothesley,” Sedene says, so severe that he is momentarily taken aback. She gentles, but only a little. “Monsieur, you have never once allowed anyone to help you through one of your heats. You have always dealt with them on your own. In all the centuries of your life, even before coming to the Court, did you ever let someone else help?”

He stares at his desk without seeing it. “No.”

“You can lie to yourself as much as you want, Monsieur,” she says, gentle as a spring breeze. “But you owe His Grace some honesty about your feelings. And, I think, if you misstep here, you’ll lose your last chance.”

He looks up at her, wild-eyed and surprised—and afraid. “What do you mean?”

“A human can only wait so long.” She shrugs. “And he’s been waiting a very long time.”

Neuvillette’s fingers curl against his desk, claws cutting divots in the wood.

“Well,” she says abruptly, clapping her hands together. “We all know that heat was too soon by several months.”

“Excuse me?” Neuvillette demands, aghast at the idea that Sedene—or any of the Melusines—might be tracking his cycles.

“Will this impact your regular cycle?”

He stares at her, rather wishing a hole would open in the floor beneath him and take him straight to the Abyss. “No,” he grits out.

“So, will you ask His Grace to help you again in…” She taps her thumbs against her paw, counting to herself. “Hm, five months? Six?”

Six.

He salivates at the thought, at the very idea that Wriothesley might be willing to come to his nest again, to tangle around him, to fill him, to fuck him. To—to—No.

“Sedene.”

She smiles up at him. “Monsieur?”

“If you have nothing else to deliver, I do have quite a bit of work to get to,” he says, maintaining his calm.

She shrugs and skips a little as she makes her way toward the office door. “I’m sure he’d be happy to help you with anything and everything,” Sedene says over her shoulder. And as she opens that door, she adds, “And you could talk about that with him right now, if you wanted!”

She throws open the door to reveal a startled Wriothesley, and Neuvillette wonders if he can’t just leave. If he can’t simply rise from his seat, walk out of his office, walk out of the Palais, and keep walking until he reaches a place where no one has ever heard of him and he is, at last, at peace.

But then he wouldn’t have Wriothesley, wouldn’t have his—He cuts that thought off.

Another occurs to him, filling the void: he has cancelled all his meetings with Wriothesley. Which means Sedene is conspiring against him. He presses his lips into a fine line.

Wriothesley glances down at Sedene before stepping into Neuvillette’s office. He shuts the door behind him, and Neuvillette tenses.

Everything in him screams to go to his mate, to embrace him, to bury his face in his neck and breathe in the leather and tea scent of him. He wants to be held, he craves it. His body aches and yearns, but he holds himself still behind his desk, unmoving.

“Wriothesley,” he says, and he immediately wishes he had used Wriothesley’s title instead.

“Neuvillette.” Wriothesley hooks his foot around the leg of a chair, tugging it away from Neuvillette’s desk, and then drops onto it. “Have you been avoiding me for the past two days?”

Yes.

“Whatever left you with that impression?” Neuvillette asks.

Wriothesley gives him a long and measuring look, and Neuvillette keeps his face schooled into a mask of neutrality.

“Gee, Neuvillette, I don’t know. The cancelled meetings? The juggling of your trial schedule? The way you saw me at the Opera Epiclese yesterday and ducked down a side hall? It may have taken me way too long to realize you’re the—” He breaks off, glancing over his shoulder. “To realize you are what you are, but I’m not stupid, Neuvillette. I know when someone’s avoiding me.”

Neuvillette presses his lips into a thin line. He expected that Wriothesley would confront him, but not so soon. Not after only a handful of days.

“So, tell me. Did I do something wrong?”

Neuvillette startles. “No,” he says quickly.

“Then why are you closing every door in my face?” Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair and shifts to the edge of his seat. He holds out both hands, imploring, emphatic. “Every time I’ve tried to—to show my interest—”

Neuvillette freezes.

“—you’ve shut me down. But I figured, you know, after we spent a week together, that maybe something was different. You’re not the kind of man who uses people, Neuvillette. You wouldn’t have—” He breaks off, hands dropping. His head droops, too, and Neuvillette’s heart aches. It cleaves, the sight of Wriothesley’s frustration and distress a bitter lance through the core of his very being.

He has hurt his mate. In his foolishness, he has hurt his mate, and he—he aches.

“Every time?” he says, focusing on that because the pain is less.

Wriothesley looks up with a twisted, almost despondent smile. “For years, Monsieur,” he says. “Ever since you congratulated me on my Vision.”

Neuvillette is stunned, and he cannot hide it, cannot keep his expression neutral. His lips part, and his eyes widen, and he knows his shock is written across his face. “I… genuinely had not noticed,” he admits, aghast. “I am not particularly skilled at recognizing human emotion or even intent. I…”

“What changed?” Wriothesley asks. And then he grimaces, looking away. “Sorry. Shouldn’t assume something did.”

If you misstep here, you’ll lose your last chance.

He was unaware of all his chances, but he sees them, now: quiet moments between important words and the grand gestures of their station, the almost touches and the long and lingering looks. Offers to escort Neuvillette from the Opera Epiclese to the Court proper, of dinner when they worked late into the evening together. The hesitation every time Wriothesley left his presence.

And he remembers, too, all those words Wriothesley whispered to him that he dismissed as bedroom talk. Soft and gentle promises. Sweet, midnight vows made in the safety of the darkness. Chances and opportunities Neuvillette did not take.

A chance that, now, could slip from his fingers like so much water.

Wriothesley wants to know what changed. And the truth is that, until this very moment, nothing had. But, now, Neuvillette realizes he stands on the last edge of a wonderful thing, and if he does not step over that edge, he will lose that which he craves most. Connection. The end of his own, self-imposed isolation.

For years, Wriothesley has reached out to him, and Neuvillette has not seen or has turned away. Now, he steps over that edge. He reaches across the chasm.

In that moment, Neuvillette changes.

“No, you are correct.”

And Wriothesley looks back to him, his expression caught somewhere between hope and terror, and Neuvillette is acutely aware that he holds Wriothesley’s heart in his hands. This organ that is so delicate, that Neuvillette cherishes, he cradles in his palms. He tries to tell himself that it is not so different a power from the ability to condemn or pardon those who come through his court, but it is. It is dizzying, knowing that he commands such a terrifying power. One wrong word, and he could crush Wriothesley’s heart.

Neuvillette cants his head to the side, a faint smile on his lips. “You began to court me as a dragon does his mate, and I… I saw you.”

Silent, Wriothesley simply stares at him.

The moment is as fragile as Wriothesley’s human heart—as Neuvillette’s draconic one.

“You offered me protection when I was accosted by the man in the Fortress—Donatien, was it?”

Wriothesley nods.

“Not only did you defend me, but you fought for my honor, as a dragon would.” Neuvillette, pushes his chair back slowly. Begins to rise from behind his desk. “It has been so long since someone protected me, Your Grace.” He purrs the title, turns it into a promise, a caress, and Wriothesley, his eyes fixed on Neuvillette, shudders. “Did I need your protection? No, of course not. But did I—do I—crave it? Oh, yes. It was wonderful to be protected, to be cared for.” Neuvillette comes around the corner of his desk and finds his words pour from him. He is often verbose but rarely effusive; now, he is both, his confession a torrent that he cannot hold back. Words are a river in his mouth, winding from his heart to the ocean of the world. “And then you began to care for me in other ways. You bought me pretty things.”

“Just one thing,” Wriothesley interjects, as if defending himself.

Neuvillette inclines his head. “But it was a meaningful gift. You bought me food, seeking to care for me, to ensure I ate well. It was chance to meet that night in the rain, but you offered me your umbrella and your ear, and you…” He struggles to find the right words. “As Iudex, I am listened to, but I am rarely heard. The people of Fontaine want my judgment, my discernment, but they do not want me.”

Wriothesley’s lips part. “I want—” He cuts himself off. Clears his throat. “I want you,” he says, and his voice trembles not with uncertainty but with feeling.

Neuvillette drifts away from his desk to stand before Wriothesley, more naked than he was when Wriothesley returned to his townhome with food, more bare than when he gave Wriothesley his hybrid form. There is no artifice in him. To Wriothesley, he offers more honesty and more of himself than he has ever given another person.

It is terrifying. It is freeing. It is horrifying and breathtaking in equal measure, a great and terrible exhilaration.

Breathless, Neuvillette reaches out. Wriothesley does not duck away from him, and Neuvillette fingers alight on Wriothesley’s jaw.

“I have never been good at discerning my own wants,” Neuvillette says softly. “I have sublimated them for Fontaine for centuries. But since that day in Meropide, Wriothesley, you have been in my thoughts at every waking moment. I did not lie to you when I told you I took no other lover in my heats. You were the first.”

Wriothesley swallows hard.

“And I would have you be the last. The only.”

Wriothesley’s eyes go wide. The scent of him fills the air—hope, excitement, desire—redolent and sweet, intoxicating.

“But I am not human,” Neuvillette continues.

“Yeah,” Wriothesley rasps. “I—I’m pretty aware of that.”

“I am an immortal Sovereign.”

A slight grin tugs at Wriothesley’s face. “Honestly, that only makes you more attractive.”

Neuvillette cannot help but laugh ever so softly, ever so dryly. “You continue to take this well.”

“Helps that I’ve been—I’ve wanted you for the better part of a decade.” Wriothesley curls his fingers around Neuvillette’s wrists, holding his hands in place as he turns his head and presses a kiss to one palm and then the other. “And, at the risk of being sappy or melodramatic, but I’d happily take those ten years you gave me and spend them with you.”

Neuvillette’s heart does something strange in his chest, squeezing and leaping at the same time, twisting and throbbing and aching, but it is a pleasant ache. Like the ache of desire, he craves more of it. It uplifts him, buoys him. “You would give me the rest of your days?” he asks softly.

“As many as I have.”

And Neuvillette wants them. Not just because he’s so very lonely and he’s tired of being separate and apart, but because it’s Wriothesley. Wriothesley who has cared for him for so long, who has pursued him even in Neuvillette’s ignorance, who gives and gives. “I am only sorry that I did not realize sooner.”

Wriothesley offers him a wry smile. “Well. I suppose when you’re a dragon and expecting certain indications of interest that I wasn’t giving, it’s a fair mistake. I can forgive you. This time.” He squeezes gently around Neuvillette’s wrists. “I think,” he continues, “that we should have a longer conversation about this. About what we want.”

Neuvillette’s heart pounds. Blood surges through his veins.

Mate.

mate mate mate

But he doesn’t want to act on instinct, on what feels to him an impulsive desire. Wriothesley is offering the remainder of his days, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he wants to entangle his very soul with Neuvillette’s own. That is, Neuvillette thinks, part of their longer conversation.

“Yes,” he agrees. “I have little time for an extended conversation right now, and I believe we owe each other that much.”

“Come to the Fortress after you finish working for the day,” Wriothesley suggests. “Come to me.”

“I would be most pleased to do so. I may be quite late, but I promise you I will come.”

No day has crawled by slower. Wriothesley is in agony from the moment he departs the Palais and for every interminable second that follows. He returns to the Fortress and tries to lose himself in his work, but every footstep makes his heart leap in anticipation of Neuvillette’s arrival. He is visited by Sigewinne, by several inmates with problems that arose while he was gone the previous week, by numerous staff. They keep him busy, yes, but he remains hideously distracted, tending to their concerns with only half of his attention.

By dinner, his anticipation starts to turn toward impatience and a little bit of dread. He reminds himself that Neuvillette often works late into the evenings. They hadn’t agreed on a precise time.

Waiting becomes an interminable anguish. He should’ve insisted on something else, on meeting Neuvillette at his townhome, on meeting at a specific time, on hashing everything out in the immediacy of the present instead of waiting until the evening. And the evening stretches into nighttime, neither distinguishable from the other except for the timepiece on Wriothesley’s desk that tick tick ticks like a pounding hammer in the silence of his office.

By eight that evening, he’s certain that Neuvillette isn’t going to come. By nine, he’s pacing his office, berating himself as a fool once more. He gave Neuvillette a chance to run, and Neuvillette is running. In spite of all Neuvillette’s words, he doesn’t want Wriothesley at all, everything is crumbling apart—no. No, that’s fear and anxiety talking, not reality. Wriothesley doesn’t consider himself an anxious person, but the uncertainty claws at him, ripping into him.

And then, at ten, a knock precedes the opening of his office door, and Wriothesley’s heart stops beating. If this is Sigewinne once more, he’s going to perish on the spot.

“Wriothesley?”

That is not Sigewinne’s voice.

Wriothesley goes to the top of the stairs, too many emotions churning in his gut all at once when he takes in the sight of Neuvillette climbing the stairs. Excitement, desire, relief, even more anticipation, something warm and soft and enveloping.

“Neuvillette,” he says, and he feels like he should do something. Reach out a hand—too impersonal. Take Neuvillette into his arms and kiss him senseless—too forward. So in lieu of doing something, he does nothing, just stands there like an idiot.

Neuvillette offers him a small smile. “Wriothesley.” And his world crashes down around him, evaporating like so much smoke in a breeze. The way he’d give anything for Neuvillette to smile like that again. “Forgive me for being so late. There was much to do.”

“No, it’s nothing,” Wriothesley assures him, even though he was about thirty seconds from a complete mental break. “I’m glad you’re here.” He glances at the office space, a frown tugging at his lips. “Let’s—Not here. Come with me?”

Neuvillette inclines his head.

Together, they leave Wriothesley’s office and make their way through the Fortress. Wriothesley does his best to dodge gardes, not wanting anyone to see them together so late at night and not in his office and make assumptions about their relationship, especially when they haven’t clearly defined that relationship. It takes a little longer than usual to navigate the corridors of the Fortress, but they make it to Wriothesley’s private apartment without being seen, and that matters more to Wriothesley than speed.

He ushers Neuvillette into the apartment, following him inside. It’s a simple space, as metallic and industrial as the rest of the Fortress, with a small kitchen and slightly larger living space attached to a bedroom and bathroom. The whole place is lavishly decorated, a relic of the previous administrator’s tenure, with brocade and leather that doesn’t exactly match but screams of wealth.

Neuvillette pauses just inside the door, surveying the space with a critical eye. “This does not feel like you,” he says, “even though it smells like you.”

Wriothesley laughs. “Never got around to redecorating after I chased the previous administrator out,” he admits. “Always meant to, but the timing’s never worked out. All I did was replace the bedsheets.”

“Good,” Neuvillette says, striding deeper into the space. “I would hate to smell another man’s scent on your sheets.”

Startled, Wriothesley’s eyes go wide. He follows after Neuvillette, not entirely certain he heard him right. “I—I hope you know I don’t expect you to—to stay the night.” Or sleep with him.

Neuvillette settles in one of the too-large leather armchairs, perched on it like a bird on a branch, utterly out of place. He is elegant and ethereal, and the furniture in Wriothesley’s apartment is heavy and thick. “There is no expectation,” Neuvillette says, watching Wriothesley as he settles in the opposite chair. “But I should hope that we both find this conversation productive and…” He glances aside, lacing his fingers in his lap and squeezing them together. “I would be lying if I said I have not imagined sleeping in your bed, surrounded by your scent.”

Well, then.

With his heart doing physiologically impossible things, Wriothesley manages a grin. “I think we can arrange that.”

A tension drains out of Neuvillette. “I am most relieved.” He turns back to Wriothesley, expression expectant, and Wriothesley realizes he’s going to have to guide this conversation.

Which tracks, really. Neuvillette has probably taken other lovers, but he’s definitely never allowed them to be more, not if he hasn’t taken them in his heats.

Wriothesley leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and studies Neuvillette’s face. “I meant what I said in your office,” he says, figuring this is as good a place as any. “The rest of my days…” He realizes, abruptly, how much that sounds like a proposal. “How much do you know about human courtship?”

“Very little.” Neuvillette crosses his legs at the knee, regarding Wriothesley with a serious expression—and Wriothesley supposes he knows about as much about dragon courtship as Neuvillette knows about what humans do.

“We spend a decent amount of time getting to know each other to determine if we’re compatible,” Wriothesley explains.

“Upwards of ten years?” Neuvillette asks.

Wriothesley chokes and then laughs. “You know, you’re not wrong.” He sobers. “But that was me, not you. We take time to get to know each other, as much as we want, though most people think that—that a proposal should come a few years into the relationship.”

Neuvillette lifts a brow. “Then should I be proposing to you?”

Sputtering with more laughter, Wriothesley sinks back into the armchair, trying not to think of how much he’d love for Neuvillette to propose to him. “I’ve had ten years to marinate in my feelings, but you haven’t.”

Something strange crosses Neuvillette’s face. “No,” he says slowly, delicately.

Wriothesley decides to move past it. “Depending on the couple, an engagement can last a year or more, but usually people move quickly to marriage.”

“Which is impermanent,” Neuvillette says, still delicate in his tone.

Wriothesley nods. “We can divorce.” He studies Neuvillette’s face. “Is that not something dragons do?”

Neuvillette rests his hands on his knees. “Dragons do not marry,” he says.

That’s a blow. It hits Wriothesley heavy like a gardemek’s attack. “Oh.”

Neuvillette’s head tips to one side. “Dragons take mates, Wriothesley. And it is for life. There is no divorce.”

His eyes go wide. “Oh.” That’s a different kind of blow entirely. The rest of my days. He meant those words then. He means them even now, even in light of that revelation. All of Wriothesley’s remaining days, every last one of the, he’d lay at Neuvillette’s feet. “That… doesn’t change anything for me,” he says slowly, realizing what he’s offering, what he’s saying. “I told you the rest of my days are yours. I mean that.”

Neuvillette goes preternaturally still, utterly frozen. “Mating is more than marriage,” he says, hesitant, venturing the words carefully. “It is permanent because it binds two souls together into eternity. It is not undertaken lightly, and I—” He presses his lips together. “Humans can be inconstant.”

“Yeah,” Wriothesley agrees. “We can be.” He pushes on. “What do you mean, binds two souls?”

“Just that. A dragon’s mating bite is as ethereal as it is physical. If we were to become mates—” Something flickers in Neuvillette’s expression. Pain? Longing? Wriothesley can’t discern the emotion, though he desperately wants to. “—we would belong to each other for the rest of time.”

“Does that mean I’d be immortal?”

Neuvillette spreads his hands and shakes his head. “I do not know. Perhaps immortality. Perhaps all your reincarnations would be soul bound to me. Regardless, I… fear the impact of eternity on you, Wriothesley.”

It’s not rejection. Someone else might read it that way, but Wriothesley doesn’t. Concern etches into Neuvillette’s features, a tenderness that suggests something deeper than passing affection.

Wriothesley’s heart clenches.

“Then how about this,” he says, rising from the chair and crossing to Neuvillette. “How about we keep courting each other? How about we be lovers, no strings attached?”

Neuvillette looks up at him. “Perhaps… a few strings.”

Now, Wriothesley’s heart thunders. “Yeah?”

“If you were a dragon, Wriothesley, I would not hesitate to mark you.”

He goes to his knees at Neuvillette’s side, unable to remain standing, and he wonders if Neuvillette realizes how much he’s said. No, that’s stupid. Of course Neuvillette knows. Neuvillette says nothing without careful thought and consideration. He always knows the impact of his words.

“Shit, Neuvillette, you can’t just say something like that,” he says, his voice a rough rasp.

Neuvillette touches his gloved fingers to Wriothesley’s jaw. “It is the truth. Having you with me for the past week… It is difficult to admit that I want something, Wriothesley. But I do want.”

And Neuvillette wants him.

“Let us be lovers,” Neuvillette says, smoothing his hand over Wriothesley’s jaw. “Let us be each other’s only lover.” A soft growl underscores his words, and a thrill goes through Wriothesley. Neuvillette is a covetous creature, then. Jealousy—a healthy, normal amount of jealousy—looks good on him. “And let us revisit the conversation around mating bites in the future.”

“How long in the future?” Wriothesley asks, because he knows what he wants now, and he knows that he, at least, is not inconstant. He won’t change. He needs to know how long he has to wait.

“It is six months until my next heat. Hardly enough time to consider—”

“That’s plenty of time,” Wriothesley says. He lifts his hand to Neuvillette’s wrist, gently coaxing back the cuff of his coat to reveal pale skin. With his eyes fixed on Neuvillette’s he turns his face and presses a soft kiss to softer skin. “Six months to impress you with my prowess.”

A smile twitches the corners of Neuvillette’s lips upwards. “I am already well impressed.”

Heat shudders through Wriothesley. Hunger churns in his belly, and his cock twitches. “Six months to convince you that I want eternity, then,” Wriothesley says, his voice low and throaty. “To convince you to fall in love with me.”

Neuvillette inhales sharply, understanding bright in his eyes. “I am not human,” he reminds Wriothesley, as if Wriothesley needs reminding. “You may not want a dragon in your bed when we are both clear minded.”

“I’d say I’m pretty clear minded tonight. Let me convince you.” Wriothesley stretches upward, catching Neuvillette’s chin in his fingers. Gently, he draws Neuvillette downward. The angle and position are awkward, but their lips meet in an easy kiss, little more than a press of warm mouths. And even so, Wriothesley’s heart pounds in his chest. By the time they pull back—a small eternity later—he’s breathless. “Stay?”

There is vulnerability on Neuvillette’s face, uncertainty. But then his fingers brush through Wriothesley’s hair. “I had hoped for such an invitation,” he says, “and have already cleared my early morning meetings to accommodate your request.”

With a wry laugh, Wriothesley rocks to his feet. “You could just say yes.” He offers Neuvillette his hand.

“Then, yes,” Neuvillette says.

Drawing him close, Wriothesley plies Neuvillette’s lips with inviting kisses, coaxing him from the living room into the small bedroom and then, once they’re both naked, into his bed. This isn’t a test, he knows that, but he treats it like one. The week they spent in Neuvillette’s bed was clouded by lust and too much duty. Oh, the duty was Wriothesley’s pleasure, but, now, he wants to convince Neuvillette that he’s here because he wants to be. Because he desires Neuvillette, weird dragon shit and all.

Especially the weird dragon shit.

Rolling Neuvillette under him, his mouth finds the curve of Neuvillette’s jaw. He presses suckling kisses down the column of Neuvillette’s throat as he slots their bodies together, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled. Neuvillette is hard, and so is he as he pushes himself up, pushes his fingers into the length of Neuvillette’s hair, pushes his tongue into the welcoming heat of Neuvillette’s mouth.

Blunt teeth scrape over his tongue, and a shudder pulls down Wriothesley’s spine. He pulls back, brushing his nose against Neuvillette’s. “Hey,” he says gently. “Do you prefer this form or your hybrid one?”

Neuvillette pulls back, expression stunned. “I—I have—”

“If you tell me you have no preference, I’ll bully Sigewinne.”

Neuvillette’s expression sours. “You would not.”

“Want to try me?”

Turning his face into the pillow, Neuvillette closes his eyes. “My hybrid form.” He shakes his head minutely. “To be in that form is… freeing.”

And, Wriothesley suspects, the exercising of that power over his body extends beyond a simple hybrid form. A question for another day.

He presses a kiss to the corner of Neuvillette’s mouth. “Then let’s have it,” he murmurs.

Neuvillette shoots him a look from the corner of one eye.

“Come on, sweetness,” he croons.

That look turns annoyed.

“You liked my pet names this past week,” Wriothesley reminds him, rolling their hips together until their cocks meet in a sweet slide.

Neuvillette’s lips part on a soft gasp.

“And remember, the alternative is Neuvichou, so—”

“Never again,” Neuvillette hisses, turning to face Wriothesley and wrapping his arms loosely around Wriothesley’s neck, “call me that when we are naked in bed.”

A smug smile pulls across Wriothesley’s lips. “Sweetness.”

With a huff, Neuvillette slides fingers tipped with claws into Wriothesley’s hair. The blue things—

“What are these called?” Wriothesley asks, brushing a finger along the soft, spongy length of blue.

“Rhinophores,” Neuvillette gasps, arching beneath Wriothesley’s body.

—grow longer and begin to glow, lighting up the darkness of Wriothesley’s bedroom. He turns his lips to Neuvillette’s throat, the curve of his neck, his shoulder, and finds pearlescent blue scales scattered over his skin—and he groans when he grinds himself against Neuvillette’s body again to find two cocks and that soft slit between his legs.

With a soft moan, Wriothesley rocks harder into Neuvillette’s body, his cock sliding between both of Neuvillette’s. The heavy weight of Neuvillette’s tail falls over his back. Warm, smooth scales drag over his ass. The finned tip of it drapes between Wriothesley’s legs, curling around one of his ankles.

“Fuck,” he breathes into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck.

Neuvillette’s fingers press against Wriothesley’s head, urging him lower, so he goes down, peppering kisses over Neuvillette’s chest until he finds another smattering of scales. These, he traces with his tongue, licking the edges until Neuvillette’s breath comes in harsher pants, until he’s gasping.

“You truly enjoy this form?” Neuvillette asks, breathless.

Wriothesley bends to one of Neuvillette’s pert nipples, laving it with his tongue until Neuvillette lets out a shuddering moan. “Let me convince you.” He pushes himself lower, easing down Neuvillette’s body with suckling kisses, leaving little red marks across Neuvillette’s abdomen.

Anything. He’ll do anything for Neuvillette, anything to convince him that eternity with Wriothesley, whatever form that takes, is a risk worth taking. His tongue traces lines of muscle, mapping them with hungry licks, until Neuvillette’s hips roll beneath his body. Every arch pushes Neuvillette’s cocks against his abdomen and wets his skin with slick from his slit, and both of those things just string Wriothesley tighter, make him ache even more.

As he shifts lower, one hand presses Neuvillette’s hips into the bed. He holds Neuvillette down as his lips brush along the head of one cock, smearing precum into Neuvillette’s skin. Neuvillette exhales a shaking breath as Wriothesley turns to his other cock and gives it the same treatment. His fingers pull down the slightly ridged length of one, his lips following after—and he goes lower still.

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette sounds as scandalized as he does needy, and his hips arch off the bed, straining against Wriothesley’s hold.

“I want you,” Wriothesley breathes, lifting his face to look up the length of Neuvillette’s body. Glowing blue eyes meet his, that ethereal light enchanting. “I want all of you, from this—” His thumb strokes over those ridges, rubbing down them to the top of Neuvillette’s slit. “—to this.” He presses his thumb against velvety scales, separating the folds of Neuvillette’s slit.

Neuvillette moans. His head falls back, his legs skate wider, and satisfaction curls in Wriothesley’s gut.

His thumb pushes deeper into slick heat, and he pulls Neuvillette’s slit open. In the relative darkness of the bedroom, lit only by Neuvillette’s glowing rhinophores, he can’t see the details of Neuvillette’s body. Doesn’t matter. He can figure things out by feel alone. He slips further down the bed, presses his tongue to the base of Neuvillette’s slit, and licks up the length of it.

The sound Neuvillette makes is achingly obscene, so sweet it goes right to Wriothesley’s cock. He grinds himself against the bed sheets as he collects Neuvillette’s taste on his tongue. Tangy, sharp, a little sweet. Delicious.

He laps at Neuvillette a second time, and Neuvillette’s fingers slide deep into his hair, sharp claws raking gently over his scalp. Good, that’s fucking good.

A third lick. A fourth. Neuvillette’s taste only improves with every touch of Wriothesley’s tongue, and he presses deeper into the bed with the intent to pull Neuvillette’s thighs over his shoulders. As he shifts his body, though, Neuvillette tugs sharply, urgently on his hair.

“Wait,” he gasps.

Wriothesley pauses, turning his face to press suckling kisses to Neuvillette’s thighs. “What do you need, sweetness?” he asks, eager for Neuvillette’s response. Hungry for it.

A shuddering breath from Neuvillette. Another gentle tug. “I—I want you in my mouth. I want to taste you.”

This, Wriothesley thinks, is intended as a distraction. “Then we’re at an impasse, sweetness, because I’ve got no intention of moving anytime soon.”

“These are not mutually exclusive acts,” Neuvillette says, his voice a little strangled, a little tight with his pleasure.

And Wriothesley groans at that, at the very thought of Neuvillette’s mouth on his cock while he devours the slick leaking from Neuvillette’s slit. “Roll over, baby,” he says, turning to his back and urging Neuvillette to move with him. Neuvillette does, going to his knees above Wriothesley, and, fuck, if that’s not the hottest sight Wriothesley has ever seen: Neuvillette straddling his mouth, glowing faintly, his hands brushing down his body. “Turn around.”

“You’re certain?” Neuvillette asks, so conscientious, much more so than when he was in heat. “I don’t want to…”

“To crush me? Baby, if I drown in your slick and precum, I’ll die a happy man.”

Even in the darkness, Wriothesley makes out the flush that spreads across Neuvillette’s cheeks. “That petname is…”

“Neuvichou,” Wriothesley reminds him.

Neuvillette growls, and it’s one of the hottest sounds Wriothesley has ever heard. “If I must suffer a pet name, must it be both?”

Grinning, Wriothesley smooths his hands over Neuvillette’s ass, urging Neuvillette closer to his mouth. “Sweetness,” he purrs, lifting his head to flick his tongue over one of Neuvillette’s cocks. “Baby.”

Neuvillette rolls his eyes.

Wriothesley sucks the tip of one cock into his mouth, earning a gasp.

“This is—not what I wanted,” Neuvillette manages even as he arches his back to try to push his cock deeper into Wriothesley’s mouth. The angle is all wrong, and his cock slips from Wriothesley’s mouth, painting precum and saliva over the side of his face.

Not that he cares.

“Turn around, then,” Wriothesley says, dropping his hands from Neuvillette’s ass.

Neuvillette obeys, carefully rearranging himself, and Wriothesley watches shadow play across his body with hungry eyes. Darkness caresses Neuvillette’s form, clinging like a lover—like Wriothesley wants to—pooling in the dips and divots of his body, and Wriothesley licks his lips, hungry and aching.

Kneeling over Wriothesley’s face, Neuvillette spares a moment to braid his hair, his body shifting and swaying, and Wriothesley loses what little patience remains in him.

As Neuvillette works his hair into whatever form makes him happy, Wriothesley grasps his hips and pulls him down. The sweetness of Neuvillette’s slit parts over Wriothesley’s lips, and Wriothesley groans.

Neuvillette gasps, his hips jerking. He twists in Wriothesley’s hold and then, a moment later, drops down over Wriothesley’s body. Long fingers curl over Wriothesley’s cock, a sensation that is almost—almost—lost in the haze of pleasure coursing through Wriothesley as he plunges his tongue into Neuvillette’s slit.

Hungry, keening sounds spill from Neuvillette’s lips, a desperate sound as he rocks his hips against Wriothesley’s face, and Wriothesley has half a mind to tell Neuvillette not to bother sucking him off. But then that too-long, not-quite-human tongue curls around the head of Wriothesley’s dick, and he bids farewell to cogent thought.

There’s no need for coherent thought when all that matters is giving Neuvillette more pleasure and feeling the pleasure of his mouth. Wriothesley fights the instinctive desire to thrust deep into Neuvillette’s mouth, instead letting him play and taste and suckle to his heart’s content. He, meanwhile, contents himself with burying his tongue in Neuvillette’s slit, in tasting those velvety soft scales.

He loses himself in the taste and feel of Neuvillette’s body, in the heady rush of tasting and being tasted.

All of you, he thinks. I want all of you. He’s wanted all of Neuvillette for so long, every secret, every facet, and this hybrid form is one more thing he has of Neuvillette that no one else can share. The Melusines—at least Sigewinne—clearly know about this form, but they don’t get to have it like Wriothesley does; this intimacy, this closeness, this is for him and him alone.

Groaning, he tugs Neuvillette closer. His tongue fucks into Neuvillette’s slit in slow and languorous licks timed to match the suckling pulls of Neuvillette’s mouth around his length.

Good, it’s so good, it’s mind-numbing and divine, a holy blasphemy.

Pleasure punches through Wriothesley, pushing all the air out of his lungs. Whatever. He doesn’t need to breathe, not when he’s drinking down Neuvillette’s desire like a fine brandy, not when his lips and chin are slick with that same desire.

One of his hands curves over Neuvillette’s ass. As Neuvillette pulls his cock deep down his throat, as Wriothesley groans into his body, his fingers pull along Neuvillette’s slit. Two dip inside, and he’s rewarded with a moan strangled by the length of his cock. The sound vibrates through him, rich and sweet, and Neuvillette pulls off his cock a moment later.

“That’s—You need not—”

“Oh, but I do,” Wriothesley says gently, playing those fingers deeper into Neuvillette’s body, stroking them along hot, slick muscle that quivers with need. “I really fucking do.” He turns his wet mouth to the inside of Neuvillette’s thigh and bites down hard enough to have Neuvillette gasping and shuddering, to have him groaning long and low and rolling his hips in plaintive invitation.

Wriothesley takes that invitation, licking as much of Neuvillette’s slit as he can with his fingers in the way. He loses himself in it, in the taste of Neuvillette’s body, in the rippling clench of his vent around Wriothesley’s fingers. And Neuvillette returns his mouth to Wriothesley’s cock, sucking him deep once more, and that, too, is decadent and exquisite.

He’s never really been one for this. Going down on someone while getting head has always felt like a chore, splitting his attention too cumbersome. But with Neuvillette, he drowns in sensation, drowns in pleasure. More. He wants more, wants more from Neuvillette, and his fingers pull out of his vent.

With a low groan as Neuvillette swallows around him, struggling to keep his hips still, Wriothesley presses one of his fingers against Neuvillette’s hole.

Neuvillette keens around his cock. The hands braced on Wriothesley’s hips shift, and claws prick at his skin. That faintly piercing pain only serves to sharpen the pleasure that cuts through him, and Wriothesley moans. He answers Neuvillette’s need with the thrust of his tongue as his finger rubs in slow, even circles against Neuvillette’s hole. He’s lazy with his petting; they have all night, after all.

But when Neuvillette’s hips rock backwards, when the tip of his finger pushes into the tight heat of Neuvillette’s ass, Wriothesley loses that lethargy.

He pushes his slick finger deeper, fucking it into Neuvillette’s body in time with the hungry flicks of his tongue.

With an aching moan, Neuvillette pulls off his cock, resting his cheek against Wriothesley’s hip. “Wriothesley,” he gasps, his claws pricking harder at Wriothesley’s hips. “That’s—”

“Don’t like it?” Wriothesley asks, pulling away from Neuvillette’s vent, panting, aching, desperate for more but willing to stop if that’s what Neuvillette wants.

“Quite the opposite.”

“Good.” And Wriothesley goes right back to what he was doing.

A broken, aching sound spills out of Neuvillette’s lips, the heat of his breath washing over Wriothesley’s cock. That, too, is delicious, is so sweetly good. The hungry sounds Neuvillette makes go straight to his aching dick, and every stroke of his tongue, every press of his finger, only serves to make him harder.

Neuvillette’s body yields easily to his, giving and soft. He takes a second finger with a gasping moan, nuzzling into the crook of Wriothesley’s hip, and that, too, is sweetly good.

“You are a wicked distraction,” Neuvillette gasps.

Wriothesley hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t take his mouth off of Neuvillette’s vent. Good; he doesn’t need his dick sucked as much as he needs to devour the slick dripping down Neuvillette’s vent and this, as much as he needs to ease Neuvillette open so he can fuck slow and deep into him. Getting his dick sucked is nice, sure, but the aching, needy sounds pouring out of Neuvillette’s lips, the heightening glow from his fluttering rhinophores, the way his tail lashes back and forth, all of that is so much better.

He devours with broad licks of his tongue, with deep thrusts of his fingers, stroking them against Neuvillette’s rim until it gives easily. Only then does he press a third finger into Neuvillette’s body, and the sounds Neuvillette makes turn desperate, pleading, and Wriothesley loves that. Wriothesley loves this, the slick heat of Neuvillette’s vent and sweat-streaked body, the warmth of him, the feel of him.

He loves Neuvillette. He has for years, and he wants to give Neuvillette all his remaining years. Wants to give Neuvillette that everything he asked for the first morning they were together, wants to give Neuvillette everything he needs to love Wriothesley, too, to take him not just as a husband but a mate.

Between his legs, his cock twitches. Precum drips down his length, the sensation sharpened by Neuvillette’s heavy, panting breaths.

“Wriothesley,” he groans. “Wriothesley, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley’s fingers pull over Neuvillette’s prostate. Precum drips from Neuvillette’s cocks to his chest, splattering against his skin, and, fuck, but that’s so hot. Everything about Neuvillette is hot, no matter how human or inhuman he happens to be.

Mate. He could be Neuvillette’s mate, and he wants that, craves that, wants to prove to Neuvillette he’s worthy of that station, that Neuvillette shouldn’t be afraid to take him like that. And since he isn’t great with words, not like Neuvillette is, he uses his body to speak for him, writing his desires into Neuvillette’s flesh with his fingers and his tongue until Neuvillette is moaning, until he’s rutting against Wriothesley’s mouth and chest, until he’s whispering soft and broken pleas just like he did during his heat.

Wriothesley tears his mouth away from Neuvillette’s vent. “Ride me.” The words are as much a plea as Neuvillette’s own.

With a keening sound, Neuvillette pulls himself up. He turns himself around, going to his knees over Wriothesley’s hips. He reaches back, and Hydro drips from his fingers as he strokes his hand down Wriothesley’s aching cock.

“Wriothesley,” he breathes, guiding Wriothesley’s cock to his hole. “Wriothesley.” Those syllables are a hymn, a benediction, like Neuvillette might pray to him instead of Celestia’s gods. And maybe that makes sense, since Neuvillette has no reason to worship Celestia.

Fuck. Fuck, but to have the Hydro Dragon Sovereign worshipping him is insane, is incredible, is—

Neuvillette sinks onto Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley stops thinking about Sovereigns and Celestia and worship, because this is what’s divine, the sweet slide of Neuvillette onto him.

His hands smooth up Neuvillette’s thighs to circle his hips.

“That’s it,” he croons as Neuvillette’s head falls back, as he strokes his hands down his chest to curl one loosely around both of his cocks. “Fuck, sweetness, that’s so good. Touch yourself for me.”

Neuvillette obliges him, pulling his hand slowly up the length of both cocks as he settles against Wriothesley’s thighs. Instead of lifting himself up again, he turns his hips in slow revolutions, grinding himself onto Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley arches, trying to drive deeper into him.

 He watches through heavy lidded eyes, pleasure burning through his veins, as Neuvillette lazily jerks himself off in time to the twists of his hips. Watches Neuvillette sink into his pleasure, addicted to the sight. Some part of him had expected Neuvillette might be more reserved with him outside of his heat. But, no, he’s not. He’s just as passionate, just as needy, just as—fuck, just as perfect.

Groaning, Wriothesley rolls his hips beneath Neuvillette, doing everything he can to eke out just that much more friction.

Neuvillette rolls his head forward, releasing his cocks to brace his hands on Wriothesley’s chest. “You like watching me,” he observes.

“How could I not?” Wriothesley asks, incredulous. “Have you seen you?”

Breathless laughter spills out of Neuvillette’s lips, and that, Wriothesley thinks, is hotter than anything else he’s seen on Neuvillette. Hotter than the pleasure, the need, the desire. “Every day. Perhaps familiarity breeds contempt.”

Groaning, Wriothesley tugs at Neuvillette’s hips, urging him to move harder, faster. “As much as I love—” You. “—flirting with you, I’d much rather—shit.”

Neuvillette moves, lifting himself up and sliding hard back down Wriothesley’s cock. He sets a rhythm that has Wriothesley bracing his feet against the bed to gain the leverage he needs to meet each rocking thrust.

Watching Neuvillette chase his ecstasy on Wriothesley’s cock, watching him all but use Wriothesley for his pleasure, is exquisite, is beautiful, is just so breathtakingly hot. Neuvillette’s braid hangs over his shoulder, the unspooling ends of it dragging across Wriothesley’s chest, a tickling drag. His face, shadowed by his hair but lit by his glimmering eyes, is a wash of pleasure—lips parted, cheeks faintly flushed, eyes heavy-lidded. Wriothesley wishes the lights were on so he could see better, but this is enough, this shrouded moment of secrecy between them, where they share passions and desires no one else gets to see.

