Chapter Text
The human body is resilient in a way that is incomprehensible, but even as Wriothesley's mind slowly resettles within its proper place, his limbs are like jelly.
Neuvillette, after fussing for a bit and making sure that Wriothesley wouldn't drown while he's gone, had left Wriothesley to soak for a bit longer while he changes the sheets and fetches some towels. Wriothesley can hear him through the slightly open door of the bathroom, puttering about, but even if he hadn't, he could still perceive Neuvillette in way that is just inexplicable.
If he is to attempt an explanation, then it must be like knowing someone is in the same vicinity as him. Like being at home and knowing that Neuvillette is in the study or the kitchen while he himself is in the bedroom. Or being in the Palais and knowing that Neuvillette is in his office, long before he even asks Sedene. Or being in Meropide, measuring the shadows on the walls to know who's at his back.
But it's not wholly based on vicinity either.
He knows, if Neuvillette is halfway across Fontaine, Wriothesley would still be able to tell where he is and what he is doing. It is an innate feeling of surety that surprises even him.
He plays around with it like a rope or a ball, its shape and definition indistinguishable to the sober mind, and he feels a responding tug from the other side—from Neuvillette. Gratitude, relief. Happiness, that Wriothesley is coherent once more.
The door swings open all the way, and Neuvillette walks in with a stack of towels. He wears a towel around his waist, his hair and skin still damp, wanting to tend to Wriothesley first before he got dressed to go to work, or perhaps wanting to settle back in his human form before dressing in his court attire. His rhinophores are back to the same length as before, and the scales are, once again, more transparent than not. His limbs are human-lengthed and his scleras white again, but the air about him still holds a bit of mysticism and wildness. It adjusts itself with each passing second, reminding Wriothesley that it is time to fully re-emerge in the waking world of politics and administration.
He attempts to rise—attempts, being the key word.
His hands brace against the rim of the tub, but they are strengthless. It seems that no matter how much force he exerts, he can barely move.
It isn't until he leans forward to use his legs that he rises somewhat, but his knees shake like a newborn fawn's, and—
SPLASH!
He slips, but an arm curls around his waist, and he's suspended midfall. Neuvillette had been there in a flash, looming over him with his hair puffed up like that of a cat's, and his pupils narrowed. He's so beautiful, captivating Wriothesley every second of every damn day—
Which is why he knows that the heart-pounding alarm that takes over him is not his own.
Neuvillette's concern is palpable, and a flurry of thoughts come flowing in—
He slipped. I went too hard. I can't heal him. The essence is not enough. I need to give more. But I can't. How much is too much? Better be safe than sorry. But what's safe and what is sorry? How do I—
"My hero," he says, interrupting Neuvillette's disastrous train of thought. His voice is a wheezy thing, breaking in between words, but it shakes Neuvillette out of his funk.
"Please rely on me, Wriothesley," Neuvillette says, showing none of his thoughts on the surface. But underneath it all is a torrent of he could have gotten hurt, what if I had not been there, I did this—
"Alright."
Wriothesley is clumsy with it, but he sends over a thought of reassurance, agreement, and an apology wrapped up in one. His own wellbeing is not something Neuvillette should babysit him for. Before, it would’ve been easy to tell the Iudex that Wriothesley can take care of himself. That he is a grown man, and he isn’t fragile.
But love is warm, and concern is sweet. Wriothesley knows, accepting love and concern is also a show of love on his end. A two-way street.
He relaxes in Neuvillette’s hold, and the tense set of Neuvillette's shoulders also relax. In the next moment, Neuvillette scoops him up by the knees before bundling him in thick swaths of clean towels, fresh and warm with a faint floral fragrance.
His eyes drift shut as Neuvillette pats him dry with another towel, tenderly around the scars along his neck, and firmly on his arms, legs, and torso. When it came to his lower half, he squirms.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, just..." His ass feels strange, like something is lodged in between his cheeks, even when there’s nothing there. “I think you fucked me so hard you literally left the shape of you inside of me.”
Neuvillette feels so proud of himself that Wriothesley can't help but laugh. The embarrassment sets in for the Iudex then, and Wriothesley does him a courtesy of thinking about work instead.
Business as usual.
Or at least, questions as to how business will proceed.
