Chapter Text
The view reflects how he feels inside: from the hill he's standing on, the typically bright Opera Epiclese is bathed in darkness, illuminated only by the occasional strike of lightning. Angry thunder roars in the sky, and it sounds like his soul crying out.
The only relief he has comes from closing his eyes and simply enjoying the weight of each cold raindrop hitting his body, relishing in the way they quench the infernal heatwaves that slither right under his skin, causing the scales in his hands to flutter and rattle behind his gloves. He leisurely takes them off, eyes opening for his gaze to land on the translucent blue plates, every angle subtly lined with glowing sapphire, the same as his horns.
The luminescence draws him in, pulsating in tandem with his heartbeats, their blue drowning out the already dull colors of the grass beneath and the sky above. He sees his trembling fingers, feels the sudden chilling coldness crawling up towards his arms and the contrastingly hot pit forming in his stomach, witnesses the corners of his sight dimming down into blackness. His quivering legs falter. His cheeks meet damp, icy grass, and then…
…nothing. Peace, maybe, for a little while.
But then, it’s a struggle to open his eyes. His limbs feel liquid, impossible to control, and his head threatens to loll back even though he does his best to lift it upright. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, but it’s like he’s inhaling electricity along with oxygen: the intoxicating scent of musk, manly and deep and powerful, fills his lungs all at once. It pushes a tiny whine out of his throat, his eyes finally opening, fingers clutching at the source of that smell and the pleasant warmth radiating into him. It's…
“...Duke… Wriothesley…?”
Maybe the man so firmly holding him in his arms replies. Maybe he doesn’t. Neuvillette can’t tell – he’s ensnared by eyes of the clearest aqua blue, partly obscured by damp, midnight-dark hair; mesmerized by the rivulets of rainwater curling on the angles of his face; hypnotized by the peach-pink hue of his lips.
The ludex quickly closes his eyes again, tight, hoping to stop the heat building in his belly and the unconscious clamping of his thighs, yet shifting closer to the Duke’s comforting warmth.
“...villette. Neuvillette!” his voice takes form, finally crossing the murky depths of Neuvillette’s unstable consciousness, “Shit. Let me take you to the hospital—”
“No,” the ludex is quick to interrupt, “That… would be disgraceful…!”
“How is that important?!”
He doesn't respond – cannot. Why is the Duke even here in the first place…? Wait. A meeting…? Archons; they’d scheduled a meeting for today, hadn’t they? What a nightmare…! Neuvillette has dealt with this affliction for hundreds of years now; he should’ve been able to notice the early signs and reschedule everything—
“You’re really not answering me, are you?”
“I… I will be fine,” the ludex attempts, “It’s not a sickness.”
“Then what is it?”
The bane of his existence – his heat. Just the beginning, too. He keeps the answer to himself, lips pursed tight, mind fighting against the painful urge to move closer and closer and closer to Wriothesley’s heat, but body failing miserably to obey. His fingers curl even tighter around the man’s vest, face burying on the crook of his shoulder, breaths shaky and fast as he inhales more of that musky perfume. “Cold…” he croaks out against his will.
“Cold? You’re burning up,” Wriothesley groans, “Since you don’t want to go to the hospital, at least let me take you back to the Opera Epiclese—”
“No… I cannot.” Too many Melusine, too many people there. They’ll be worried. If he goes home, he’ll have the same problem and Lady Furina will cry until he’s feeling better, which means Fontaine will have a depressed Archon for an entire week, and then an exhausted Archon the next. She needs to feel well enough to take care of the nation’s trials in Neuvillette’s absence. She's used to it at this point – as long as she doesn't think he's in danger, she can handle everything… temporarily.
“I will be alright… I promise,” he whispers shakily, lips sinfully brushing against Duke Wriothesley’s collarbone; the touch makes Neuvillette shudder, electricity zapping to his groin. “Just… just one week away from everything… that is all I need…!"
“Well, where are you staying? I can’t leave you out in the rain like this,” the man says, effortlessly standing up with Neuvillette in his arms.
“I… don’t know…”
He does, but he can’t remember. He’s overloaded with fragmented thoughts of you’re so strong, please keep holding me, don’t let go, take me, claim me, please breed me, fill me with your seed. It makes him sick. Makes tears burn in the back of his eyes, teeth gritting in anger at himself, at his vulnerability, at his sinful desires.
"You have nowhere to go?”
“I don’t know,” Neuvillette repeats, progressively more frustrated at his inability to think, “I’ll go somewhere… anywhere,” he attempts, “You may leave me here—”
“Celestia; were you always this stubborn?” Wriothesley grumbles, “Is Meropide included in this somewhere, anywhere? If all you need is a week off, as long as you don’t complain about the cafeteria food, you can stay with me.”
Neuvillette’s grip on the warden’s vest slackens out of shock.