Where they can be real in a way they cannot be outside of their bedrooms.

Neuvillette comes first, with a soft and broken cry of Wriothesley’s name. His cocks twitch, cum dripping down them to streak Wriothesley’s own skin. Wriothesley watches him shudder apart, groaning to feel the clench of Neuvillette’s body around his cock. And when Neuvillette’s tremors cease, Wriothesley bundles him close, rolls him to his back, and takes what he needs to come, too.

It’s not much; with Neuvillette, it never is. Just the sight of Neuvillette beneath his body is nearly enough, stringing him tight and making him ache.

He shudders into pieces, fracturing as he tucks his face into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck. He has the absurd desire to bite Neuvillette’s throat, but in a flash of sanity, he realizes that might do more harm than good, might not goad Neuvillette the way he wants it to.

But to his surprise, Neuvillette presses his face into Wriothesley’s neck in return, breathing deep. He hums with contentment as Wriothesley sinks down against him, his arms looped loosely around Wriothesley’s hips.

“Good?” Wriothesley asks.

“Mm.” Neuvillette nuzzles into Wriothesley’s neck, taking another long, slow inhalation. “My scent is on your sheets.”

Wriothesley lifts a brow, nibbling at Neuvillette’s jaw. “Yeah.”

“My scent is on you.” Neuvillette practically purrs.

Ah, this must be a dragon thing. “It is. You like that?”

Neuvillette draws back, sinking into the pillows, and Wriothesley props himself on one elbow to watch him. He’s softening inside Neuvillette’s body, but he doesn’t feel any pressing need to pull away and clean them up—and Neuvillette seems equally lazy.

A small smile curves Neuvillette’s face, one heavy with contentment. “I enjoy that very much.” He reaches up, brushing his fingers along the arch of Wriothesley’s cheekbone, and Wriothesley turns into that touch, pressing a kiss against Neuvillette’s palm.

“A shame no one else will be able to smell that change,” Wriothesley says, thinking it’d be nice if the whole nation knew Neuvillette was in his bed. Thinking it’d be nice if the whole nation knew Neuvillette was his.

Neuvillette’s expression falters.

Oh. He doesn’t like that idea at all, and Wriothesley feels some of his own contentment slip away.

“The Melusines,” Neuvillette says. “They can see our intermingled elemental energies.”

Wriothesley laughs at that. “Yeah, I know. That’s why Sigewinne’s been an absolute shit to me these past two days.”

Neuvillette’s brows draw together. “Wriothesley.”

“You,” Wriothesley says, bending to press a kiss to the arch of Neuvillette’s scowling eyebrows, “are far too worried about Sigewinne. She’s too old to need looking out for, and she’s the bully.”

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow.

But instead of addressing that, Wriothesley has a sudden and sweeping realization. “Oh. Oh, fuck.”

“What is it?”

“Sedene,” Wriothesley says, finally drawing out of Neuvillette’s body. He flops onto the bed and presses his hands to his face. “That’s why she let me into your office this morning. She—She took one look at me, said ‘I see you finally figured things out. Let me ease the way for you—not that it needs much easing,’ and then took your mail into your office.” He groans. “All the Melusines?”

“Every last one of them.”

“Fuck, that’s worse than all the people of Fontaine.”

“Melusines,” Neuvillette says sharply, “are marvelous creatures.”

“They’re nosy little busybodies who are going to make our business their business.”

Neuvillette sniffs disdainfully. “Would you rather the whole of Fontaine know our business? The Melusines have known what I am for centuries, and they have managed to keep their peace. They may make trouble for you and for me, but they will not reveal us.”

Wriothesley lowers his hands, rolls to his side, and watches Neuvillette. They need to clean up. Cum and sweat are drying sticky and tacky on his skin, but that’s not as important as this conversation. “You want us to stay a secret?” he asks, his heart squeezing in an unpleasant way.

“Of course,” Neuvillette says, as though this is a foregone conclusion. “Don’t you?”

No. Absolutely not. He wants everyone to know that Neuvillette is his. But he forces a cheerful smile. “Yeah,” he lies. “Of course I do.”

Chapter Text

“Can we talk?” Wriothesley asks one night as they lay in Neuvillette’s bed.

It’s been a few weeks, and they’ve clarified a few things: they’re dating, in the human sense. Courting, in the dragon sense. Neuvillette’s strings include exclusivity and considerations of eternity—and Wriothesley has been able to admit, privately to himself, that while he certainly wants to spend the rest of his mortal days with Neuvillette, he’s not so sure about immortal days.

So he issues that most dreaded overture, those three words that would have human partners clawing out of the bed with fear.

Neuvillette simply looks at him. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Wriothesley tucks a hand behind his head and stares at the distant ceiling. In the relative darkness of the room, he can only barely make it out. Against his side, Neuvillette snuggles close, his head on Wriothesley’s shoulder, one of his hands tracing idle lines down Wriothesley’s chest and stomach.

“You and me,” Wriothesley says. “Us. The way we’re… sneaking around.”

Neuvillette’s hand doesn’t stop moving. “You are unhappy keeping our relationship private,” Neuvillette says, cutting right through Wriothesley’s words.

Wriothesley lets out a soft laugh. “You never give a man a place to hide, do you?”

Tipping his head back, Neuvillette looks at Wriothesley. Wriothesley cranes his neck to the side to look down at Neuvillette. They regard each other for a long moment.

“Why should we not be honest with each other?” Neuvillette asks.

With a laugh, Wriothesley presses his lips to the tip of Neuvillette’s nose. He supposes Neuvillette makes these kinds of conversations easier by being so direct. “Yeah, I’m… I don’t want to hide us,” Wriothesley says. “It’s been eating at me, the way we can’t—” He sighs heavily. “The way we can’t be like normal couples.”

“We are not a normal couple,” Neuvillette says.

“We could be,” Wriothesley grouses.

“Not so. I am the Hydro Dragon Sovereign, and you a duke of Fontaine—the Duke of Meropide, as well as its administrator.”

Wriothesley makes a quiet noise of agreement. “Who’s fault is that?” he asks quietly, angling for humor but landing somewhere bitter and upset.

But Neuvillette isn’t done. “Moreover, I am the Iudex of Fontaine, and you a former convict.” That sends a flush of hot anger and resentment through Wriothesley—not because Neuvillette is wrong, but because he’s right and because that will always be a weapon someone can use against them both. “Meropide is meant to be autonomous. For you and me to be involved with each other suggests—”

“I get it,” Wriothesley snaps, turning away from Neuvillette.

The silence that falls between them is tense and unpleasant, and Wriothesley presses his lips into a thin line.

“You think I am ashamed of you,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley hates Neuvillette for that, just a little bit, because he’s right. With a handful of words, he once again cuts straight to Wriothesley’s heart. “No,” Wriothesley says.

“You are lying to me.”

And Wriothesley wonders if Neuvillette didn’t know he was lying all those weeks ago when he said it was fine for them to hide their relationship.

“Fine, then.” Wriothesley slips out from under Neuvillette’s body and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He doesn’t get up—he doesn’t want to leave—but he sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees and his face in one hand because he needs to run away. “Where does this put us, Neuvillette? How much better does it look to Fontaine that we’re hiding—because someone—” Charlotte. “—will eventually find out? And then they’re going to ask why we’re hiding…” He makes a vague gesture with one hand. “All of this.”

“Our personal relationship is not Fontaine’s business.”

“That’s stupendously naïve,” Wriothesley says.

Behind him, Neuvillette shifts in the bed. Sheets slide against each other. A moment later, Neuvillette leans against Wriothesley’s back, a warm comfort in spite of their disagreement. “I am not ashamed of you, Wriothesley. I am a dragon. We are private creatures by nature, and I wish to keep you to myself. Sharing you with a nation holds little appeal to me.”

Snorting, Wriothesley pinches the bridge of his nose. “Meanwhile, I want to show you off.” He leans back, resting his head against Neuvillette’s. “I want people to know that you could’ve picked any one of them, but you picked me.”

“Mm, I did pick you. My—Wriothesley.”

They’re not done with this conversation, but Wriothesley decides to let it go for now. He wants to crow about Neuvillette to anyone who will listen, but it’s not fair to demand Neuvillette move at a pace he’s not comfortable with. They’re like two people running a marathon together; Wriothesley is faster and stronger and Neuvillette is struggling to keep up. A funny mental image, really, since Neuvillette’s endurance outstrips his in most ways, but the metaphor will do. Eventually, Neuvillette will gain enough stamina to keep up. He’ll come around eventually.

It’s that pause between my and Wriothesley that catches him now. He knows what word Neuvillette wants to put there.

“You could just mark me, you know,” Wriothesley says.

Neuvillette makes an unhappy rumbling noise at his back but slides his arms around Wriothesley’s waist. He tucks against Wriothesley’s body, the heat of him seeping beneath Wriothesley’s skin and stirring his interest. It’s hard not to be interested in Neuvillette’s naked form, regardless of which one he occupies.

“Have you given any thought to it?” Neuvillette asks.

“All my mortal years,” Wriothesley says, deliberately cheeky.

“And your immortal ones?” Neuvillette asks, pressing into that place where Wriothesley is uncertain. “Teyvat functions on cycles of reincarnation, Wriothesley.”

“I know.”

“Accepting my bite may mark you as mine through every cycle of reincarnation. Or, worse, may make you immortal.”

“How is that worse?” Wriothesley demands, wanting to shake Neuvillette off and start pacing. He doesn’t. He stays still even as he vibrates with a sudden excess of energy.

Neuvillette releases him, sliding around on the bed to sit at his side, but Wriothesley is up like a shot. He rakes a hand through his hair as he paces through the faint patches of light that pour in from the streetlamps below. The curtains on Neuvillette’s windows are heavy, but not enough to block all the light.

“Your mind is not made for eternity,” Neuvillette says gently. “You are human. You are meant to begin and to—to end.” His voice catches with obvious distress.

“You don’t.” Wriothesley pauses, glancing at Neuvillette. “End, I mean.”

Neuvillette spreads his hands wide. “Dragons are meant to be immortal creatures.”

“What about the Melusines?”

“They, too, are long-lived creatures by their nature. Human beings are not.” Neuvillette’s hands fall into his lap.

Wriothesley jams both hands into his hair, pushing it back from his face. He is suddenly, keenly aware of his own nakedness as he paces the length of Neuvillette’s bedroom. “If you don’t want me to be your mate, Neuvillette, you can just tell me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” Neuvillette is gentle, so gentle, and it just makes Wriothesley angry. “Have you considered what eternity means, Wriothesley?” Before Wriothesley can bite out a quick yes, Neuvillette says, “Have you truly?”

He hasn’t.

“You were upset when I gave you those ten years.”

“Because we didn’t talk about it,” Wriothesley says. “You just—did it. Without consulting me.” He holds up a hand, forestalling protests. “You didn’t know it would happen, I know.”

 “Before you so quickly agree to eternity, consider what it means.”

Wriothesley really hates how gentle and measured Neuvillette is.

“Would you want to spend eternity with me, watching your human companions wither and die?”

That gives Wriothesley pause. He doesn’t have many humans he’s close to. Clorinde, certainly. Maybe Jurieu and Lourvine. A handful of other convicts and guards at the Fortress. A small count of Fontaine’s nobility among the overworld, people he can rely on for information or funds for Meropide. Even though he doesn’t have many close human friends, the idea of watching them age, watching them fade… To see Clorinde become less vital? To watch Jurieu and Lourvine’s minds go?

He swallows.

“I’d have Sigewinne,” he says, defensive.

“And what if a mating bite bound your soul to mine?” Neuvillette prompts. “What if, in every subsequent life, you found yourself tied to me?”

Unease crawls down Wriothesley’s spine. It’s one thing to choose Neuvillette—and he knows he would, every time—but to be bound inextricably to him, that choice denied?

“I would not cage you.”

“So you get to make this decision, too?” Wriothesley snaps. “You get to decide whether or not Fontaine knows about us, and you get to decide whether or not I actually get to be your mate?”

Neuvillette reels back. “That is not what I’m saying. Why not speak with Sigewinne or any of the other Melusines? Ask them what it’s like to live forever. Wriothesley, if you were a dragon, I would not hesitate.”

“But I’m not.” Wriothesley stops pacing, his hands on his hips. He stares at an indiscriminate point on the floor. “I’m not a dragon.” He barks out a soft laugh. “Fuck me.” Rakes another hand through his hair. “I should’ve just kept silent.”

Neuvillette eases out of the bed. Moving with care, as though the world around him is glass, he approaches Wriothesley. Touches one hand between Wriothesley’s shoulder blades. Lays the other on Wriothesley’s arm. His touch is warm, reassuring, and everything Wriothesley craves.

“I am glad you did not,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley turns into him, resting his forehead against Neuvillette’s shoulder, and Neuvillette’s arms come around him. The comfort is soft and easy, offering everything and demanding nothing in return. “I’m not used to relying on other people for what I want,” Wriothesley admits.

“Give me time. Let us enjoy ourselves in private for a little longer, and I promise, I will want to share you as well,” Neuvillette says, gently running the tips of his fingers down Wriothesley’s spine. “And, perhaps in the meantime, you might speak with Sigewinne or another Melusine about what it means to live beyond a mortal lifespan. Discover whether or not it truly is something you want.”

Two days later, Wriothesley finds himself taking a report from Sigewinne in his office. She details an inmate who keeps coming to the infirmary every morning, claiming to be sick. “But I can’t find anything wrong with him,” she says, rocking back and forth on the heels of her feet.

Wriothesley lifts a brow at her. “Doesn’t that tell you everything you need to know? This isn’t the first person who’s tried to skip work by feigning an illness,” he points out.

Sigewinne sighs heavily. “You know how people are when I call them out on it.”

Yeah, Wriothesley does. Most inmates think that Sigewinne can be bullied because she’s smaller than them. Most inmates think that Melusines aren’t as tough or as capable as human Vision wielders. Joke’s on them, though; Sigewinne is a menace.

She’s just a menace that prefers a bit of backup.

“I’ll be at the infirmary tomorrow morning to turn him away,” Wriothesley promises.

Sigewinne beams at him. “Thank you!” She turns to go.

Wriothesley grimaces, realizing this is a chance he has to take. “Sigewinne.”

She pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. “Your Grace?”

He pulls a face. “Don’t call me that. I have a question for you.”

Slowly, she rotates on the heel of one foot, her expression transforming into something terrifying. “Is it something about dragon anato—”

Raking a hand down his face, Wriothesley groans. “Please stop talking.”

Remarkably, she stops. Rocking back and forth once more, she laces her hands behind her back and waits. Expectant.

Words pile up on his tongue, and Wriothesley struggles to organize them. This shouldn’t be a hard question to ask, but he doesn’t really want to ask it. Doesn’t want to reveal a vulnerability to anyone, not even Sigewinne. But Neuvillette is right; he should talk to someone like a Melusine. Get their perspective on what it means to be immortal, what it means to be something more than just human. And Sigewinne seems like the best candidate for that, since she’s… well. Herself, neither human nor Melusine.

Finally, he just blurts out the words. “What’s it like, watching the human beings around you… die?”

She startles, her eyes going wide. “Oh,” she says. “Oooh.” She beckons to him. “Let’s sit on the couch.”

So, he rises from his desk and joins her on the couch to one side of the room. There’s a teapot waiting there, warmed by an Electro plate, and Wriothesley steeps a bit of tea in it as Sigewinne settles on the couch beside him.

“Did Monsieur Neuvillette ask to…” She trails off, but she’s not teasing him. No, she’s surprisingly serious. “You know. Bite you?”

Wriothesley shakes his head. “No. Well. Sort of. He said if I was a dragon, he wouldn’t hesitate, but because I’m a human, he… he wants me to be sure. Because he doesn’t know how it’ll impact me.”

Sigewinne nods. “It’s hard to say,” she says. “What a mating bite would do to you. All the information we have on dragons is spotty at best. He’s one of the only ones. And they’re such solitary creatures.”

“What about the vishaps?”

Sigewinne laughs. “They’re babies, Wriothesley.”

“Right.” He sinks into the couch, watching the teapot so he doesn’t have to look at Sigewinne’s face. “They’re not biting anyone.”

“I’d hope not.”

They sit there like that for a long time, neither saying anything, Wriothesley desperately trying to organize his thoughts. The truth is, he hasn’t thought much about how he should approach Sigewinne, so now his thoughts pile up like so many meka waiting to be scrapped.

“I want to be with Neuvillette,” he says abruptly, because that’s as good a spot as any to start. It’s the only thing he knows for sure is true. “I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

Sigewinne peers at him. “That’s understandable,” she says. “Monsieur Neuvillette is the best.”

“Yeah, he is.” Wriothesley rubs the back of his neck, looking everywhere but at Sigewinne. His eyes fall on the gramophone, on the record he’s left on the turntable. It’s still for the moment, but it feels like a metaphor. Lives on Teyvat never really end. They just keep turning, turning, turning into something, someone else. “He gave me back ten years of my life,” Wriothesley says.

“I know.”

Abruptly sitting forward, Wriothesley reaches for the teapot. Pours a cup of tea for him and Sigewinne both. He passes the cup to her, and she takes it, folding too-human hands around it as she peers at him, watching him with an intensity he doesn’t exactly enjoy.

“Right,” Wriothesley says. “I—” He breaks off. Tries to reorganize his chaotic thoughts. “How long have you been alive?”

Sigewinne wiggles her hand back and forth. “Awhile,” she says, cagey, but Wriothesley doesn’t push her for an exact number. Why would she remember an exact number when she’s probably had centuries?

“What’s it like?” he asks. “What’s it like to watch people—” He swallows hard, holding his teacup with a trembling hand. “—die?”

Sigewinne sips her tea, makes a face, and sets it aside.

He’ll never understand Melusine tastebuds.

“It’s different for me,” she says. “Melusines can see so much more than humans can, so I know when a human is reaching their…” She shrugs. “Their expiration date.”

He grimaces. “Do you have to say it that way?”

“I know when one of you is about to die.” She waves her hand over his abdomen, chest, and head. “You get black and gray splotches all over here. Then it turns green and festery.”

His grimace deepens. “Gross.”

She shrugs again. “You asked.” Sitting back on the couch, she cocks her head to the side. “So, for me, I know when it’s coming, and I have plenty of time to get used to it. With some people, I make an effort to help them ward it all off. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.”

Wriothesley takes a sip of his tea, thoughtful. “Is that how you knew? I had less… black, festering splotches?”

She nods and points to his chest. His lungs. “Humans in the Fortress get it here, first, most of the time. But I can see when dementia is coming, too.” She taps the side of her head. “All sorts of things. You had splotches in your lungs and around your belly. The usual wear and tear that most humans get, nothing special, don’t worry.”

He chokes a little on his tea. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, after Monsieur Neuvillette healed you, almost all of those splotches went away. The ones that remained were a lot smaller, too. That’s how I knew you had more life.”

He takes another sip of his tea to give himself a minute to process that. “Does Neuvillette have splotches?”

She shakes her head. “No. I think Monsieur Neuvillette will live until something kills him. But he’s not human.” She taps a finger to her lips. “Death is a constant companion for humans. It comes along with you wherever you go. And when it finally pulls a shroud over your faces and takes you away, it’s not surprising. Usually, I’m happy. It means you’re not suffering anymore.”

Wriothesley doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Just stares at the tea in his hands.

“So, it doesn’t bother me to see humans die. It’s something you have to do.”

But Wriothesley… doesn’t. He could live forever. Or, maybe, he dies and comes back as someone new, someone who is tied irrevocably to Neuvillette, someone who resents his destiny and the choices a previous version of him made.

Setting his teacup aside, he shoves his fingers deep into his hair. “I’m not sure this is helping,” he says.

Sigewinne laughs, but it’s a sympathetic sound. “You’re asking a Melusine about living forever, not a human. Maybe you should ask a human instead.”

Wriothesley gives her a look. “I don’t know any humans who’ve had an inhumanly long lifespan.”

She peers at him. “Of course you do. We all do!”

And then it clicks. “Oh,” he says. “Furina.”

Wriothesley doesn’t want to talk to Furina. He doesn’t particularly like Furina. His opinion was formed at his trial, and her blasé disregard for the whole thing because he refused to make it a show… well. It left a sour taste in his mouth.

Even now, even knowing she was playing a part, acting out a bit, doesn’t really help. She could’ve been a different kind of god instead of a capricious, melodramatic actress. A good god.

He sends a letter well ahead of himself, asking if they can meet at her home for tea. He thinks about sending a box of tea with the letter but then decides not to. She isn’t the Archon anymore. He doesn’t need to kiss her ass.

Her response is prompt, arriving the next day, agreeing to the date he set.

On the appointed day, he arrives at her home precisely on time, surprised to find she lives in a well-appointed boarding house in the Vasari Passage. Not what he was expecting. Frankly, he wasn’t expecting much. He knows from the Steambird that she’s returned to the stage and is highly sought after as a director and actress, but he didn’t expect lavish wealth.

He almost asks about it when she opens the door, but he swallows the question back.

“Your Grace,” she says, tepid and a little timid and not at all the bombastic Archon he remembers. He expected that same attitude, volatile, whimsical, and cruel.

Instead, he’s faced with a little girl who doesn’t seem to know who she is in relation to him.

“Furina,” he says, foregoing her title. When she doesn’t respond or invite him in, he grins at her, trying for disarming. “We going to have tea on your doorstep?”

“Of course not!” she exclaims, flustered. “Come inside, then, don’t just stand there!” Ah, there’s the remnants of the capricious god. It’s a little reassuring that she isn’t a completely different person.

He follows her inside. The foyer is warm and well-decorated, the molding around the ceiling painted a gilt gold. Fresh marcottes fill a vase on a table to the left of the door; a wall of mailboxes is to the right. A little cramped, yes, but cozy and warm. And way too rich for a woman only just establishing herself.

Well. Maybe she’s not just establishing herself. She does have the five hundred years of being Archon behind her name.

She leads him up a narrow but well-lit flight of stairs to an equally bright hallway. A little too bright, if he’s being honest; it’s not like this in Meropide. He squints against the light as she lets them both into a door at the far end of the hallway.

Huh. A corner apartment.

Wriothesley squints a little more; light spills into the windows, the vibrant sunshine rough on his eyes.

Furina shuts the door behind him before inviting him deeper into the apartment.

It’s cozy, all blues from aqua to navy, accented by silver and black. Tasteful by most measures, which surprises him. Furina has always struck him as ostentatious and showy, but her home is understated. Pleasant.

She takes him to the small kitchenette. “Take a seat,” she says, gesturing to the little table tucked under a window.

Smothering a grimace—he doesn’t want to sit in that light—Wriothesley takes the offered seat. As he settles in, Furina pours water into a kettle and goes about warming it on an Electro plate. She takes out a box of tea from one of her cabinets—and he recognizes it. It’s one he gave her when she was still the Archon.

At least it’s good tea.

“So,” she says, not looking at him, the hesitant girl once again. “This is an unusual visit.”

Unusual is an understatement. Wriothesley has always gone out of his way to avoid Furina. But, now, he leans forward at her table, watching her as she prepares their tea. “I need some perspective,” he admits.

She lifts her brows. “And you came to me? I’m not sure what perspective I can give to the Duke of Meropide.”

Wriothesley studies her—the tense shoulders, the downcast eyes, the carefully controlled gestures. She’s afraid of what he might ask, and she should be. “A glimpse into eternity,” he says.

The teapot rattles. She looks up, wide-eyed and pale, and then forces one of those obnoxious laughs of hers—the kind that raises hairs and scrapes over flesh like a nail on a window. “I can’t possibly imagine what you mean.”

He narrows his eyes at her. “You played at being Archon for five hundred years.” So, maybe that’s a bit of a low blow, but it’s not as if there’s love lost between the two of them. “You have a unique perspective on what it means to be immortal as a human. I want to know it.”

“Miserable,” she comes back immediately, cutting at him with her words, wielding them like a knife as much as he is. “Interminable. Lonely. Do you think I liked it?” she demands, carrying the tea over to the table. She all but slams the teapot on the table, rattling the lid.

“You weren’t alone,” he points out.

She stares at him, grinding her teeth together. “You,” she hisses, “have no idea.”

Wriothesley exhales heavily. She’s right. He doesn’t. He rakes a hand through his hair and then holds it up in peaceable offering. “Let’s try again,” he says, pacifying. “I want to know what it was like for you. All of it.”

Her expression shifts. Guarded. She eases into the chair across from him, leaning over the table, clutching the seat of her chair. Wary, yes, but she wants to talk. Her tight expression, the way she holds herself back, it’s clear enough to him.

He wonders if anyone ever listened to her.

And pity blossoms in his chest.

Furina reaches for the teapot, but he takes it before she can. Quiet, polite, he pours them each a cup, and she sits back in her chair. Runs her fingers along the rim of her glass, quiet and thoughtful.

Slowly, haltingly, she speaks. “I am…” Her voice is low and sweet, not that grating, high-pitched tone she takes on when she wants to make an impression. “I am what Focalors made when she separated her divinity from her body and spirit.” He likes this voice on her. Likes the rawness of it, the honesty. It’s real, not an affectation. “She made me an actress. She put me on the grandest stage in all the world and gave me the part of the Hydro Archon. As long as Focalors’ divinity existed, I… I could not die.” Her fingers close around the teacup. Her hands tremble.

The hunch of her body, the way she doesn’t look at him—Wriothesley realizes an awful truth: she tried. She tried to end her life.

“But my mind was no stronger than that of an ordinary human being,” Furina continues. She looks up at him. “I had to keep up the masquerade. If I failed, if my identity was revealed, she told me all hope would be lost.” Her lips twist. “And I thought… I thought that if I must measure all the people of Fontaine against my own pain, it was obvious which direction the scales should tilt.”

Now, Wriothesley holds tight to his cup of tea. He stares at her and, for the first time, sees her, this capricious, cruel goddess who ruled above them all for five hundred years. This puppet on strings, dancing to the tune of a master manipulator.

“And the centuries, and my obligations, they… they wore on me. Every day, the weight of the prophecy dragged me down deeper and deeper into a spiraling depression I could not escape. Everyone in Fontaine looked to me to solve the prophecy, but I wasn’t even the real Hydro Archon. And I could not tell them. I shouldered that burden for centuries, withering under the weight of it.”

Wriothesley swallows.

Furina’s eyes well with a grief that is too real to be an affectation. She is an actress, but this is not feigned. The fragile, cracked pain in her face—one wrong word and, even now, she’ll shatter.

“I just need to keep going,” she says, her voice shaking. “Every day, I thought that’s all I needed to do. I just need to keep going, and everyone will be saved. Every day, I kept it all a secret. Never let anything slip. Never let the people think there’s anything to worry about. No one else could know the truth. No one else could… help me.” She looks up at him. Unshed tears gather in her eyes. “Why are you asking me about this, Your Grace?”

He doesn’t want to give her the truth. She’s melodramatic and prone to outbursts, but she’s given him something real, and he won’t—can’t—repay that with ugliness and lies. “Someone recently offered me eternity, but they’re worried about the impact it would have on me.”

“Lonely,” she says. “It’s so lonely.”

But he won’t be alone. He’ll have Neuvillette. Neuvillette, who has been just as lonely as Furina but hasn’t forced this choice on him. Neuvillette, who watched Furina struggle year after year, decade after decade, held at arm’s length, who—

“Does Neuvillette know all of this?” Wriothesley asks.

“He does now.” She leans forward. “Who offered you immortality?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Because you’re not going to accept,” she says, the imperious, know-it-all little shit pretending to be an Archon again.

Wriothesley narrows his eyes. “I haven’t decided yet.”

She reaches out, grabbing his wrist. “You can’t. You—It’ll break you.”

Wriothesley’s expression softens. “Did it break you?” he asks with a small smile.

She reels back. “I—” She looks away. “I… guess it didn’t.” Her eyes snap back to his. “But it wasn’t good or fun or—or anything like that.”

“Sure. You had a tremendous weight on your shoulders. You thought you had to solve the prophecy.”

Swallowing hard, she nods.

“What if you hadn’t?” he asks. “What if it had just been… I dunno.” He shrugs and finally takes a sip of his tea. Bold florals. Sweet. Not entirely to his tastes, but he’d bought this for her specifically. “Nothing but operas and plays and fancy parties?”

She gives him a wan smile. “It’s difficult to separate those things out from everything I had to be,” she says. “But maybe… Maybe if someone had known, if I hadn’t been terrified into silence, if I could’ve relied on someone else… then maybe…” She tilts her head to one side. “Why did Neuvillette offer you immortality?”

Wriothesley startles. “What makes you think—”

“Please,” she says, sniffing with disdain. “As if there’s anyone else who could do that in your circle of acquaintances, never mind in Fontaine.” She peers at him as she sips her tea. “Why would he pick you? What’s so special about—” Her eyes go wide.

Inside, Wriothesley panics. She knows. She’s figured out the truth. She has to know what Neuvillette is. Has to know about them, and, suddenly, he understands why Neuvillette wanted to keep everything a secret, because if Furina knows the truth, then—

But she kept her agonized silence for five hundred years.

Outside, Wriothesley sips his tea. “What is so special about me?” he asks mildly.

Furina sweeps her gaze over him. It lingers on his neck.

And he realizes she knows what Neuvillette is. So, with a sigh, he sets his tea down. “You know about Neuvillette.”

“You’re dating him,” she says at the same time.

He acknowledges her with a subtle nod of his head.

Gasping dramatically, she shoves her chair back and stands up, slamming both hands on the table. “You’re dating—” She breaks off.

Wriothesley winces, glancing at the walls.

Clearing her throat, she lowers her voice to a hiss. “You’re dating my Iudex?”

“He’s not yours,” Wriothesley points out.

Furina makes a sharp, shrill sound at the back of her throat, something strangled and high-pitched, something that makes his ears ache. “No,” she says at last, crossing her arms. “I suppose he’s not mine at all.” Her lips pull in a wicked smile. “Congratulations.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

“Well, it’s deserved. How did you manage to catch him of all people?”

A week of bed-breaking sex and ten years of pining. “Long story,” he says instead. “You know what he is?”

She rolls her eyes. “Of course I do. It’s obvious.”

He grinds his teeth together. “Is it.”

She watches him for a moment before bursting out laughing. “Oh, was it a surprise for you?”

“A little.” But, really, anyone would’ve been surprised to come back to Neuvillette’s townhome to find a naked, dragon hybrid throwing himself into their arms. “But that’s not the point. He… I want him to take me as his mate. Even after everything you just said. Especially after it, maybe. It’s just that neither of us knows what will happen. Maybe I’ll be bound to him for the rest of my life. Or potentially into the next ones, if that’s how mating with dragons works.”

Furina drops back into her chair. “You don’t know?”

“Dragons aren’t exactly crawling all over Teyvat anymore,” he drawls. “Hard to know exactly how mating bites will work, so Neuvillette wants to be prepared.”

“And you?” she asks. “What do you want?”

Wriothesley gives her a smile. “That’s easy. To be with him. You know my history.”

She nods. “Your foster parents.”

He’s a little surprised she remembers. “Yeah. Meropide at a young age. I’ve been alone most of my life, and I’m—tired of it. And here’s this… this dragon. Man.” He waves his hand, because it doesn’t matter what Neuvillette is. “Whatever. He wants me. He’s concerned for me. You know the last time someone was concerned for me?”

She shakes her head.

And he grimaces. “Well. Maybe it was Sigewinne a few weeks ago.” After he came back from Neuvillette’s heat. “But the last person who really cared for me? I can’t remember. I don’t know. Except for Neuvillette, who’s so concerned about what eternity might do that he won’t dragon marry me.”

She makes a face. “Gross.”

He can’t help the pull of his lips into a smug sort of smile.

And Furina groans, disgust washing over her expression. “Gross.”

Breaking into a laugh, Wriothesley salutes her with his teacup and takes a sip, pleased with himself.

Wiping her disgust off her face, she props her elbows on the table. “So, you came to me, knowing I suffered for five centuries, to get a perspective on eternity?”

“In retrospect, maybe you weren’t the best person to come to for advice,” he admits. “But I did learn something from what you said.”

“Oh?”

“Humans can’t live forever by themselves. Shouldn’t live, even a little while, by themselves. And, for what it’s worth, which probably isn’t much, I’m sorry you had to go through five hundred years like that.”

She goes still, her eyes widening, and then she sags with obvious relief. “Thank you. I—I’m glad I could help you, Wriothesley.”

“Is it weird if I tell you I can’t wait to attend your funeral?”

She barks out a rough laugh, wiping furiously at her eyes. “No. Not at all.”

Chapter Text

Wriothesley doesn’t tell Neuvillette his conclusions on immortality immediately. No, he sits on that information, lets it ferment as much for himself as to ensure Neuvillette thinks that Wriothesley is considering the issue as deeply as Neuvillette wants him to. All his mortal years and all his immortal ones. No one should be lonely, and that includes Neuvillette. And Wriothesley wants Neuvillette’s teeth in his throat, wants eternity with a Dragon Sovereign, even if that puts him at odds with Celestia.

Celestia, he thinks, can go fuck itself.

Which is a little funny, what with him having a Vision.

So, they settle into a rhythm with each other, and little changes aside from where Wriothesley spends his nights. Most of them, he falls into Neuvillette’s bed; it’s easier for him to slip out of the Fortress in the late evening hours, when the convicts and exiles are distracted by leisure and exhaustion and when Sigewinne cleans up the infirmary in preparation for the next day.

Not, of course, that Sigewinne isn’t very aware of where Wriothesley spends his nights. She leers at him every chance she gets, raking her eyes down his body and making off handed comments about Neuvillette’s elemental energy just dripping off him.

Wriothesley thought himself too old for embarrassment, but it turns out that’s not true. Every comment Sigewinne makes is mortifying. She’s careful about where and when she makes them, though. He’s noticed she only teases him when they’re alone, either in the infirmary or his office. If she makes a comment in the hallways, it’s oblique and easily interpreted a thousand different ways. She, for all she’s a monster, is circumspect. As if she, too, like Neuvillette, doesn’t want anyone to know the truth.

And Furina, for her part, keeps their secret, too. In the weeks following their visit, Wriothesley was on edge, waiting for an article in the Steambird to break the news about him and Neuvillette, but it never came. Teyvat turns, blissfully ignorant of the fact that Wriothesley spends many of his nights making Neuvillette sob his name.

No one knows that he wants eternity with the Chief Justice. No one even knows that they’re together.

He wonders if he’s the problem. Wonders if he shouldn’t be content enough just to have Neuvillette. He’s brought it up a few more times over the past few months, gently probing to see if Neuvillette has changed his mind about secrecy. They haven’t had a fight about it aside from that almost fight the first time, mostly because Neuvillette defuses the situation every time. Wriothesley pushes and Neuvillette derails them. Because he’s not wrong that a public acknowledgement of their relationship would only bring them both tremendous amounts of scrutiny. Can Neuvillette truly be impartial if he’s in Wriothesley’s bed? Can Wriothesley operate independently of the Court if he’s in Neuvillette’s bed? Can they maintain that careful balance between work and personal life if they’re fucking each other?

In their defense, they manage quite fine. Their daily lives remain much the same—except that Neuvillette stops denying Wriothesley his meeting requests. And Wriothesley begins to schedule those meetings later and later in the day. Sedene knows; like Sigewinne, of course Sedene knows, but, also like Sigewinne, she doesn’t comment. She simply facilitates their meetings, giving Wriothesley subtle smiles when he arrives in the late afternoon to sit down with Neuvillette and discuss upcoming trials and potential prisoner transfers.

The Melusines are surprisingly circumspect—or, well, maybe it’s not so surprising. They’ve kept the secret of Neuvillette’s identity for hundreds of years. Why should the secret of Neuvillette’s romantic entanglements be any different? So, they keep quiet. Their attitude toward Wriothesley doesn’t change, either, though in private moments they are more solicitous. When no one else is around, their smiles are broader, their mannerisms warmer. But in public, nothing changes.

Nothing changes. Sure, everything is different—he has an open invitation to Neuvillette’s bed, and he spends the majority of his nights there—but not in the ways that matter to him.

Growing up, the Fortress forced him to keep everything a secret. No weaknesses. No vulnerabilities. He didn’t have relationships when he was an inmate, he had fucks. He had casual couplings. Quick, furtive things meant to relieve stress, not build love and affection.

And that’s the problem. He’s in love with Neuvillette, but Neuvillette—

Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair and forces himself, for what must be the millionth time, to remember what Neuvillette said. If you were a dragon, I would not hesitate to mark you.

Because of eternity.

Wriothesley runs his finger down the calendar on his desk. Well. It’s been nearly six months. They’re rapidly approaching Neuvillette’s heat, and Wriothesley has spent plenty of time figuring out that he really does want eternity, even at the possible risk of his sanity. If Furina can survive five hundred years by herself, he can survive thousands at Neuvillette’s side.

“Maybe,” he mutters, “it’s time to tell him that.”

But they don’t have any meetings scheduled for the balance of the week, and there’s a godsdamn party on Friday evening that Wriothesley has to attend. He gets out of most of the bullshit parties thrown by the upper class, but there are a few he can’t miss—a few he shouldn’t miss. After Neuvillette secured Wriothesley’s title for him, Wriothesley realized quickly that the parties aren’t frivolous. Major political decisions are made at these balls; while their children dance and form marriage alliances, the powers of Fontaine come together in libraries and salons and broker favorable terms for all matters legal and a few that aren’t.

It’s funny, he thinks, how similar polite society is to Meropide’s society. Power struggles play out in the shadows, and backroom deals influence far more than anyone is willing to admit.

So, he has to go. If he wants to maintain Meropide’s independence—which many, many people in Fontaine would love to see changed—he has to attend these balls.

The only good thing about that, he reasons, is that Neuvillette has to attend, too.

For a moment, he closes his eyes and imagines the crush of bodies, the sweltering heat, the watered-down champagne, none of it pleasant. But then he imagines the open ballroom floor, decorated with young men and younger women desperate to form marriage alliances, and he imagines Neuvillette’s fingers laced with his, his other hand on Neuvillette’s hip, Neuvillette’s hand on his shoulder. He imagines them dancing, imagines them spinning across the ballroom floor as the rest of society looks on behind hands and fans, stunned and jealous.

A faint smile curves his lips. Neuvillette never dances at these events. Given Neuvillette’s desire to keep their relationship a secret, Wriothesley can’t imagine he’ll dance at this one. But that’s fine. They don’t need to dance.

Wriothesley can turn this to his advantage in other ways.

Neuvillette arrives at the Allard fete precisely forty-five minutes after it begins, the perfect amount of fashionably late. He does not enjoy these parties, but his presence, his appearance, is mandatory—especially with Furina’s abdication. Where before, he could attend perhaps a small handful of only the most important events, now he suffers them all. Someone has to keep Fontaine’s rich and titled in check, and there is no better way to do so than to attend these events and eavesdrop on all of them. And those he does not eavesdrop on, well. A well-placed smile is usually enough to set a parent overeager to ingratiate their child to him to talking. He learns about so much political maneuvering by feigning interest in spouses and children.

The ball is in full swing as the butler lets him in through the front door, the foyer a veritable crush of people. They bow and curtsey to him as he passes, parting easily for him. A few speak words of greeting, but these are not the people he’s interested in; his prey congregates in the ballroom.

Autumn flowers and squashes decorate the ballroom, painting the walls in fiery reds and vibrant yellows. Pumpkins in varied colors cluster at the center of long banquet tables, surrounded by leaves of scarlet and vermillion and candles floating in water in tall vases. The effect is quite lovely—and must have cost the Allards a hideous sum.

At the center of the ballroom, young men and women vie for each other’s attention, turning around each other with pretty, false smiles.

Neuvillette’s hand curves tighter around his cane, his only defense against the hordes of parents eager to see him married to their children.