With his voice efficiently out of commission, his limbs weaker than a newborn fawn's, and the scars that can't be covered by his wraps, there's no way Wriothesley will be able to return to the Fortress. Meropide doesn't need his round-the-clock supervision, but it still needs him, and he knows there's a stack of invoices that are due soon. he will need to audit and sign them before the end of the week if he wants the funds readily available for his next project.
Logistics and paperwork plans fly through his mindscape, and Neuvillette sends a mental nudge.
"You're leaking, mon trésor," Neuvillette says with a kiss.
Wriothesley's lower half twitches—it's dry—he's been dried very thoroughly as he's brought out of the bathroom, but he's reminded that he's gaping. It's a discomfort, an ache and a hunger, but it only serves as another fire that sparks wildly out of control, evoking memories of their night together—
"I meant your thoughts," Neuvillette coughs lightly.
"Way to make a man's imagination go wild," Wriothesley sighs, forcing himself to pull away as he's set on the freshly made bed. "But I might have to trouble you to send a message to Sigewinne. I don't think I can..."
He gestures to himself.
"Yes, I can see that...but you're reluctant to stay here," Neuvillette says, parsing through the connection between them as he moves to the wardrobe. He pulls out a shirt, sliding his arms through and shrugging it over his shoulders before fishing his hair and rhinophores out of it.
"Mm. I'll drive myself mad staying at home all day." The sight of Neuvillette's backside is already driving him mad though. The towel drops, and he gets a full view of those lusciously long legs, soft, unscaled skin at the back of the knees and—
"I may have a solution."
"Oh? Do tell."
"My powers have a sort of healing property, as all hydro has the potential for. But it is...unconventional."
The tips of Neuvillette's ears blush, but Wriothesley barely has any time to enjoy it before he sees it in his mind's eye—bright blue orbs filled with a water so ancient, it contains life essence as its core. It is not unlike the primordial seas, save for its color, which is an azure blue, twined with bright strands of life-giving light at its center. Inherent knowledge comes to Wriothesley: this is a water that can be absorbed by dragon-kind for convalescence. A shell protects the water within, but will give way upon a dragon's call or touch, not unlike a permeable barrier.
However, for humans, it's a different matter.
For humans, the shell of the Sourcewater Droplet is just that: a shell. There is no call, summons, or touch that can give humans access to this water, and should the shell be punctured, the water will revert to ordinary water, unless...
"I already have your essence inside of me," Wriothesley says. "The Sourcewaters...they'll dissolve when the essence comes in contact with them, right?"
"They need only be in close proximity, and the Sourcewater will slowly be absorbed by you," Neuvillette confirms.
"What's the difference between the two anyway?"
Neuvillette is at a loss on the answer, but Wriothesley is getting used to their bond, and it's easy to read what the dragon cannot articulate. There's nothing stopping Wriothesley either. The door is left wide open, and Neuvillette clearly has no intention of closing it, so Wriothesley saunters in like he owns the place, skipping past unrelated topics, and digs up the answer.
A smirk crawls up his lips.
"Ahh...I see. Not much difference except for the fact that one is just because you want to fuck me?"
"Wriothesley."
His name is called with such exasperation that he can't help but burst into a wheezing laugh, and like a ripple in the lake, he finds a memory from last night, when both of them had been out of their minds, but Neuvillette's draconic instincts had a very specific thought:
"Oh, and what's this about eggs and a brood? My first thought was to eat the Sourcewater, but it seems you have another idea?"
The reason as to why Neuvillette had flushed so deeply to begin with had been the idea to lay the Sourcewaters into Wriothesley as if they were eggs, as his mindless instincts demanded, so that 'his shape' could indeed be carved deep into Wriothesley. The Sourcewaters would not be big, no more than four or five centimeters in diameter, and Wriothesley would not need many, but the idea of having them occupy Wriothesley's insides, the idea of having Wriothesley carry them—
"I dare say that you make a man's imagination run wild," Neuvillette returns, using Wriothesley's own words against him.
Wriothesley suppresses another laugh, knowing that he would choke on it with how dry his throat is, but a few chuckles still slip out.
"Well I'm not against it. Egg me up. I'll carry your brood," he says, delighted at the immediate response of arousal blazing through their connection.