It occurs to him, briefly, that if he were open about his relationship with Wriothesley, those same parents wouldn’t accost him as they do. Oh, he’d still have access to prey, it would just be different prey. He’d look for the bored spouses in unhappy marriages instead of the mamas and papas hungry to marry their children off.

He has only just stepped onto the ballroom floor when a flood of those mamas and papas surges around him. They greet him warmly, politely inquiring if he intends to dance tonight, and he, as always, demurs, sweeping his eyes across the crowded ballroom hall.

And there, at the very edge of it, he sees the only person he truly cares about. Wriothesley, dressed in a suit of rich and deep burgundy edged with black, lowers his head to a woman Neuvillette recognizes—a duchess of considerable political power. As though sensing the weight of Neuvillette’s regard, Wriothesley glances up.

Their eyes meet.

Electro awareness crackles down Neuvillette’s spine.

mate

He presses his lips in a fine line, surveying Wriothesley with as much indifference as he can muster. Despite the months since his heat, his desire to take Wriothesley as his mate has not lessened. If anything, the urge has grown more insistent, but he intends to give Wriothesley as much time as possible to decide if an eternal entanglement is truly what he wants.

Taking a human as a mate—Neuvillette cannot imagine the ramifications to Wriothesley’s person, to his soul.

A small smile pulls across Wriothesley’s lips, and he inclines his head ever so slightly. And then he places his hand on the duchess’s back and urges her through a nearby door.

Neuvillette inhales sharply, fighting the sudden and visceral need to chase his mate—lover—down and demand to know where he’s going with the duchess. He takes a step forward and is immediately accosted by an older man.

“Monsieur Chief Justice!”

Neuvillette flicks his gaze over the man’s face. A count, one of those overeager papas with far too many daughters, desperate for a marriage alliance. “My lord,” Neuvillette says, plastering an expression of polite interest on his own face. While the count himself is of little interest to him, the countess is a thorn in Neuvillette’s side and has been since Furina’s abdication. “How is your lady wife?”

The count lights up at the question and happily divulges far too much information about his wife and who she’s been taking tea with. From this single conversation, Neuvillette discerns the countess’s allies, and he files those names away in the back of his mind as his gaze flits over the ballroom, eager to catch sight of Wriothesley once more.

It is only thirty minutes and three painful conversations later that Wriothesley returns to the ballroom. His fingers tug at his cravat as if to set it right, and a hot fury burns through Neuvillette. He doesn’t doubt Wriothesley’s fidelity, but draconic instincts are not gentle or rational things.

Excusing himself rather abruptly from his current conversation, Neuvillette weaves his way through the crushing crowd toward Wriothesley. He is confronted at every step by a veritable torrent of people eager for his attention, and he gently turns them all away. It takes him nearly ten minutes to cross the ballroom to Wriothesley’s side, but he finally makes it, and his irritation at seeing Wriothesley with the duchess eases. If only the minutest amount.

He inhales, breathing in the bergamot and leather scent that hangs around Wriothesley even when he’s dressed in silk, the scent a comfort. The duchess’s scent does not linger on him.

“Your Grace,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley’s lips pull into a small smile, but his eyes burn. “Monsieur Chief Justice. Are you enjoying the ball?”

Neuvillette judges the proximity of the crowd and the likelihood that they’re eavesdropping. “Well enough,” he says.

That earns a laugh from Wriothesley, who discerns the truth of what Neuvillette is saying. Neither of them enjoys these parties, but both of them have their obligations.

“And yourself?” Neuvillette asks.

Wriothesley’s smile pulls wider. “I find I have the most fascinating conversations at these parties. Especially when I can speak with you, Monsieur.”

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow. This is not the time or place for flirtations.

“You are certainly the highlight of every ball,” Wriothesley continues, heedless of the censure in Neuvillette’s gaze.

“You are too kind,” Neuvillette says, secretly thrilled but equally horrified. “It is rare to see Your Grace at such events as these.”

“But not you, Monsieur.”

Neuvillette resists the urge to knock Wriothesley’s feet out from under him with his cane. “I had not realized my attendance was noted.”

“It’s hard not to notice you,” Wriothesley practically purrs. And then, as Neuvillette reels, surreptitiously glancing to the side to ensure no one has heard Wriothesley’s indiscreet words, the duchess from earlier approaches them.

Bouchard, Neuvillette thinks. Her name is Bouchard. She walks the razor-edge of destruction, carefully playing at the very boundaries of the law but never crossing over to find herself a defendant in Neuvillette’s courtroom. She and Wriothesley are old friends, one of the first allies he acquired after becoming the Duke of Meropide.

“Your Grace,” Wriothesley says, extending a hand to her.

Neuvillette frowns, wondering when she and Wriothesley became acquainted.

“Your Grace,” she replies, clearly amused by the exchange of titles, and slips her hand into his. “Monsieur Chief Justice, forgive me the interruption, but His Grace promised me a dance.”

The music shifts, transitioning from a cheerful gavotte to a lyrical waltz, and Neuvillette finds himself furious. Waltzes are for couples. Oh, not exclusively, but there is an unspoken language of dancing at these parties. One only waltzes with someone when there is interest.

He gives Wriothesley a sidelong look, but Wriothesley’s gaze, wolfish and smug, is fixed on the duchess.

“There is nothing to forgive,” Neuvillette grits out, because that is what is appropriate for him to say. “By all means, enjoy your waltz.”

“I’m sure we will,” Wriothesley says. He guides the duchess onto the dancefloor.

They are, Neuvillette reflects, beautiful together. The duke in burgundy, the duchess in shimmering, iridescent rose, each a beautiful compliment to the other. She curtsies, dipping low and leaning forward, and Neuvillette’s hand tightens around his cane. Must she give Wriothesley a clear view down the lowcut neckline of her gown?

And Wriothesley takes that view, a smirk tugging at his lips as he urges her upright. His hand, gloved in black, settles on her waist, just a little too low to be polite, and Neuvillette smothers a snarling growl.

The introductory refrain ends, the waltz beginning in earnest, and Wriothesley sweeps the duchess into an elegant turn, her full skirts spiraling around them in a flourish of silk and tulle. They are exquisite together, their steps fluid and elegant and beautiful, their gazes fixed only on each other. With each passing beat, Neuvillette finds himself wishing more fervently for Wriothesley’s eyes to slip from Bouchard’s to him, but they do not. It’s as if Wriothesley has forgotten he exists.

“Their Graces do make quite the pair, don’t they?”

Neuvillette glances to the side, a little surprised to find Lady Allard beside him. Whereas the Duchess Bouchard is a scintillating, glittering rose, Lady Allard is dressed in a quiet, dark navy, as though she intends to fade into the background. He has always found Lady Allard a congenial enough hostess: her children are older and married, and her husband does the politicking, making her a pleasant break from the unending social jockeying of these parties. She meets Neuvillette’s gaze, her smile a little too sharp around the edges for his comfort.

“Forgive me for not greeting you sooner, Monsieur Chief Justice.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Neuvillette replies, turning his attention back to Wriothesley and Bouchard.

She is a blossoming flower in Wriothesley’s arms, splendid in her beauty, and Wriothesley is the perfect accompaniment to her charms. He makes her shine, the perfect partner, giving her opportunities to spin and twist and showcase the perfection of her body and the expense of her gown and the jewelry that drips off her body.

“It is something to consider, is it not?” Lady Allard asks.

Neuvillette does not look away from the dancers. “I do not take your meaning.”

“Their Graces. Together.”

Something ugly coils in Neuvillette’s chest, hot and tight and vicious.

“It would be a tremendous upset,” Lady Allard continues, her tone deceptively mild, as if they’re discussing the weather. “And a phenomenal victory for Her Grace were she to bag the Duke of Meropide. Quite the concentration of power.”

Neuvillette suddenly finds himself wanting Lady Bouchard’s skin under his claws, the desire so potent that it catches him by surprise.

“He is the second most eligible bachelor in Fontaine, after all.”

“Only the second?” Neuvillette finds himself asking.

“After you, of course, Monsieur.” Lady Allard’s smile grows sharper. It is a strange thing for a woman as soft and wrinkled as she to look so much like a knife.

“Ah.” Neuvillette clears his throat—and then smothers another snarl as Bouchard’s delicate laughter rises above the music in sparkling harmony. Wriothesley, too, is laughing, his gaze still fixed on her like she’s the only person in the room, and Neuvillette—Neuvillette has never felt this clawing fury before in his life.

Lady Allard makes a thoughtful sound. “A wise person wouldn’t let Her Grace sweep in and take what they want.”

Neuvillette snaps his head toward Lady Allard.

“I am old,” she says without prompting, “and I enjoy watching people. You, Monsieur, have always watched His Grace with a discerning eye, though lately your gaze has softened.”

Neuvillette clenches his jaw, knowing better than to say anything.

“I can’t imagine most anyone else has noticed this change,” she continues, her expression kindly and benign. “But take it from an old woman who has watched this sort of thing play out time and time again: if you are slow to act, you will find him taken.”

A soft snarl spills from Neuvillette’s lips. “Her Grace cannot take what is not hers.”

“Oh?” Lady Allard asks, unbothered by the inhuman sound rumbling in his chest. “I wonder how she would know such a thing.” She pats Neuvillette’s arm gently. “Do not be slow to act, Monsieur Chief Justice, or you will lose what you want most.” Her piece said, she hobbles away as the waltz draws to a close.

Neuvillette remains still on the edge of the ballroom floor, his gaze fixed on Wriothesley.

He does not want to invite the scrutiny of an entire nation into his relationship with Wriothesley. He does not want to deal with the questions about his own impartiality. In the past, he hid his lovers, but Wriothesley is not just a lover. Wriothesley is his mate, Wriothesley is his, and he is covetous and jealous.

The Duchess Bouchard touches Wriothesley’s shoulder, rising to her toes to speak directly into his ear. And Wriothesley nods with a laugh, catching her hand and spinning her into a line for another dance, an energetic courante.

Surely Wriothesley knows that two dances in a row—one of them a waltz—is practically a proposal. Surely.

Neuvillette watches their second dance unmolested, so sour in his disposition that he wards off even the most ardently overeager parents. When the courante comes to a close, he strides forward.

Briefly, across the ballroom, Lady Allard meets his eye before bending to whisper something to one of the musicians.

The faint strains of a waltz fill the air, matched with a curious confusion. Two waltzes are never played so closely together, and all the dance cards have just been terribly upset.

Neuvillette does not care. Dispelling his cane, he reaches Wriothesley and Bouchard as the duchess tips her head to the side to reveal the column of her throat—wouldn’t it be nice to tear out her flesh with his teeth—and laugh. “One more,” Bouchard says to Wriothesley.

Wriothesley parts his lips to respond only for Neuvillette to catch his hand. “Your Grace,” Neuvillette says.

“Monsieur Chief Justice.” At last, Wriothesley looks at him. “Did you need something?”

“The next dance,” Neuvillette says, keenly aware of what he is doing. Of what this will say to everyone in the ballroom. The Chief Justice of Fontaine does not dance. Has never danced. Oh, he knows how (despite the rumors to the contrary), he simply has never had a need.

Now, what burns inside him goes beyond a mere need.

Wriothesley watches him for a moment, silent, considering. And then he breaks into a grin. “Sorry, Your Grace,” he says to Bouchard without looking away from Neuvillette. “It seems my next dance is taken.”

Neuvillette does not see Bouchard’s face as she bows away from them. Does not see anyone but Wriothesley.

“You sure about this?” Wriothesley asks as Neuvillette takes his hand. And then Wriothesley laughs. “Who am I kidding? When are you ever unsure about something?”

“Frequently,” Neuvillette responds, taking the lead position. “But about this, I am quite certain.”

A fond smile pulls at Wriothesley’s lips. “The whole of Fontaine is about to have an opinion about us.”

Neuvillette grimaces. “I would prefer them not to, but there is no avoiding it. You are—” Neuvillette breaks off. “You do not deserve to be hidden away like a shameful secret, Wriothesley. I am not ashamed of what I feel for you.”

Wriothesley settles his free hand on Neuvillette’s shoulder. The music swells, the introduction closing and transitioning into the song proper.

Together, they step into the first turn. Neuvillette has eyes for Wriothesley only, their gazes fixed on each other.

“What do you feel for me?” Wriothesley asks, voice soft, intimate. Waltzes, too, are intimate, giving two people the opportunity to have a private conversation in a very public place.

Neuvillette is keenly aware of everyone watching them even though he does not look away from Wriothesley’s face. There are plenty of people in the surrounding crowd who will parse his words from the movements of his lips alone, and by morning, the news of this dance will be all over Fontaine. Speculation will run rampant.

Let it.

“I am quite in love with you, Wriothesley,” Neuvillette says, the words coming easily to his lips. “And I find that I prefer the entire nation know that. To know that you are mine.”

Wriothesley missteps.

Neuvillette corrects for them both. He does not dance often, but that does not mean he lacks the knowledge; he is quite an accomplished dancer, he has just never had cause to take to the dance floor before.

“That,” Wriothesley says, “is a relief. Because I’ve been in love with you for the better part of a decade.” Then he laughs. “You’re not leaving with a lot of time to convince you to…” He licks his lips, his gaze intense. “You know.”

Neuvillette’s mouth is suddenly dry. Wriothesley still wants to be his mate. But this shouldn’t be surprising; Wriothesley is hardly the sort to turn from a course once he’s decided on it. “We will discuss that further… elsewhere.”

Wriothesley inclines his head. “Fair enough.” He grins, broad and brilliant. “I’m content with a confession from you. And a public one.” He looks positively giddy with delight as Neuvillette leads him into another turn. “Imagine what everyone’s saying right now.”

“I cannot begin to imagine,” Neuvillette says dryly. “And I do not particularly care to.” His hand curves around Wriothesley’s back, pressing against the small of it, urging him scandalously close.

Wriothesley inhales. “Monsieur,” he breathes.

“Your Grace.”

The world is already impossibly small, little more than the feel of Wriothesley beneath Neuvillette’s gloved hands and the brush of their hips with every step and turn but narrows even more. They are of a height, but they lean into each other, every revolution of their bodies bringing them closer.

Neuvillette will not kiss Wriothesley in public, that is a bridge too far for him, but he cannot deny the magnetism of the moment. Wriothesley is warm and strong in his arms, eager to follow his lead, willing to go where Neuvillette takes them. He has already offered all the years he has remaining, and Neuvillette wants to take those years, wants to consume them for himself.

He wants to consume Wriothesley for himself, wants to draw the duke close, hold him against his chest, take him into his very body until Wriothesley’s heart beats in place of his own within the cage of his ribs.

Closer, closer, every turn in their dance draws them closer, eliminating the space between their bodies. They are being indecent, they will cause a small scandal, but Neuvillette doesn’t care. For perhaps the first time in his life, he isn’t calculating the ramifications of his actions. He is enjoying himself for his own sake, for Wriothesley’s sake.

When the waltz draws to a close at last, Wriothesley offers Neuvillette his arm. “Everyone knows now,” says.

“So they do,” Neuvillette agrees, looping his arm around Wriothesley’s.

He notices Lady Allard on the fringes of the ballroom, and she gives him an approving smile just before the Duchess Bouchard sets upon them.

“I simply must be the first to congratulate the two of you,” she says, sotto voce, as if this is a secret only she knows. “Monsieur Chief Justice, Your Grace.” She turns from Neuvillette to Wriothesley and jabs a finger in his chest. “But the next time you use me to make someone jealous—”

Neuvillette startles.

“—tell me you mean to strike at the Iudex.”

Wriothesley laughs. “Don’t worry, Charmine. I don’t plan on making anyone else jealous.”

The duchess scowls. “Good.”

Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley as the duchess steps away. In that brief moment of time, he asks, “You used Her Grace to make me jealous?”

Wriothesley grins. “Maybe a little.”

“Incorrigible.”

And then they are set upon by the hordes.

Several hours later, they’re naked and slick with sweat, panting in Neuvillette’s bed. Wriothesley’s face is buried in Neuvillette’s neck, his fingers in Neuvillette’s hair, his cock still deep in Neuvillette’s ass, and Neuvillette’s claws prick at the meat of Wriothesley’s shoulders.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley breathes, nuzzling against Neuvillette’s throat.

“Mm.” Neuvillette’s hands sweep down his back. He turns, pressing a kiss to the curve of Wriothesley’s ear.

“We need to confess to each other in public more often.” Wriothesley pulls back, sliding out of Neuvillette’s body, and collapses against his side.

Neuvillette turns into him without hesitation, tucking himself against Wriothesley’s chest. “I will keep your desires in mind.”

Wriothesley laughs, pressing soft, lingering kisses to Neuvillette’s mouth. His hand pulls down Neuvillette’s side for the sheer pleasure of touching him. Part of him wants to press Neuvillette about a mating bite now while they’re both soft and sleepy and warm, but he figures he shouldn’t push his luck. He’s got another month or so to make his case, and he knows he can be persuasive.

His hand drifts lower, curving into the small of Neuvillette’s back, where his tail emerges from the base of his spine and drapes over both their legs, a comforting weight. With gentle fingers, he strokes the place where flesh becomes scale, and Neuvillette makes a soft warbling sound of pleasure.

Wriothesley’s fingers map the curve of Neuvillette’s tail as Neuvillette arches against him with renewed interest.

“Question,” Wriothesley says.

“Mm?”

“You have a human body and a hybrid body.”

“Mm.” Neuvillette presses into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck, his breath hot, and Wriothesley groans softly.

Neuvillette’s refractory period really is startlingly short. He’s adapted, but it still catches him by surprise how quickly Neuvillette is ready to go again.

“So,” Wriothesley continues, “it stands to reason you have a dragon body, too. Do you?”

Neuvillette stills against him. Draws back slowly. His hands press against Wriothesley’s chest. “I was born in this body,” he says slowly.

Wriothesley gives him a lopsided grin. “Not what I asked, sweetness.”

Neuvillette stares at Wriothesley’s chest, and Wriothesley lets him. Doesn’t lift his chin or anything. Gives Neuvillette the space he needs.

After a stretch of considerable silence, Neuvillette pulls away—and Wriothesley is immediately worried he’s crossed a line.

“Hey, I—”

Before he can get out another word, Neuvillette—changes. Ripples. Even with the lights on, Wriothesley can’t make out the details of the transformation, can only see a cresting of blue-white light and then… then it’s not Neuvillette on the bed with him.

Or, rather, it is, but it’s not a Neuvillette that Wriothesley has ever seen before.

The body is enormous, looped around the bed at least twice, with a head easily as big as Wriothesley himself. Long, glowing blue rhinophores float back from the massive head. Bright blue eyes, also glowing, meet Wriothesley’s, and Wriothesley sucks in a sharp breath.

Neuvillette is all pale, opalescent scales in pearly white and shimmering fins in cerulean and navy. Hints of gold glitter along the edges of Neuvillette’s scales and at the end of his massive paws. His claws are gold. His long tail is tipped with a massive fin in that same cerulean swirled through with navy, and he’s—he’s gorgeous.

Exhaling, Wriothesley shifts to his knees. Gently, he curves his hands around Neuvillette’s jaw, lifting the giant head so their eyes meet. Neuvillette’s are shy and downcast, but they jump to Wriothesley when Wriothesley curls over his nose and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Gorgeous,” Wriothesley says. “Sweetness, you’re stunning. Can you talk in this form?”

“Of course,” Neuvillette replies, tone dry.

Wriothesley laughs, pulling back but keeping his hands on Neuvillette’s jaw. He’s warm to the touch—Wriothesley doesn’t know why he thought Neuvillette would be cold—and somewhat soft, his scales silky smooth like river stones beneath Wriothesley’s hands.

“How long have you had this form? Your whole life?” Wriothesley asks.

A small shake of that massive head. “Only with Focalors’ demise did I gain the ability to shift into this form.”

Wriothesley’s heart aches. “That… must’ve been hard.”

“Yes,” Neuvillette replies simply.

“Well.” Wriothesley clears his throat. “You’re amazing like this. Absolutely stunning.”

Neuvillette attempts to duck his head. “I am—not at my best.”

“I think you are.”

Neuvillette growls faintly, but in such a large form, the sound fills the room. It rumbles through Wriothesley’s bones, and while he suspects he should be a little afraid, he’s… not.

At all.

His cock twitches between his legs.

“With only a month until my next heat, I am far from my best.”

“You’re perfect.”

Neuvillette gives an exasperated sigh. “I am about to molt, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley cocks his head to the side. “Yeah? What’s that mean?”

Lifting his head from Wriothesley’s hands, Neuvillette nuzzles into the bend of his side, indicating a patch of scales that look fuzzier than the rest. Not that fuzzy is quite the right word. They’re muted and—and flaking? Wriothesley scoots closer to examine them.

“Before a heat or a rut, a dragon molts,” Neuvillette explains. “We shed a layer of skin, revealing scales shinier and more iridescent beneath. This allows us—” He breaks off, rumbles like he’s clearing his throat, and then continues, “This allows us to appear more attractive to a potential mate.” 

“Huh,” Wriothesley says, brushing his fingers over the skin peeling away from those scales. Some of it flakes off in the bed.

Neuvillette makes an upset sound and abruptly shifts back to his hybrid form. He kneels in front of Wriothesley, his face turned to one side. “I would prefer you see me at my best.”

Wriothesley’s lips curve in a smile. “Because I’m that prospective mate?”

“Yes.”

Said so boldly, the words warm Wriothesley through. “So, you, what, need to spend some time polishing yourself?”

Neuvillette nods, glancing toward Wriothesley. “In a week or two, I will spend a day within the waters around Fontaine. I will find a decent rock and use that to assist in polishing my scales.”

“So that you look pretty.”

A faint flush stains Neuvillette’s cheeks. “Yes.”

“For me.”

That flush deepens. “Must you?”

Wriothesley grins. “I sure must.” He taps his fingers against his chin, studying Neuvillette’s flushed face. “Is this a private thing? Or can I help?”

Neuvillette startles, looking back at Wriothesley with an almost disbelieving expression. “You wish to… assist me?”

“Is that a very dragon thing to do?”

“Yes.”

Wriothesley’s grin broadens. “Look at me,” he purrs. “A regular wanna-be dragon.” Reaching out, he brushes a lock of silvery hair behind Neuvillette’s delicately pointed ear. “Let me help you. Let me come with you.”

In lieu of replying, Neuvillette brushes his fingers over Wriothesley’s cheeks. Cups his jaw in both hands. Drapes himself against Wriothesley’s chest while pressing soft, sweet kisses to his lips.

Sinking into the bed, Wriothesley draws Neuvillette’s body against his, content to drink down those kisses. They snuggle into the sheets, wrapped around each other, until Neuvillette draws back just enough to speak.

“Join me, then,” he murmurs, drawing his thumb along Wriothesley’s cheek.

A thrill goes through him, an ache that is so much more than mere desire.

“Come with me, love, and help tend to me.”

Wriothesley cradles Neuvillette close, his heart buoyant in his chest. “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

Chapter Text

The week leading up to Neuvillette’s molting is a wild, baffling thing. Wriothesley receives no end of invitations from society’s elite for afternoon tea, something that didn’t happen even when he was conferred his title. He can’t possibly say yes to all of them, so he politely declines them all instead. It’s a bold move, dangerously close to snubbing the political powerhouses of the nation, but he figures none of them can take a refusal personally when he says no to everyone. Even Charmine Bouchard’s invitation gets a no in response—but he sends her flowers and a tin of expensive tea as a consolation.

Charlotte doesn’t send him something as benign as an invitation but rather a thinly veiled demand, a borderline plea, to let her break the story of his and Neuvillette’s relationship. When he mentions it to Neuvillette, Neuvillette assures Wriothesley that he, too, received the same solicitation. Since Neuvillette’s next heat is in a little more than a week and a half, they offer her their time in two weeks. She more than eagerly accepts.

“We’ll have to weather the gossip in the meantime,” Neuvillette says, gesturing to the paper Wriothesley holds in his hands as he enjoys a morning tea that Saturday.

Wriothesley, with the paper open to the gossip columns, grins. “Have you read any of it?”

“With regret,” Neuvillette says. He cants his head to the side, lifting a goblet of water to his lips.

“With regret! Read with relish, Neuvillette.”

Neuvillette’s lips twitch at the corners. “I do not enjoy the way they speculate so salaciously on our relationship. It is barely palatable.”

Wriothesley’s grin fades. “I try to find the humor in it. They’re absurd.”

“On that,” Neuvillette says, “we can certainly agree.”

“Take today’s column.” Wriothesley adjusts his hold on the paper, clearing his throat. “Just how long has His Grace, the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide, been cavorting with our most esteemed Iudex?” He breaks off, meeting Neuvillette’s eyes with a roll of his own. “They’re not even disguising our names. That’s the epitome of bad taste.”

“I had noticed that,” Neuvillette murmurs, sipping his water.

Wriothesley takes a drink of his own tea, rolling it over his tongue to enjoy the floral taste before swallowing. “Where was I? Ah, here.” He sets his teacup down. “This author must wonder whether or not His Grace is influencing the Chief Justice unduly. Perhaps the recent string of innocent verdicts from our highest court, turning dangerous criminal elements loose upon our streets, is the result of seeing criminality as an attractive quality.” Wriothesley looks over the top of the paper, grinning once more. “They think I’m attractive.”

Neuvillette lifts both brows. “That’s what you choose to take from that?”

Wriothesley’s smile falters. “If I don’t, I’ll get angry,” he admits. “And I don’t want to. You were right. About keeping us a secret.”

“It was untenable. We would never have managed to keep our relationship to ourselves in the long term. I am pleased that we no longer have to be so surreptitious, but I… I admit I had hoped to avoid this by keeping us quiet.” Neuvillette’s eyes are soft, limpid.

“We would’ve gotten this regardless of when we made ourselves public.”

“Yes. I am aware. I merely wished to avoid it for as long as possible. But.” Neuvillette reaches across the table, and Wriothesley reaches back. They lace their fingers together. “I am pleased that we no longer need to hide our interactions behind meetings. That we can meet for lunch or dinner in public. I am… I am excited to experience these parts of human courtship.”

Wriothesley’s smile returns. “And I’m thrilled to be able to wine and dine you, even if you don’t like wine and you’re the pickiest eater I’ve ever met. Did you even eat what I sent to you before this all started?”

With a roll of his eyes, Neuvillette waves him off. “Finish your breakfast. We should depart soon.”

Laughing, Wriothesley pops an apple slice into his mouth. He makes quick work of the remaining fruit and his half-eaten croissant, finishing off his tea as he folds the newspaper and sets it aside. “Do we need to pack anything?”

Neuvillette eyes his empty plate. “I did not expect you to inhale your food.”

“I’m looking forward to today,” Wriothesley says with studied casualness. He’s more than looking forward to it. Anticipation kept him awake long after Neuvillette fell asleep the previous night—and maybe some nerves. He has no idea what goes into molting, doesn’t really know how to help, but Neuvillette trusts him enough to let him come along. Wants him enough, cares about him enough, to let him in. That’s exciting. That’s thrilling. “So, do we? Need to pack anything?”

“You may desire a change of clothes,” Neuvillette says. “Since we will be very wet.”

Wriothesley’s lips curl in a wicked smile as he rises from the table and crosses to Neuvillette. Bracing one hand on the back of Neuvillette’s chair, Wriothesley leans down and brushes a light kiss against Neuvillette’s temple. “You know I like how wet you get for me,” he says in a low rumble.

“Wriothesley.”

“Will you be soaked by the time we’re done?”

“Wriothesley.”

Laughing, Wriothesley withdraws. “I’ll grab a change of clothes from upstairs and then we can head out.”

They make their way south and east, to an island dwarfed by a tower. When Neuvillette sees it, both his brows lift.

“I see the Traveler has been here,” he murmurs.

Wriothesley gestures to the tower. “Is that a problem?”

“To the contrary. I suspect Lumine has done us all a favor.”

“Oh?”

“It is… a long story. Perhaps later?”

Wriothesley shrugs. “Fine by me. There’s a beach just ahead. Let’s leave our things there, yeah?”

They descend the grassy hills to the sandy beach, where Wriothesley drops down and shoulders off the small rucksack he brought with him. He pulls off a boot.

Neuvillette stares at him.

“What?” Wriothesley asks. “Did you think I’d go swimming in my clothes?” He tosses one boot to the side and works on the other one.

“I—I admit I thought…” Neuvillette trails off, a faint flush on his cheeks.

Wriothesley tugs at his tie, tossing it aside. Shrugs out of his jacket, his vest. Both join the growing pile of clothes.  “That I’d swim fully clothed? I figured you suggested I bring a second set of clothes in case the tide comes in.”

“No, I…” Neuvillette pinches the bridge of his nose. Sighs heavily. “You can’t possibly mean to swim naked.”

“No one’s here.” Wriothesley drops his shirt to the sand and rises, pulling at his belt. “Can you transform in your clothes?”

That flush spreads to the delicate tips of Neuvillette’s pointed ears. “No.”

“Then why are you standing there, staring at me?”

Neuvillette clears his throat, whipping his head to one side. “I am not staring.”

“Uh-huh.” Wriothesley grins, peeling off his pants and leaving himself in his underwear. He sets his hands on his hips. “Are you such a blushing maiden that I should leave my boxers on?” he asks, teasing.

Neuvillette scoffs and begins stripping off his clothes, too—and Wriothesley watches, unabashed, just like he watched Neuvillette dress. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Neuvillette in something other than the robes of his station or his skin. He licks his lips as Neuvillette pulls the light sweater over his head, toes off his shoes, and doffs his loose-fitting slacks. A grin pulls across his lips as Neuvillette hesitates with his hands on his own underwear.

“You’re staring,” Neuvillette observes.

“Of course I am. You’ve seen you.”

Neuvillette gives him a look that could crack stone, and Wriothesley bursts into laughter. “I,” Neuvillette says, “do not appreciate my form the way you do.”

“I’ll appreciate you enough for the both of us,” Wriothesley replies. He catches his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down in a smooth gesture. Sure, he brought an entire second outfit, including underwear, but if Neuvillette is going to be naked, he’ll be naked, too. Just in case things get interesting.

Granted, Neuvillette’s going to be in his dragon form, but Wriothesley figures things could still get interesting if they’re both willing to get creative. And he’s very willing to get very creative for his dragon.

Warm water licks at his ankles as he steps into the surf. The bite of winter’s chill is still there; it’s only early spring, but it’s warm enough for a swim. And Wriothesley adjusts better to chilly temperatures than most people, anyway.

Throwing a look over his shoulder, he nods his head to the water. “You planning on joining me, or are you just going to stand half naked on the beach?”

With a soft growl, barely audible over the waves, Neuvillette strips off his underwear, folds it (because of course he does), and sets it on top of the neat pile of his own clothes. And then he’s striding into the water beside Wriothesley, and then he’s diving into the water, a streak of silvery hair and moonlight skin, and Wriothesley watches him vanish beneath the water only to rise above it with that massive dragon head.

“Now who is dawdling?” Neuvillette asks, only to vanish beneath the surface.

Laughing, Wriothesley walks into the water to his waist and then dives in, too, gliding toward Neuvillette.

In the water, Neuvillette is sinuous and graceful, his body twisting in lazy loops. This is his element, and he moves through it with an easy dexterity, lithe and elegant. Wriothesley feels clunky and slow by comparison, but he’s not the Hydro Dragon Sovereign with a form made for cutting through the water.

Neuvillette glides toward him, his mighty tail flicking back and forth and propelling him in a lazy circle around Wriothesley, and Wriothesley reaches out to touch. His fingers glide over Neuvillette’s smooth scales, shimmering in the filtered, underwater light. Neuvillette’s soft purr rumbles through the waters.

He glides away, glancing back with a pointed look, and Wriothesley kicks himself forward, following after Neuvillette with the easy strokes of a confident swimmer. Before Meropide, he’d lived for the city streets. After arriving in Meropide, he’d found pleasure in going out into the waters around the Fortress to keep the building clean and functional. It was quiet. Peaceful, even if he’d had to wear one of those clunky suits to hide his status as a Vision bearer.

Keeping pace with Neuvillette doesn’t tax him; they glide through the waters together. Wriothesley swims in Neuvillette’s wake, his passing made easier by Neuvillette cutting the water first.

Deeper and deeper they descend, diving toward the corals and kelps that line a deep chasm in the earth. The tower from above the water punches into the bedrock here, too, a monolith of some long-forgotten history with which Wriothesley is unfamiliar.

Neuvillette loops backwards, twisting around Wriothesley. “Wait here a minute,” he says, his voice clear in the water.

Wriothesley supposes that makes sense. Neuvillette is the Hydro Dragon Sovereign. Water is his to command. Of course he’d be able to speak within it. But Wriothesley, even with his Vision, cannot. He merely nods.

With considerable speed, Neuvillette makes a loop of the chasm, and Wriothesley watches him with unabashed wonder. Neuvillette dances in the water, a creature of unparalleled beauty. He is enchanting, ethereal. Unexpected but not unwelcome heat coils in Wriothesley’s gut.

He huffs out a bubbling laugh.

Yeah, he’s really got it bad for Neuvillette, is so desperately in love with the other man that shape and form are secondary to him. Neuvillette could be one of those sweet water otters and Wriothesley would still want him.

When Neuvillette finally returns, he beckons with one taloned paw. “This way. I have found an adequate rock.”

Wriothesley follows him, descending deeper along the blue-black rock shelf, mindful of the sharp-edged corals that grow along the descent. Fish flit around them, darting away and into the safety of the coral. Still Neuvillette descends, leading Wriothesley to a rocky overhang on a wall that is ever so slightly curved.

Neuvillette drags himself against the wall. He wriggles against it, flakes of skin floating away in the water. And when he turns, his scales are brighter, more luminescent, glittering with iridescent beauty.

The urge to run his mouth over those glimmering scales is almost impossible to ignore, but Wriothesley does, focusing instead on how he might help. He dives deeper, toward the sandy bottom of the chasm, and finds a smooth rock that fits neatly in his hand. Pushing off the bottom, he returns to Neuvillette. Waves his hand to get Neuvillette’s attention.

Neuvillette turns toward him, massive head cocked to one side.

Holding out the rock, Wriothesley points to it, makes a rubbing motion against his own body with it, and then gestures to Neuvillette.

For a moment, Neuvillette simply stares at him with those large, steely eyes. And then he chuckles. “You are a wonder, Wriothesley.” He flicks his tail and propels himself against the wall once more but curves his body in welcome. “If that is your desire, then I welcome your assistance.”

Suffused with delight, Wriothesley gives Neuvillette a broad grin. He kicks himself to Neuvillette’s side, locates a dull patch of scales, and begins to rub.

Emotion wells within his chest, tight and buoyant. This is something Neuvillette hasn’t ever shared with anyone—couldn’t ever share with anyone before Focalors’ demise—and he’s willingly sharing this intimate moment with Wriothesley. Yeah, Wriothesley has brushed Neuvillette’s hair in the early hours of the morning before they depart for work. He’s clumsily helped Neuvillette braid it before bed, and finger-combed the braids out in the morning. They’ve helped each other dress, buttoning each other’s shirts and easing on vests and jackets with lingering touches.

But no one’s ever seen Neuvillette in this form except him. No one’s ever taken care of Neuvillette in this form.

His throat squeezes, and the water burns his eyes. He blinks away the threatening tears, refusing to let himself cry over something so silly.

Maybe, he reflects as he glides the stone over Neuvillette’s scales, it’s not all that silly. This is a unique vulnerability. It’s a gift. Neuvillette trusts Wriothesley and Wriothesley alone with this secret. It’s overwhelming. It’s awe-inspiring.

The glide of the stone stops.

Neuvillette glances back, head canted to one side.

And Wriothesley reaches for him, brushing his fingers beneath Neuvillette’s jaw. He urges Neuvillette’s muzzle close, and bends to press a kiss to the tiny, soft scales of Neuvillette’s nose, smoothing his thumb over the long line of Neuvillette’s jaw.

A purr rumbles in Neuvillette’s chest, vibrating through the waters and into Wriothesley’s bones. Neuvillette presses his head against Wriothesley’s chest, his belly, nuzzling into him. Wrapping both arms around Neuvillette’s maw, Wriothesley holds him for a long moment.

Thank you, he means to say. Thank you for your trust. For your love.

They float like that for a long, quiet moment, the water rippling around them.

When Neuvillette finally pulls back, Wriothesley drifts in the water at his side. Neuvillette drags himself against the rocks, and Wriothesley rubs his stone over Neuvillette’s neck, his ribs, his haunches. It’s meditative, the circling motions of his stone and the quiet movement of the water around them.

He lets himself go, focusing solely on Neuvillette, until the motions of his own body seem far away. Neuvillette wraps loosely around him, too, gently twining his fins between Wriothesley’s legs and drawing them away in a lingering caress. And when he rolls to his back, exposing his belly as he rubs his side against the rock, Wriothesley’s eyes catch on the twin cockheads peeking out from the vent at the base of Neuvillette’s tail.

Hunger churns in his belly, a desire to please his lover in every way. To embrace Neuvillette’s every aspect, human and draconic both. To revel in this form, so newly acquired.

Wriothesley rubs his stone across Neuvillette’s belly, his free hand braced on one of Neuvillette’s forearms, and Neuvillette arches his long neck to watch him. Studies him, silent and considering.

It’s only when Wriothesley hooks his arm around Neuvillette’s and draws himself flush to Neuvillette’s body that Neuvillette speaks. “You needn’t,” he says, low and uncertain.

Wriothesley, braced against Neuvillette’s arm, rubs himself against the silky scales of Neuvillette’s chest. He arches a brow, as if to say, But I want to. Beneath his skin, Neuvillette is warm and surprisingly soft. Wriothesley presses closer, pressing kisses to the edges of some scales and the centers of others.

Vibrations rumble through him as Neuvillette purrs. Long talons brush lightly against Wriothesley’s scalp, a there and gone again caress. Briefly, Wriothesley entertains the idea of being a dragon himself, of welcoming the press of those claws against his own scales as Neuvillette clings to him in the throes of passion. He’s covered in scars, but he wouldn’t mind more if they came from Neuvillette. New marks born out of love to replace all the ones crafted by hate and indifference and desperation.

Bracing himself against Neuvillette’s chest, Wriothesley pushes himself down, sliding along the length of Neuvillette’s body. The rumbling purr increases in intensity and volume, filling the waters around them.

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette says.

There’s trepidation in the syllables of his name, as if Neuvillette can’t believe that Wriothesley would find this form as desirable as his human one. But he does. Fuck, but he loves every shape Neuvillette possesses, each just as beautifully formed as the last. Elegant and lithe, brimming with dangerous power that’s gentled for him. His lover is kind, defined by empathy, even if he doesn’t see it. He deserves to be lavished with affection, desire. He deserves to be loved.

And so Wriothesley loves him with sweeping, full-bodied caresses. He rubs himself over Neuvillette’s body, pressing soft kisses to softer scales.

Something hot and velvety brushes his hip.

Neuvillette sucks in a sharp breath, interrupting his purring, and Wriothesley glances down the length of his body to see both cocks fully emerged from the slit at the base of Neuvillette’s tail. They are long and thick, tapered and blue at the tips and delicately ridged.

Gorgeous. They’re gorgeous. He wants his mouth and body all over them, wants to love Neuvillette like this, too.

He slides further down Neuvillette’s body, drifting between the hard lengths of Neuvillette’s cocks. The sound that Neuvillette makes isn’t one that could ever come out of a human throat, but it’s edged with an obvious need, a hungry desire that Wriothesley is more than eager to satisfy.

If he’s going to spend the rest of his years with Neuvillette, he desperately needs Neuvillette to understand how much he wants him. In all his forms.

Half hard himself, Wriothesley glides down the length of one of those cocks, letting his fingers pull down the ridges.

Neuvillette arches sinuously beneath him. Curls around him, bending close. His snout nudges the small of Wriothesley’s back, urging him closer. “You needn’t,” he says again.

Twisting around, Wriothesley taps Neuvillette’s snout lightly. He rolls his eyes, and then, quite deliberately, turns back to Neuvillette’s one cock and drags his tongue along the side of the slit in the tip.

Neuvillette shudders beneath him, growling. He noses against Wriothesley again, and Wriothesley takes that as encouragement. Wrapping himself around Neuvillette’s length, his own cock trapped between their bodies, he licks at the slit a second time, a third. More shudders wrack Neuvillette’s body, and Wriothesley, too, shivers with delight. There’s a salty-sweet taste to Neuvillette’s flesh, and he drags his tongue along the slit itself, tasting more precum mixed with the freshwater that envelops them.

Need spikes through him, a burning desire for more. Wriothesley rubs himself, full-bodied, against Neuvillette’s cock, and more liquid leaks from the tip. It dissolves into the water, but not before Wriothesley licks up more of it. The salty-sweet taste is addictive, and Wriothesley moves more deliberately against Neuvillette’s cock, rocking gently, rubbing himself up and down as Neuvillette finally begins to move, too. Slow, tentative undulations marked by quiet growls and the sweetest purring.

They move together, Neuvillette doing more and more of the work as Wriothesley wraps himself around the length of Neuvillette’s cock. The slide of skin against scale with the buffer of the water is, perhaps, a bit limiting, and Wriothesley makes a mental note to do this again with Neuvillette when they’re both dry. Maybe when they get back to the beach. Neuvillette’s refractory period is so short and—

And Neuvillette grinds against him, and Wriothesley’s brain short-circuits. The tip of Neuvillette’s cock brushes against his cheek, and Wriothesley turns toward it, brushing more hungry kisses over Neuvillette. He mouths at soft skin, running his tongue along every inch that he can reach.

Every roll of his own hips is wicked, is divine, is sweet and heady as he drags himself against the delicate ridges. They offer a delicious friction, a curious sensation, but one Wriothesley craves increasingly more of. He cradles Neuvillette’s cock against his body as he moves, as they both come together, the full length rubbing him from groin to chest and back again, and it’s good, it’s so good, it’s exquisite to give Neuvillette himself in this way—to have Neuvillette in this way.

Neuvillette’s purrs rumble through him. That massive head rubs along his back, too, and Wriothesley groans into the water. The sound bubbles from his lips as he pulls them across the crown of Neuvillette’s cock, as he licks along a slit that leaks precum.

More. He wants to give Neuvillette more, to worship his body with love and affection until they’re both achingly hard—and he’s achingly hard as he moves against Neuvillette. He pants softly, squeezing Neuvillette’s cock closer, chasing both their pleasures.

Neuvillette’s tongue pulls up the length of his spine, rough and warm, and Wriothesley gasps. Groans. Shudders against Neuvillette’s cock. Another pull of that tongue, another shuddering stab of pleasure that goes straight through him. One of Neuvillette’s talons brush along his thigh, a faint caress, and at that reminder that he’s fucking an actual dragon, all that tension coiling tighter and tighter in Wriothesley’s gut snaps.

With a broken sound, he comes undone. The orgasm is bone-deep and sweet, scouring him from the inside and so strong that he momentarily chokes on his own breath. His hips jerk against the soft hardness of Neuvillette’s cock as cum spurts out of him, carried away by the water. But he doesn’t stop moving. He continues to rub himself over Neuvillette until a sharp growl pierces the water, until Neuvillette shudders beneath him and comes, too.

So much pours from him, and Wriothesley, still numb with pleasure, distantly thinks that they can’t do this in Neuvillette’s bed. If they did, they’d have to replace the soaked mattress. He wonders if Neuvillette’s dragon form will fit in the tub. Probably not. They’ll be relegated to the outdoors, then. That’s fine, because he definitely wants to do this again, with Neuvillette’s precum slick against his skin as he rubs himself over Neuvillette’s cocks.

A gentle pressure against his back returns him to himself. Wriothesley releases Neuvillette’s softening cock, glancing at the other to find it, too, retreating back into Neuvillette’s slit.

Lazily, he turns in the water. Neuvillette’s snout presses against his chest, urging him back and into Neuvillette’s belly, and he laughs softly. Reaching out, he scratches behind Neuvillette’s rhinophores, urging him closer still.

“You are a marvel,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley thinks it’s pretty unfair that he can’t say anything back, but he takes the compliment with a grin and more scratches for Neuvillette.

Eventually, Wriothesley wriggles away to find his stone again, and they return to polishing Neuvillette’s scales. Wriothesley’s touch still lingers, and Neuvillette nuzzles close at every opportunity. When Neuvillette declares himself well enough polished and they return to the beach, he pulls Wriothesley into an embrace in the shallow surf.

“You did not need to do that,” Neuvillette says, burying his face in Wriothesley’s neck.

For an insane moment, Wriothesley thinks that Neuvillette’s going to bite him, mark him, claim him on the beach. He doesn’t. He pulls back a moment later, resting their foreheads together as his fingers sink into Wriothesley’s hair. Their bodies come together, warm and slick from the water, and Wriothesley sets his hands on Neuvillette’s hips.

He knows from firsthand experience that fucking on a sandy beach is a bad idea, but that doesn’t stop him from momentarily considering it.

“Which part?” Wriothesley asks, rubbing his thumbs over Neuvillette’s hips. “The polishing bit or the polishing bit?”

Neuvillette huffs, closing his eyes and turning his face away. “Both. Either.”

“Hey.” Wriothesley lifts one hand to Neuvillette’s cheek, smoothing his hand over soft, damp skin. “It’s my pleasure to care for you, Neuvillette.”

Neuvillette looks back at him, silent for a moment. Then one of his fingers touches the scar beneath Wriothesley’s eye. “Tonight,” he says softly. “You will stay the night tonight?”

“I was planning on it.”

“Then tonight, I would like to take care of you,” Neuvillette says, and Wriothesley’s heart stops beating in his chest.

For years, no one except Sigewinne has taken care of him, and Sigewinne’s care is perfunctory at best. Neuvillette’s offer cuts straight through him, carving out his heart and leaving him raw and vulnerable. Caring for someone else is easy. Letting someone else care for him? Trusting someone that much?

Ah, but if Neuvillette can give him all these secrets, if Neuvillette can trust him so much, then Wriothesley can trust Neuvillette, too.

“Then I’m in your hands,” Wriothesley says.

Wriothesley expects some degree of hesitation from Neuvillette, but as soon as they’ve finished their late dinner, Neuvillette urges him up the stairs. They are both dressed down, wearing only slacks and half-buttoned shirts, their feet bare. This deeper intimacy settles around Wriothesley heavily, leaving him shaky and a little out of sorts.

But Neuvillette’s hand is warm around his own, and Neuvillette is, in his own way, brimming with excitement. His eyes are bright, and he glows—not literally—with his anticipation. Wriothesley wonders how much of that glow is a result of polishing his scales; even in his human form, Neuvillette seems somehow brighter. Maybe it’s just because he’s so eager.

There is an answering eagerness within Wriothesley, though it is overshadowed by no small amount of apprehension. He’s never allowed someone else to call the shots in bed, not directly. Oh, he’s always fucked in service of his partner’s pleasure—it’s not fun if both people aren’t enjoying it—but he’s never yielded to what they want to give him. It’s always been about what he wants to give, and he’s always been a generous lover.

Some part of him wonders why that’s not enough. Another part of him insists that Neuvillette wants to give as Wriothesley gives, and he should be allowed that. Insists that Wriothesley can allow someone else full direction and control.

On the threshold to Neuvillette’s bedroom, Neuvillette turns and pulls Wriothesley into his arms with a gentle strength. There, he hesitates, watching Wriothesley’s face.

“You are nervous,” he observes.

Wriothesley manages a ragged laugh. “You really never let a man hide.”

“Do not be nervous,” Neuvillette says, releasing Wriothesley’s hand to cup his face. “I want to please you as you do me. Every time we come together, you unmake me with pleasure. Let me give you that gift tonight.”

Swallowing, Wriothesley closes his eyes. Rests his forehead against Neuvillette’s. “I’m not good at letting someone else call the shots.”

“I am aware.” Neuvillette’s tone is dry but not unkind. “You struggled so much when I insisted we maintain our secrecy.” He pauses. Ventures tentatively, “Can you not trust me?”

If there’s anyone in all of Teyvat that Wriothesley can trust, it’s Neuvillette. And if he wants to spend eternity with his dragon—which he does—he’s going to need to let himself be a little more vulnerable. Is going to need to learn to cede some control. “I trust you. You’re one of… You’re probably the only person I really trust.”

Neuvillette’s thumbs brush over Wriothesley’s cheeks. “Then let me love you.”

Wriothesley exhales, ragged and shaky. “Alright.”

Gently, Neuvillette brings their lips together for a long, slow kiss. It is tender and easy, making no demands of Wriothesley but offering everything. Love, affection, a sweet reprieve from driving every situation.

Wriothesley sighs into the kiss, forcing himself to relax, forcing the tension out of his body. He sinks into Neuvillette’s body, settling one hand on the small of his back to urge him closer—and when Neuvillette doesn’t deny him, when Neuvillette doesn’t decide Wriothesley is maintaining too much control, he relaxes even more. He can do this. Can give himself over to someone and trust that they have his pleasure in mind as well as their own.

Neuvillette’s tongue flicks against Wriothesley’s lower lip in silent entreaty, and Wriothesley opens his mouth. Their tongues tangle as they press closer and closer together. They melt against each other, all warmth and burgeoning desire. Interest stirs Wriothesley’s cock, and he hardens against Neuvillette’s thigh as Neuvillette sighs into his mouth, changes the angle of their kiss with a gentle pressure, and suckles Wriothesley’s tongue deeper into his mouth.

A little moan catches in Wriothesley’s throat, hungry and needy. Neuvillette suckles again. Wriothesley’s hips arch into Neuvillette’s own, and he groans. His fingers curl in the fabric of Neuvillette’s shirt, pulling it from the hem of his pants. Absently, he slips his fingers beneath fabric, seeking skin, and he groans again when the tips of his fingers pull along the bumps of Neuvillette’s spine.

With a soft exhalation, Neuvillette falls against him, and Wriothesley, for a brief second, thinks perhaps the tables have turned and he has the control that he’s so accustomed to. But then Neuvillette’s hands slide down Wriothesley’s chest. Long, claw-tipped fingers curl in Wriothesley’s shirt, tugging him forward as Neuvillette takes a step back, deeper into the bedroom.

Anxiety spikes through him, sudden and hot. He stumbles, and Neuvillette pulls back. His lips brush against Wriothesley’s, a soothing caress. “We don’t have to,” he murmurs, those words easing Wriothesley more than anything else could.

“No.” Wriothesley’s hands curve over Neuvillette’s hips. He pulls his lover close, feeling the hard line of Neuvillette’s cock against his thigh. “No, I want this. I want you. I want—I want you to have all of me, Neuvillette. You’ve given me all of yourself. I want to give you all of me.” He bends his lips toward Neuvillette’s, but he doesn’t complete the kiss. No, he hangs there, waiting for Neuvillette to make that call.

Neuvillette surges against him, pulling him into a kiss that is voracious, avaricious. This, now, is a kiss that consumes, that demands Wriothesley relinquish everything he is into Neuvillette’s hands, and while that’s terrifying, Wriothesley resolves to try. Resolves to give himself over to his lover completely and utterly.

If he wants eternity with his dragon, he has to be able to do this. He has to want this.

And as Neuvillette’s mouth turns to Wriothesley’s jaw, he realizes keenly that he does. He wants to trust someone completely. Wants to put everything he is in Neuvillette’s hands. And how easy it is to tip his head to the side and give Neuvillette his throat. He’s done this before, though now he does it with intent.

I’m yours, his body says, and Neuvillette, not realizing how much he has, only presses suckling kisses down the column of Wriothesley’s throat, each press and pull sending sparks of desire burning through Wriothesley’s veins.

He is a smoldering fire, a burning ember that grows hotter with each of those open-mouthed kisses. Neuvillette’s tongue flicks against his skin, tasting between each kiss, and Wriothesley groans. His head falls back, giving Neuvillette more of his throat as Neuvillette kisses along Wriothesley’s collar bone and into the vee of his neckline.

Those elegant fingers tipped with sharp claws pluck at Wriothesley’s buttons.

“Not going to tear them off?” he asks.

“You like this shirt,” is Neuvillette’s reply.

“Not more than I like your mouth on me.”

Neuvillette hooks one claw behind a button and shears it off, his tongue laving over Wriothesley’s skin. He cuts off each button in turn, kissing every inch of skin he reveals. His mouth scalds Wriothesley’s skin, hot and wet and sweet, and Wriothesley lifts one hand to Neuvillette’s head. Threads his fingers through Neuvillette’s hair, urging him closer.

Parting the panels of his shirt, Neuvillette pulls his tongue over one nipple. He nips it with teeth that are a little too sharp to be human, and Wriothesley groans. When he looks down, Neuvillette’s rhinophores glow faintly in the twilight of dusk.

“We need a light,” Wriothesley gasps.

“I am enough,” Neuvillette returns, and those words go right through Wriothesley.

Swallowing hard, he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you are.”

With a content hum, Neuvillette kisses down the length of Wriothesley’s chest, flicking fabric out of his way as he goes to his knees. Wriothesley shrugs out of the shirt, letting it fall to the ground, and looks down.

On his knees, Neuvillette looks up at him, eyes alight with pleasure and desire. A faint flush stains his cheeks. His breath is warm against Wriothesley’s abdomen. With a tiny smile, he presses his lips to Wriothesley’s cock through the fabric of his pants, and Wriothesley gasps. Need cuts through him, sharp and burning. His cock twitches, hardening more with Neuvillette’s attention.

“Sweetness,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb against the crown of Neuvillette’s head. “You don’t need—”

“I want,” Neuvillette says, pulling at Wriothesley’s belt and the fastening of his pants. “I crave. Let me have you, Wriothesley. Let me give this to you.” He licks his lips as Wriothesley’s pants fall loose around his hips, as Wriothesley’s breath comes faster, harder. His gaze fixes on Neuvillette’s fingers as they feather over Wriothesley’s hips, pushing clothing out of his way and freeing Wriothesley’s cock.

The way Neuvillette looks at him—the desire, the want, the adoration in his eyes—is enough to render him breathless. He tries to inhale but finds he cannot, finds he chokes on his own breath as it punches out of his lungs in a strained exhalation.

And then Neuvillette’s fingers sweep down the length of his cock, worshipful and tender. The delicate claws scrape ever so lightly over Wriothesley’s skin, not a threat but rather another sensation, another teasing caress.

With a quiet groan, Wriothesley sinks his fingers deeper into Neuvillette’s hair, but he doesn’t move his head. Doesn’t push him or force him closer. No, this is about what Neuvillette wants to give him, and he finds he enjoys waiting for more. There is a delectable tension in the unknown, in the knowledge that he will be touched but the ignorance of how.

Neuvillette maintains his feather light caresses, stroking from base to tip. With every stroke of his fingers, precum gathers at Wriothesley’s slit, a little bead of liquid that grows under Neuvillette’s attention.

Neuvillette’s gaze remains fixed on Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley’s gaze remains fixed on Neuvillette. He drowns in the desire on Neuvillette’s face, drowns in the unabashed and untampered adoration he sees in Neuvillette’s expression.

When Neuvillette glances up as he curls his fingers around the base of Wriothesley’s cock, all the air punches out of Wriothesley’s lungs again.

Fuck, but he’s beautiful. Neuvillette is beautiful, and he’s Wriothesley’s. He’s all Wriothesley’s.

Eternity. They’re going to have eternity, and he—

He groans as Neuvillette leans forward and wraps his mouth around the tip of Wriothesley’s cock. It’s not like this is the first time Neuvillette has given him a blowjob, but it hits him harder. The pleasure is sweeter, Wriothesley’s desire sharper.

“Good,” he breathes, because he can’t not praise his lover, his perfect dragon. “That’s so good, sweetness.”

Neuvillette hums with pleasure, and that hum vibrates through Wriothesley’s body, stringing pleasure tight in his gut.

A hot, wet tongue pulls across Wriothesley’s slit, and his head falls back. He realizes with a start that Neuvillette is licking at him the way Wriothesley played with him in the water earlier, and a shaky laugh spills out of him.

“Wicked dragon.”

Neuvillette pulls back, pressing hot kisses down the length of Wriothesley’s cock. “Do you dislike it?”

“Not at all. I—Fuck.”  

Neuvillette licks up the underside of Wriothesley’s cock, his eyes heavy-lidded and glassy beneath their glow. Wriothesley’s cock pulls across Neuvillette’s tongue and then disappears between Neuvillette’s lips, and, fuck, that’s hot, that’s so hot. Very little is hotter than watching Neuvillette swallow him down, than watching Neuvillette take him deep.

He does, sliding down Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley groans.

Neuvillette takes him to the root, to the very base. His nose presses against Wriothesley’s abdomen, and Wriothesley utters another oath, carding his fingers through Neuvillette’s hair. The hot trap of his mouth is slick and tight, the press of his tongue nothing short of divine. As Neuvillette pulls back, dragging his tongue along the underside of Wriothesley’s cock, Wriothesley’s vision practically whites out.

Part of him wants to take control, wants to grasp the back of Neuvillette’s head and fuck his mouth. Instead, he lets Neuvillette play. Lets Neuvillette set the pace, and he’s rewarded with Neuvillette fucking his own mouth on Wriothesley’s cock.

Spit gathers at the corners of Neuvillette’s lips, and Wriothesley wipes it away as he pants, as he sucks in sharp, heavy breaths. His thumbs brush up the arch of Neuvillette’s cheekbones to skim away the tears gathering in Neuvillette’s eyes. “Good,” he breathes. “Fuck, sweetness, you’re so good to me.” His voice wavers but he means the words. Speaking them offers him reassurance, too. Reminds him that he wants to give himself over to Neuvillette, wants Neuvillette to have him utterly, completely.

And this is an easy, familiar thing. Wriothesley lets himself go, rocking his hips gently against Neuvillette’s mouth as Neuvillette sucks and licks and devours him. He loses himself in the slick heat of Neuvillette around him, careful not to thrust too hard or too deep, careful to let Neuvillette maintain the control he’s asked for.

There’s a freedom in it. There’s something electric about letting go and giving his pleasure to someone else. Two tensions coil within him—the anticipation of pleasure, yes, but also the uncertainty of what comes next. He finds he quite likes that edge of ignorance, of not knowing how Neuvillette will give him pleasure next but certain that Neuvillette will.

The tension winds tighter within him. His toes curl against the carpet, and his fingers tighten in Neuvillette’s hair.

“Close,” he gasps.

Neuvillette draws off him with a pop.

The cooler air of the room is a burden and a curse, and Wriothesley groans with disappointment. “I—”

“Not so soon,” Neuvillette says, nuzzling into Wriothesley’s hip. “We have the whole night ahead of us.”

Pleasure shivers down his spine, and he shifts his hands to cradle Neuvillette’s face. “What else do you want, sweetness?”

Neuvillette strokes his hands up the back of Wriothesley’s legs, pulling at the fabric of his pants. Linen whispers down his thighs, his calves, pooling around his ankles. Neuvillette helps him out of his pants and then presses slow, lingering kisses to Wriothesley’s skin as he rises from his knees. Long fingers wrapping around Wriothesley’s length, Neuvillette strokes slowly, loosely over Wriothesley’s cock, bringing him quickly back to the edge of too much but not giving him nearly enough.

Sometimes, when he plays with himself, he walks this edge. But it’s surreal to have a lover do this to him, to tease and tantalize, to make him ache and crave so dramatically.

“Climb into bed?” Neuvillette clears his throat, rubbing his thumb over the tip of Wriothesley’s cock. “Climb into bed,” he says again, a statement instead of a question, and a shiver goes down Wriothesley’s spine. Desire and interest smolder low in his belly, and he goes as bidden.

Easing onto the bed, Wriothesley positions himself in the mass of pillows against the headboard. His eyes remain fixed on Neuvillette, who approaches the bed as he strips himself, making quick work of shirt and pants.

Wriothesley’s mouth goes dry.

Neuvillette is always beautiful, but there’s something ineffably different about him in this moment. Maybe it’s something shining through from their earlier excursion, as though polishing his scales makes his skin brighter, fresher, too. Maybe it’s the control, the thrill of trying something new. He is resplendent in his power. Alluring.

Desire pounds in Wriothesley’s veins, his cock hard and twitching with interest against his hip. He smooths one hand down his body, reaching for himself, only for Neuvillette to catch his wrist as he climbs onto the bed.

“Don’t,” Neuvillette says, using the same tone of voice that Wriothesley so often uses with him. “Let me.”

Sinking the fingers of his free hand into Wriothesley’s hair, Neuvillette pulls him into another hungry, devouring kiss. Over Wriothesley’s cock, their fingers tangle, part, and then Neuvillette is stroking him, his grip too loose for anything but a wicked tease.

Wriothesley groans into that kiss, urging Neuvillette closer. Their bodies come together as Neuvillette plays, as he strokes and teases. His thumb pulls over the head of Wriothesley’s cock, smearing lingering saliva and precum into his skin, easing the passage of his hand. His fingers map Wriothesley’s length, describing him with fleeting caresses until Wriothesley is arching mindlessly into Neuvillette’s touch. Their kiss stutters to a halt as Wriothesley sucks in increasingly desperate gasps of air, their mouths touching and breaths mingling.

“Gorgeous,” Neuvillette says, his voice a low and wicked rumble, and that word goes through Wriothesley like a lightning bolt.

Groaning, he arches his back, driving his cock harder into Neuvillette’s hand, but Neuvillette doesn’t speed up or tighten his grip.

“The flush in your cheeks, the way you move for me. You are exquisite, my Wriothesley.”

More desire sings in Wriothesley’s veins. His cock throbs and aches in the confines of Neuvillette’s hold.

“How I adore seeing you like this, so hungry for the pleasure I give you.”

No one’s ever talked to him like this during sex. Usually, he’s the one pouring wicked words into Neuvillette’s ear, but now, in that rough, delightful rumble, Neuvillette showers him with compliments—and they devastate him. Pleasure burns in his veins, stringing tight in his gut. He arches, clutching at the comforter beneath him, chasing a razor-sharp high that’s just out of reach, and—

And Neuvillette wraps his fingers tight around the base of Wriothesley’s cock. “Not yet, beloved,” he croons.

Wriothesley moans, sagging back, letting the pillows embrace him. “Sweetness…”

Neuvillette’s hand moves over him again, and Wriothesley realizes abruptly how Neuvillette means to play with him. Sharp fangs drag over his lips, and Neuvillette rumbles out a hungry little purr. “Is this alright?” he asks.

For a brief moment, Wriothesley almost says no, almost says it’s too much. But he forces himself to pause, forces himself to consider how wonderfully pleasure aches through him, pounding like a second heartbeat in his veins.

Wriothesley swallows his refusal. “Yeah,” he manages, straining into Neuvillette’s touch. “Yeah, it’s—it’s good.”

“You’re sure?”

Wriothesley nods. “With you, yeah.”

Neuvillette kisses him, and it’s hungry, yes, but it’s also edged with sweetness, with tenderness, with utter adoration. No one’s ever kissed him like this. No one’s ever given him this—he’s never let anyone—but he finds he likes it, floating in a sea of Electro pleasure, the ecstasy of it snapping like lightning in his veins.

Repeatedly, with their lips brushing in sweet caresses, Neuvillette works him to the edge. Each time he’s too close to orgasm, Neuvillette wraps those long fingers around his cock and keeps him from coming. He works Wriothesley until Wriothesley is little more than an aching nerve, until every touch is nearly too much. And then, as Wriothesley is dazed and on the verge of desperate, Neuvillette straddles Wriothesley’s hips.

The sight is exquisite, it’s divine. Neuvillette’s cock is hard and flushed at the tip, dripping precum down its length. Reaching behind himself with both hands, Neuvillette continues to stroke over Wriothesley’s cock. His hips cant forward and, oh, fuck, Wriothesley has the perfect view as Neuvillette sinks a finger into his ass in a long, slow stroke.

“You’re so hard for me,” Neuvillette murmurs, dragging his thumb over the tip of Wriothesley’s cock as he presses deep with that finger. “Do you know how much I want you inside me?”

Wriothesley’s lips part but no sound comes out, just a broken, shuddering exhalation.

When has anyone ever offered him this kind of praise? When has anyone ever whispered of their need in such heated tones?

Aching with need, Wriothesley curves his hands over Neuvillette’s hips. He’s rewarded with a quiet moan from Neuvillette, and Neuvillette slides a second finger into his hole. “Your hands,” Neuvillette breathes. “So rough and large. You make me feel so protected when your hands are on my body.”

Wriothesley’s heart squeezes in his chest, and he manages a choked off groan.

“I love how they feel.” Wriothesley strokes up Neuvillette’s ribs. Back down. “I love how you open me with your fingers.” He wants to help Neuvillette stretch himself open now, but he has the hazy impression that if he tries, he’ll be rebuffed. And there is something exquisitely erotic about watching Neuvillette work as his free hand strokes over Wriothesley’s cock. “Love how you touch me, stroke me, play with me. I want to give you the same, beloved.”

A shudder pulls through him, Wriothesley’s hips jerking off the bed. His cock pushes against the round globe of Neuvillette’s ass, smearing precum on his skin, and Wriothesley groans again. He wants, he aches, he craves, but Neuvillette continues to play with him, dripping Hydro down his cock. Continues to stroke as he stretches himself open with a third finger. Precum drips down his cock to splatter on Wriothesley’s belly, and each impacting droplet sparks little jolts of lightning pleasure through Wriothesley’s veins.

Wriothesley is half out of his mind with need when Neuvillette pulls his fingers from his hole.

“Look at you,” Neuvillette murmurs, pulling his hand down Wriothesley’s chest, leaving it slick with the Hydro he used to open himself up. “How hungry your eyes, how needy your expression. Who has ever seen you like this?”

Forcing himself to answer, Wriothesley says hoarsely, “No one.”

A savage satisfaction spreads across Neuvillette’s face. “Me,” he corrects. “I am yours, Wriothesley.”

And Wriothesley is his. He would belong to nothing and no one except Neuvillette. “Yours,” he agrees, voice ragged and broken and incapable of anything more complex. “Fuck, sweetness, I—Yours.”

That seems to be what Neuvillette is looking for. He brings Wriothesley’s cock to his hole and presses the head inside himself.

Tight, searing heat envelops him. Wriothesley groans, squeezing hard on Neuvillette’s hips. He presses against his lover, trying to force him down, but Neuvillette is immovable. He takes his time, takes what he wants, easing slowly down Wriothesley’s cock in what feels like an interminable slide.

A small eternity passes before Neuvillette seats himself across Wriothesley’s hips, his body sweetly devouring. Wriothesley’s thumbs pull over the jut of Neuvillette’s hip bones, stroking back and forth as he stares at the place their bodies meet, as he drinks in the sight of his cock wrapped in the soft heat of Neuvillette’s body. With a little groan, he rolls his hips, trying to get deeper.

Neuvillette answers him by grinding down against him and pressing his hands to Wriothesley’s waist. “No,” he says. “My beautiful Wriothesley.” No one has ever called him beautiful. He’s not beautiful. He’s a mess of ugly scars and— “My beloved, let me. Let me love you well tonight.” He smooths his fingertips along Wriothesley’s body, dragging them in a sweet caress to Wriothesley’s arms. Gently, he tangles their fingers together, lifting Wriothesley’s hands from his hips. And then he leans forward, pinning Wriothesley’s hands to the bed near his head.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Wriothesley stares up at Neuvillette, aglow with desire and love. Shining eyes, glimmering rhinophores. He covers Wriothesley’s body with his own, and for the first time, someone else shields Wriothesley from the rest of the world. Someone else protects him, guards him.

Something burns in his eyes, and he squeezes them shut as he strains beneath Neuvillette’s body, overcome.

“Let me,” Neuvillette says again, and he begins to move. Long, slow strokes, hot and consuming. Every time he pushes down, he squeezes tight around Wriothesley’s cock. Beneath him, Wriothesley draws up his legs, bracing his feet against the bed, but he doesn’t fuck up into Neuvillette’s body. No, he obeys, he listens, he gives himself over and allows Neuvillette to move for their mutual pleasure, allows Neuvillette to ride him in a way he’s never let anyone else have him.

This, he thinks distantly. He wants an eternity of this, because the next sixty-odd years of his life could never be enough.

Squeezing his fingers where they lace with Neuvillette’s, he pants Neuvillette’s name, he gasps it, he moans it, he lets himself sing hymns of praise as Neuvillette makes love to him.

He doesn’t last long. He’d be a little ashamed of how quickly he comes undone, except that Neuvillette’s expression is rapturous as Wriothesley’s hips jerk into him. He comes with a broken cry of Neuvillette’s name, too, his fingers tightening hard around Neuvillette’s. And Neuvillette leans close to him, brushing their lips together.

“My beloved, my sweetest darling, my Wriothesley. How good you are for me, how beautiful you are when you come apart for me.” His teeth catch in Wriothesley’s lower lip, and it’s like Wriothesley is coming again, his cock twitching inside Neuvillette’s body as more cum spills out of him.

The orgasm hollows him out, leaving him shaking and empty of himself. He is bleary-eyed and drunk on ecstasy as he frees one hand from Neuvillette’s and reaches for Neuvillette’s cock. “Please,” he says, he gasps, he begs. “Let me touch you.”

“Anything at all. How good you are to me.”

Wriothesley’s fingers wrap around Neuvillette’s cock, and it takes only a few tugs of his fist before Neuvillette spills all over Wriothesley’s chest.

Bending down, Neuvillette sinks his fingers into Wriothesley’s hair and kisses him long and slow.

Floating on his ecstasy, tingling in his extremities, lightheaded and a little dizzy with his pleasure, Wriothesley sweeps his hands up Neuvillette’s body to urge him into an enveloping embrace. “Hey,” he breathes when they part for breath.

“Hey,” Neuvillette murmurs in reply.

Wriothesley bumps their foreheads together.

He is already laid bare before his lover, open and vulnerable, and so the words come easy. “Neuvillette, I want eternity in your arms. No, don’t,” he says before Neuvillette can interrupt him. “I’ve thought about it.” His hands stroke down Neuvillette’s spine. “I’ve talked to—” He doesn’t want to bring Sigewinne and Furina into their bed. “—plenty of people. And I want it. I want forever. I want eternity. Whether that means my every reincarnation is yours or my lifespan matches yours, I want you, and I’ll want you until the last star falls from the sky and the waters dry up and we’re the last two people on Teyvat.” He brushes his nose alongside Neuvillette’s. “Tell me you’ll have me, too?”

Neuvillette stares at him, his breaths shallow and harsh, his eyes bright. “You are sure?”

“I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t.” He presses into the small of Neuvillette’s back, heedless of the stickiness between their bodies, desperate to get just a bit closer. “If I could, I’d take my heart out of my chest and give it to you for safekeeping. I’ve loved you for years, and I want to spend the rest of forever loving you. I’m no dragon, but I am a dragon’s mate.”

Neuvillette’s eyes flutter shut, and he presses the softest of kisses to Wriothesley’s mouth. “Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, you—My mate, my Wriothesley. My mate.” He kisses Wriothesley again and then again, and they drown in shared kisses.

Gently, Wriothesley urges him back, lifting his chin to bear his neck. “You need to bite me, yeah?”

Neuvillette makes a ragged sound. “Yes.” He swallows thickly. “But that—that is best done when I am in heat.”

Wriothesley drops his chin, meeting Neuvillette’s still-glowing eyes. “I can wait a few days.” He laughs softly. “Nothing like knowing you’re getting proposed to.”

With an exasperated snort, Neuvillette shifts. He eases himself free of Wriothesley’s body, but sits across his hips. “Wriothesley, we will not be engaged. When I bite you, we will be the equivalent of married.”

A stupid smile pulls across Wriothesley’s lips. “Yeah,” he says. And then he startles. “Fuck. I—I need to get us rings. We need—We need a human marriage license, too, don’t we?”

Neuvillette watches him, lips quirked in an amused smile. “If that pleases you.”

“I never thought I’d end up with a partner,” Wriothesley admits, sobering a little. “I figured no one would want—” He gestures to himself, to the scars that tear down his throat. He shakes his head. “So, yeah. I want everything.”

“Then we should also plan a wedding, should we not?” Neuvillette asks.

Wriothesley’s chest swells with emotion, too many tangled together for him to pick them all apart. “Fuck, but I love you.”

“My Wriothesley,” Neuvillette murmurs, bending to kiss him. “My mate. My love. Let us wed after my heat, yes?”

Wriothesley bites at Neuvillette’s lower lip, tugging it gently between his teeth. “A small, intimate wedding,” Wriothesley says. “Just us. A few friends. The whole of Fontaine doesn’t need to be there.”

“The whole of Fontaine will want to be there.”

“We’ll elope,” Wriothesley says.

Laughing, Neuvillette eases off of the bed. “Come. Let us clean up. We will discuss your small wedding. Oh, and Wriothesley?”

“Yes?” he asks, swinging out of bed to follow Neuvillette toward the bathroom.

“Do leave one of your shirts behind in the morning.”

Chapter Text

There’s no quiet way for Wriothesley to get them a marriage license. The minute he goes to the civil administrative floor of the Palais Mermonia, every eye is on him. His only consolation is that he works with a Melusine to secure the actual license—which turns out to be a blessing, because humans need various forms of identification to get a license. Forms of identification that neither he nor Neuvillette have. The Melusine he works with makes do and gets him the necessary paperwork.

“You’ll both need to sign these,” she explains, “and I’ll handwave the requirements you don’t have.” She winks. “Don’t worry about that, Your Grace.”

He doesn’t.

He takes the folder she passes him and brings it to Neuvillette that very night. Neuvillette signs every document without hesitation and with a flourish, a small, satisfied smile on his face. Wriothesley returns the paperwork the next day, his heart light.  

There’s no quiet way for Wriothesley to get the rings, either. Apparently, the entire Court knows he submitted for a marriage license because whispers and eyes follow him down the crowded streets of the Vasari Passage. He keeps expression congenial, nodding to a few people he vaguely recognizes from some party or another but mentally disparages the Court’s rumor mill. The Melusines are one thing, but the humans of the Court are quite another.

He checks the slip of paper Charmine Bouchard gave him with an address, checks the nearest building’s number, and then turns to cross the street. His eyes catch on a glittering, golden sign. Maison Aubert is far from inconspicuous.

And by the end of the day, the entire Court will know he was here.

With a sigh, he pushes the door open.

Inside, tables and displays of jewelry fill the small shop—but not quite so much as Wriothesley might expect. It looks more like a showroom than a store. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Charmine did say that Maison Aubert operates mostly on custom commissions. That’s why they’re so expensive: everything their master artisan makes is original. They sell no duplicates.

Wriothesley cringes internally, sweeping his eyes over the tables and the two customers. Both women, both fabulously dressed, both clearly incredibly wealthy. They’re served by two men in full suits and delicate white gloves, their expressions severe and staid.

He almost feels the need to flee. Almost feels like he doesn’t belong.

Which sets his resolve; he’s not going anywhere.

The only staff member who isn’t occupied is a slow-eyed young woman who barely reaches Wriothesley’s shoulders. She leans against the main counter, watching him with a knowing look, her black eyes glittering. When she lifts her chin at him, a halo of tight, black coils bounces around her head. Unlike the sales associates, she doesn’t wear a black suit. Earrings in every hue and shade of gold loop around the curve of her ear and pierce her lobes. Rings both simple and complex drip from her fingers. A smock dress of buttery yellow falls to just above her knees, offsetting her midnight skin. A twisting bodice of gold wraps her chest and waist, the ivy-like filigree curving around her body. And from that filigree bodice hangs a Geo Vision set in a golden version of Fontaine’s setting.

She looks delicate. She looks like she could break him in half with her pinky.

He likes her immediately.

Shoving away from the counter, she offers him her fine-boned hand. Not to bow over and kiss, but to shake, and he likes her even more. “Chaumette,” she says.

“The master herself,” he replies, taking her hand and giving it a firm shake. “Wriothesley.”

A broad grin splits her face. “I’ve been waiting for you, Your Grace.”

He blinks. “You have?”

“Of course, of course!” She extricates her hand from his. “Where else would you go to get a ring for your beloved? Maison Claudel?” Her expression sours.

Wriothesley has never heard of Maison Claudel but assumes they’re another jewelry house. “Ah… No?”

She continues as though he said nothing. “Absolutely not! Pah, Maison Claudel. Those hacks. No, no. You would come to the best.” Pressing her fingers to her chest, she beams. “I am, of course, the very best. Now.” She claps her hands together. “Wedding bands. Come with me, come with me. No need to dally when there is work to be done.”

Instead of taking him to a display, she leads him to a door behind the counter, and Wriothesley follows her, a little bowled over. He’s met people who have more in common with whirlwinds before, but none quite like Chaumette, who doesn’t seem to function under the belief that anyone could have a will of their own. She’s as imperious as an Archon.

Opening the door, she gestures him inside, and he finds himself in a narrow hallway that ends in a stairwell.

“Should I be nervous, Mademoiselle Chaumette?” he asks her as she slips by him, and he follows her up the stairwell.

“What, that I’ll kill you? No, not at all. Blood is far too difficult to get out of clothes for murder to be practical. I am taking you to my workshop.”

He blinks. “Your workshop?”

“Did you think I would let you leave here with an off the shelf ring? Absolutely not.” She tuts.

“I—”

“No, no. Don’t thank me yet.”

The staircase ends abruptly in a wall and a door, and she throws open the door to lead him into a sun-soaked workshop. One entire wall is lined with shelves covered in ingots of various metals. Gold, yes, but silvery bars, too. A desk sits beneath a large Palladian window. Tools of her trade—hammers, pliers, and other devices he does not recognize—stand neatly organized in little buckets. Journals—likely sketchbooks, he thinks—line a nearby shelf.

Everything is neatly in its place, almost neurotically so. No dust covers the shelves, no tools are on the desk itself, no prototypes are on display; there’s no sign that she actually works here.

She goes to her journals, plucking one from the rest and flipping it open. “Now. I’ve been working on several designs—”

He continues to stare at her.

“—and have a few that I think you will quite like.” She looks up at him. “Is there something on my face, Your Grace?”

“Er. No?”

“Then why are you staring at me as though I am a child covered in jam?”

What a bizarre metaphor. “It’s just—You—You have designs?” he asks, floored.

She rolls her eyes at him. “Again, Your Grace. Were you planning on going to Maison Claudel? Maison Miuccia? Tsk, no. You were always going to come to me, even if you started with them.”

Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair, stymied, bemused, completely unsure how to deal with Chaumette. She’s not just a whirlwind. She’s a firestorm. She’s a hurricane sweeping across the sea. “Good thing I started with you, then?” he volunteers, figuring appealing to her ego can only help him.

He’s rewarded with another bright smile. “Quite right you are. I always knew you were sensible, Your Grace, no matter what they say about you.”

He balks. “What do they say about me? Who’s they?”

But she’s not listening, she’s flipping open her sketchbook. When she finds the page she wants, she spins it around and holds it out to him, revealing an intricately carved wedding band heavily laden with gemstones. It’s elegant and lovely and far too much.

“No,” she says, snatching it back and flipping to another page before he can so much as comment. “I can see it in your eyes. Not this one. And you’re right. Terrible balance, that ring. Not fit for the Iudex’s hand.”

“Er,” Wriothesley says.

Chaumette shoves her sketchbook in front of him once again, this time revealing something studded with what he assumes are diamonds.

“I—”

“I agree,” she says. “Diamonds don’t suit him.” She flips to another page, revealing a simple band with their faces carved into it.

Wriothesley blinks. “That’s—”

“Too traditional for you.” Another page, another design, this one much simpler. The ring looks like it’s carved into petals—or elegantly layered with fine silk. Wriothesley’s lips part, but he doesn’t say anything.

That ring reminds him of an old poem.

“This one,” she says, studying him carefully. “Yes, this one is right, but you want to change it. How?”

“I had actually hoped for a posy ring,” he says.

She barks out a laugh. “Ah, so you are a little traditional.”