At some point, Neuvillette had finished putting on his spats and vest. Save for the Iudex's coat and gloves, he is about ready to leave and face the public, while Wriothesley is still in nothing but a towel. When he turns to Wriothesley, he is impeccably human, until he moves forward in two long, stalking strides like he is on a hunt. Wriothesley leans back just by a degree, and that's a mistake, because Neuvillette pounces, slamming Wriothesley flat against his back.
"You lack a single iota of self-preservation," Neuvillette says brusquely.
He doesn't give Wriothesley a chance to defend himself, and even if Wriothesley does have the chance, there's nothing to defend.
He is indeed, a man without self-preservation—but only when it comes to Neuvillette. In other instances, he is a man of great calculation.
He would insist on the distinction, but Neuvillette kisses him while sending a disagreement across the bond, and he lets the dragon win.
He loses all interest in anything but the lips on his, the tongue that slides across the seam of his mouth, and the hand that palms the underside of his thigh. In fact, he counts it as a win when he opens his mouth, and their kiss deepens.
Something in the back of his mind clicks like a puzzle piece, and he's whining into it, nearly oblivious to the way Neuvillette grabs the back of his knee, raising his leg until his swollen, gaping entrance is exposed.
He keeps his legs spread even when Neuvillette doesn't hold it up any more, feeling the towel around his waist loosen, but still covering his cock in a show of faux-modesty.
It twitches underneath the towel, excited, even when it shouldn't be. Wriothesley knows he has nothing more to give in that sense. The bath had wrung out the last of his cum out of him, of that he is sure.
His body doesn't give a fuck though.
Neuvillette's questing fingers finds out exactly how loose he is, and the feelings that the dragon has on the matter is enough to get Wriothesley going again.
After all, he's so loose, so open, it just means there's more room for eggs. A bigger brood.
A better breeding.
Even without copious amounts of lubrication, Neuvillette can fit three fingers in without strain. He feels the initial recoil of Wriothesley's oversensitive nerves, the way the passage squeezes down by automatic response, and the effort Wriothesley goes to relax into the touch, only for the muscles to clench down even harder.
It's a matter of self-control on Neuvillette's part to resist fucking his willing mate again when he feels that velvety warmth cling to his fingers like a needy lover. He rubs the walls obsessively, destroying Wriothesley's efforts with his ministrations, almost jealous of the Sourcewaters that will get to spend the whole day there, but he reins it in. Now is not the time to indulge. He had done that last night, and will have the chance to do it some other night.
For now, he calls upon his powers and pulls out his fingers, forming a small orb of Sourcewater right between the tips of his fingers and the swollen entrance before pushing it in.
Wriothesley's hole swallows it greedily, prompting Neuvillette to form a second one in quick succession. That one too, is swallowed without much fanfare.
Wriothesley feels them slide in, cool to his feverish body, weight-laden with a density too heavy to be water, and a shell yet to be softened by essence, not unlike a glass marble.
His body welcomes them greedily for the relief they provide, and perhaps it's the placebo effect, but he feels better already, if not from the cool-compress-like effect, then from having the empty, hollow feeling within him filled.
Another Sourcewater is formed, and it barely takes any pressure at all before it joins its brethren, but the fourth is met with a mild resistance. Neuvillette doesn't push it in, he only rolls it between the crack of Wriothesley's ass until he bears down, and his rim flares to accept it.
It shoots in unexpectedly, shoving the other three orbs deep into Wriothesley, and they all squeeze past his prostate—once, twice, thrice—
"MGH!!"
Wriothesley shouts into the unbroken kiss, jaws clenching and back arching from the fiery flash of pleasure-edging-on-pain. Neuvillette grunts as he's nearly thrown off and his tongue is bitten, their kiss seasoned with the taste of blood.
The apology comes through the bond before it can be said, but Neuvillette answers it with soothing touches along Wriothesley's torso and thighs, a chaste press of his lips, and gentle whispers of reassurance.
"It's alright, that was beautiful. You did so well..."
Wriothesley mentally thinks about how childish he feels when his eyes start to burn just the slightest bit. He's certain that his spirit is still raw from being taken apart and removed from his body. That must be why the words make him want to cry.