“A little,” he admits.

“Monsieur’s fingers are very fine and thin,” she says. “You will not have much room for a poem inscribed on the inside.”

He waves her off. “That’s alright. It’s a short line.”

She gestures for him to continue.

“‘I give you an onion,’” he says, quoting the line from the poem.

And now she stares at him.

“Can you do that?” he asks.

She sputters. “Can I—? Of course I can. What do you take me for?” She flicks several pages over in her sketchbook. “Very well. And for you, you will want something simple?” She shows him what looks like a layered ring, labeled platinum—sapphire—platinum.

He nods. “That’s perfect. Is there—”

“Room for an inscription?” She tuts, snapping her sketchbook shut. “It will be difficult, but am I not Chaumette Aubert?” She spreads her arms wide.

He, actually, has no idea what her surname is, so he hesitates.

With a roll of her eyes, she drops her arms. “You are a terrible audience, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley smothers a grimace. Affects an expression of amused indifference. “And here I thought I was a client.”

She waves him off. “Client, audience, in Fontaine, is there a difference?”

No, but there should be. Hopefully, now, there will be. He just lifts his brows.

Chaumette pays him no mind. She brushes past him, approaching her shelves of ingots. Running her fingers along one shelf, she selects a silvery ingot. Pauses. Glances back at him. “Gold,” she says abruptly. “You will want gold for the Chief Justice?”

Wriothesley nods. “I—”

“There is, of course, white gold, yellow gold, rose gold, and our unique sun gold,” she says as if he hadn’t started to speak at all. “Are you familiar?”

“No, I—”

“It is a unique mix of cor lapis and gold.” She reaches for an ingot that is burnished and red, much like copper but with a lustrous, golden sheen that is radiant and, quite frankly, stunning. Even though she doesn’t stand directly in the sunlight filtering through the windows, the ingot in her hand gleams and shines. “No one else can match it, and it would be the most unique gift you could offer your monsieur.”

“That’s—”

Her eyes narrow. “Bah, sun gold? For the Chief Justice? Absolutely not. He prefers yellow gold, doesn’t he?” She touches her throat. “Cravat pin, collar, his embellishments. No, sun gold would not be appropriate for a wedding band for him, that’s foolish. Why would you even suggest such a thing, Your Grace?”

“I—”

“We’ll go with true gold.” She sets the ingot back down and picks up another, this one a polished yellow gold. With her two ingots in hand, she returns to her desk, setting them down.

“Should I come back—”

“Of course not,” she says, waspish. She hustles across her workshop once more, going to a shelf of drawers. With obvious familiarity, she opens one drawer and retrieves from it a rocky lump, vaguely blue, and Wriothesley’s eyes lift. The rock is dull and unremarkable but still obviously a sapphire.

“You keep your precious stones in your workshop?” he asks.

The smile she gives him is terrifying. “Do you think Maison Aubert unguarded?” She clucks. “Let a thief try to enter my boutique, Your Grace.” This, too, she takes back to her desk. “Sit.” She points at a stool beside her desk. “This will not take me long.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure? I don’t want to rush—”

“No rush.” Annoyed, she points at the stool again. “Sit.”

He sits, leaning just a bit closer to watch her.

Chaumette picks up the golden ingot, flipping her sketchbook open to the page with the design for Neuvillette’s ring. Idly, she presses her thumb against the ingot—and pulls off a chunk of gold.

Wriothesley’s eyes go wide. “Uh,” he says.

“I’m trying to concentrate.” She doesn’t even look at him as she speaks, keeping her eyes on the sketch.

Gold is soft, yeah, but it’s not that soft. He watches her, eyes going wider as she begins working the gold like its clay.

Her Vision flickers with light.

She shapes the gold into a cylinder and hollows it out all with her fingers. When she has the shape of it right, she closes both hands around the ring, fixes her eyes on her sketchbook, and tips her head to the side. “Yes,” she says, absently. “Like that. No, not so—Ah, yes, that’s perfect.” And when she separates her hands, she has a perfectly formed ring in her palm, carved with layered petals across the surface. Along the inside, Wriothesley can make out part of the inscription, the letters cut into the gold in elegant swoops.

She holds it out in her palm. “There,” she says. “Perfection, of course.”

Wriothesley hesitates to take it from her. “Is it still… soft?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes. “It was never soft. That was the work of my Vision.” She reaches for his hand, holding it before her and gently turning the ring into his palm.

It is cool to the touch, hard as it should be, and absolutely perfect.

“The size,” he says.

Scoffing, she turns to the silvery ingot. “I am well aware of the size of the Chief Justice’s fingers,” she says.

He frowns. “How?”

“I am a master craftsman, Your Grace,” she says, voice dripping with derision and arrogance. “I need only see someone’s hand to measure it. You, for example. Have I measured your fingers? Do I even have a set of tools with which I could measure them? Of course not. I am not like those hacks in Maison Claudel.”

“You really hate Maison Claudel,” he says.

She sniffs. “Derivative. Uninspired.” She tuts. “Commercial.” She works the platinum as she speaks, fashioning it into two thin bands. And then she picks up the sapphire. He watches with no small amount of interest as she works that as one would clay, forming it into a band to match the platinum. She fits all three pieces together, running her thumb along the outside and inside to create a seamless molding, as though this is something that occurs naturally, and then she hands this band to him, too. “You will find that it fits,” she says dismissively, as if she didn’t just make an entire ring from raw materials with barely any effort.

Wriothesley takes the ring and slips it on his own finger, not at all surprised that it fits perfectly. “You did this in five minutes,” he says.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, and? I am a professional, I am an artist, I know my work.”

“Wouldn’t an artist labor over this?”

Her expression is comically offended. “Time is not a measure of greatness, Your Grace,” she says. “An apprentice will labor over a piece for hours, desperately seeking perfection. They will second guess themselves, reworking area after area, until the metal is brittle and dull. Are their hours indicative of their skill? On the contrary. I spend just the right amount of time on each piece for it to be perfect. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Oh, but to have an ounce of Chaumette’s confidence. Wriothesley is self-assured, yes, but he’s not a manically arrogant as this stick of a woman.

No wonder Charmine sent him here.

“Now. Are you happy with your rings?” she asks.

He removes the one he slipped on his finger, holding it out to her. “This one needs an inscription, too, if you would.”

She takes it back from him, holding it in delicate fingers. “And?”

“It should say, ‘Eternity is shared.’”

Chaumette watches him for a long moment, and he figures she understands more than he’d like her to about that phrase. But she doesn’t comment on it. Her Vision glows, and she runs her thumb along the inside of the ring. Her touch engraves the words not once but twice into each platinum band. “There,” she says, handing the ring back to him. “As I said.” She gives an airy gesture. “Perfection.”

“How much do I owe you?” he asks.

She bursts into laughter. “Oh, we can’t be gauche enough to talk about money, Your Grace,” she says.

“So, a lot.”

“I am reasonably but fairly priced,” she says, and then gives him a sum that would beggar most rich men.

“You’ll invoice me?” he asks.

She opens a drawer on the side of her desk, removing two ring boxes from it. Opening them, she holds them out, and Wriothesley slips one ring into each. “Of course, of course. The Duke of Meropide’s credit is welcome here.” She snaps the ring boxes shut, nearly catching his fingers. Reaching for another drawer, removing a silky pouch from inside. She slides the ring boxes into the pouch and passes it to Wriothesley.

Laughing, Wriothesley accepts the pouch, pulling the drawstrings tight and tying them off. “Mademoiselle,” he says, “it has been a pleasure.”

“Yes, well, it should be,” she says, rising from her seat.

Wriothesley rises with her, clutching the pouch in his hand. Nothing has been as important as what’s enclosed in that silk. Nothing, not even his Vision, can come close.

“You will naturally come back to me with any requests in the future,” she says, making her way to the workshop door.

“Naturally,” Wriothesley says dryly. “I wouldn’t think of going to Maison Claudel.”

She whirls on him, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You’re obviously a man of fine taste.”

He doesn’t have it in him to tell her that the Duchess Bouchard recommended her and he was just going to find the first jeweler in the Vasari Passage.

“Don’t make me rethink my opinion of you, Your Grace.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” And he means it, because, frankly, if Chaumette ever came at him, he isn’t sure he’d win that confrontation.

Neuvillette does his best not to work too late in the week leading up to his heat. He and Wriothesley spend their evenings together as often as they can, and he refuses to miss a minute of that time because of his obligations. It is a strange thing, he thinks, to reprioritize his life in this way. Before Wriothesley, work consumed him. His cases were all he had. Now, he has so much more, and work is far less important—but it remains just as demanding.

He has Sedene reorganize his calendar, clearing and rescheduling his appointments. He grimaces as he eyes his new calendar. The week following his heat will be brutal, with little opportunity for him to see his lover. His mate.

Warmth suffuses him.

Wriothesley’s words swirl through his memory. I never thought I’d end up with a partner. A sentiment that Neuvillette shares.

Well. A sentiment he shared.

For centuries, Neuvillette was set apart. He did it to himself, yes, keeping a healthy distance between himself and the humans he had to judge. A judge must be impartial; any personal ties to the humans of Fontaine could only color his judgements. He had no personal relationships, not even with Furina. And, too, there was the matter of precisely what he is. Though he didn’t go to great lengths to disguise his identity, he didn’t offer up the truth to anyone who inquired. Some guessed, but few came close.

And now there is Wriothesley, who has pushed through all of Neuvillette’s impartiality and into the core of Neuvillette’s being. There is Wriothesley, who knows the truth and still wants Neuvillette. Not just pieces, but all of him. Human, dragon, it doesn’t matter.

This, Neuvillette thinks with a fond, tender smile, is more than he could have ever hoped for, precisely because he has never allowed himself this hope.

He turns his attention to his case load. Several trial dates have been pushed out, but some are too important to wait. These he reviews carefully, assigning justices to them to keep them moving in his absence. The decisions will be small ones—whether to admit this evidence or not, responding to injunctions and other requests from the prosecution and defense—but making them even with him indisposed will keep the justice system from grinding to a halt.

There are so many cases that the justice system cannot afford to grind to a halt.

Rubbing his temples, Neuvillette moves his case files into separate piles, dispersing them based on difficulty to the justices directly under him. He has just finished when the grandfather clock in his office strikes the six o’clock hour, and he realizes he has stayed later than intended. Wriothesley will be waiting for him. Wriothesley—

Desire surges through him, sharp and sweet. It floods him, tingling in an effervescent buzz through his veins. Not so strong as during his heats, no, but still momentarily overwhelming.

Saliva pools in his mouth. His control on his form weakens, and he fights against the claws that threaten to tear through the fingers of his gloves, against the fangs that prick at his lips.

Mate. His mate is in his den, waiting for him, and he wants.

A heat’s timetable is a malleable thing. Perhaps he doesn’t have as many days before it’s on him as he first anticipated. But the need settles into a low, throbbing ache, not nearly so insistent as a heat’s demands, and he exhales. He needs tomorrow to finish his preparations.

Though his desk is a mess of work, he leaves it as is. He’ll finish dispersing cases in the morning. For now, he rises and exits his office, locking it behind him. Sedene waves to him from her own desk, and he replies with a nod of his head.

It takes him another forty-five minutes just to leave; gestionnaires stop him as he makes his way to the doors of the Palais. From there, it is another ten minutes to his townhome, and he pauses at the door to exhale heavily, grateful to be home at last.

He inhales deeply, and his head cants to the side. Faintly, he makes out the scent of something warm and savory. Beneath that, Wriothesley’s own scent, crisp and sharp, metal and leather and black tea.

Unlocking the door, he steps into the townhome—and he finds the foyer dimly lit with candles. On the side table, there is a generous bouquet of dahlias in an array of colors. Petals lay strewn across the floor, the subtle scent of rose filling Neuvillette’s nose. He pauses, reaching out to touch a delicate dahlia. A smile curves his lips.

Dropping his hand, he follows the rose petals, a mix of red, coral, and peach. They lead him down the front hall and into the dining room. There, he finds the dining room table adorned with a glowing candelabra and strewn with more dahlias and roses. The table has been set for two, using fine dishware that Neuvillette is fairly certain he doesn’t own—or didn’t own, before today—and wine glasses.

Human romance is a curious thing to experience firsthand. He’s known the steps of human courtship for centuries, watching it slowly change over the years, watching gestures transform in their meanings. He has learned them out of necessity, knowing that accepting the wrong gesture from someone will signify a relationship that does not exist. But now he can accept these symbols without hesitation or fear.

With these flowers, Wriothesley declares his eternal love, his lasting bond, his desire. Neuvillette’s own desire rises in response, a hunger that churns low in his gut.

“Hey, sweetness.”

Neuvillette looks up to find Wriothesley leaning in the doorway to the kitchen. He wears only his shirt and his slacks, his vest and coat and tie abandoned, and Neuvillette swallows thickly. Seeing Wriothesley so undone undoes him.

“I took the liberty of preparing dinner for us.” Wriothesley pushes away from the door and approaches Neuvillette, reaching for him.

Neuvillette curves his fingers over Wriothesley’s wrists. “You did not have to,” Neuvillette says.

“I know.” Wriothesley’s fingers cup Neuvillette’s jaw. He brings their mouths together for a soft, slow kiss, one that smolders in Neuvillette’s belly.

Over the years, Neuvillette has observed society’s views toward casual intimacy ebb and flow, but he has always thought it something he did not want. Someone in his space, making demands of his body, never appealed to him. But Wriothesley does not demand; he makes overtures and invitations, and Neuvillette knows he can always decline without fear of retribution or bruised feelings. So he returns Wriothesley’s kiss now, not because it is expected of him but because he desires to do so. Because he desires to find comfort in his mate’s arms. Because he desires, too, and he presses his hands to Wriothesley’s chest not to push him away but to feel.

“Too much more of that,” Wriothesley murmurs against his lips, “and we’ll be having each other for dinner.”

More heat churns in Neuvillette’s belly. Interest flares within his chest. And then his stomach grumbles, shattering the mood.

Both of them laugh, Neuvillette a touch embarrassed but Wriothesley clearly amused.

“Maybe we have each other for dessert,” Wriothesley says. He draws back, his fingers stroking over Neuvillette’s jaw in a lingering caress. “C’mere, sweetness.” He turns, pulling out one of the chairs at the end of the dining room table. “Sit. I’ll get our meal.”

Neuvillette offers him a bemused sort of smile. “What is the occasion?” he asks.

“Do I need one to dote on you?” Wriothesley returns. The words are disarming, but there’s a subtle change in his scent, and Neuvillette’s desire takes a back seat to curiosity and interest.

Wriothesley has planned something.

“Of course not,” Neuvillette demurs.

Wriothesley disappears into the kitchen, and Neuvillette studies the place setting. No, this is definitely not a dish set he owned previously, the porcelain fine and white, edged with a latticework design painted with gold leaf.

A moment later, Wriothesley returns, holding a small tureen of a similar design. He sets it on the table near the candelabra. Inhaling, Neuvillette breathes in the scent of aromatic herbs and chicken. His brows lift, and he leans forward.

“You made consommé,” he says.

Wriothesley gives a small shake of his head. “I bought consommé. I was going to make it, but it turns out that to do it right, you need days. Swung by Hotel Debord earlier today to pick this up. But I did make everything else.” He presses a brief kiss to the top of Neuvillette’s head before vanishing into the kitchen, leaving Neuvillette to stare at the consommé.

He’d mentioned it was his favorite human dish in passing the other day, and now here it sits on his table, illuminated by flickering candlelight.

Wriothesley dresses the table with a simple salad and a crusty bread. He brings out two bottles: one of wine and one of water. The wine, he pours for himself; the water, for Neuvillette.

Though they sit at opposite ends of the table, Neuvillette cannot help but feel their dinner is deeply intimate. It would be cozy except for a strange and weighty anticipation that settles over him, lending a delicious, decadent tension to the air. When Wriothesley speaks, his voice is low and sonorous, and Neuvillette finds himself pitching his voice to match. They speak as though they are sharing secrets.

The consommé is exquisite, crisp and fresh and rich. Neuvillette savors it on his tongue as he savors the weight of Wriothesley’s intense regard. An ache builds in his gut, his cock twitching with an interest he doesn’t entirely understand; this is a strange yet sublime seduction.

By the time they finish their meal, Neuvillette’s heart pounds inside his chest and he longs for the brush of Wriothesley’s hands over his body. He goes to push back his chair, but Wriothesley forestalls him with a touch on his shoulder.

“Don’t you want dessert?” he asks.

“Did you not offer yourself earlier?” Neuvillette returns, tipping back his head.

Wriothesley laughs. The sound shivers through Neuvillette. “I did. But there’s also real dessert.” Wriothesley lifts his hand and brushes his thumb across Neuvillette’s lip. “Which would you prefer?”

Neuvillette parts his lips, wrapping them around Wriothesley’s thumb. Their gazes fix on each other as Neuvillette flicks his tongue against Wriothesley’s skin.

The scent of Wriothesley’s desire floods his nose, wicked and distracting.

When Wriothesley pulls his thumb free, a line of saliva tracks from it to Neuvillette’s mouth.

“Let us indulge in this dessert you’ve made,” Neuvillette says.

“Yeah.” Wriothesley’s voice shakes. But he draws back, taking their bowls with him to the kitchen. Neuvillette watches him go, raking hungry eyes over the expanse of his back, his ass. Surely, this dinner would not be so charged if not for his impending heat. And yet there remains that strange anticipation in the air, that electric tension.

Wriothesley emerges from the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying a single plate. “Close your eyes,” he says, a smile playing at his lips.

Neuvillette cants his head to the side but obeys, his eyes fluttering shut. When he breathes in, he tastes cooked sugar on his tongue, sharp and sweet, and knows precisely what the dessert is. With what, then, does Wriothesley wish to surprise him?

A gentle clink as the dish settles against the large plate still before him.

“Open your eyes, sweetness.”

Neuvillette does, his gaze going first to Wriothesley, kneeling beside the table, as though he is a lodestone. Wriothesley inclines his head toward the plate, and so Neuvillette redirects his attention—and his breath catches.

The plate is largely empty. One side is the dessert: a small, shallow ramekin of crème brûlée. On the opposite side, however, is a band of yellow gold, gleaming in the candlelight.

“I thought about taking you out to dinner,” Wriothesley says, on one knee. One of his hands rests on the arm of Neuvillette’s chair. He watches Neuvillette, eyes shining with tenderness, with adoration.

With love.

“But I didn’t want to make a show of it.” He gives Neuvillette a lopsided smile. “Neuvillette, Chief Justice of Fontaine, Iudex, will you marry me as humans do? Will you be mine?”

Neuvillette parts his lips to admonish Wriothesley—has he not signed their marriage license?—but finds he cannot speak. His throat tightens with emotion, catching on an overwhelming surge of surprise, of elation, of love.

Incapable of speech, he reaches for the ring. Chaumette’s work is obvious; the delicate layers of gold, carved like so many petals overlapping each other, is exquisite. And the fine, elegant lines of text on the inside—Neuvillette goes still. Confusion replaces the tumult of emotion.

“‘I give you an onion,’” he reads.

Something curdles the edge of his joy. Disappointment? Frustration? That Wriothesley might make a joke of a promise like this is—

“It’s from an old poem,” Wriothesley says quickly, recognizing the emotions working across Neuvillette’s face. “Let me—It goes like this: Not a red rose or a satin heart. / I give you an onion. / It is a moon wrapped in brown paper. / It promises light / like the careful undressing of love.”

Neuvillette goes still, so still that even his heart quiets in his chest.

“Here,” Wriothesley continues, watching Neuvillette fixedly. “It will blind you with tears
like a lover. / It will make your reflection / a wobbling photo of grief. / I am trying to be truthful. / Not a cute card or a kissogram. / I give you an onion. / Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful / as we are, / for as long as we are.” His hand finds Neuvillette’s, and his thumb brushes against the base of Neuvillette’s ring finger. “Take it. / Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding ring, / if you like.”

Neuvillette, mouth dry, swallows.

“Lethal. / Its scent will cling to your fingers, / cling to your knife.” Wriothesley falls silent, his thumb still moving over Neuvillette’s knuckle.

And Neuvillette’s heart, so ready to break, melts with affection. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Wriothesley’s lips. “I am yours, beloved. Onions and all.”

A broken laugh falls from Wriothesley’s lips, and he returns Neuvillette’s kiss as he takes the ring from his fingers. Neuvillette watches as Wriothesley peels off his glove, watches as he slides that band down the long line of his finger to settle it at the base.

The weight is foreign and strange but not unpleasant. Neuvillette regards the bit of gold with elation and satisfaction in equal measure.

“Technically, it’s a wedding band,” Wriothesley says, rubbing his thumb over the gold. Neuvillette shifts his gaze to meet Wriothesley’s. “But, technically, we’re already human married.”

“And you?” Neuvillette asks. “Is it not tradition that you also wear a ring?”

Wriothesley grins, releasing Neuvillette’s hand to reach into his pocket. When he pulls his hand out, he’s wearing a band of sapphire wedged between a silvery metal. Platinum, Neuvillette suspects.

“It is lovely,” Neuvillette says, touching his fingertips to the ring, marveling at it. “And does it, too, bear an inscription?”

Wriothesley slides the ring off his finger, offering it to Neuvillette for inspection.

He turns it over in his hands, and his heart catches. Eternity is shared.

“Oh, Wriothesley,” he breathes, pressing the ring back into Wriothesley’s hand. He eases out of his chair, his dessert forgotten, and sinks against Wriothesley’s body, wrapping his mate in his arms. “You are—” He cups Wriothesley’s jaw, pulling him close for a lingering kiss, unable to find the words.

Wriothesley shifts closer, as though he can eliminate all the space between them and climb inside Neuvillette’s chest. Neuvillette would let him, would let Wriothesley carve out a space inside his very heart.

Their lips meet, part, meet again. Their kiss is languorous and long enough that an ache pulses through Neuvillette’s knees. He ignores it, chasing Wriothesley’s lips with his own, but Wriothesley pulls back. “You want that dessert?” he asks.

“Did you make it?”

“Sure did.”

“Then, yes,” Neuvillette says, even though he wants nothing more than to drag Wriothesley into the half-built nest in their bedroom. But he will appreciate his mate’s offerings. Won’t let his efforts go to waste.

Wriothesley slips the ring back on his finger and helps Neuvillette back into his chair. He pulls up another chair alongside Neuvillette’s, and they split the crème brûlée. Wriothesley has much more of it than Neuvillette, who appreciates its lightness but even so finds it far too sweet, and when it is finished, Wriothesley takes Neuvillette gently by the hand.

“I’m not done with you, sweetness,” he says.

“There’s more?” Neuvillette asks, genuinely surprised.

Wriothesley gives him another of those lopsided grins. “I want to indulge you tonight. Let me?”

After centuries of being alone, he has someone who cherishes him. The thought is almost too much, too sweet, too—everything. “You always indulge me,” Neuvillette protests. “You’ve already indulged me.” 

Wriothesley tugs gently on Neuvillette’s hand, and Neuvillette rises, letting Wriothesley pull him out of the chair. “There’s more.”

He leads Neuvillette back through the hallway and up the stairs. The only light on the second floor emanates from Neuvillette’s bedroom at the far end of the hall. It, too, flickers, and when they enter, Neuvillette finds his room illuminated by what must be one hundred candles. Here, too, are more petals, and he cannot help his little laugh.

“This will be a lot to clean up,” he says.

“Really?” Wriothesley asks, tone playful. “I spread rose petals all over the house, long considered one of the most romantic gestures, and all you can think about is how hard it’ll be to clean up?”

“It is very romantic,” Neuvillette offers.

Wriothesley shakes his head, leading Neuvillette into the bathroom. There, he turns the spigot on the bath, filling the tub with steaming water. Neuvillette watches, slowly realizing what Wriothesley intends.

“You needn’t,” Neuvillette says.

In response, Wriothesley draws him close for long, lingering kisses. As their mouths come together, silencing Neuvillette’s protests, Wriothesley strips them both. Neuvillette attempts to help, but he finds his hands are trembling far too much to be useful.

It is one thing to be told he is loved; it is quite another to receive a ring—such a public declaration—and then be cared for like this. To receive tender caresses, each one another admission, to be stripped bare, to be held close.

They ease into the tub together, Neuvillette cradled between Wriothesley’s thighs and resting against his chest. Wriothesley’s hands are soft and warm, pulling a washcloth over Neuvillette’s body. His fingers sink deep into Neuvillette’s hair, massaging his scalp, washing his hair as clean as his skin.

Neuvillette drifts in a cocoon of hazy pleasure. The weight of his ring on his hand warms him; Wriothesley’s arouse him but not so much that he aches and burns. Instead, he floats, content, stretching against Wriothesley’s body until his eyes grow heavy. He tucks his face into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck, exhaling the last of his worries for the day. This, he knows, will be the last he is relaxed for a week. He should enjoy it.

Wriothesley rouses him some time later, when their bodies have begun to prune and the water grows chill. They tumble out of the tub. With a touch of power, Neuvillette pulls the water from their bodies, leaving them dry. And then they stumble into bed, tangling around each other, too lethargic for anything more than warm, soft kisses.

“I love you, husband,” Wriothesley murmurs against his lips.

“My mate,” Neuvillette replies. “Mm, don’t forget to leave your shirt again.”

Wriothesley’s mouth quirks in a smile. “Sweetness, you’re going to have all my shirts at this rate.”

“Oh, no. The horror. You shall simply have to move in with me.”

The invitation should be loaded. Instead, Wriothesley draws Neuvillette into his arms as he rolls to his back. “After your heat,” he says, the words a promise.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Neuvillette is a barely coherent mess. Sweat beads on his forehead and drips down his back. His body burns. Need claws through him, and not even Wriothesley’s scent on the pillows, not even Wriothesley’s numerous shirts strewn throughout the nest, alleviate the ache.

Just a few more hours, he assures himself. While he was able to clear his day in time for the onset of his heat, Wriothesley has a handful of obligations that will keep him occupied into the early afternoon. Neuvillette can manage on his own for a little longer. He has managed on his own for centuries, after all.

Ah, but this time is different. This time, his body aches for his mate—for Wriothesley specifically, not some ambiguous fantasy. His fangs throb in his mouth, hungry for Wriothesley’s skin beneath them, and he groans, pressing one of Wriothesley’s shirts to his face to breathe in the bergamot and leather scent of him.

Instead of easing the ache in his belly, the pulsing burn of desire that spreads through him, Wriothesley’s scent serves only to inflame him. A spike of anxiety drives through him, a fear that Wriothesley won’t come for him, that he’ll suffer alone, but he brings his hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the golden ring at the base of his finger. Wriothesley does not make empty promises. Wriothesley won’t leave him wanting.

And, oh, how he wants.

His cocks throb between his legs. His vent leaks slick down his thighs, thick and viscous. Behind him, his tail lashes across his nest, knocking a pair of pillows over the edge of the bed. He lets them go; they don’t smell like Wriothesley.

With a soft groan, Neuvillette pulls his hand and Wriothesley’s shirt down his chest. The linen is almost too much against his skin, a little too abrasive, not the smooth glide of skin on skin that he so desperately craves. A desperate whimper punches out of him as he glides the shirt over his chest, thumbing his nipples through the fabric.

Electric desire spikes through him, singing in his veins. He nuzzles into the pillow beneath his head, inhaling deeply to breathe in Wriothesley’s scent. It serves only to make him want more, and he glides the shirt lower, lower, lower, until he wraps it around his cocks.

Closing his eyes, he rolls to his back. One hand drives into his hair as he works his hips against his hand, thrusting raggedly into the shirt. The fabric glides over his oversensitive skin, too much and yet not nearly enough. Another whine catches in Neuvillette’s throat.

Wriothesley, Wriothesley, Wriothesley, he craves his mate. The lingering scent of him can’t possibly satisfy, can’t possibly fill the aching emptiness within him. He wants, wants, wants, desperately craves, needs to be filled, to be fucked, to be turned onto his belly and fucked hard and deep and fast until Wriothesley is coming inside him.

A moan breaks out of him. He squeezes around his cocks, his hand moving faster. The shirt would dim the sensation if Neuvillette wasn’t already so hungry, so needy. As it is, every stroke of his fist is exquisite agony. The friction builds a conflagration inside him, and he smolders, he burns, he cannot breathe for the need within him.

His mate, he wants his mate, wants his mate to fill him, take him, breed him.

Dropping his free hand, he rubs his palm against his abdomen, feeling the slight distension from yet another egg. How good it would be to have Wriothesley fucking his vent, filling him with cum until it fertilizes the egg inside him and—

Neither of them wants children right now, he reminds himself, but now he can’t stop thinking about a little girl with Wriothesley’s dark hair and his own eyes. A little boy with Wriothesley’s roguish smile and shining blue rhinophores.

Groaning, he thrusts those thoughts from his mind. Now is not the time for hatchlings. Now is the time to think about Wriothesley’s mouth around his cocks, of his hips snapping upward, driving himself deep down Wriothesley’s throat. Now is the time to think about the hungry way Wriothesley looks at him when they’re in bed, the devouring gaze, tender but so very intense.

“Sweetness,” he’ll say—and Neuvillette comes into Wriothesley’s shirt with a gasp of his mate’s name.

mate mate mate

Soon, so soon, he’ll have Wriothesley’s throat under his teeth. Oh, but he can picture it so clearly: his arms and legs wrapped around Wriothesley as Wriothesley’s cock carves deep into his body, squeezed tight by his vent, his mouth on Wriothesley’s throat, and Wriothesley biting down on Neuvillette’s own neck in return.

He comes again, sudden and abrupt, the orgasm like a knife. His vent contracts in rippling spasms, and his cocks twitch, spilling more cum onto Wriothesley’s shirt.

It’s not enough. The pleasure isn’t enough.

The more he comes, the emptier he feels. Need claws through him, and he claws at the sheets beneath him, uncertain how he’ll make it until Wriothesley comes home.

His talons gouge at the bedding, but that’s not satisfying. No, no, he needs his hands on his body (he needs Wriothesley’s hands on him). He lifts Wriothesley’s shirt to his face, breathing in the combination of his scent and Wriothesley’s, and some of the aching need in him is mollified, his draconic hindbrain satisfied the smallest bit. Pressing his face into the shirt, he palms both cocks in his free hand. Their bases are wet with his slick, easing the passage of his hand as he strokes himself. Every time he reaches the base of his cocks, he presses his fingers into his vent, and he keens senselessly. Pressure. Fullness. His fingers aren’t enough.

“Wriothesley,” he gasps into the shirt, clutching at it as he pushes his fingers deep and spreads them wide.

How easy it is to imagine Wriothesley fucking into his vent, filling him. How easy it is to imagine Wriothesley’s lips at his ear, whispering filthy promises. “I’ll fill you so good, sweetness,” Wriothesley purrs as Neuvillette’s fingers pull out. “I’ll fuck you until my cum drips down your thighs, until we ruin this mattress, and then I’ll fuck you more. I’ll have you until I breed you, until you’re so full of my cum that it takes, that you give me a hatchling.”

A reedy whine pours from Neuvillette’s lips, muffled by the shirt.

They can’t.

Why not? his hindbrain demands.

They don’t want children. This is too new for children. This is—

But he drops his hand to his belly, pressing down lightly to feel the egg that has formed inside him, and he knows what he wants. He wants a family with his mate, wants to be bred full, wants to give Wriothesley as many hatchlings as he desires.

Keening, he fists his cocks and drags his fingers from his vent. The fantasy is too good, too sweet, and he knows better than to indulge himself.

Fingers dripping with slick, he presses one against the tight rim of his ass. He plays there for a long minute, brushes his finger back and forth over furled muscle, teasing. Playing. Drawing out the smoldering pleasure until his body arches and stretches and he curls his toes in the sheets. His tail thrashes back and forth in long, jerking motions, threatening more pillows.

With a high-pitched whine, Neuvillette pushes his finger past his rim. His fist squeezes around his cocks, just beneath the heads, and precum dribbles down their lengths. He gasps, inhaling the scent of his own desire, and that just inflames him further.

More, more, more. The conflagration inside him isn’t satisfied, is still yawning and hungry. He feeds it more pleasure, fucking himself on his finger until it glides easily, smoothly, in and out of his ass. Only then does he add another, pulling on his rim, stretching himself. He wants, needs, to be ready for his mate, needs to be open and available to him so that his mate can have him however he wants.

His raging libido provides him with a million possibilities—Wriothesley pulling him over his thighs to fuck hard into him, Wriothesley bent over his back, Wriothesley fucking him deep into the mattress from behind, Wriothesley folding him in half and thrusting hard and fast into his vent until cum overflows him and drips down his ass.

Neuvillette comes yet again, spilling over his belly, his ass squeezing around his fingers. And this time, it’s not at all satisfying. His vent contracts, rippling around nothing, and he swallows back a howl of frustration. Aching, desperate, he resumes fucking his ass with his fingers, curving them deep and dragging them over his prostate until he’s burning with need. He holds himself on the edge, his fingers curled around the bases of his cocks, squeezing them to keep from coming as he plays with himself. But that, too, isn’t enough. He dances on that razor’s edge, holds himself back from coming, but that doesn’t help.

Tears flood his eyes. Streak down his face. He needs, he needs so much, and his mate—

For one insane moment, he considers throwing on his robes and going in search of Wriothesley. He imagines finding him and dragging him into a darkened alley, where Wriothesley shoves him against a wall and fucks him hard and fast, two fingers shoved into his mouth to keep him from making too much noise.

Another orgasm sweeps through him, this one catching him utterly by surprise. It cuts like a knife, carving through him, and it doesn’t satisfy. If anything, it leaves him hungrier than he was before, leaves him desperately wanting. His need hurts, an ache deep in his gut that is separate from the throbbing pulse of his desire.

When the door to the townhome finally opens an indeterminate number of hours later, when Wriothesley’s scent fills the halls, Neuvillette vaults out of the nest. He rushes down the hallway, well aware of how disheveled he must be and not caring a bit. His mate has finally returned, is finally here, and he wastes no time in throwing himself into Wriothesley’s arms.

“Sweetness,” Wriothesley manages, stumbling backwards.

“Mate,” Neuvillette breathes, arching into Wriothesley’s body, clawing at his clothes without any care. He shreds through Wriothesley’s vest and tie, cutting them off his body, and then turns his claws on Wriothesley’s shirt.

He wants, craves, needs to get at Wriothesley’s throat, to sink his fangs into flesh, to brand, to claim, to mark Wriothesley as his own. Humans have their rings, but dragons have their bites, and everyone needs to know that Wriothesley is his, his, his.

And Wriothesley gives a low, dark chuckle, catching Neuvillette’s naked body by the waist. He tugs Neuvillette close, and Neuvillette moans at the feel of Wriothesley’s hard cock pressing against his own.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Wriothesley promises, turning them both. He presses Neuvillette against the door, and Neuvillette keens, frustrated. He doesn’t want to face the door; he wants his mouth against Wriothesley’s throat so he can bite into flesh and—

But Wriothesley’s hand pulls down his back, and Neuvillette arches in blatant offering, his mind going blank.

If this is how his mate wants him, he’ll take it. He’ll take anything Wriothesley gives him as long as he gets it—

Two fingers press between the globes of his ass, tugging against his rim. The sound that spills from his lips is obscene. If he had even the slightest presence of mind, he’d modulate himself; he rests against the door. Anyone coming by—and someone might come by—could hear him. But he is nothing but an aching, needy nerve, desperate to get fucked however Wriothesley will take him, and his self-control is a thing of the past.

“Mate,” he gasps.

“Needy dragon.” Wriothesley gently presses those fingers against his ass, and Neuvillette reacts. Instinctively, he coats them with Hydro, easing their entrance. “Fuck, Neuvillette. You worked yourself open for me. You’re slick and dripping.” Wriothesley presses his fingers into Neuvillette’s body, and Neuvillette groans, going slack against the door.

This, this is a shadow of what he’s needed. His own fingers were never going to be enough, but Wriothesley’s almost are.

“Wriothesley.”

“I’ve got you. I know what you need.” Those fingers pull back, and Neuvillette keens with disappointment at his own emptiness.

Distantly, he hears the rustle of fabric, and then Wriothesley curves over his back. One booted foot taps gently against his ankle, urging him to spread his legs wider, and he does with a groan of relief.

“Hydro, sweetness.”

Neuvillette coats Wriothesley’s hand in Hydro, slick and viscous. The quiet sound of skin on skin fills the air, and then Wriothesley brushes Neuvillette’s tail out of his way as the blunt head of his cock pushes at Neuvillette’s hole, pressing gently into him. Neuvillette nearly howls with relief.

He braces his hands against the door, keenly aware of the rough slide of fabric against his skin as Wriothesley eases deeper, stretching him, filling him.

“This is what you need, yeah?” Wriothesley asks, one hand sliding over Neuvillette’s hip, bracing him as he pushes inside. The other hand pets over Neuvillette’s tail, stroking the place where flesh turns to scale.

Neuvillette cannot manage words. Can’t even make a sound. He gasps, his head thrown back, his body alight with pleasure as Wriothesley carves into him.

“Look at you,” Wriothesley purrs, brushing kisses against the curve of Neuvillette’s cheekbone. “Cheeks flushed, eyes glazed and glowing. Have you been fucking yourself open for me all day?”

All Neuvillette can manage is a strangled sound of affirmation. He pushes against the door, trying to move against Wriothesley, but the weight of Wriothesley’s body holds him in place.

“Please,” Neuvillette gasps, far too broken and needy to be ashamed of pleading. “Wriothesley, my Wriothesley, my mate—please.”

But Wriothesley doesn’t fuck into him. No, he grinds his hips in slow revolutions against Neuvillette’s ass, rubbing his cock over every inch of tender, aching muscle.

Obscene little moans spill from Neuvillette’s lips. He rolls his head to the side, baring his neck. For another dragon, that would’ve been inflammatory. But Wriothesley is not a dragon. He continues his leisurely grinding, each roll of his hips a wicked torment that strings Neuvillette tighter and tighter.

It’s not what he wants (he wants hard and fast and deep), but it’s good, it’s wicked, it’s divine, it scratches an itch deep inside him—the need to be fucked long and slow, to be held on the edge of his own desire until it drowns him.

“Do you want me to take the edge off?” Wriothesley asks, nuzzling into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck.

Precum drips down Neuvillette’s twitching cocks, splattering on the floor, against the door.

“Do you need it hard and fast, sweetness?”

Neuvillette keens, giving Wriothesley more of his throat. He wants—needs—Wriothesley’s teeth in his neck. It won’t be a mating bite, but it will be close, good enough, and he wants, he craves, he—

Wriothesley draws back and thrusts hard into him.

Neuvillette’s brain shuts down, whiting out. Overwhelming pleasure surges inside him, swamping him, drowning him. He gasps, clawing at the door, only vaguely aware that he’s cutting marks into the wood, as Wriothesley starts a hard and brutal pace, a punishing rhythm that is altogether too much for Neuvillette’s tightly wound body.

Every stroke carves deep inside him. The head of Wriothesley’s cock drags over his prostate, and Neuvillette keens, stretching against Wriothesley’s strong hold. And Wriothesley, sweet Wriothesley, bites down on the juncture of neck and shoulder.

Neuvillette’s coming in bare seconds, his cocks twitching and spilling all over the floor and the rug beneath his bare feet. His vent ripples and contracts. His ass squeezes down on Wriothesley’s cock.

“There’s my baby,” Wriothesley croons, and those three words shear more pleasure through Neuvillette’s already shattered body.

He groans, sagging against the door.

Wriothesley cages him in, still fucking into him, his strokes hard and deep, until he, too, shudders and comes.

Their panting breaths fill the foyer. Wriothesley holds him gently, his fingers curved around Neuvillette’s hips. Neuvillette’s tail wraps lazily around one of Wriothesley’s thighs, holding him deep as they breathe.

Oh, but that need comes back, washing over Neuvillette in waves until he’s wriggling to fuck himself on Wriothesley’s softening cock. A whimper spills out of him. “Wriothesley,” he groans.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright.” Wriothesley pulls out of him, which is the exact opposite of what Neuvillette wants. “I need a minute, yeah? I don’t have your endurance.”