The only thing holding the tears at bay is the raging storm of lust that he can sense from Neuvillette.
Oh how Neuvillette wishes he could just strip and spend the rest of the day ravaging Wriothesley. Even if he doesn't exacerbate his partner's condition, aren't there many other ways to pleasure him? He could curl around his human, laying claim bites all over his neck and shoulders, healing them before biting again. He could treat that heaving chest with more than just bites—he could tease them to fullness, make them swell until they could barely be hidden by the thick padding of his warden uniform.
He satisfies himself with another Sourcewater orb to push into his mate, and Wriothesley's hips, helplessly thrusting up and away from the pressure.
"Maybe I should get some work done so we can have you lock me away for a weekend, hm?" Wriothesley croaks. His voice sounds strange now, like it is not his own, but the dragon chirrs at it, loving the way the words come out like a broken purr.
Four should be enough. Four is definitely enough, when Neuvillette usually only needs three himself to fully rejuvenate in the midst of the most harrowing battles.
"Perhaps. Shall we clear it for this upcoming weekend?"
A fifth goes in—
"Eageh—r...! ...are we...?"
Wriothesley bites his lip, words falling apart as the fifth one fills him in a way that is more—it makes him feel just a bit bloated, like he had eaten a full meal after a long time without. Neuvillette's desire to see him full and round is something that he is explicitly aware of, but the dragon himself is oblivious to.
He doesn't know why he keeps shoving more Sourcewater orbs than necessary into Wriothesley, he's just so glad that Wriothesley is bonded to him, so happy to have Wriothesley in his arms.
"To spend time with you, always."
Wriothesley sighs, not-so-secretly wanting as well.
"We'll see."
At least, that's what he says, but he's already plotting what work to finish and what work to delegate.
They share another kiss as Wriothesley's body winds down, but as he sits up, he feels the Sourcewater orbs shift—not quite moving, but clearly sinking back down towards his entrance.
"I don't think I'll be able to keep them in all day," he admits, especially not with one lodged directly next to his prostate, and all of them dancing along his passage like a merry little party.
Neuvillette's eyes darken a shade, as if he hadn't already been lost to Wriothesley's charm.
"Allow me."
His hand snakes beneath the towel and nudges Wriothesley's balls aside to press against his hole. A mild wetness coats the area, before thickening with a defined shape and burrowing into Wriothesley like—a plug—or at least, it had been a plug before it lengthened, curling around the orbs in a way to secure them, and taking the form of a tentacle.
Not as long or thick as the one last night, but obstructive enough that no involuntary reaction would push any of the Sourcewater orbs out.
Wriothesley tests it with a sly smirk, leaning back down onto the bed and undulating his body as a delightful bubble of warmth in his gut and in his chest pops at the way Neuvillette stares, pupils dagger sharp with an ardent longing. The orbs inside of him remain where they are, staunchly avoiding his prostate, but who needs a physical stimulant when thoughts are enough?
Lovely. Strong. Thick, sturdy limbs, muscled and plenty to hold, soft along the tapered waist, the area below his stomach giving a slight curve of the Sourcewater orbs, neck to knees gorgeously marked in every which way, from scars to element—Neuvillette's thoughts spill like water in a sieve, igniting a fire in Wriothesley that is all embarrassment and love and madness.
Neuvillette leans over him, pressing their foreheads together and letting out a torturous breath of air through his nose—had he been a creature of Pyro, surely there would be steam blowing out.
"Love, you—I cannot—"
They can't do this. They're already late.
Neuvillette is already so, so late.
He must have missed at least one scheduled meeting. For the life of him, he cannot remember who it would be with or what it would be about, not when Wriothesley is here, not when his treasure is tempting him back into their clean nest, ready to be ruined all over again. Look at him, look at his sturdy, wanton body. Look at the way his eyes glimmer up at Neuvillette, like gold and sapphire, the way his skin shines blue with Hydro, look at him, look at him—
Wriothesley can feel it all accumulate like a tidal wave, and honestly, how could he be flustered when all he can think about is Neuvillette, the curtain of hair that falls and hides them from the world, the eyes that look at him like he is Neuvillette's world, the beautiful inhumanity of a God, looking at him like he's worth something—and he needs, oh by Leviathan's grace he needs—
They, need—
They can't breathe, they thirst, and such deprivation can only be quenched with a kiss. Or two, or three, or ten. Or wandering hands, tugging at a blouse sleeve until it threatens to tear at the seam, tussling with a towel until the knot unravels, fingers threading through hair, short and long alike, nails, blunt and sharp, scraping across scalps, the slot of their bodies, so perfectly aligned, him within him, and him within him, blood within water and water within blood—
Tak tak tak!
The sharp rap of fists against the door downstairs shocks them both out of it.
Neuvillette jackknifes up and away, panting when he hadn't even realized that he had been lacking air. He runs a hand through his hair, and a quick glance at the vanity tells him how messed up it is. Strands stick out, crimped and full of static. He will need at least a minute to brush it through, to hide the worst of his dishevelment.
Tak tak tak!
A minute that he doesn't have.
Wriothesley, however, is already on the move. He stumbles out of bed, puts on some pants, and shucks on a shirt, buttoning it as he heads downstairs. The tetacle does its job—every step is supposed to jostle the orbs inside of him, but they feel like they're a part of him, and barely cause any undue stimulation.
His legs, while still weak, do not buckle, and he finds that these Sourcewaters are really just that amazing.
Right before the door, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times, the shortness of it making it easy to retain the usual style, and a quick rub at his eyes ensure that there's no tear tracks or marks whatsoever.
A quick peek through the peephole shows Sedene, foot tapping on the stoop.
He swings the door open, and feels Neuvillette upstairs hurrying to brush his hair, tie the tail end of it, and don his Iudex robes.
"Sedene! If it isn't one of my favorite Melusines. Come in—"
"I'd rather not," she says primly, eyeing him up and down before nodding, as if confirming her initial choice. "I am just here to inform you that Monsieur's meetings for the first half of the day have been moved to next weekend due to his inability to attend them this morning. Should the afternoon meetings requiring postponing as well, please send a message by lunch. Good day."
She leaves before he can get another word in, and skips away.
She knows.
Wriothesley knows that she knows.
On one hand is the mortification of being known, but on the other hand is the pride of claiming—
No, that's Neuvillette's thoughts on the matter. Wriothesley is just mortified.
The Melusines are like children—
—who have seen the worst of crime scenes—
—but he knows them personally—
—they do not care—
—but he does!
Arms wrap around Wriothesley's waist, and Neuvillette noses the crook of his neck with a gentle kiss.
He hadn’t even noticed when Neuvillette had come down.
"Fret not. They will not see you any differently."
"That's not—" Wriothesley laughs incredulously, ready to deny it because Neuvillette's first supposition has always been off the mark, but this time, he nails it right on the head. There's little doubt as to why. "I guess my sensibilities are just too human."
If they know, they know. It’s not like Melusines go to the tabloids. If anything, they’ll just giggle to each other about it.
"Your worries are no less valid just because they are different. Although I must also admit a bit of fault in influencing your feelings."
Wriothesley, secretive though he may be, is not one to panic when something is revealed. That anxiety stems from Neuvillette, who is constantly questioning. Constantly at war with himself. Even now, the need to return to the Palais is a boiling pit of lava. In this way, Neuvillette truly embodies the ocean—calm on the surface, but chaotic down below. He is a man—a dragon—with the nation on his shoulders. Wriothesley can understand that.
Thankfully, he himself only leads a little fortress. Compared to Fontaine and all its governance, Wriothesley has it easy.
"Is it going to be like this all day?" Wriothesley asks. He worries though, that it would influence his work—the overthinking is not conductive to being Meropide's administrator. He needs to be quick on his feet and quicker in devising solutions, should unsavory situations arise. A split second is enough to be life and death down in the Fortress.
"Distance should stem most of it," Neuvillette says.
"Mm...then if we want to get anywhere, we better start on that distance," Wriothesley returns.
But he stays in Neuvillette's arms, and Neuvillette doesn't let go.
It's a problem.
It takes a dozen of repeated back and forths, of kisses disguised as the last, deceitfully decadent before the bittersweet parting, only for it to be the second to last, third to last—until one of them thought this is ridiculous, and fond as the tone might have been, the other agreed, cementing their determination to part.