“Please,” Neuvillette groans, pressing his overheated body against the cool wood.

Wriothesley tugs him backwards, and Neuvillette falls into Wriothesley’s embrace. With tender hands, Wriothesley sweeps Neuvillette into a basket carry, cradling him close as he ascends the stairs. Neuvillette nuzzles into Wriothesley’s throat, breathing in his fresh scent along with the scent of their sex.

“It has been—difficult. Without you,” Neuvillette admits.

“I’m sure.” Wriothesley turns his head, brushing his nose against Neuvillette’s hair, and the gesture offers some comfort. It doesn’t alleviate any of the burning ache, no, but it warms Neuvillette in a different way.

He is cherished. He is adored. Loved.

They reach the bedroom, and Wriothesley, as he steps into the room, laughs. “For fuck’s sake, Neuvillette.”

Neuvillette makes an inquisitive little noise, unwilling to move his face from Wriothesley’s neck.

“Did you take all my shirts for your nest.”

Hm. “Most of them,” he admits.

“They’re dirty.”

“They retain your scent.”

Wriothesley huffs softly. “You and your weird dragon shit.”

“You love that so-called weird dragon shit.”

“I love you,” Wriothesley says, laying him in the nest.

Neuvillette wriggles to one side, making room for Wriothesley as Wriothesley strips himself naked. His eyes are hungry on Wriothesley’s body, drinking in every inch of skin revealed. The hard planes of his chest, the long lines of his arms and legs. The delicate jut of his hips, the cut of his muscles.

Licking his lips, Neuvillette pushes himself up as Wriothesley climbs into their nest. He pushes the well-used shirt out of his way, sliding over Neuvillette’s body to sink one hand into his hair and kiss him breathless.

Neuvillette moans softly into their kiss, shifting restlessly beneath Wriothesley’s body.

More. He needs more. He still aches, still burns, and Wriothesley’s kisses are good, but they aren’t enough.

And Wriothesley, though he has only spent one heat with Neuvillette, seems to understand. He intuits Neuvillette’s needs, because Neuvillette is far too gone to voice them, turning his kisses to Neuvillette’s jaw, his neck. His teeth rake down the fragile column of Neuvillette’s throat, making his still hard cocks twitch. Another low, aching moan spills out of him as Wriothesley’s mouth maps his chest. His tongue follows the lines of muscle that cut across his abdomen, and a gentle hand pushes him back into the nest. Neuvillette collapses against the pillows, his back arching to make his body an offering to his lover, his mate, his Wriothesley.

His legs spread wide in blatant invitation, but though Wriothesley settles between them, he maintains his steady progress, kissing slowly down Neuvillette’s belly. Hot breath gusts against his hips, and Neuvillette gasps, muscles contracting. Toes curling, he draws one leg up, luxuriating in the silky slide of the sheets beneath him.

Now that Wriothesley is over him, the sheets are another source of pleasure, of sensation. They glide against his skin, and he twists against them to feel even more—and to encourage Wriothesley to—

Wriothesley’s tongue dips into his slit, and Neuvillette cries out. His fingers drive deep into Wriothesley’s hair, his claws scraping lightly over his scalp, but he need not hold Wriothesley in place. No, Wriothesley keeps himself between Neuvillette’s thighs, one hand wrapping around Neuvillette’s cocks as his tongue pulls through the thick slick that spills out of his slit.

Pleasure cascades through Neuvillette, it swamps him, pulls him into a rip current. He cannot breathe, cannot think. His need burns brighter even as he drowns, but here he finds a clarity in his madness. Nothing is more real than Wriothesley’s mouth on him, than Wriothesley’s hand stroking him.

He loses himself in the pull of Wriothesley’s hand and the flicking of his tongue. His hips move in liquid, languid arches, making his body an offering to his lover. Every touch is exquisite, banking the unrelenting heat that burns inside him and turning it into a gentle smolder.

Wriothesley’s thumb rubs over the head of one cock and then the other, and Neuvillette keens. Wriothesley’s tongue slides deep into his slit, and Neuvillette moans. Two fingers glide into him, and Neuvillette comes apart with a hoarse cry shaped vaguely like Wriothesley’s name.

Oh, but Wriothesley knows him well. Instead of letting him come down from the pleasure, Wriothesley makes him hotter, hungrier. He turns Neuvillette’s body into an instrument for ecstasy, playing him like a maestro through another two orgasms. Neuvillette’s body trembles beneath Wriothesley’s, his legs like jelly, his mind empty except for the desire for more, for Wriothesley, for the stretch of his thick cock inside his vent.

“Please,” he gasps, one hand dropping to Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Wriothesley, Wriothesley, please.” He isn’t quite sure what he’s asking for—whether it’s for more orgasms or to get fucked, but Wriothesley interprets it as the former.

With two fingers crooked inside him, with his hand moving steadily on Neuvillette’s cocks—the friction is exquisite—with his mouth on Neuvillette’s slit, everything is far too much. Neuvillette teeters on the edge of overstimulated, and he tries to kick away from Wriothesley’s mouth.

Wriothesley releases his cocks to grab his hip, holding him down. “No, sweetness,” he says, looking up.

His lips and chin are wet with Neuvillette’s slick, and Neuvillette purrs at the sight, utterly delighted.

Wriothesley laughs. “A little more for me, yeah? And then I’ll fuck you again.”

“Now,” Neuvillette manages, tugging at Wriothesley’s hair.

“No,” Wriothesley replies, and Neuvillette’s whole body goes tight and hot with need. His head falls back and he keens, and then he cries out as Wriothesley’s mouth descends on him again. Liquid heat, as slick and wet as his slit. Fingers pressing deep, thrusting, filling but not nearly enough, not thick and broad like Wriothesley’s cock but still good, so good.

Senseless pleas spill from Neuvillette’s lips. He begs for more, for less, for Wriothesley to bend him over the bed and fuck him until his legs give out, for Wriothesley to bite him and mark him, to fill his vent with cum, to breed him, for everything. Still, Wriothesley takes his time.

Wriothesley knows just how to touch him. They’ve had months of practice, and Neuvillette is so primed for more orgasms. Those fingers glide into him, Wriothesley’s tongue drags against soft scale, and Neuvillette comes apart.

“Wriothesley,” Neuvillette gasps. “I need—Fuck me, fill me, breed me, please, Wriothesley, please.”

Wriothesley levers himself up, gliding over Neuvillette’s body. “Hydro,” he says.

For a wild, insane moment, Neuvillette shakes his head. “I want you in my—”

“Hydro,” Wriothesley says again, pressing his palm to Neuvillette’s, his voice firm, unyielding. That does something wicked to Neuvillette’s insides, and he finds himself slicking Wriothesley’s palm without thought, reacting to the command in Wriothesley’s tone.

Wriothesley strokes his own cock once, twice, and then pushes into Neuvillette’s ass in a long, slow glide, Neuvillette’s body soft and open. He arches beneath Wriothesley, rubbing his cocks against Wriothesley’s abdomen with a long, low moan. Good, it’s good, but it’s not—it’s not enough, he still feels so empty.

“More,” Neuvillette gasps, raking his claws down Wriothesley’s back.

Arms braced beside Neuvillette’s head, Wriothesley moves, and it’s not everything Neuvillette wants, but it’s good, it’s so good. It’s enough to stave off the worst of the insistent demand of his heat, enough to give him a moment of clarity, and in that moment, he feels the throb of his fangs and the overwhelming need to claim his mate surges through him.

Resting his forehead against Neuvillette’s, his hips moving in sharp, quick snaps, Wriothesley exhales a shaky breath. “You want to bite me, yeah?”

Neuvillette makes a strangled sound of affirmation.

“Want to mark me as yours?”

“Yes.”

One of Wriothesley’s hands slides behind Neuvillette’s head. He ducks his own head, turning it to reveal the line of his throat, and he guides Neuvillette’s mouth to his neck. “Bite me,” he gasps. “Mark me. Make me yours. Fuck, Neuvillette, I want—I want to be—”

Neuvillette bites.

Power surges inside him, a roll of Hydro that crashes through him like a wave. He expects it to pour into Wriothesley, but it doesn’t; it’s just an upswell of his own power, rising in answer to his desire.

And then Wriothesley bites him, too, and Neuvillette’s entire being narrows down to the blunt edge of Wriothesley’s teeth and the friction of his cock inside him.

He pulls his own fangs free of Wriothesley’s skin, pressing his lips to the shell of Wriothesley’s ear. “Harder,” he demands, working his own hips in rough counterpoint to Wriothesley’s as his claws sink into Wriothesley’s shoulder. “More, mate, I need you to fuck me, breed me. Fill me with your cum, Wriothesley. I need—I need you. I need, I ache.” He bites at Wriothesley’s ear. “My mate. Breed me, breed me, I—”

Wriothesley shifts, slipping one hand between them, and his fingers sink into Neuvillette’s vent.

“Easy, sweetness,” he croons against Neuvillette’s throat, licking at the bruised skin.

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette’s plea is more of a command, a begging demand. “Want you to fuck my vent, want to give you—I need to give—”

And Wriothesley understands him, knows exactly what he struggles to articulate. “Let’s talk about eggs when you’re a little saner, yeah?”

The sound Neuvillette makes is broken and obscene and needy. He slings his legs high on Wriothesley’s hips as Wriothesley fucks him, fingers him, plays his body in hard and fast strokes. Every deep thrust winds Neuvillette tighter, and the pressure of those fingers in his vent, too, playing over those sensitive muscles, is just too much.

With his mate’s blood on his lips, he comes with an aching cry. He squeezes around Wriothesley’s fingers, his cock, a rhythmic clench that has Wriothesley cursing.

“Want to last for you, sweetness,” he grits out.

“Come in me,” Neuvillette begs. “Come in me, my mate, my Wriothesley, fill me with your cum, breed me, breed me full—”

And Wriothesley, with a groan and a handful more ragged thrusts, presses deep. Heat washes through Neuvillette’s body as he winds himself tighter around Wriothesley. It’s not quite what he wants, but it’s enough to take the edge off his need. So many orgasms with his mate and now his mate’s cum washing his insides white.

Purring, he nuzzles contentedly against Wriothesley’s cheek.

“My mate,” he breathes. “My love. My beloved.”

“Yeah,” Wriothesley says, voice shaky. He laughs, turning to brush soft kisses against Neuvillette’s lips. “Yours.” He props himself on one hand. “We’re dragon married, now.” One of his hands strokes up and down Neuvillette’s side. He doesn’t pull out of Neuvillette’s body, and Neuvillette purrs again.

“We are,” he confirms, his eyes landing on the punctures on Wriothesley’s throat. The area will mottle and bruise, and then those marks will scar, a permanent mark telling the world that Wriothesley is his and his alone. His hands pull down Wriothesley’s back, and he arches, hungry to feel more of Wriothesley’s body.

Wriothesley’s stomach growls.

They both freeze, staring at each other, and then they dissolve into laughter. Wriothesley nuzzles into Neuvillette’s neck, mouthing at his throat where he bit down. “Can I make us a light dinner? Can you let me go long enough for that?”

“I will join you,” Neuvillette says. “We learned last time that you must keep your strength up.”

“And that you’ll neglect yourself. Dragons can’t live on cum alone.” Wriothesley nips at the curve of Neuvillette’s jaw.

“Male ejaculate is over fifty per cent water,” Neuvillette replies. “So, in theory—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence.”

Laughing again, Neuvillette doesn’t finish his sentence. “You should act quickly,” he says instead. “This early in my heat, I will want you again and again.” He brushes his thumb over Wriothesley’s lower lip, an affectation he’s picked up from his lover. “And soon.”

They peel apart, and Wriothesley clambers out of the bed to get a damp towel. They wipe themselves clean and make their way to the kitchen, Neuvillette naked because he cannot bear the feeling of fabric and Wriothesley in a pair of sleeping pants.

“You,” Wriothesley says, tugging a startled Neuvillette against him just inside the kitchen, “are a dangerous temptation.” He presses a soft kiss to Neuvillette’s lips, and Neuvillette purrs.

Heat burns inside him, the embers stirring. “Be careful, mate,” he replies. “Kiss me like this too much, and you will find yourself fucking me on the kitchen table.”

There’s a spark of interest in Wriothesley’s eyes. “Maybe after dinner.” He nips at Neuvillette’s lower lip, and it takes all of Neuvillette’s self-control to let Wriothesley pull away from him.

With hungry eyes, he watches his mate move through the kitchen to prepare a small but hearty meal. Wriothesley moves through the kitchen with a confident gait, a small smirk on his lips, as though he knows that Neuvillette can’t turn his eyes away.

Hunger churns in Neuvillette’s belly. The only thing that holds him back is the knowledge that Wriothesley needs to eat, that Wriothesley needs his strength.

“You sober enough for a serious conversation?” Wriothesley asks as he removes a chicken from the cold box. He picks at the breast, stripping away pieces of meat for a sandwich.

Neuvillette considers the question. Considers how much he wants to eliminate all the space between them and plaster himself against Wriothesley’s back. “I believe I can manage,” he says. “What is it you’d like to discuss?” Aside from how Wriothesley might bend him over the table or put him on the counter and—

Neuvillette attempts to refocus his attention even as heat burns through him, as his fangs throb to press into Wriothesley’s throat again, as his cock twitch and ache.

“This.” Wriothesley gestures to the bruising mark on his throat, and Neuvillette chokes back a hungry little noise. Wriothesley looks up at him. “You still good?”

Clenching his jaw, Neuvillette nods. “What of the mark?”

“Should I feel different?” Wriothesley asks. “Shouldn’t I… I dunno, feel immortal?”

Neuvillette cants his head to the side, trying to keep his thoughts clear and focused. “It is… We merely hypothesized,” he manages. “It is possible the mark is merely ornamental.”

Wriothesley looks up from making his sandwich, his eyes full of some emotion Neuvillette cannot entirely place. Something milder than panic and not as sharp as fear, but certainly more pronounced than simple anxiety. “You’re telling me we were worried for nothing?” Wriothesley asks, cracking pepper into his sandwich.

“No. We were worried because we didn’t know how the mark would affect you. But it seems…” Neuvillette trails off, thoughtful. “It doesn’t seem to have bound you to me. I feel no change within myself. I see no sharing of my power with you, no indication that we are linked.” He should be disappointed, but he is too hungry, too needy to feel anything other than the lust that simmers in his veins as he ogles the expanse of Wriothesley’s back. As he devours the sight of Wriothesley tearing lettuce and slicing tomatoes for his sandwich, the sight of Wriothesley’s muscles bunching and releasing. He wants to feel those muscles under his hands. Wants to stroke his fingers down Wriothesley’s back to his hips to feel him—

Smothering a strangled sound, Neuvillette closes his eyes and breathes deep. Which only serves to flood his nose with the scent of bergamot and leather and Wriothesley. The embers low in his belly smolder and churn with interest, with rising need. Control. He must exhibit some small measure of control over himself, just for a little, just long enough for Wriothesley to eat his meager dinner.

“So…” Wriothesley finishes making his sandwich and takes a bite of it. Chews and swallows, a pensive look on his face. “So, all that, and I’m still mortal. We only have—” He breaks off and then lets out a biting laugh. “Ah, sweetness, it’s you, isn’t it?”

Neuvillette drags his eyes from Wriothesley’s chest to his face. “Me?”

“We have you,” Wriothesley points out. “And the way you healed me. How you gave me back ten years of my life.” He sets his sandwich down, crossing the kitchen to where Neuvillette stands near the table. One hand settles on Neuvillette’s hip, and Neuvillette makes a broken, hungry sound. With the other hand, Wriothesley smooths his thumb over Neuvillette’s lower lip. “You’re going to have to heal me on a regular basis, aren’t you? Wash away death with all your Hydro.”

  Neuvillette’s lips part, and he drags his tongue over the pad of Wriothesley’s thumb. His eyes fix on Wriothesley’s, watching heat blossom in those icy depths. Slowly, he pulls Wriothesley’s thumb between his lips and sucks deeply, drawing it in to the base. His tongue licks over warm, rough flesh, teasing. Enticing. He should, he knows, focus on the conversation at hand. It is critically important. But now Wriothesley is close to him, in his space, and the heat of Wriothesley’s body sinks beneath Neuvillette’s flesh, a sweet promise.

Slowly, Wriothesley pulls his thumb from between Neuvillette’s lips. “You think you can do that for me?” he asks, his voice low and rough and laden with desire. “You think you can keep me alive for eternity?”

“Anything,” Neuvillette promises.

“Yeah? Anything?” Wriothesley shifts closer, bringing their bodies together.

A groan shudders from Neuvillette’s lips.

“There’s one other thing we need to talk about.”

His entire body comes alive with those words, his vent contracting sharply around nothing, his body aching with sudden and almost violent need. His cocks twitch, dripping precum that stains the front of Wriothesley’s sleeping pants.

“Yes,” Neuvillette breathes. Reaching out, he curls his fingers around Wriothesley’s wrist. Brings Wriothesley’s hand between their bodies, pressing it to his abdomen. “I’ve produced an egg again.”

Wriothesley gives a dry chuckle. “I figured. You wanna tell me this time why your body is making eggs with me when it didn’t before?”

A growl rumbles in Neuvillette’s chest. “My mate,” he says, pressing Wriothesley’s hand more firmly against his belly. “You are my mate.”

Smiling, Wriothesley bends his lips to Neuvillette’s. Presses a soft kiss against them. “So, you’d already decided that I was yours during your last heat?”

Neuvillette considers how he wants to answer that question, but his mind is too cloudy to be particularly clever. “Yes,” he says.

“My dragon,” Wriothesley murmurs. “We should’ve been so much more honest with each other.”

“Yes,” Neuvillette agrees.

Wriothesley’s hand presses against Neuvillette’s belly, and the pressure is decadent. Divine. Neuvillette moans softly, turning into the fingers curving around his jaw. “Is it harder on you this time? Wanting me to breed you?”

A whimper catches in Neuvillette’s throat. “Yes.”

“You really want to give me a hatchling?” Wriothesley’s thumb drags over the swell of the egg through Neuvillette’s belly.

Neuvillette keens.

“How’s it work, sweetness? Hatchlings, I mean.”

Neuvillette trembles, pressing closer to Wriothesley. His hands pull down Wriothesley’s sides, trying to urge Wriothesley closer still as he attempts—rather valiantly, really—to arrange his thoughts.

Hatchlings.

Desire surges through him.

Hatchlings.

But they cannot have those. They can’t, no matter what Wriothesley asks him now. Still, he owes his mate an answer. For the future, if not now. “If,” he says, voice shaking, “you were to—to fertilize—” Hunger washes through him, and he has to take a deep, steadying breath. Swallowing hard, he focuses on Wriothesley’s eyes, on that warm, soft gaze. “I would not pass the egg at the end of this heat but carry it for a period of several months.”

Something flares in Wriothesley’s gaze, something hot and interested.

“Only then, when the egg is more developed, I would lay it,” Neuvillette continues, trembling at the very thought. “And then we would need to incubate it for several more months, until the hatchling is ready to emerge into the world.”

“And then we’d have a child,” Wriothesley says.

Neuvillette’s eyes flutter shut and he sags against Wriothesley’s chest. “Do not tempt me, my Wriothesley.”

“Well.”

Neuvillette’s eyes fly open as he jerks back, hope and raw, aching need burning through him. “Wriothesley,” he says, a warning.

Wriothesley offers him a small grin, one that tugs at the corners of his lips. “I’ve always wanted kids,” he says. “Always wanted to give them what I didn’t have, you know?”

Neuvillette makes a strangled noise. “You—You cannot say—Not when I’m in heat, Wriothesley. You cannot possibly understand—”

“Last time was a fluke,” Wriothesley says. “But this time is in line with your cycle. And I’ve been thinking. How long is that cycle?”

“Five years,” Neuvillette manages, barely comprehending what he’s hearing.

“Five years is a long time to wait for another shot at kids.”  

Five years is nothing to Neuvillette, but Wriothesley is still a mortal, still thinks like a mortal, doesn’t consider the lens of eternity, and Neuvillette—Neuvillette wants. A heat demands a fertilized egg, and Wriothesley is offering that.

Neuvillette claws his way past his lust, keening. “In eternity’s view, five years is—is barely—”

“But you want it,” Wriothesley says gently. “You want me to fuck your vent and fertilize your egg. To breed you.”

Neuvillette’s claws sink into the meat of Wriothesley’s hips. He gasps for breath, shaking, trembling, overcome with sudden and insistent need. “You cannot—”

“Like I said. I’ve always wanted kids.” A lazy smile pulls across Wriothesley’s face. His fingers slip down Neuvillette’s belly, past Neuvillette’s cocks, and sink into his vent. “What do you say, Neuvillette? Should we go for it?”

Instinct overwhelms reason. Neuvillette drives his fingers deep into Wriothesley’s hair, yanking him close for a brutal, open-mouthed kiss that is all demand and need. Fangs scrape against lips, a bit of blood speckling their kiss, and Neuvillette groans softly. Blood, too, is mostly water, and he tastes the intensity of Wriothesley’s desire, his love. He drinks down the flavor of it, of Wriothesley, lapping at Wriothesley’s lips for more with hungry little mewls.

His hands drop to Wriothesley’s shoulders, to his arms, his sides. Fingers mark the ladder of Wriothesley’s ribs, skating down until he sinks his fingers into the fabric of Wriothesley’s sleeping pants. Tugging, he pulls Wriothesley closer, fitting their hips together as they stumble backward, knocking against the table.

Wriothesley tears his mouth from Neuvillette’s lips. “Here?” he asks, breathless.

“Inside me,” Neuvillette demands, clawing at Wriothesley’s sleeping pants, trying to shove them out of the way. “I—Breed me, Wriothesley, let me give you a clutch, let me give you a hatchling. Take me, Wriothesley, my Wriothesley, my mate, I—”

Wriothesley surges against him, pushing him onto his back on the table. Neuvillette goes easily, hooking his legs over Wriothesley’s waist and sinking his claws into Wriothesley’s shoulders. The hard wood of the table isn’t precisely comfortable, but Neuvillette doesn’t care. He arches against Wriothesley, feeling the hard line of his cock through the soft fabric of his pants, and he gasps, he keens.

“Please, Wriothesley, I need—”

“I’ve got you, sweetness,” Wriothesley murmurs, his lips brushing along Neuvillette’s jaw as he yanks at his pants. He pushes them low, just enough to free his cock, and Neuvillette moans to feel the hot brand of it against the crease of one thigh. “I’ve got what you need.”

Wriothesley covers him, the weight of his body decadent. Wriothesley sinks one hand into Neuvillette’s hair. The other slides between their bodies. Fingers press gently against his soaked slit, and Neuvillette gasps, arching beneath Wriothesley in a desperate bid for more.

“Wriothesley.”

“Patience, sweetness, I—”

“Fuck me,” Neuvillette demands.

There’s a moment of stillness, of silence, as Wriothesley stares down at him with an expression that borders on bewildered. And then his cock pushes into Neuvillette’s vent, and he groans, his forehead dropping to rest against Neuvillette’s, and Neuvillette winds himself tight around Wriothesley’s body, clinging to him.

No one has ever fucked his vent. No one has ever had him like this, and it is thrilling to give himself over to Wriothesley in this way.

There is a stretching, a faint burn, as his body accommodates Wriothesley’s own, but the slick that spills out of him eases Wriothesley’s passage. The pull of his body around Wriothesley’s cock is a good one, a delicious one, a decadent reshaping, and Neuvillette lets out a soft, aching cry before pressing his face into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck.

Thick fingers grab at his hip. Wriothesley groans softly as he presses in deeper, and Neuvillette answers with a soft, warbling moan.

“Fuck,” Wriothesley breathes. “Fuck, Neuvillette, you feel—”

“Good. It’s good, it’s so—”

“Yeah.” Wriothesley’s teeth rake over Neuvillette’s neck.

Pleasure burns through Neuvillette’s body, his cocks twitching in the space between his body and Wriothesley’s. Precum drips onto his belly; slick spills over his thighs. He aches, desire a pulsing throb in his cocks as Wriothesley continues to sink into him, long and slow.

And then they’re pressed flush, no space between them. The friction against Neuvillette’s cocks has him half out of his mind. Every breath rubs them against Wriothesley’s abdomen. Wriothesley’s cock fills him completely, stretches him, makes him throb and ache. His vent ripples and clenches, and he keens softly.

“Sweetness, I—”

“Hard and fast,” Neuvillette demands, raking his claws down Wriothesley’s back, forcing Wriothesley to arch and fuck even deeper into him.

“Fuck. Sweetness, you’ve never—”

“Wriothesley.” Neuvillette fills his hands with Wriothesley’s ass and yanks him closer still, and Wriothesley snarls in the back of his throat, sounding exactly like a dragon pushed past reason.

He braces his forearms on the table, draws back, and then slams back into Neuvillette’s vent.

Neuvillette sings his pleasure with lilting moans. Oh, but this is so different than anal sex, a completely different sensation of fullness. Slicker, softer. He feels Wriothesley’s cock inside him in strange new ways, but the friction is just as good, just as sweet and heady and mind-numbingly decadent.

And when Wriothesley moves, when he fucks into Neuvillette with an almost brutal pace, Neuvillette’s head falls back and his back arches, and he cries out. He tightens his legs around Wriothesley’s waist. Digs his nails into Wriothesley’s shoulders.

Hard. Fast. Absolutely unrelenting.

Wriothesley gives him no quarter, and Neuvillette doesn’t want any as he’s fucked hard against the table. Every stroke of Wriothesley’s cock is a promise. A hatchling. His mate will give him a hatchling, a child, another person with whom he can share the entirety of his life instead of only small pieces.

With a broken moan, Neuvillette attempts to move, too, attempts to meet Wriothesley’s thrusts with rolling undulations of his own, but he can’t get the leverage he needs, can only take the brutal pace Wriothesley gives him. Each stroke propels him closer and closer to the edge of his own pleasure, an ocean stretching out for miles beneath an impossibly high cliff.

“Yes, yes,” he gasps. “More, my mate, more.” Senseless pleas spill from his lips as Wriothesley fucks into him until it’s too much, until he trips over the edge of that cliff and plummets downward, until he’s shattering like so much fine-spun crystal.

Neuvillette fractures, coming apart with a keen of Wriothesley’s name. Cum spills between their bodies, a flood of it over Neuvillette’s abdomen. His vent ripples and squeezes around Wriothesley’s cock as though it might trap Wriothesley inside him.

And Wriothesley pulls back, pulls out, punching a shocked cry out of Neuvillette’s lungs.

He doesn’t go far. Just urges Neuvillette over, onto his belly. With him bent over the table, Wriothesley kicks his legs wide, pulls two fingers through the slick mess of Neuvillette’s vent, and then thrusts back inside him.

Neuvillette’s entire body seizes with pleasure. Either this is still the first orgasm or it’s a continuation of the second so close on the heels of the first that he cannot tell the two apart. Ultimately, he does not care. The exquisite agony of it pummels him like a wave, crashing over him and dragging him into a rip current. He gasps, clawing at the table, digging great gouges into the wood.

With a soft groan, Wriothesley leans over him from behind. Nuzzles into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck. Bites down.

Neuvillette comes again, back bowing, forcing himself onto Wriothesley’s cock, forcing that cock as deep as it can possibly go into his body. And it’s deep, carving into him, rearranging his insides as though in preparation for an egg.

An egg, an egg, oh, but Neuvillette can give his mate an egg, and that is a pleasure so bone-deep that it shakes him, it shocks him, it ripples through him like another orgasm. He gasps Wriothesley’s name, sobs it.

Hips snapping against his ass, Wriothesley makes a feral, hungry sound deep in his throat. His hips grind into Neuvillette’s ass, his body shuddering as heat floods Neuvillette.

Another broken sob spills from Neuvillette’s lips. “Yes, yes,” he breathes, throwing his head back to rest it on Wriothesley’s shoulder. “Breed me, beloved, give me everything. I want—” He breaks off on a shuddering gasp as Wriothesley pulls out of him.

Something trickles along his vent—Wriothesley’s cum, and he makes a sound of alarm.

“No, no, Wriothesley, don’t let—”

But Wriothesley doesn’t go far, no. He remains curved over Neuvillette’s body, his lips pressed against the pointed tip of Neuvillette’s ear. “Don’t worry, baby,” he croons, smoothing his hand over Neuvillette’s ass. Two fingers slide deep into Neuvillette’s vent, fucking Wriothesley’s cum back inside. “I’ll fuck you again, yeah? Fill you up so well that my cum spills out of your vent. I’m going to give you so much that it’ll take for us, so much that it’s all over your ass and your thighs.”

Neuvillette shudders, rocking his hips back, fucking himself on Wriothesley’s fingers.

“And when you think you’re too full—when your stomach is rounding because of how much cum I’ve fucked into you—” The sound Neuvillette makes is obscene. “—I’m going to fuck you again.”

“Yes.”

Wriothesley pulls his fingers from Neuvillette’s vent. Presses them against Neuvillette’s lips, and Neuvillette sucks them deep with a hungry sound. Sweet and sharp and a little bitter, the perfect combination of his slick and Wriothesley’s cum. The flavor is decadent, it’s divine, it’s better than anything Neuvillette has ever tasted. Even better than the freshest, crispest, cleanest water.

Swirling his tongue between Wriothesley’s fingers, Neuvillette suckles gently but with intent. He pulls Wriothesley’s fingers deep into his mouth, moaning around them, imagining he has Wriothesley’s cock in his mouth instead. Ah, but he doesn’t want Wriothesley’s cock in his mouth, not really; he wants Wriothesley fucking him hard and deep in his vent again and again. Wants to be filled until cum spills out of him, until he can’t think straight, until he can’t even walk.

A needy sound catches in his throat, and Wriothesley fights the suction of Neuvillette’s lips to pull his fingers free.

“Alright, sweetness,” he says. “Bed.”

Neuvillette doesn’t need any further invitation. He pushes away from the table, stepping backwards. His hips roll, his gait fluid as he beckons for Wriothesley to follow him. Wriothesley’s expression goes slack, but his eyes burn with hunger—a hunger echoed in Neuvillette.

The trickle of cum from his vent, the slow drip of it down his thighs, is a wicked enticement. It makes him ache for more, makes him ache to be filled once again. That’s all he wants: Wriothesley buried deep inside him, pumping him full of cum until the seed catches and fertilizes the egg in his belly.

With a soft growl, Wriothesley kicks off his sleeping pants, leaving them and the remainder of his sandwich abandoned in the kitchen. He grabs Neuvillette, pulling him close for hungry, lingering kisses, and that’s how they stumble out of the kitchen and down the hall: in a tangle of limbs and the press of mouths.

By the time they fall into their bed, Neuvillette is panting again, his breath coming in short bursts, his body hot and needy.

“Wriothesley,” he breathes, opening his arms.

Wriothesley eases into the bed, eases into Neuvillette’s embrace.

“Wriothesley. My mate, my beloved.” He nuzzles against Wriothesley’s cheek, trying to urge Wriothesley over him, but Wriothesley doesn’t allow it. No, he’s immovable against Neuvillette’s side.

With a gentle laugh, he nuzzles beneath Neuvillette’s jaw. “You need to give me more than five minutes to recover,” he says.

Neuvillette growls softly.

“I’m not telling you no, sweetness, you just need to give a man some time.” Wriothesley bites gently at Neuvillette’s throat, and electric pleasure shoots through him.

With a gasp, Neuvillette arches off the bed. His tail twitches, his claws gouge at the sheets beneath him. Gasp turns into keening whine as he spreads his legs and makes an offering of his body. “Mate,” he says, imploring.

“I know.” Wriothesley offers the words in soothing tones, smoothing one hand over Neuvillette’s chest. He thumbs a nipple until Neuvillette is shuddering, each pass of his thumb sending sparks of pleasure down Neuvillette’s spine to settle sweet and molten in his belly.

His cocks twitch. No matter how many times he comes on the first day of his heat—and even into the second—his erections won’t flag. Nothing is enough, nothing except Wriothesley’s cock filling him, fucking into him, pouring cum inside him. With a mewl, he pushes his chest into Wriothesley’s hand.

“You still need something inside you, don’t you?” Wriothesley asks, voice low and rough and husky.

Neuvillette smooths his own hand down his belly, reaching for his cocks, his vent—but Wriothesley knocks his hand away.

“Mm, I have an idea, sweetness.” He presses closer to Neuvillette’s side, and Neuvillette’s breath hitches.

With every inhalation, he takes in the scent of Wriothesley and sex, of his mate and their mingled desire, and that, too, is inflammatory; that, too, makes him ache and burn.

Gently, Wriothesley pins Neuvillette’s hand to the bed. “Keep your hands off yourself for me,” Wriothesley purrs. He bites Neuvillette’s neck, and Neuvillette keens helplessly, senselessly, his hips arching restlessly off the bed. “Can you make something for me with Hydro?”

Neuvillette, panting, frowns. His brows draw together. “I—I am unsure. What… What do you…?”

With a dark laugh, Wriothesley sweeps his hand down Neuvillette’s cocks. The shock of the touch has Neuvillette crying out, has him shaking. Pleasure burns inside him, mounting, making his cocks twitch as they drip yet more precum onto his sticky belly.

“I want you to make a cock out of Hydro,” Wriothesley says, his voice still that wicked, sonorous rumble. Two of his fingers push into Neuvillette’s vent. They part, spreading Neuvillette open, and Neuvillette keens with a sudden, biting need. Vulnerable, he feels so deliciously vulnerable. “And I want you to fuck yourself with it.”

“Yes, yes.” Oh, yes, he can do that.

A touch of power, and a phallus roughly the size and shape of Wriothesley’s falls into Neuvillette’s hand. It is slick and cool, leaving his palm wet, but firm enough to suit their purposes.

With a little groan, he pushes it between his legs, easing it into his vent, which Wriothesley still holds open. And Wriothesley lifts his head from the curve of Neuvillette’s neck, turning to watch.

A pleased sound issues from him. “How lovely, how handsome you are,” he murmurs.

Neuvillette groans, tossing his head to one side. The phallus feels almost cold against the burning heat of his vent. The stark difference consumes him, resonates through him. His toes curl and his back arches, and he eases the cock deeper into his body.

“That’s it, sweetness. Fuck, Neuvillette, that’s so good. Look at you.”

Neuvillette dares not glance down the length of his body, not when Wriothesley’s eyes are a physical weight, consuming him. But he does spread his legs wider still. One, he throws over Wriothesley’s hip, and Wriothesley rocks against him, grinding his soft cock against Neuvillette’s thigh.

“Mm, never seen anything as hot as this. How’s it feel in you?”

Neuvillette’s lips part on a stuttered moan as he slides the dildo deeper. “Not as good as you.” And it’s true: the cock isn’t as big as Wriothesley is, isn’t as hot, and Neuvillette desperately craves the heat of Wriothesley’s body inside him. But the stretch is… oh, the stretch is so good. “But good. It’s—It’s cool. Slick.” Neuvillette swallows as he pushes the dildo as deep as it will go, his eyes half-closed, his body trembling.

Ever so slowly, he pumps the cock into his vent. It glides easily into him, passage eased by the slick spilling out of him and the Hydro it’s made of. Every stroke pulls pleasure through him, leaves him weak and shuddering.

The friction against the tender walls of his vent is delicious. And the cock, once cool, begins to warm to match the temperature of his body. It’s not as good as Wriothesley’s cock, doesn’t stretch him like Wriothesley did, can’t fill him with cum and breed him like Wriothesley can, but it’s good, it’s so good.

A little whine catches in his throat.

“That’s it,” Wriothesley murmurs. “A little faster for me?” Neuvillette fucks himself a little faster, a little deeper. “Oh, that’s perfect.” Rough fingers smooth over the back of Neuvillette’s hand, dragging calluses across his skin. Wriothesley’s hand curves around his, and with just that touch, Wriothesley wrests control from him—a control that Neuvillette willingly gives over.

Nothing is as good as submitting to Wriothesley’s desires. If Wriothesley wants to control the way he takes his pleasure, Neuvillette will not fight him.

He drops his hand to Wriothesley’s thigh.

“So good for me.” Wriothesley dips his head. Wet heat wraps around one of Neuvillette’s nipples as Wriothesley fucks the dildo into him, and he keens. His back arches, his hips roll, and he loses himself in the pleasure, in the friction and the stretchy burn of the cock in his vent.

His own cocks ache and throb with a pressure that grows and grows. With a needy sound, he reaches for himself, but Wriothesley clicks his tongue. “No,” he says against Neuvillette’s nipple.

Neuvillette lets his hand fall back to the bed. The other curves over Wriothesley’s hip, grasping hard at his body.

Wriothesley lifts his head from Neuvillette’s nipple, seeking out his mouth. But instead of kissing him as he fucks him with the dildo, he brushes his mouth back and forth over Neuvillette’s lips. He teases him with little nips and bites, urging him deeper and deeper into an ocean of pleasure until Neuvillette is shaking, until he’s trembling and gasping.

“You’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” Wriothesley asks as Neuvillette shudders from nearly too much pleasure.

A strange sense of certainty fills Neuvillette as his hips rise to meet a thrust of that cool cock inside him. “Yes,” he gasps.

“What if I told you not to come?”

Oh. Oh.

Neuvillette digs his one heel into the bed and tries to kick himself off the cock fucking into him, but Wriothesley lays across him, pinning him to the bed, and that—

“Wriothesley.”

“Don’t come, sweetness,” Wriothesley croons, fucking him deeper, fucking him faster, filling him with that cock over and over, dragging along sensitive muscle until Neuvillette isn’t just shuddering, he’s desperately writhing. “Hold off for me. That’s it. Just like that. Fuck, but you’re so hot like this.”

And the pleasure, it builds in his gut, sharp and heady. His toes curl and he gasps, his breath shaking. It’s too much, it’s so much. He—He needs—

“Please,” he gasps.

“No,” Wriothesley says. “Not until I’m inside you, not until I’m ready to breed you again.”

A strangled sound catches in his throat. His head thrashes to the side, and Wriothesley, damn him and bless him, sets his teeth in Neuvillette’s neck.

The pleasure that sweeps through him is scalding, is overwhelming. It strings Neuvillette tight. Neuvillette musters every ounce of self-control to keep from coming, but Wriothesley gives him no relief. He keeps fucking him, keeps driving the Hydro dildo into his vent, until slick sounds spill from between Neuvillette’s legs in time with the reedy cries falling from his lips.  

He finds himself begging, finds himself pleading. His claws curl in the bed, and he strains beneath Wriothesley’s body, desperate and needy.

“Not yet,” Wriothesley says, his hips rolling against Neuvillette’s thigh in rough little jerks.

He’s hard, Neuvillette realizes. Wriothesley is hard, and he pulls the dildo from between Neuvillette’s legs.

Neuvillette releases the power holding it together, letting it dissipate back into the air, and then Wriothesley is between his legs, cock in hand, and Neuvillette watches him with wide, wild eyes. “Fuck me,” he gasps, incapable of anything other than this coarse language. “Need you to fuck me, Wriothesley. Need you to fill me. My mate, my mate, I need—”

And then Wriothesley is inside him, pushing deep. The stretch is incredible, even after having that Hydro cock fucking into him. Wriothesley is burning hot, a fiery brand, thicker and longer. He fills Neuvillette perfectly, so perfectly, stretching his vent to what feels like the very limit.

Neuvillette throws back his head and lets out a long, low moan of exquisite pleasure. His back bows, and he lifts his legs to wind them around Wriothesley’s hips, but Wriothesley catches first one and then the other in the crook of his elbows.

A gasp spills out of Neuvillette as Wriothesley all but folds him in half, bending over him with an intense, intent look on his face. “My mate,” he says, and those two words are enough to tumble Neuvillette over the edge.

With a broken cry of Wriothesley’s name, he comes apart. Cum spurts over his chest and belly, dripping from his neglected cocks, but he doesn’t need Wriothesley’s hand on him to come, not with Wriothesley buried in his vent.

Wriothesley fucks him through that orgasm, not slowing for even a second.

“That’s so good, sweetness,” he croons, driving deep. “Can you give me another?”

“Yes, yes.” He’ll give Wriothesley anything that Wriothesley asks for, will give Wriothesley his heart, his love, his body—and even time itself. Eternity rests in the palm of Neuvillette’s hand, and Neuvillette presses that palm to Wriothesley’s chest.

Hydro swells within him. It gathers and grows, and Neuvillette presses it into Wriothesley, filling him with it.

The look on Wriothesley’s face is broken with tenderness. He releases one of Neuvillette’s legs to hold his hand over Neuvillette’s, to press Neuvillette’s hand harder to his chest, and Neuvillette moans. So does Wriothesley. He drops his head and groans, fucking hard and faster into Neuvillette’s vent, and this is something new, something different. The flow of his power into Wriothesley creates some strange feedback loop. He can feel himself, yes, but he can feel Wriothesley, too.

A rapturous expression breaks across Wriothesley’s face, and Neuvillette is certain he, too, can feel this loop of sensation.

His claws prick against Wriothesley’s chest, and he feels that sharpness against his own skin. His power rushes through Wriothesley’s body, chasing away age and the specter of death, and he feels that rushing current, too. And Wriothesley’s cock carves into his vent, fucking deep into him, and he feels that, too, feels what it’s like to be filled and to do that filling, and it’s too much, it’s too good.

With a cry, his back bowing, Neuvillette comes undone beneath Wriothesley once more. For a fleeting moment, he’s certain Wriothesley will follow him, the pleasure is so sharp, so severe. But Wriothesley doesn’t.

No, he continues to fuck into Neuvillette, continues to drive hard and deep. The press of Wriothesley’s cock dragging against the inside of his vent, bumping against his cocks from the back, is much too much. Neuvillette is overwhelmed and overstimulated, and he falls into yet another orgasm with a shocked, stuttering little gasp shaped vaguely like Wriothesley’s name. And still Wriothesley moves inside him, moves against him.

“More for me,” Wriothesley says. “Work for my cum, sweetness. Make me give it to you.”

Neuvillette keens, clawing at the blankets with one hand. His other remains pressed to Wriothesley’s chest, and it takes all of what remains of his tattered faculties to keep from clawing at Wriothesley’s skin. He is a mess, a wash of sensation, with no clear idea of where he ends and Wriothesley begins.

But that is the point of love, is it not? Is not love giving oneself to another so wholly and completely that there is no demarcation between them? And he doesn’t want a distinction between himself and Wriothesley. He wants—craves—this oneness, this singularity. They come together like two stars, brilliant and powerful, and then there is no differentiating one from the other as they both shake apart with broken cries and hollowed out gasps.

Neuvillette loses himself entirely, loses his sense of self. For a moment, he is the Hydro coursing through Wriothesley’s body. He is utterly outside of himself, surging like a torrent beneath Wriothesley’s skin.

And then they are tangled together on the bed once more, Wriothesley’s mouth urgent against his as he trembles over Neuvillette’s body.

Their pleasure seems a miniscule thing compared to what they’ve just shared.

Neuvillette drapes his arms around Wriothesley’s shoulders. They both shiver, they are both shaken, and Wriothesley settles flush against Neuvillette’s body. For a long time, they sip shuddering kisses from each other’s lips until, at last, their bodies are still and their minds are calm.

“That,” Wriothesley breathes, “was some weird dragon shit.”

Neuvillette’s lips quirk in the barest of smiles. “Did you dislike it?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“No. That was—I never thought sex could feel like that.”

They nuzzle into each other, pressed together, dripping with sweat and sticky with cum.

“Should I apologize?” Neuvillette asks.

“Mm?”

“For once more filling you with my power. Last time, you expressly asked that I seek your permission.”

Wriothesley snorts. “Neuvillette, sweetness, you can do that whenever you want.” He draws back, propping his elbow on the bed and dropping his head into his hand. “How many years did you give me this time?”

“I think only a handful. Perhaps four or five.”

Another snort. A shake of his head. “Four or five years. Well, thank you.” He lifts his head from his hand, dropping his thumb to rub it over Neuvillette’s jaw. “I’ll take all the years you’ll give me, Neuvillette. I want eternity with you.” A lopsided smile turns up the corners of his lips. “So. We for sure going to be parents?”

A faint flush spreads across Neuvillette’s cheeks. “The odds are incredibly good and will only get better if you—if we continue—” He clears his throat.

“To fuck your vent?”

“Mm.” He nods. “But I—I would very much like that.” Neuvillette looks up at Wriothesley through heavy lashes.

Wriothesley’s heart skips a beat. “Fuck,” he breathes. “How did I get so lucky, huh?” He bends over, angling for a kiss. Their lips touch, soft and gentle. “A husband and a mate. And a family.”

Neuvillette’s fingers brush over Wriothesley’s chest. They curve over his shoulders. “You are truly pleased?”

With a wry smile, Wriothesley pulls back, watching Neuvillette’s face. “The only way I could be more pleased is if you give me permission to name the hatchling.”

“That,” Neuvillette says far too quickly, “will be a mutual decision.”

Laughing, Wriothesley rolls out of the bed. “Come on, sweetness. Let’s clean up. We’ve got a few months to think of names, yeah? And to get ready.” He drags a hand down his face. “Fuck, we’re going to need to buy parenting books. Get a nursery ready. Shit, there’s so much to do. How much time did you say we’d have?”

“More or less the same amount of time as a human pregnancy.”

“How do people do this?” Wriothesley asks.

Neuvillette eases out of the bed and tucks himself against Wriothesley’s side. “Together, beloved.” He laces their fingers.

“Yeah.” Wriothesley presses his nose into Neuvillette’s hair. “Together.”

Chapter Text

This time, Neuvillette’s heat doesn’t end with him laying an egg. It ends softly, gently, with Wriothesley beneath him and Neuvillette’s teeth in Wriothesley’s neck, with shuddering orgasms and soft declarations of love and affection. Now that Neuvillette has bitten him, it seems to be all Neuvillette wants to do when they have sex—that and have Wriothesley in his vent.

Not that Wriothesley has any complaints about either situation. He’s more than content to fuck Neuvillette however Neuvillette wants to be fucked, and in his heat, it’s vent or nothing.

As they lay on the sheets in the aftermath, sticky and exhausted, Wriothesley rolls Neuvillette to his back and rests his hand on Neuvillette’s belly. He imagines he can feel a soft, gentle swell there, and a faint smile curves his lips.

“It will become slightly more evident,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley, head on a pillow, studies Neuvillette’s face. “Yeah? It’ll get bigger?”

“Marginally, now that it has been fertilized. The hatchling will grow, and when it can grow no more, then I will lay the egg,” Neuvillette explains.

“Do you know how long?” Wriothesley asks, thumbing over Neuvillette’s stomach.

“A handful of months. Three, maybe four,” Neuvillette says. He shakes his head. “I cannot be more specific. This is instinct, not discrete knowledge.” He turns his head to one side, which is an almost comical look against the pillow. “Does this… bother you?”

“Neuvillette. I rubbed my entire body against your cocks underwater… what, four days ago? And you’re worried I find this weird?”

With a quiet little laugh, Neuvillette scoots closer to Wriothesley. “This is new and strange to me. I will need your reassurance,” he says, and though his words are light, his expression is vulnerable.

Capturing Neuvillette’s chin between thumb and forefinger, Wriothesley bends down to press a soft, gentle kiss to his lips. “I’m here to reassure you as much as you need,” he promises.

But Neuvillette needs less reassurance than he claims in the two days that follow his heat. He seems comfortable with his body and the changes it will likely go through, placid and serene as always. If anyone needs reassurance, it’s Wriothesley, who goes out to a bookstore the next day and buys half a dozen books on parenthood.

The bookshop clerk makes no comment, thank Celestia and all the Archons, but the gossip column the next morning is filled with speculation that he and Neuvillette are planning on adopting.

“What are we going to do when we end up with children who look like us?” Wriothesley asks, pulling a hand down his face, over rough stubble. He needs to shave before their interview with Charlotte, but he can’t bring himself to get up or set down the paper.

“Nothing,” Neuvillette says blithely, pouring Wriothesley a cup of tea before bringing his own cup of water to his lips.

“People are going to wonder, Neuvillette.”

“Let them. They have wondered about me for centuries.” Neuvillette sets his cup down, tipping his head to the side. “But that is not your primary concern, is it? You are worried about our ability to protect a child.”

Wriothesley barks out a laugh and rakes a hand through his hair. “You really don’t let a man have anything.”

“We are mates. We should discuss this, Wriothesley. I am here to support you. You do not have to keep this to yourself.”

With another laugh, Wriothesley sags into the chair. He drapes the paper over his lap and tips his head back, closing his eyes. “It’s just—I know what it’s like to be scrutinized by the masses,” Wriothesley says. “And I don’t want our child to go through that.”

Neuvillette makes a sympathetic sound.

“I get it, though, it’s inevitable. The only thing we can do is keep them out of harm’s way, but… I just wish we could do more.” Wriothesley groans, digging thumb and forefinger into his eyes. “I don’t want this kid to go through the shit that I went through.”

A rustle of fabric as Neuvillette rises from his seat. Wriothesley drops his hand and opens his eyes, watching Neuvillette kneel before him. Slender fingers curve over his knees. Neuvillette strokes over his thighs, gentle and soothing. Neuvillette’s expression is soft and warm, kind and reassuring. “They will not,” Neuvillette says. “We cannot protect them from the world, we would be monsters for that, but we can do everything else. They will be loved. They will be safe.”

Wriothesley exhales. “I know. I know we’ll do everything we can, I just… I worry about the times when we won’t be able to.”

“We cannot protect them from everything, but we can give them a safe place to come apart.”

A safe space to come apart. Fuck, if only he’d had one of those.

Swallowing hard, choking back the tears that sting his eyes, he nods. “That’s—I guess that has to be enough, huh?”

Neuvillette reaches for his hand, taking it gently within his own and pulling it to his face. “We will be alright, Wriothesley. And so will this child. They will face no more scrutiny than any child of powerful men, and we will help them through it. We will be there for them.”

Gently, Wriothesley brushes his thumb over Neuvillette’s cheek, soaking in the heat from his body. “Yeah.” He exhales another shaking breath. “Yeah. We can be there for them.”

“That will be enough,” Neuvillette promises, turning his face into Wriothesley’s hand to press a soft kiss to his palm.

Wriothesley laughs, this one shaky. “Isn’t the pregnant one supposed to have all the emotions?”

Neuvillette gives him a tender look. “You have a complicated relationship with family,” Neuvillette says, “that is far more immediate than my own experiences. It stands to reason that you would be more emotional about this.”

Wriothesley latches onto that because he doesn’t want to be emotional. “Yeah, actually. What is your history with your family?”

Snorting, Neuvillette releases Wriothesley’s hand and rises. “I do not remember.”

And Wriothesley stares at him. “What do you mean you don’t remember?”

“I don’t remember,” Neuvillette repeats, utterly calm—borderline disaffected. “It was more than one thousand years ago.” Wriothesley chokes. “Perhaps longer. You look alarmed, beloved.”

 “How do you not remember your family?”

Neuvillette offers him a small, sad smile. “They had little enough impact on my life,” he says.

That, to Wriothesley, seems just as bad as his own experience. “Fuck, Neuvillette, I… What’s a guy supposed to say to that?”

“You need say nothing. There is no pain there for me.”

“We have had two very different experiences, huh?”

Neuvillette nods. “Yes. But perhaps that is a good thing. Our differing experiences provide us each with a unique lens through which to view parenting, offering us a more balanced approach.” He smiles. “We will manage together, Wriothesley.”

Groaning, Wriothesley pushes himself out of his chair and folds the newspaper, placing it aside. “Just like we’ll manage this interview with Charlotte, yeah?”

And now Neuvillette’s expression shifts, changes. Shutters. Wriothesley clocks the transition but doesn’t comment.

Neuvillette drifts to the closet, and Wriothesley follows him. He hasn’t fully moved in yet, but he brought a good number of his clothes the previous night. They’re having a kid. There’s no way he’s leaving Neuvillette alone to deal with whatever happens during a draconic pregnancy.

“I am… nervous,” Neuvillette admits, his fingers dancing over his clothes. He finally settles on a suit of navy and gold, pulling the jacket from where it hangs in the closet and rubbing his fingers over the lapels.

Wriothesley nudges into the spacious, walk-in closet, going to where his own suits hang. Most of them are variations on his usual attire, all gray and crimson, but a bit more dressed up, a bit more formal. It’s all a façade, of course: Wriothesley dressed up, Neuvillette dressed down, each of them adjusting to meet the other halfway between their usual presentation. A way to show Fontaine a unified front.

“Why are you nervous, sweetness?” he asks, pulling his own jacket from a hanger and folding it over his arm.

“I have always kept Fontaine at arm’s length. My personal life, such as it was, has been my own,” Neuvillette says. “But, now, we are inviting people in, and I…” He frowns. “I am being irrational.”

“No,” Wriothesley says quickly, taking Neuvillette’s shoulder in hand and turning him around. His fingers curl beneath Neuvillette’s chin, lifting his downcast face. “No more than I was. You said it yourself: you’re used to holding everyone at a distance. That’s how you’ve protected yourself over the years, yeah?”

A small smile curves Neuvillette’s lips. “And you say I allow you no secrets.”

“Well, we’re mates,” Wriothesley says, tossing Neuvillette’s earlier words back at him.

That small smile grows larger, and Neuvillette laughs softly. “That we are.”

“How about this,” Wriothesley continues, releasing Neuvillette’s chin. “I think of this sort of thing as a game, right? Your whole goal is to answer the questions without saying anything of substance.”

Neuvillette tips his head to the side, considering. “A game of omission.”

Wriothesley snaps his fingers. “Exactly. You want to control the narrative, but you don’t want to say anything too substantial. So, kids, for example, since we know that’s going to come up and we’re both feeling emotional about it. If she asks about kids, we say we’re open to the possibility.”

With a wry laugh, Neuvillette presses his palm to his lower belly. “Very open.”

“And that,” Wriothesley says, “is the perfect exchange. That’s the trick to dealing with reporters.”

“I have always simply refused them.”

“Leading to wild speculation. We can direct that speculation. Want to tell them we’ll adopt?” Wriothesley asks, grabbing a crimson shirt from a shelf along with slacks the same gray as his jacket.

When Neuvillette doesn’t follow, Wriothesley pauses and glances back.

“You alright?” he asks.

Neuvillette studies him, thoughtful. “Do you want to adopt?”

Huh. Wriothesley pauses on the closet’s threshold. He’s always wanted kids, but since he assumed he’d never have a partner, the idea of kids has occupied a nebulous space in his brain. But adoption… “You know,” he says, scratching his chin, a little grin pulling at his lips. “I wouldn’t mind it. Especially the older ones, you know? It can be harder for the older kids to find a family.”

Neuvillette’s expression is so warm, so soft. “Then we will find space in our home to adopt as well.”

“Your secret is going to get out so damn fast, Neuvillette. We’re going to have an army of kids underfoot, and they’re all going to know you’re the Hydro Dragon.” He hesitates. “Provided we tell them.”

Neuvillette tuts. “I would not hide myself from any child of mine. They would know.”

Relief washes through Wriothesley. “You’re going to have the hardest time keeping this secret.”

“Perhaps, then, it is time that I stop trying so hard.” Neuvillette steps around Wriothesley, leaving him standing there, stunned.

Hundreds of years. At least a thousand, actually. Neuvillette has been keeping this secret for at least a thousand years, and now, for a family, he’d cast that secret aside. A warmth spreads through Wriothesley’s chest as Neuvillette strips out of his sleeping clothes and begins to dress.

“Have I told you yet today that I love you?” Wriothesley asks.

“Yes,” Neuvillette replies, buttoning his shirt. “But I would hear it again.”

“I love you,” Wriothesley says, pushing out of the threshold. “You still nervous about the interview?”

Neuvillette nods. “But I can play the game you suggested. And I think, too, it would be more concerning if I were not nervous at all.” He touches Wriothesley’s shoulder as Wriothesley approaches, and Wriothesley leans into him. “Perhaps I will simply treat this interview as though it is questioning from opposing counsel.”

“That’s not a half bad idea,” Wriothesley says, shrugging into his own shirt. “It’ll be fine. I can’t imagine Charlotte’s going to come at us too hard.”

Neuvillette regrets agreeing to the interview as soon as Charlotte spills into the townhome, all smiles and barely contained excitement. She is a striking counterpoint to Neuvillette, who gives her a reserved nod of his head in lieu of a handshake—but Wriothesley covers for him with an enthusiastic greeting.

“Charlotte,” Wriothesley says warmly, “it’s so good to finally sit down with you.”

She beams at him. “I’ve been trying to get an interview with the man of Meropide for years,” she says, shaking his hand with earnest abandon. “And!” She eyes Neuvillette. “I’m glad that I can finally ask the Chief Justice some questions without running them through half the nation and the Palais Mermonia.”

Neuvillette offers her a tepid smile. It’s all he can manage.

Charlotte is a formidable interviewer, well known for pushing into topics that interviewees would prefer to avoid and skilled at pulling information out of her subjects. If this is a game of saying much by saying little, it is perhaps best that he says nothing at all unless directly asked. He really should have insisted on this being a professional interview instead of a personal one. Should have insisted on vetting the questions.

Alas, it’s too late for that. Wriothesley is leading Charlotte into their sitting room, asking her if she’d like tea, and Neuvillette wishes they were anywhere else. His nesting instincts from his heat have faded, but there is a growing need within him to prepare his home for his and Wriothesley’s egg, and he cannot do that with Charlotte here. She is an interloper. He does not want her in his den.

He reminds himself that he agreed to this. Reminds himself that he has tolerated worse.

With a deep breath, he enters the sitting room, ready to play as gracious a host as he can. He finds he does not need to. Wriothesley and Charlotte are already chatting amiably about Charlotte herself.

Wriothesley has seated himself on the couch, and Charlotte sits across from him, perched on the edge of an armchair. She holds her kamera in her lap and wears a broad smile on her face as she nods emphatically.

“Photography,” she’s saying as Neuvillette joins Wriothesley on the loveseat, “is really quite fascinating. Lenses are such powerful tools to adjust a scene, to capture the real truth of something, you know? People lie all the time, but a picture doesn’t.”

Pictures lie all the time, but Neuvillette doesn’t say that. They tell the story the taker wants them to tell through framing and structure and focus, cropping out what is undesirable. Kameras are one more tool for liars to use in the pursuit of framing the truth.

“Monsieur Verite—that’s my kamera—” She pats the top of the device. “—always helps me get to the bottom of things.” She hefts the kamera. “May I?”

Wriothesley, smoothing his hand over Neuvillette’s knee, glances at him. Lifts a brow.

Neuvillette inclines his head. “I don’t see why not,” he says, since he agreed to this, since she will want to take many more pictures, certainly.

Click.

This isn’t the first time someone has taken his photo, of course, but there is something startling about the way Charlotte takes the photo without waiting for them to pose.

“Hey, now,” Wriothesley says with a laugh, squeezing Neuvillette’s knee. “We weren’t even ready.” 

“Candids are more honest,” she says cheerfully.

Candids, Neuvillette thinks, are invasive. How can someone properly present themself if they are unaware of a photo being taken? How can he school his face into the proper expression, how can he compose himself, if he is unaware? He smothers a low snarl and reminds himself yet again that he agreed to this invasion of his privacy.

Wriothesley squeezes his knee again, and Neuvillette is somewhat mollified. He has his mate with him, at least. He is not alone.

“Alright, then,” Charlotte says, setting her kamera on the coffee table and pulling out a notepad and a pen. “Let’s get started. Everyone is aware of your working relationship and your history.”

Neuvillette inhales, measuring his breath against the pounding of his heart.

“How did that working relationship transform into something more?”

Panic shoots through him, a sudden anxiety. They don’t have an answer prepared for this, he realizes. They don’t have lies prepared for any of this. They cannot speak of his heat—not that he would want to, even if the entire nation knew he was the Hydro Dragon Sovereign.

But Wriothesley offers Charlotte an easy laugh and leans back against the sofa, the picture of casual engagement. “How do any of these things start?” Wriothesley asks. “A few extra meetings here, a late night there, the realization that you spend more time with your coworker than most of your friends followed by the realization that you actually care about your coworker more than most of your friends.” He grins, cheeky and brash.

“I see, I see,” Charlotte says.

And Neuvillette does, too, for Wriothesley has offered her absolutely nothing of substance with his response.

Charlotte is not so easily placated as that. “Was there a meeting in particular that you realized it, Your Grace?” she asks Wriothesley. “That you cared about the Chief Justice, I mean.”

Wriothesley bobs his head noncommittally. “Hard to pinpoint an exact moment, you know? More just the realization one day that I wanted to spend more and more of my time with him, that I actually looked forward to my meetings with him.” He looks toward Neuvillette. “This one fought me about it.”

“Did he?” Charlotte asks. “You didn’t want a relationship, Monsieur Chief Justice?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “What His Grace means is that I did not want a public relationship.”

“Why not?”

“Because I do not wish for our relationship to be a spectacle.”

“But, surely, the people of Fontaine have the right to know who their Chief Justice is involved with, especially when he’s supposed to be impartial.”

Neuvillette inhales sharply and folds his hand over Wriothesley’s. Charlotte has not, in fact, asked a question, so he does not, in fact, say a damn word.

Charlotte comes at them both from another angle. “Do you think you can remain impartial, Monsieur Chief Justice, when your husband—” She gives their rings a pointed look. “—is the Administrator of the Fortress of Meropide?”

“Meropide is an autonomous institution,” Neuvillette replies. “I have no jurisdiction there.”

“There are some who say you’ll go easy on criminal elements to make your husband’s job easier,” Charlotte says. “Should the people of Fontaine be concerned that’s true?”

“Of course not,” Neuvillette replies.

Wriothesley scoffs. “That idea that Neuvillette wouldn’t deliver a guilty verdict to spare me paperwork is absurd. You should see the stack on my desk.”

“Being the Chief Justice’s husband has taken you away from your duties, then?” Charlotte asks.

Wriothesley’s fingers twitch against Neuvillette’s knee. “I only mean that the not inconsiderable amount of paperwork remains just as dense as it was before Neuvillette and I became involved.”

“How do you both plan to balance your work with your personal lives?” Charlotte presses. “Monsieur Chief Justice, you’ve long said you avoid personal entanglements specifically because of the weight of your duties.”

This, Neuvillette thinks, does not deserve an empty answer. He leans forward slightly, his expression softening. “The amount of work that comes across my desk has never impacted whether I pursue a relationship. No, I have avoided personal entanglements because I have wished to maintain unimpeachable impartiality. However, my view of the law and of justice itself is not altered because I have come to love someone.” Beside him, Wriothesley’s breath hitches, but Neuvillette does not turn to look at him. He remains fixed on Charlotte. “What I feel for Wriothesley does not factor into my verdicts.”

Charlotte nods, scrawling across her notepad. “The entire nation knows you’re already legally married,” she says. “And I can see your rings—Can I get a picture of them later?”

“Sure thing,” Wriothesley says.

“Are there plans for a formal ceremony?”

They have discussed this, thankfully. “A small, intimate one,” Neuvillette provides.

“We don’t want a whole show,” Wriothesley says.

“Plenty of people will be disappointed.”

Plenty of people can go straight to the Abyss. “Perhaps we will organize a larger wedding breakfast to celebrate,” he offers, recognizing that he has just made a promise to Fontaine’s elite.

“A wedding breakfast!” Charlotte exclaims as she takes down her note. She beams at them both. “I’m sure the nation would be delighted.”

Neuvillette is certain she is correct.

“Your small, intimate affair. Any indication of who will be invited?” she asks.

“No,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley laughs. “Just friends,” he says. “Really, we’re happy with the marriage license.” He turns his hand to tangle his fingers with Neuvillette’s. “If we could’ve gotten away with it, we probably would’ve eloped.”

And that’s enough to derail Charlotte for a solid ten minutes, with Wriothesley painting a picture of him and Neuvillette running away to Mondstadt—where they barely even believe in weddings—to pledge themselves to each other for eternity.

Neuvillette glances down at their laced fingers and a fond smile turns up the corners of his lips. There’s a scrabbling sound and a click, all before he can react and look up. Another of Charlotte’s candids. He maintains a neutral expression.

She presses more into their personal lives, asking them about children specifically, about the future more generally, about whether Wriothesley will leave Meropide to live with Neuvillette.

“We’re still working out some details,” Wriothesley says, which is true enough.

When she wraps up the interview, she poses them for pictures, each one stiffer and more awkward than the last. She assures them they will look natural when the photos are printed.

“Oh, and it was Maison Aubert that made your rings, right?” she asks as she snaps a picture of their laced fingers.

“Indeed,” Neuvillette says. “Mademoiselle Chaumette is most gifted.”

Charlotte leaves shortly thereafter, having consumed nearly two hours of their lives.

When Wriothesley shuts the door, he laughs quietly. “She’s probably going to hightail it over to Maison Aubert to drag the whole story of our rings out of Chaumette.” He sighs. “Everyone’s going to know what I had engraved on our rings, aren’t they?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “No. Chaumette is vain, but she is discreet. She won’t share the details of our rings, only that she made them. She might mention they are posey rings, but she wouldn’t disclose what they say.”

“We’re going to start a trend, aren’t we? Of rings with engravings.”

“Undoubtedly,” Neuvillette says.

The article comes out a week later. To Neuvillette’s surprise, he and Wriothesley do look natural in all the awkward poses Charlotte urged them into. They look very much in love. The article itself is inoffensive enough, with Charlotte painting the picture of a couple swept up by a whirlwind office romance and rounding it out with a titillating line about them adopting children after their private, intimate wedding.

Neuvillette receives letters from every noble family in Fontaine discreetly inquiring if they’re invited. He doesn’t respond to any of them.

Wriothesley said a small wedding for friends, which, for Neuvillette means the Melusines. And, perhaps, Furina.

It is a curious thing to consider her. She was a fixture in his life for so many years, and now she is gone, a void in the space where her irrepressible spirit resided. But she was not so irrepressible in the end, and he… He can admit to himself that he has some regrets.

“I would like to invite Furina to our wedding,” he says one evening a week later as he and Wriothesley lounge in bed.

Wriothesley props his head in his free hand, his other occupied with stroking back and forth over the slight swell in Neuvillette’s belly where their egg resides.

“Is this one of those spouse situations where I can’t say no?” Wriothesley says.

“No,” Neuvillette says, watching Wriothesley’s hand drift over his belly. Though he expressed a need for reassurance in the aftermath of his heat, he has found he does not need it. Wriothesley is attentive and affirming, even as his body changes in subtle ways. Pregnancy suits him, and though he finds he is perhaps more sensitive to his emotions than he was previously, he is not stereotypically hysterical. Wriothesley seems more nervous than he, and that, he figures, is reasonable. “No, you may certainly tell me you don’t want her there.”

Wriothesley’s expression pulls. “She and I… have an understanding, I guess,” he says. “Since our conversation about immortality. But I get the impression she doesn’t want much to do with…” He lifts his hand from Neuvillette’s belly, making a vague gesture, before returning it.

“I agree. But I believe it would be poor form of me not to at least extend the invitation. I don’t want to bruise her, especially since Clorinde and Navia will be there.”

“Frankly, I doubt she’ll want to see either of them, especially considering how they were involved in the trial.” Wriothesley’s thumb pulls over the rounded swell of Neuvillette’s belly, and Neuvillette purrs softly.

His form shifts, and his tail flicks out to coil around Wriothesley’s ankle. “Perhaps that is true, but I would still like to make the offer.”

Wriothesley sighs. “Make it. But I don’t think she’ll say yes.” And then he leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Neuvillette’s lips. “Have I told you how hot you are today?”

“Mm, no,” Neuvillette replies, draping his arms around Wriothesley’s neck.

“Have I told you how hot it makes me, knowing this—” His hand settles on the swell of Neuvillette’s belly. “—is our child?”

“Yes, but not today.” Neuvillette arches beneath Wriothesley, desire curling in his belly, and offers his mate his neck.

Wriothesley takes the offer, biting gently into the crook of Neuvillette’s neck as his hand slips lower to stroke over Neuvillette’s hardening cocks.

They indulge in slow, lazy lovemaking, Wriothesley peppering Neuvillette’s belly in open-mouthed kisses before taking both his cocks into his mouth, before sliding into him and fucking him long and slow until Neuvillette is arching and moaning and keening senselessly.

The next morning, he sends a letter to Furina.

Two days later, he receives a response.

They meet at Café Lutece the next day, in the precious hour between the morning and lunch rushes, when only regulars sit around the tables.

She beats Neuvillette there and is already seated with a drink when he arrives. He does not bother to order a drink for himself; he has been led to believe that Arouet offers many fine beverages, but water is not counted among them.

Neuvillette settles at the table across from Furina, offering her a nod and a tentative smile as he does. “I trust you have been well,” he says.

She offers him an equally tentative smile in return. “Enough. I read the article. About you and Duke Wriothesley. Congratulations, I guess.” But the usual vim and verve is missing from her; she is subdued and not at all her spitfire self.

He wonders how he missed this. How he could live alongside her for five hundred years and not recognize the weight of them pressing down on her mortality.

“I—”

“If you want to apologize, please don’t,” she says.

He is reminded of the time Navia confronted him in his office about her father, and he says nothing.

They sit in silence for a long time, the minutes creeping by. Neuvillette wonders if this was not a mistake, if he ought not to have even attempted this meeting. There are so many words unspoken between them, so many wrongs he should right, but he knows she won’t allow it, and he respects her perhaps more for that.

“You are aware that Wriothesley and I are planning a wedding.”

She nods.

Neuvillette inhales, breathing in her scent. Anxiety. Tension. Uncertainty. “I had thought to invite you,” he says. He clears his throat and tries again. “I would like to invite you.”

“But?” she asks, her voice small, and he hates it.

He hates that he reduces her to this, hates the memory of the girl who was gregarious and bold—the girl who was an act. A farce. This, he realizes, is the woman behind the playacted Archon, a woman he was never allowed to see. He mourns the relationship they might have had if only she had allowed him to be her friend. But that was always impossible. Focalors’ machinations forbade it.

“But nothing. I would like to invite you to the wedding. You—You have been part of my life for centuries, Furina. I know things are not well between us. I know my presence hurts you. But if you are not present, I want that to be your decision. Not mine.”

A small, sad smile curves her lips. “Don’t you think it’s too late for us to be friends, Neuvillette? Don’t you think I ruined that?”

“No,” he says, because it is the truth. “If you would like me to know the woman behind the mask of Archon, I would very much like to know her. But that, like this, must be your decision.”

She looks down, wrapping her fingers around her mug of coffee. “I think,” she says quietly, “that I would only be a distraction for you on your wedding.”

The rejection stings. Perhaps more than it should, more than it would if he weren’t carrying an egg. But he gave her the choice, and she has made it.

She cants her head to the side, studying her coffee with marked intensity, as though she cannot bear to look at him. “But, if you really do have a wedding breakfast…? A reception of some kind? Maybe that.”

“Maybe that,” he agrees.

The wedding itself is an intimate affair near a lake in Elynas. The Melusines are responsible for much of the setup: arranging the chairs to face the lake, where Wriothesley and Neuvillette will stand together and give their vows. Weddings in Fontaine are often complex, highly structured affairs, but for this, there is no officiant, no pomp, no showmanship.

Furina, Neuvillette thinks wryly, would be appalled.

They each wear their finest suit, Wriothesley in a wine-dark burgundy and Neuvillette in white and gold, accented with navy.

Sedene, Sigewinne, and Clorinde occupy the first row. Clorinde has invited Navia. Neuvillette is surprised, but Wriothesley is not.

“They’ve been in love since they were teenagers,” he explained before the wedding, when they get Clorinde’s RSVP. “But the duel thing put a damper on it for a while.”

“I am glad to hear they have worked through the issue,” Neuvillette said, and Wriothesley helped him tie his cravat.

Now, they stand before the assembled guests—an absurd number of Melusines, most of whom invited themselves from Merusea Village, and Clorinde and Navia. Jurieu and Lourvine sit just behind Clorinde and Navia, but no one else received special dispensation to leave Meropide, not even for this auspicious occasion.

They hold hands loosely. Wriothesley’s thumb drifts back and forth over Neuvillette’s. In silence, they regard each other, neither quite ready to speak.

“Will you give me an onion?” Neuvillette asks at last, and Wriothesley bursts out laughing.

He extricates one of his hands from Neuvillette’s grasp, thumbing a tear from his eye, and shakes his head. “No, sweetness,” he says, and Neuvillette pretends he doesn’t hear a collective sigh from the Melusines observing. “No, that was only for the proposal. I have different vows for today.”

“By all means,” Neuvillette says.

Wriothesley clears his throat, watching Neuvillette with a fixed intensity. His eyes are bright and fierce, and he has, at Neuvillette’s request, laid aside his Vision for the day. “I gave you an onion when I asked you to marry me.”

“He did what?” Navia hisses in a whisper to Clorinde.

Neuvillette pretends he cannot hear her.

“I gave you an onion for moonlight and tears, for a taste that lingers even after you wash your hands. I gave you an onion for love. But, today, I give you all of me. I give you ten fingers and ten toes—nine straight and one slightly crooked. I give you two hands that will defend you and love you. I give you two eyes that look to you and you alone. I give you one pair of lips that speak your name in adoration. I give you thirty-one scars and one nose that has been broken too many times. I give you thirty-five years gone and an eternity yet to come. From you, I’ll take two hands that work too much and two eyes that sag from the horrors of what they’ve seen. From you, I’ll take five hundred years. I’ll take a thousand.” He lifts Neuvillette’s hands to his lips, kissing the knuckles of each in turn.

Neuvillette’s heart is still in his breast. His entire body is frozen in place as tears well in his eyes. Hormones, he thinks distantly. This is because of the hormones. But he knows that is not true.

“You are my heart and soul, Neuvillette,” Wriothesley says. “So, I’ll take eternity from you, because eternity is something shared.”

Neuvillette swallows hard, blinking back the tears, his heart light, his body fizzing effervescent joy. He is weightless, he is floating, he is a streak of light jubilant across a midnight sky.

 And like the sight of a shooting star, this feeling is meant to be shared.

He curls his fingers around Wriothesley’s.

“Loneliness is a comforting friend,” he says. “It asks nothing of you. Expects nothing of you. When you are miserable, loneliness is there with you, and you are always miserable when loneliness is your friend. Your sorrows are yours and yours alone, but so are your joys, your victories, your delights. Loneliness is an easy friend to have because loneliness never truly leaves you alone. You always have its sad weight around your shoulders, dragging you down into the depths.

“To set loneliness aside is to let someone else see you, to let them behold you as you truly are. It is to invite someone in, to be vulnerable with them, to shrug off the raiment of comfort and embrace something strange and new and wonderful. It is terrifying to let go of loneliness. But it is also the truest source of joy to be known, to be seen. And who has seen me?” he asks. “Who has gazed upon the Chief Justice and seen past title and station to flesh and bone?” He squeezes his fingers tighter around Wriothesley’s. “Who has made themselves more important than justice itself?”

Wriothesley sucks in a sharp breath, but he does not interrupt.

“Who has known me but you? I am, and forever will be, yours.”

Fontainian weddings seal vows with a kiss, but there is no officiant to make that declaration. So, Neuvillette tugs gently on Wriothesley’s fingers, and Wriothesley bends toward him. But Neuvillette does not kiss him. Instead, he turns his face so that it is hidden by Wriothesley’s own, presses his lips to Wriothesley’s ear, and whispers, “What no one else knows of me.” And then he gives Wriothesley a name, his name, his secret kept these past centuries.

And Wriothesley, sweet Wriothesley, he recognizes the gift he’s been given. He cants his head to the side, brushing his mouth against the tip of Neuvillette’s pointed ear. His breath is hot on Neuvillette’s skin as he murmurs a name in return, and Neuvillette understands, too, that this is who Wriothesley was before Meropide, a precious secret.

They brush their mouths together, and then they are set upon by cheering Melusines who pour from the seats without any sense of decorum or respect for Fontainian traditions. Clorinde, Navia, Jurieu, and Lorvine stand, too, but they applaud, somewhat awkwardly, the sound scattered and sparse, yes, but somehow perfect.

Wriothesley wraps Neuvillette in his arms, burying his face in Neuvillette’s neck. He nips at Neuvillette’s throat through heavy layers of fabric, and Neuvillette gasps. “Wriothesley,” he admonishes in a harsh whisper. “That is best saved for later.”

The Melusines offer them a simple reception filled with music and laughter on the banks of that lake, and the humans offer their congratulations with warm and genuine smiles. They dance to strange music, changing partners with the songs, until the sun kisses the horizon and it is time to return Jurieu and Lourvine to Meropide.

It is late when Wriothesley returns to their townhome, when he eases into bed beside Neuvillette and presses a hungry kiss to his lips. “You’re really mine,” he murmurs against his lips.

Neuvillette smiles. “I am forever yours, and you are forever mine.”

Wriothesley turns his lips to Neuvillette’s ear and exhales his name, a sweet promise. Neuvillette moans softly, a little surprised by how hungry the sound of his name on Wriothesley’s lips makes him, a little surprised by how much he suddenly wants. He answers with a moan of Wriothesley’s own name, and then he catches his breath.

“Forgive me,” he says. “You discarded that name for a reason, I should have—”

“I gave it to you so you could use it,” Wriothesley says. “Because I trust you with it. Hearing that name on your lips… It’s different. It’s okay. I want you to have all of me. Including that part.” He presses a kiss against Neuvillette’s mouth, soft and sweet, and then kisses his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He peppers kisses down Neuvillette’s body, shifting down the length of him to settle between his legs, and presses suckling kisses to his belly.

Neuvillette’s fingers sink into Wriothesley’s hair. He exhales a trembling breath, his back bowing as Wriothesley bites gently on the soft skin of his stomach. “We will not be able to have a honeymoon,” he says.

“That was last week,” Wriothesley says, almost absently, as he runs his hands up Neuvillette’s thighs to guide them over his shoulders.

Laughing softly, Neuvillette cards his fingers through Wriothesley’s hair. “Am I to understand you enjoy my heats so much?”

“Do you really have to ask?” Wriothesley laughs and presses another kiss to Neuvillette’s belly. “Are you going to get any larger than this?”

Neuvillette makes a noncommittal sound, but he is pleased by Wriothesley’s answer. He knows, of course, that Wriothesley has enjoyed their time together, but it is better to hear it. It is reassuring to hear it. “I don’t believe so. Does that upset you? That I won’t look as a woman does?”

“Not at all.” Wriothesley is not too quick to speak, but he is firm in his conviction. “You’re not a pregnant woman, you’re a pregnant dragon.” He pauses, and Neuvillette feels a certain, distinct kind of dread well up inside him. Not a fear, no, but a certainty that Wriothesley is about to say something that he will hate. “An eggnant dragon, perhaps.”

“I will kill you, Wriothesley,” he drawls, “if you ever say that again.”

“Eggnant,” Wriothesley says, and then he takes Neuvillette’s cocks into his mouth, and Neuvillette cannot do anything, never mind kill his husband.

Chapter Text

Their wedding breakfast is much delayed, hosted in the third month of Neuvillette’s pregnancy—which Wriothesley continues to insist on referring to as an eggnancy. Neuvillette tolerates the word. Barely. The wedding breakfast itself is, as Wriothesley describes it, a pain in the ass, but it ingratiates the nobility to them, which will help moderate some of the speculation flying about their relationship. Furina attends, for which Neuvillette is grateful. They barely speak, but she smiles at him from across the room, and that is enough for him to know there will be an opportunity, one day, perhaps, to repair what five hundred years broke.

Living with Wriothesley is a delight. They wake together, they fall asleep together, they start their mornings with gentle kisses and end their days with hungry ones, when Neuvillette can pull the baby books out of Wriothesley’s hands.