Neuvillette summons his cane, takes one last look in the mirror, before standing at the door awkwardly—he wants to turn around and see Wriothesley. He wants a kiss goodbye—but they had already six goodbye-kisses, and Wriothesley wants to laugh and cry at the same time.
Go, he thinks, and the door opens.
And then Neuvillette is gone.
Wriothesley feels his chest hollow, but suddenly, the hollowness becomes an opening—a window. The curtain is pulled apart, and he sees Neuvillette, stopped just outside their house.
Well, it isn’t quite “seeing” as it is “being.”
He sees what Neuvillette sees, hears what Neuvillette hears, and feels what Neuvillette feels.
There is a sense of “being Neuvillette” because of how in-depth this perception is, but the frame of the window keeps him singular, creating a much needed separation.
Monsieur, is everything alright? — Yes, yes thank you for your concern. — Goodness, I usually don’t see you out this late! — I was merely attending personal business. — Oh yes, personal life is important. I would drop everything for the Melusines if they asked! Unless…it’s not a Melusine? Oh, pardon, I don’t mean to pry.
Neuvillette doesn't want to come off as standoffish or dismissive, even as his mind is drifting towards the Palais, but a few more minutes entertaining an old woman is nothing. Wriothesley sees that she's a gardener, and finds her flowers charming. The violet of their petals remind him of Neuvillette's lilac eyes, two shades off, but of the same hue.
It’s alright, Madame. Your Lumidouce Bells are lovely, by the way. — Why thank you! My granddaughter had given me a new fertilizer, from Inazuma if you would believe it! She said it would make my flowers grow so plentiful...now I don't know about quantity, but I can vouch for its quality; works wonders; but look at me, keeping you from your duties. You must be late already! — It is a refreshing start to my day. But you are quite correct that I am…late. Good day Madame. — Haha! A good day to you as well, Monsieur!
Wriothesley pulls the mental curtains down, but the window remains, nestling beside his heart with the scent of Lumidouce flowers in his nostrils.
The sun and moon never graced Meropide to begin with. From work to rest, the same amber lights shine on the same bronze walls.
The only indication of hour would be the buzzers and announcement systems, but Wriothesley ignores those for the most part unless one of his guards summons him for something they can’t handle.
The nighttime buzzer just means the beginning of quiet hours, and paperwork is easily done during this time, when the inmates are asleep or too tired to cause trouble, and he isn’t bothered by the churn of machinery or the reports of inmate conflict.
He should’ve noticed that he hadn’t felt hungry for lunch, and subsequently, dinner, but such occasions aren’t rare either. Wolsey would have someone deliver his meals to him, and when the mood strikes, he would dig in as he continued his work.
But two meals sit beside him, untouched and cold.
When had he lost track of time?
The paperwork is completed, and he has even started on the preparation for next week, but he had only thought he had been on a roll, encouraged by the thought of a weekend with Neuvillette.
He stretches, but his back doesn’t pop, and there’s a faint, psychological disappointment before he realizes—it doesn’t ache.
There's a knock down at the door of his office, and he takes a look at the clock.
It's late. So late that it must be Sigewinne coming up to check on him. The Head Nurse has a plethora of responsibilities, but even so, she is always looking out for him, especially on late nights where she is sure he is drinking tea by the pots.
"Come in."
The guards open the door for Sigewinne, and he hears her tipping tapping footsteps ascend the stairs.
"Your Grace, I heard that you are pulling another late-night again, and right after returning from Monsieur Neu—"
The minute she gets to the top and her eyes land on him, she freezes. He smiles sheepishly under her gaze, which are sharply judging. He hadn't had any tea today, and he hadn't had any cravings for it, but that means he hadn't been hydrating either. He's just not very thirsty, but she's sure to scold him for that.
"Head Nurse, what a pleasant surprise."
"It's a surprise indeed," she says, skipping over and placing the accursed milkshake on his desk. She rounds the table and comes up right next to him though, looking at him contemplatively. "Your scar is gone."
What?
"What?"
There are no mirrors here, but she points at the reflective surface of her milkshake glass, and he sees his own face in the distorted reflection—the scar under his eye...it really is gone.
What had once been a deep gouge into his cheekbone is now nothing but smooth skin.