“They will be hatchlings, beloved,” Neuvillette reminds him one night as he pours over a thick tome.

“But they’ll still be humans part of the time, like you, right?” When Neuvillette doesn’t immediately respond, Wriothesley lowers his book. “Right, Neuvillette?”

Eventually, Neuvillette says, “We shall hope.” His own ignorance frustrates him. Only experience will reveal the truth, and though they can prepare for human babies, there is nothing they can do to ready themselves and their home for draconic ones. They’ll have to muddle through it together.

“Will they have teeth?” Wriothesley asks a few nights later.

Neuvillette laughs, burying his face in Wriothesley’s hip. “I do not know,” he says, exasperated but fond.

“When do they get human forms? Will they ever get human forms, or are we just going to have dragon babies flying around—Fuck, Neuvillette, can you fly?”

“No,” Neuvillette assures him, but he doesn’t think Wriothesley is much reassured.

His own desire to nest increases over these days, but he does not turn the bed into a nest. No, with Sedene’s assistance, he discreetly purchases a cradle for their child, and he builds a nest of his clothes and Wriothesley’s, of soft pillows and softer blankets, and when Wriothesley comes home that night and sees it, he has a small meltdown.

“What if we’re bad at this?” he asks as Neuvillette holds him. “What if we fuck up and our kid hates us? What if they run away? What if—”

“Do not borrow trouble,” Neuvillette says, stroking his fingers through Wriothesley’s hair. “Tomorrow will take care of itself. Be with me in the present. Be with me now.” And he presses Wriothesley’s hand against his belly, where they can feel the curve of the egg.

Against him, Wriothesley settles.

“We will certainly make mistakes,” Neuvillette says, continuing to card his fingers through Wriothesley’s hair, slow and soothing. “But we will always love our hatchling, will we not?”

“Yeah,” Wriothesley says. “It’s—It’s almost stupid how much I love this kid and they’re not even here yet.” His hand smooths over Neuvillette’s belly as has become his habit.

Neuvillette churrs softly, relaxing into the pillows at his back. “Then we will manage. With love, we will manage.”

“You have to read the books,” Wriothesley says, nuzzling into Neuvillette’s side.

Laughing, Neuvillette nods. “I am, beloved. I am.” Perhaps not as rigorously as Wriothesley, who has a notebook with tabbed annotations, but he is reading them.

The nesting instinct only grows. An ache develops low in his belly, a smoldering burn not dissimilar from the start of his heats. Neuvillette finds himself hungrier for Wriothesley’s body, needier, until he is hard and aching one afternoon in his office, a pressure growing between his legs. And he knows. He knows the egg will come within the next twenty-four hours, and he cannot stay at the Palais any longer.

He finishes his work as quickly as he can and informs Sedene he will need the following day for his health.

She, who can, of course, recognize the elemental power that has gathered within him, asks no questions. She nods, promises to rearrange his most pressing obligations immediately, and inquires if she should contact the Fortress of Meropide.

Though he is fairly certain he has several hours before the egg is truly ready to come into the world, he knows Wriothesley would not forgive him if the egg came early and without him. And Neuvillette doesn’t want to lay the egg alone. Everything in him protests at the very idea.

With a nod, he asks her to reach out to the Fortress and send his husband (mate, the animal part of him purrs with contentment) home.

Sedene promises to do so, and Neuvillette leaves her to it, exiting the Palais with minimal fuss. He is only waylaid twice. Once free, he takes the most direct route to his townhome, walking with such narrow focus that he barely notices the people who greet him as he passes. He gives them brusque nods of acknowledgement, nothing more, as the heat in his gut smolders and aches, as his clothes become sources of frustration and irritation.

By the time he makes it home, he is panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat. Once inside, he strips off his spats and his shoes and hurries up the stairs. Though Wriothesley’s scent hangs thick in their home now, it is not so pronounced as when he is present. Neuvillette warbles quietly, tugging at his stole, his robes as he stumbles into the bedroom. There, on the far wall, is their cradle, and the sight of it mollifies him somewhat.

Quickly removing the remainder of his clothing, leaving the pieces strewn across the floor, Neuvillette lets go his human form with a relieved exhale. Some of the pressure in his belly eases now that he’s in a form meant for bearing eggs, but he still aches. Still burns.

He takes down his hair and braids it over his shoulder. He pulls apart the bed, arranging pillows and sheets so that he will be comfortable within their embrace—and then rearranges them two more times as he waits.

His tail lashes across the floor behind him as he paces between the cradle and the bed. Instinct cries out for his mate, for Wriothesley. He cannot settle. Cannot calm himself. Irritable and uncomfortably aroused, he continues to pace as he strokes one hand down his belly to brush over his cocks. Need burns through him as he gives himself a perfunctory stroke. He doesn’t want his hand. He wants Wriothesley’s hand, wants Wriothesley, wants his mate.

And it is with relief that he hears the door open. Hears Wriothesley enter and call out his name.

“Here,” he calls back, still pacing, still agitated.

Wriothesley hurries up the stairs, his footsteps heavy but quick, and then he’s in the doorway, wide-eyed with excitement. “It’s time?”

“It’s time,” Neuvillette agrees, continuing to pace.

Wriothesley eases into the bedroom, watching him. “Is it different this time?”

Neuvillette shakes his head. “No.” Frowns. “No, that’s not… There is… a sense of urgency,” he admits, “but it is otherwise the same. A pleasant pressure in my abdomen. An ache.” He tips his head toward Wriothesley, a small smile on his face. “Would you hold me?”

“C’mere, sweetness.” Wriothesley tugs his tie lose, shrugging out of his jacket at the same time. He drops both onto the floor, joining Neuvillette’s discarded clothing, and reaches for Neuvillette.

Neuvillette sinks into Wriothesley’s arms, inhaling deeply. Bergamot and leather and metal, comforting, reassuring. His mate is here with him, and he relaxes against Wriothesley’s body as Wriothesley pulls his hands up and down Neuvillette’s back.

For a long while, they stand at the foot of the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. But the need to move drives Neuvillette from Wriothesley’s embrace, and he resumes his restless pacing.

“This,” he says, running his hand down his belly, “should happen in the midst of a heat. It shouldn’t be a creeping feeling. It should be all at once and all consuming. But this is… It is a slow crawl, a mounting, maddening sensation.”

Wriothesley sits on the padded bench at the foot of their bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “You tell me what you need,” he says, “and I’m here for you. You want me to hold you, done. You need bed-breaking sex—”

That, actually, sounds very pleasant, and Neuvillette rounds on Wriothesley.

“—that’s also fine, as I’m sure you know. If—Oh.” Wriothesley breaks off as Neuvillette slides into his lap, kneeling, his knees on either side of Wriothesley’s hips.

Leaning over Wriothesley, Neuvillette sinks his clawed fingertips into Wriothesley’s hair. Tips back his head. “Do you think we can actually break the bed?” he asks, his voice a low and wicked purr, his tail swishing behind him.

Wriothesley leans back against the bed, settling both hands on Neuvillette’s hips. “It’s solid amur maple, so I’m going to guess not, but that—” He sucks in a sharp gasp as Neuvillette nips at the curve of his jaw. “—that doesn’t mean we can’t try.”

Purring, Neuvillette unwinds the leather strips around Wriothesley’s throat, hunger churning in his belly. “Then let us.”

They don’t succeed, but one round of sex leads to two, and the second leads to Wriothesley whispering filth in Neuvillette’s ear as he fucks his vent with a Hydro cock, and by that point, the heat and pressure in Neuvillette’s belly has become unbearable. He burns, and nothing made of Hydro can sate him.

With a hungry growl, he crawls over Wriothesley’s body, and Wriothesley envelopes him in a welcoming embrace. “Same as last time?” he asks as Neuvillette noses beneath his jaw to lick and nip at his throat.

There, Wriothesley’s scent is heavy and thick, and Neuvillette breathes it in as he settles between Wriothesley’s legs. “Yes,” he rumbles, nosing into the crook of Wriothesley’s neck. He nibbles at the flesh there, already mottled with a tender bruise; the need to mark his mate burns as hot within him as his own desire. “But you…” Neuvillette arches against Wriothesley’s body, rubbing his rounded belly against Wriothesley’s hip.

Wriothesley is half hard, and Neuvillette is hungry.

“What about me?” Wriothesley asks, tipping his head to the side, giving Neuvillette more of his throat.

“You do not burn the way I do. Not yet.” Neuvillette’s mouth brushes over Wriothesley’s skin, trailing along his collarbone. He follows raised lines of scar tissue almost absently; Wriothesley’s scars have never bothered him, are not as important to him as the man who wears them. They are convenient guideposts to his body, but Neuvillette turns away from them to lave his tongue over one of Wriothesley’s nipples.

Beneath him, Wriothesley groans softly. One large hand slips into Neuvillette’s hair. “Sweetness,” he breathes, but he doesn’t stop Neuvillette. Doesn’t try to turn him aside.

Neuvillette bites at Wriothesley’s nipple, worrying it to hardness as he sweeps one hand up Wriothesley’s side. His thumb plays over the other nipple, tracking in slow, meandering circles until Wriothesley arches restlessly. He claimed, once, that he wasn’t particularly sensitive on his chest, but Neuvillette has found that Wriothesley enjoys being lavished with attention. Has found that Wriothesley enjoys the warmth of Neuvillette’s mouth, the slick heat of it, and so he plies his mate with those things now, tasting and teasing.

Wriothesley’s fingers curl around the back of Neuvillette’s head, urging him closer. “S’good,” he slurs, and Neuvillette purrs again, rolling his hips against the bed to alleviate the growing ache in his own cocks. But the more he rocks against the bed, the more slick pools in his vent, and the more slick that pools in his vent, the more he aches to be filled, to be fucked.

He leans back, running his fingers down the hard muscle and scar tissue, tracing the lines of Wriothesley’s body. When he reaches Wriothesley’s hardening cock, he lifts his gaze to meet Wriothesley’s own.

“Mate,” he murmurs. One finger touches the tip of Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley’s hips jerk beneath his own. “You’ll fill me up again, won’t you?” He is not particularly skilled at this kind of talk, but the words slip out of him anyway, borne on a current of ravenous hunger. “You’ll fill me with your cum to make it easier for me to give us our egg, yes?”

Wriothesley looks back at him with pupils so wide they darken his eyes. He swallows hard as he nods, his thumb rubbing in small circles against the back of Neuvillette’s head. “Yeah,” he says, his voice tight and rough. “Gimme some help, sweetness.”

“Anything for you.” Neuvillette’s finger draws down the vein that lines the underside of Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley groans. His head falls back, and he bows in a sinuous arch.

So handsome, so lovely. Wriothesley’s pleasure is an addicting thing, delightful to behold.

Neuvillette presses suckling, open-mouthed kisses to Wriothesley’s abdomen as he eases down the length of his body. His fingers curl loosely around Wriothesley’s cock, and he strokes slowly, steadily. Part of him wants to tease, but this afternoon is not for teasing.

Inside him, the egg shifts, settling lower in his belly, and Neuvillette moans, his breath gusting over Wriothesley’s skin. He suckles urgently at the jut of Wriothesley’s hip, grinding his own against the bed as his hand moves a little faster, a little harder over Wriothesley’s length.

And then he’s parting his lips over the tip of Wriothesley’s cock and licking up the precum beaded there. A slightly bitter, salty taste that is all Wriothesley, that is decadent and divine, bursts on his tongue.

Hunger churns in his belly. Desire twists inside him, his pleasure a current that washes over him and threatens to drag him into a sea of raw and aching need.

Wrapping his lips around the tip of Wriothesley’s cock, he suckles. Beneath him, Wriothesley shifts and groans. His hand curves around the back of Neuvillette’s head not to force him to take more but rather to cradle him, and Neuvillette hums around Wriothesley’s cock. That elicits a hungry, needy little sound from Wriothesley, and Neuvillette moans. He cannot help himself. Wriothesley is a demonstrative lover, but he is not always so free with the sounds he makes. Each one is a treasure, a sweet promise in these early evening hours.

Neuvillette laves Wriothesley’s length with his tongue, tasting salty skin before taking all of him into his mouth. Wriothesley slides to the back of his throat, filling him ever so well, and he aches at the thought of Wriothesley filling his vent, too. Soon, he promises himself as he hollows his cheeks and sucks, as he works Wriothesley from half hard to fully erect, as he devours with hungry sounds of his own.

An urgency rides him. As he works his hips against the bedsheets, smearing them with slick and precum, he knows that he needs Wriothesley inside him. But that doesn’t stop him from pulling Wriothesley to the back of his throat, earning a bitten off curse from his mate. That doesn’t stop him from working Wriothesley to the edge of orgasm over and over, until Wriothesley’s hips are moving in short, abbreviated thrusts that drive his cock deeper still.

“Fuck, sweetness,” he groans. “You keep that up, and I’m not going to be coming in your vent.”

Neuvillette growls, pulling his lips from Wriothesley’s cock. Saliva drips from his lips and his chin, a line of it dangling between them. “Only inside me,” Neuvillette says, voice low and rough, the words a sensual warning.

He pushes against the bed, levering himself up. He climbs over Wriothesley’s hips, and Wriothesley’s hands settle on his waist, urging him into a good position.

Beneath him, Wriothesley’s eyes are heavy-lidded and glazed with desire. His lips part, his chest works on labored breaths. “Look at you,” he breathes, rubbing his thumbs over Neuvillette’s hips. “Fuck, you’re so wet it’s dripping down your thighs.”

“For you,” Neuvillette croons, reaching for Wriothesley’s cock. He positions it at the entrance to his slick and soaked vent. With a quiet groan, throwing his head back, he sinks down, impaling himself. And, oh, but it’s good, it’s so good to feel Wriothesley stretch him, open him, carve into him and spread him wide.

“So fucking hot,” Wriothesley says, squeezing his waist. “You’re so fucking hot, so tight. Neuvillette—”

Neuvillette bears down, squeezing his muscles around Wriothesley’s cock, and Wriothesley sinks into the pillows with a groan.

A smile curving his lips, Neuvillette sets his palms against Wriothesley’s chest, and he moves. He can’t stay still, not when he needs, not when he craves. He works himself hard and fast against Wriothesley’s body. He feels the egg shifting inside him again, sinking lower, readying itself to be laid, and he moans. The pressure within him from the egg braids together with the pressure of Wriothesley’s cock, and both are such sweet revelations. This is how it’s supposed to be, how he should be with his mate: a cock deep inside him, an egg ripe and ready to be laid, his body well bred.

He reaches for one of Wriothesley’s hands, stroking along Wriothesley’s wrist before tangling their fingers. “Feel me,” he says, pressing that hand to his belly. “Feel our egg.”

Wriothesley presses his palm against the faint swell of Neuvillette’s belly, and they both moan, Wriothesley low and wicked and Neuvillette sharp and hungry. That pressure is exquisite, it cuts through him ever so sweetly, and he rocks harder onto Wriothesley’s cock as his own leak precum down their ridged lengths.

Without lifting his hand from Neuvillette’s belly, Wriothesley takes hold of Neuvillette’s cock in his other hand, and Neuvillette cries out. He fucks into the tight grasp of Wriothesley’s hand, driving himself forward to feel the sweet friction of his cocks against rough calluses, and then rocking back to drive Wriothesley’s cock deeper. And with every undulation of his hips, Wriothesley presses on his belly, urging the egg lower, pressing it into the right position, and the weight of it, oh, the weight of it leaves Neuvillette feeling so full, so good, and he comes with a broken cry.

Cum spills over Wriothesley’s hand as Neuvillette’s vent squeezes and ripples, Neuvillette crying out Wriothesley’s name. But he doesn’t stop moving, no; he takes more, takes whatever Wriothesley will give him, which is everything, it’s everything, until he comes again, and this time, Wriothesley finishes with him, his hands grasping onto Neuvillette’s hips. Wriothesley drives deep with a hoarse groan, and Neuvillette grinds himself down, keening as Wriothesley floods him with wet cum, filling him the way a good mate should.

Neuvillette pushes himself off Wriothesley’s body, and Wriothesley shifts beneath him, moving to his knees. He captures Neuvillette’s mouth in a hungry kiss, cradling his jaw in his hands.

“Let’s have that egg,” he says, and Neuvillette whines, high and thin.

He bears down, clutching at Wriothesley’s shoulders, feeling the egg spread him wide, and his tender muscles contract sharply. Another orgasm rips through him as the egg slips lower still, spreading his insides wide, making him groan as he sags into Wriothesley’s embrace.

“Come on, sweetness,” Wriothesley croons. “You can do it for me.” His lips brush against Neuvillette’s ear. He suckles on the sensitive, pointed tip, and though Neuvillette doesn’t come again, he seizes with pleasure.

The egg slides lower, filling his vent. Cum drips down his legs, onto the sheets, and Neuvillette moans. His claws sink into Wriothesley’s shoulders, and Wriothesley massages the small of his back.

“Keep going, sweetness. Come on, baby, you’ve got this, you can do it.”

Another push, and the egg slides free of his vent, but the pressure doesn’t abate. Neuvillette clings to Wriothesley, not letting him pull back.

“No,” he gasps, straining against Wriothesley as he feels something else move inside him. He groans, he shudders, his cocks are hard and aching despite how many times he’s come. Pressing his lips to Wriothesley’s ear, Neuvillette cries out with shock and wonder. “There’s—There’s another—”

Wriothesley goes still. “What—? Another egg?”

“Yes.”

Wriothesley pulls back, staring at Neuvillette, wild-eyed and shocked. “I—Okay. What do you need, sweetness? How can I help?”

Neuvillette sits back on his ankles, staring at the egg between them, barely seeing it. Pleasure burns inside him accompanied by an insistent pressure, and Neuvillette catches his cocks in his hand and strokes them hard. “This egg,” he gasps. “Move it to the cradle.”

Immediately, Wriothesley obeys. He takes the egg, still slick and hot from Neuvillette’s body, wraps it in a spare blanket like a good mate, and scrambles out of the bed.

Neuvillette jerks his cocks roughly, his fist moving hard and fast as he bends over himself and moans. He has no idea how large a clutch should be, has no idea if this is normal or not, but he cannot quite bring himself to care. No, his brain is too drunk on the pleasure, on the sweet, aching pressure of that egg settling low in his abdomen.

The bed shifts as Wriothesley climbs back onto it. He’s half hard again, and Neuvillette growls, a hunger rising within him. He doesn’t stop stroking himself, but he falls against Wriothesley’s chest once more as they both kneel on the bed. “Fuck me with your fingers,” he says.

Once more, Wriothesley obeys without question or hesitation.

Two fingers delve deep into Neuvillette’s vent, and they’re not as thick as Wriothesley’s cock, not as long. They don’t reach as deep or stretch him as wide, but they feel so very good.

Neuvillette sobs out a moan, thumbing the head of his cocks, smearing dribbling precum into his skin. He is slick with sweat and his own fluids, straining for his pleasure, hungry and desperate.

“Close,” he gasps.

Wriothesley keeps moving his fingers, keeps thrusting into him. But he does even more: he captures Neuvillette’s mouth in a savage, demanding kiss as he runs one hand down Neuvillette’s spine and over the curve of his ass. Fingers slip between the globes of Neuvillette’s ass, and two press against his hole.

With a cry, Neuvillette comes again. Cum spills onto his fist as his vent contracts, and he grasps Wriothesley’s hand to pull it free of his body as the egg slides low, fast and easy. It passes much more quickly than the first, easing out of him with a wet sound and a rush of slick, plopping safely onto the bed between his legs.

Neuvillette sags, exhaustion rushing over him all at once. He trembles, suddenly cold, and reaches for Wriothesley, who bundles him close.

“I’ve got you, sweetness,” Wriothesley says. He wraps one arm around Neuvillette’s shoulders and finds a heavy blanket from within the mess of the bed. This, he tucks around Neuvillette’s shoulders. Only then does he turn to the egg, reaching for it. His large hands smooth around it, lifting it from the bed, and Neuvillette stares at it, trembling still.

“Oh,” Neuvillette breathes, holding out his hands.

Wriothesley tucks the egg into Neuvillette’s arms, and it is warm against his chest, as much from his own residual body heat as its own, internal warmth. Neuvillette cradles the egg close, sagging against the headboard.

“The other?” he asks.

Wriothesley clambers out of their bed, going to the cradle. He returns a moment later with the other egg, still bundled in the blankets. “Want this one, too?” he asks.

Neuvillette nods, making an offering of the crook of his arm. Wriothesley tucks the egg into his hold, and Neuvillette lays there, simply staring down at the two eggs. One, a very pale cerulean speckled with white. The other, a rich navy like the depths of the ocean. They are smooth beneath his touch, their shells so fragile. Warmth and elemental power emanates from them; they pulse with Hydro.

They are a bit larger than he expected, near in size to a cantaloupe, but they are his and he loves them.

“Two,” he breathes.

“Two,” Wriothesley agrees, sitting beside him.

Tucking himself into the crook of Wriothesley’s arm, Neuvillette snuggles close. A softness falls over them, a new kind of intimacy. In the early evening light, they curl around their two eggs, and all is well. Neuvillette is, perhaps for the first time in his life, truly content. He is, he realizes, no longer alone. Oh, yes, he has had Wriothesley, and Wriothesley rescued him from loneliness, but he was still a solitary creature.

Now, he holds his eggs in his arms, and he is not the only creature in the world like himself. There are others.

He could weep, but he holds himself back. Instead, a lazy drizzle starts outside.

“Mm, is that you?” Wriothesley asks, somehow managing to sound just as tired as Neuvillette feels.

“It is for joy,” Neuvillette says. “I am no longer the only creature like me. In that way, I am no longer alone. It is… quite a bit to take in.”

Wriothesley murmurs wordlessly, softly. “Take as much time as you need, sweetness. We’ve got plenty.”

They don’t have plenty of time. They have, based on Neuvillette’s assumptions, perhaps four months of egg time. In those four months, they have to do a whole host of things, not the least of which is pick names, and Wriothesley doesn’t have enough time in the day to get to all the things they need to do.

He tries to enlist Sigewinne’s help for names, but the list she provides is…

“Aloysius,” he says, reading the first name on the list. He lowers it to stare at her.

She beams back at him. “It’s an old name. A strong name.”

“It sounds like what a Melusine thinks a human name should be. These poor kids are already going to have to deal with being mine and Neuvillette’s spawn. We need to give them names that aren’t…” He waves the list around, glancing at it and selecting another at random. “That aren’t Hortense. Hortense, Sigewinne, are you kidding?”

So, Sigewinne is not allowed to help with names, which means Wriothesley’s list remains empty.

On weekends, he and Neuvillette transform one of the guest rooms into a nursery. They paint the walls a pleasant, pastel periwinkle and decorate in shades of blue, and give up all pretense of hiding their activities. The gossip columns are rife with speculation that they plan to adopt (and so soon, the columns gush), and they make the conscious decision to stop reading most of the Steambird. Furniture is delivered directly to their house: a second crib; rocking chairs for their bedroom, the sitting room, and the nursery; a changing table, an armoire for the children’s clothes. They don’t know that they’ll need supplies for human children, but Neuvillette is relatively certain the children will be able to shift between a draconic and human form.

“The when is the concern,” he says over dinner, one month later. “If they remain as hatchlings, we will not be able to take them out of the house without considerable care.”

“I’d prefer not to have to chase a hatchling through the streets of the Court,” Wriothesley agrees.

A small smile curves Neuvillette’s lips. “At least the Melusines are willing to help us.”

“Sigewinne,” Wriothesley says as he stabs at a slice of chicken, “is not allowed to help us. She is a menace.”

Neuvillette gives him a look. “I remain baffled by your attitude toward Sigewinne. She is hardly a menace.”

“She wants us to name one of them Hortense,” Wriothesley reminds him.

“It is an option.” But from his tone, it is clear that Neuvillette doesn’t think it’s a viable option either. He laughs softly. “Have you come up with any suggestions of your own?”

Wriothesley grimaces. “Not yet. I just… I don’t want to mess this up, you know? They’re stuck with these names for the rest of their lives.”

“Are they?” Neuvillette asks. “You changed your name.”

“When I went to prison. I would prefer our children not end up in prison.” He makes a dismissive gesture. “But back to the more important topic: I know you love the Melusines, but they cannot help us with our hatchlings.”

“Whyever not?”

“Have any of them ever been around a hatchling before?”

“Have you?” Neuvillette asks mildly, wryly.

Wriothesley huffs. “Touché. But I’ve been around human babies.”

“So have many of the Melusines. They can help, Wriothesley, and the books all suggest that we should take what help is available to us.”

Wriothesley concedes that Neuvillette is right about that. “We can let them help, then,” he says reluctantly. “After the first month or so. Once we’re used to the hatchlings.” He exhales heavily. “We really should be ready with names. Do you have any in mind?”

“I had thought something simple,” Neuvillette replies. “Since we both suffer from complex names.” His lips curve. “Rose, for a girl. Liam, for a boy.”

Wriothesley makes a face. “There are three Roses and four Liams in Meropide,” he says.

Neuvillette lifts a brow. “You mean to restrict us based on how many people in Meropide bear the same name?”

“I don’t want to name our children after criminals.”

“Wriothesley, they are simply common names.”

“Our children are uncommon people.”

Neuvillette gives him another look.

Wriothesley rakes a hand through his hair. “I know, I know, I just want something that’s… right. You know? Maybe when they’re born—hatched—whatever—it’ll be immediately obvious what their names should be?”

“We are far more likely to choose foolishly if we choose impulsively.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’ll come up with a list and we can compare yours to mine. Maybe we both pick some of the same names.”

Much later that night, long after Neuvillette falls asleep, Wriothesley slips silently out of bed and goes to the crib where the eggs rest, bundled in blankets and warmed by heated bricks with Pyro marks.

They are small and fragile and so delicate. He hasn’t held them since they were laid, too afraid he’ll drop them and break them. Precious. They are precious.

Just looking at them makes his heart swell with affection, with love. He isn’t sure how it’s possible. A small part of him had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to love them at all, not so soon, not when they were still eggs, but he does. He’d do anything for them already.

But not name them, apparently.

“You’re already causing trouble,” he tells them in a whisper, looking from the pale egg, shining in the moonlight, to the dark shadow of one. “Making your papas fight about your names.” Tentatively, he reaches out. Runs his fingers over first one smooth shell and then the other.

“You,” he says to the pale egg. “You’re going to be the troublemaker, between the two of you. I have a sense for these things. You’re going to be the one who drives me crazy. I bet your sibling is quiet and calm, but you? You’ll be the menace.” He laughs. “Maybe we should name you Sigewinne.”

“No,” comes a soft murmur from the bed.

Wriothesley pushes away from the crib, padding over to Neuvillette’s side of the bed. Neuvillette sprawls across his pillow, arm thrown over his eyes.

“I’m sorry I woke you,” Wriothesley says.

Neuvillette drags his arm away from his face and offers Wriothesley a sleepy smile. “You did not.”

“Liar.”

“Yes.” Neuvillette reaches up, curving his hand around Wriothesley’s jaw. “I love you, but we are not naming either of them Sigewinne.”

Laughing, Wriothesley nuzzles into Neuvillette’s hand. “What about Allia?”

Neuvillette’s eyes narrow. “That is pretty, but I suspect there is more to it.”

“Allium cepa,” Wriothesley says with a smarmy grin. “They’re—”

“Absolutely not.”

“—onions.” Laughing, Wriothesley leans over and presses a kiss to the tip of Neuvillette’s nose. “Wouldn’t it be a wonderful reminder of our love, Neuvichou?”

“I will throw you out of this bedroom.”

And because Neuvillette is more than physically strong enough to do just that, Wriothesley, still laughing, relents. He clambers over Neuvillette and tucks himself back in bed, snuggling into Neuvillette’s side.

As sleep washes over them both, he says, “What about something to do with the stars for the one with the speckled shell?”

“Mm,” Neuvillette replies.

“Astra, Astrid, Estelle.” Wriothesley lays his head on Neuvillette’s shoulder.

“Mm.”

“I’ll workshop them,” Wriothesley says.

“Astrée,” Neuvillette suggests, the syllables slow and sleepy.

Wriothesley makes a thoughtful sound. “Astrée.” He tests the name on his tongue, stretching the syllables out. “I like that.” But Neuvillette, asleep again, offers no follow up.

Astrée, then, if one of the twins is a girl. Maybe they make it simple and change it to Astré if that twin is a boy. Perfect. Two down. Two more to go. At least they have plenty of time to come up with another.

But, of course, life gets in the way, and they are both incredibly busy as the days tick down. Neuvillette seems determined to prove the rumors wrong, that he will somehow be softer on crime since he married a criminal. That’s not to say that he is merciless with his convictions, no; he is simply more dedicated to getting his verdicts right. He works late in his office, long past the hour he should sleep.

“I will ensure justice,” he says, when Wriothesley checks in on him, “while also ensuring our nation is safer for our hatchlings.”

To that end, he manages to give Wriothesley two serial killers in the next week, and Wriothesley gives them over to Meropide. They’re dead a week later, Meropide dealing out its own kind of justice, and Wriothesley, as always, looks the other way. Those arrests do away with the worst of the rumors about Neuvillette, giving them peace as fall draws ever closer.

Neuvillette begins working from home in late September, some instinct demanding he remain close to the eggs as often as possible. Wriothesley does as much as he can from the townhome, too, but he can’t abandon Meropide entirely. Both he and Neuvillette understand that he must maintain a certain appearance.

There’s a bad fight in late September, Donatien challenging his position and authority. Donatien breaks Wriothesley’s nose. Wriothesley breaks Donatien’s face. The man doesn’t die, but he’s in bad shape—to the point where Wriothesley regrets pulling his punch at the last minute. The pain must be immense. But Wriothesley’s brutality cements his position as Administrator once more. At least for a while.

“Do you think the hatchlings will hate me?” Wriothesley asks Neuvillette one night.

Neuvillette cants his head to one side and stares at Wriothesley with a look that says Wriothesley is crazy.

With a laugh, Wriothesley shakes his head. “No, I mean it, Neuvillette. Do you think when they understand what it means to run Meropide, what it really means and the actions I have to take, that they’ll think less of me?”

That sobers Neuvillette. “Perhaps,” he says after a long moment of silence. “But Meropide is, under your control, a place for healing and second chances. It is not your fault or a shortcoming of yours that causes some inmates to misunderstand that. We will ensure the hatchlings learn that as they age.”

“Thank you,” he says, and then he bends over Neuvillette, whispering his given name against his lips, and they fall into each other, and, perhaps, a little deeper into love.

October comes with a cold wind from the northeast, bringing with it a dusting of snow. Neuvillette rarely leaves the townhome, and Wriothesley does his best to stay close, just in case. There’s no way he’s missing the hatching of his kids. The anticipation keeps him up, some nights. On those nights, he lays in bed and stares at the ceiling with a soft smile on his face and an eagerness thrumming in his bones.

Soon, he tells himself. Soon, he’ll get to meet them, be they dragon or human. He hasn’t even met them, and already his heart swells with joy, with love. He can’t wait.

And then, one evening in early October, as he and Neuvillette brush their teeth in the bathroom, Neuvillette goes still.

“Sweetness?” Wriothesley asks.

Neuvillette doesn’t respond. He all but throws himself out of the bathroom, transforming into that beautiful, streamlined draconic form.

Tossing his toothbrush aside, Wriothesley hurries out of the bathroom after him.

Neuvillette crouches by the crib, trilling urgently, and Wriothesley joins him, padding over on bare feet. In this form, Neuvillette fills the bedroom, a looming presence. He shuffles uncertainly from one foot to another, his trilling becoming increasingly insistent.

“Hey,” Wriothesley says. “It’s—”

The pale, cerulean egg shakes in its cocoon of blankets.

Wriothesley freezes. “Oh. Oh, shit.” If he were a dragon, yeah, he’d be making that same, urgent noise. Instead, his heart just pounds in his chest, so hard and so fast he thinks it might break his ribcage. He feels a little lightheaded, and he braces himself against Neuvillette’s foreleg, shaking. “What do we do?” he asks, glancing at Neuvillette.

Neuvillette leans over the crib, ducking his nose until it almost touches the egg. “Nothing,” he says. “They must break free on their own.”

There comes a quiet, muffled tap from inside the egg, and it shakes again, wobbling to one side.

“The blankets,” Wriothesley and Neuvillette say at the same time.

“You must deal with them,” Neuvillette says, and Wriothesley does. He lifts the cerulean egg from the nest of blankets, clearing the crib of everything but the fitted sheet across the mattress. He removes the navy egg from its nest, too, laying them both side by side on the mattress.

They’re both shaking, but the cerulean one with far more vigor.

Breathless, he watches, leaning against Neuvillette’s foreleg. Neuvillette warbles and then trills. It sounds like encouragement. Wriothesley finds himself leaning over the crib, too, offering encouragement of his own, urging the little hatchling on.

A hole breaks in the shell of the egg. A single, silvery claw hooks in that hole, tearing it larger.

Wriothesley’s heart gallops in his chest.

A little, cerulean snout pushes against the egg’s shell. A tiny, azure tongue licks the air.

Wriothesley grabs at Neuvillette’s foreleg. “That’s—”

Neuvillette trumpets quietly, rocking back and forth.

Slowly, painfully slowly, the hatchling works the shell open. The egg rocks, shaking as the hatchling yowls with annoyance.

Neuvillette chuffs. “They are close,” he says.

Wriothesley is beside himself, practically vibrating with excitement. He hates that they can’t do anything—hates that he can’t do anything—so he rocks back and forth in time with the egg until, finally, two back feet kick out the bottom of the egg. A long, cerulean tail lashes at the air, and the hatchling wriggles backwards, emerging from the confines of their egg to blink silvery white eyes up at Wriothesley and Neuvillette. Rhinophores of pale blue, so light as to be white, curl back from their face, and they are as svelte and delicate as their father.

“A girl,” Neuvillette says before ducking his head to nose against her.

She trills with excitement, rolling onto her back and scrabbling at the air, much to Wriothesley’s amusement.

“Oh,” he says, and he bends down to grab one of the discarded blankets. Picking it up, he leans over the crib and rubs it over her wet, sticky body. “We will need to give you a bath, missy,” he says, wriggling her against the crib with his hand on her belly.

She hisses.

Eyes going wide, he glances at Neuvillette. “She… can’t understand us yet, can she?”

“No,” Neuvillette says as she sinks her little claws into Wriothesley’s arm. It stings, yes, but she chortles, and the sound is so fucking precious that he can’t possibly be mad. “This,” Neuvillette adds, “is Astrée, is she not?”

A smile curves Wriothesley’s lips. “Yeah. Yeah, Astrée. Hey, Astrée.” He tickles her belly.

Her claws prick deeper into his arm and she makes a shrill sound of absolute delight.

Carefully, Wriothesley scoops her up. He cradles her against his bare chest, still rubbing her with the blanket, and she lays in his arms with her paws in the air, much like a small dog that isn’t quite sure what’s happening.

She sneezes—and then grabs her tail, putting it in her mouth. She chomps down, allows herself a moment of comical surprise, and then yowls angrily.

“Oh,” Wriothesley breathes. “Oh, I was right about you. You’re going to be awful. I love you. You’re perfect.” He looks up at Neuvillette. “Neuvillette, she’s perfect.”

Neuvillette bends over them both, licking against Astrée’s muzzle. “She is perfect in every way.”

The little hatchling yawns, going slack in Wriothesley’s arms. She wriggles deeper into his hold, and his brain finally catches up to what’s happening. “I’m holding her,” he says, wonderous. “I’m—I’m holding our hatchling.”

“You are doing a very good job of it,” Neuvillette says, reassuring, tender. “Are you comfortable?”

Wriothesley almost says no. But he’s been doing fine so far, and she’s warm and soft for all her scales, and she’s looking up at him with the most adoring silvery eyes, and he thinks he’s never going to be able to put her down. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’m good.” He looks up. “What about the other one?”

They all peer into the crib.

Aside from that first sign of life, that gentle shaking earlier, the navy egg remains still. They stand around it for a few minutes longer before Neuvillette dips his nose into the crib to nudge it. “Let us take this one to the bed,” he says.

So Wriothesley, who has avoided holding the eggs at all, carefully works the navy one into his arms without disturbing a gently snoring Astrée. The four of them ease into the bed, and Neuvillette builds up a protective wall of blankets and pillows around themselves and the egg.

Astrée makes herself comfortable between Wriothesley and Neuvillette’s massive form, turning in a few circles much like a tired puppy before plonking down and promptly falling back asleep.

“What happens if they don’t hatch?” Wriothesley asks.

Neuvillette is silent for a moment. “They will,” he says softly, insistently. “They will.”

They wait. Minutes turn to hours, and then they, too, are dozing, just like Astrée. Wriothesley falls asleep against Neuvillette’s side, jerking awake every thirty minutes or so to find the navy egg in the same, unmoving state.

But a gentle tap-tap-tap wakes him shortly after three in the morning, and Wriothesley opens his eyes to find Neuvillette gazing fixedly at the egg. Astrée, too, is awake, and she prowls around the egg making curious, warbling sounds.

“Should we let her?” Wriothesley asks.

“She is not interfering. It is fine for now,” Neuvillette says.

The light from the lamps they didn’t turn off before falling asleep illuminate the strained tableau: one dragon curled around his fledgling family, another sniffing curiously at a possible new addition, and a human man watching everything unfold with uncertainty and a heart beating a nervous, staccato rhythm.

They watch for what feels like another hour but is probably only ten minutes as the egg shakes and shudders. Finally, a claw pokes through the shell. Pulls down. Tears a strip in the side of the egg.

Wriothesley and Neuvillette both exhale a sigh of relief, almost in tandem, and Astrée trumpets with excitement. She hops around the egg, warbling and trilling, until Neuvillette catches her with his mouth and sets her beside Wriothesley.

When she makes to return to her circling, Wriothesley wraps an arm around her middle. She protests with a grumble, kicking at him, and he realizes he’s going to have scratches all over his arms for the next few years. He’s alright with that. He doesn’t need more scars, but marks from his daughter? Sure. That’s more than okay.

Cradling her close, he waits with Neuvillette as the second hatchling slowly tears their way out of the egg. They, like Astrée, are the same color as their shell: all dark, dark navy, but their rhinophores are snow white. They emerge from their shell slowly, swinging their head around as though confused by the situation they’ve found themself in.

They offer a soft warble, and Neuvillette dips his head to run his tongue down the length of their sticky body. “Another daughter,” he says.

“Fuck me,” Wriothesley says. It’s a stupid thing to say, especially because he had no expectations about gender—and who knows, one or both girls could change their minds in the future—but the idea of two girls is, frankly, terrifying. He has no idea how to relate to girls. “Fuck. We don’t have a name for her. We—”

“Aurore,” Neuvillette offers, nuzzling beneath her belly. She flops onto his muzzle, watching Wriothesley with wide, blue eyes, like the clearest sky. “Astrée and Aurore.”

Astrée makes a shrill sound, and Wriothesley releases her.

She pounces on Aurore, who rolls them away from Neuvillette’s nose and through the shattered remains of her shell.

“Aurore,” Wriothesley says. “Yeah. That’s perfect. They’re both so perfect.”

“They are,” Neuvillette agrees. “You are.”

Wriothesley chokes on a laugh, scrubbing at his eyes. But, hey, if there was ever a time to cry, he supposes it’s when your kids are born. Hatch. Whatever. “Fuck,” he says. “Fuck, I’m just—I’m so happy.”

The hatchlings roll across the bed, yowling at each other.

Neuvillette transforms back into his human form, and he touches Wriothesley’s jaw, bringing their lips together for a slow, tender kiss. “When we are old and tired and the days are long, let us remember this feeling,” he says. “This moment of perfection that will guide us for the rest of our days.”

Wriothesley grabs Astrée by her neck before she can roll herself and her sister off the bed, but he doesn’t turn away from Neuvillette. “I’m going to give you so many onions.”

Neuvillette laughs, warm and bright and full of love. “And with you, my beloved, I will share eternity.”