This, right here, is the moment he should be rational, stand his ground and say no, thank you, I should be by myself. What he does, instead, is finally removing his face from the warden’s neck and locking eyes with him, searching for any signs that he doesn't really want to do this, that he's offering help out of duty or politeness, that Neuvillette is a bother. He doesn't find any of that. He only sees patience, maybe hesitance, a bit of wittiness when the man quirks an eyebrow to request a response.
It's crystal clear how unintelligent this idea is and all the things that can go wrong with it, yet that feral, animalistic part of Neuvillette craves this man's company: his raw power and unabashed altruism radiate safety – for him, for his nest, for his womb. It's… nice, to feel protected like this.
…maybe just this once…
"I… will be in your care," the ludex relents, humoring his deepest impulses, "Thank you kindly, Duke Wriothesley."
Wriothesley’s plan sounds not so problematic in theory.
Step one: leaving Neuvillette in his room while he’s working. That should take the entire day and then some more, so they’ll barely be seeing each other – a good morning, good night routine. Not bad, since they have nothing to talk about outside of work. Wriothesley will have to take the couch to sleep, but he’s had worse… much worse. He’ll be fine.
Step two: feeding the judge so he doesn’t starve. Wriothesley definitely isn’t cooking, but the guy already said he’s okay with whatever grub the cafeteria serves, so that’s one less problem to think about.
Step three: occasionally checking up on Neuvillette to make sure he isn’t dying. [Addendum for step three: asking Sigewinne for help in case it all goes to shit, no matter how much that stubborn judge insists that ‘no one may know about this’, whatever ‘this’ is.]
Wriothesley would’ve handled the situation differently if Neuvillette wasn’t so adamant about being secretive. The only manner of precaution that he allowed the Duke to take was to send a letter to Lady Furina, to let her know of his whereabouts and that he’s perfectly fine, just that ‘it’s that time again’, apparently.
Great. Just, great. Nothing about this feels right or remotely legal. Why’s he doing this again?
He looks at the silhouette writhing in his sheets and moaning in pain and discomfort, though, and it does put a strain in his heart. Neuvillette looked and looks miserable, and it’s genuinely the first time Wriothesley has seen the man be anything but prim and proper. The judge just took a bunch of clothes he keeps as emergency spares at the Opera Epiclese and left with him, offering no more context about his ‘condition’ than he already had (which means: none).
After arriving at the prison, they took the longer and most unused route to the sleeping quarters and quietly slipped into Wriothesley’s room, and the moment the warden showed him the bed and told him he’s free to use it, he changed his clothes and slid under the duvet like a deflated balloon. Hasn’t gotten up or said a word ever since.
Wriothesley leaves the bedroom and looks around the place just to make sure it’s not too bad of a mess, since he hasn’t been around that much – there’s just a few dishes by the sink in the kitchenette, and the adjoined living room seems to be all fine and tidy and nope, there’s a dirty shirt on the couch. The warden sighs as he’s taking it to the laundry basket in the bathroom – things could be worse, he guesses; the place isn’t squeaky clean but at least there’s still a very faint scent of disinfectant lingering around.
He returns to the bedroom and stands by the doorway, eyes on Neuvillette’s trembling form. “Hey…” he attempts. No response. Rubbing the back of his neck, Wriothesley considers simply turning around and leaving unannounced, but it could be dangerous with how out of it the judge seemed to be after fainting. What if he thinks Wriothesley disappeared or something?
Instead of leaving, he approaches and sits on the side of the bed. Neuvillette immediately tenses up. His face, buried in the pillow, turns midway towards Wriothesley, one crystalline eye glowing dangerously from behind messy locks of silver hair, his pupil constrained, sharp as a blade. He seems to grip the sheets harder.
“Are you… okay…?” the warden risks asking, hands on his lap, fingertips tapping against one other in nervousness – there’s something really wrong about this, but he can’t quite pique what it is. Neuvillette looks vulnerable, yet… predatorial. It’s a difficult contradiction to grasp. The judge simply nods in response, no words said. He's really not okay, is he…?
In an attempt to be reassuring, Wriothesley places a hand on Neuvillette’s shoulder, but there's a spark of something and the judge shudders violently, a gasp rolling onto the bed. He quickly hides his face again, fingers digging into the mattress. The warden immediately retracts his hand and stands up, a bead of cold sweat sliding down the nape of his neck.
“I’m— Sorry?” he chortles out, uncertain. Neuvillette shakes his head, mumbling something about being alright and not to worry, his voice lost in the sheets. “Okay. I… I have some work to do, so I won’t be back until later tonight,” Wriothesley warns, receiving a nod in response. He quickly walks out of the room and closes the door behind him, stepping away to offer it one last glance, then moving his attention to his upturned palm. He flexes his fingers, again and again, but sees nothing there. And yet…
His fingertips are tingling.
The front door clicks shut, and Neuvillette groans into the pillow. Everything. Everything here smells like that man. It’s painful and despair-inducing; his body burns from head to toe, he’s irritable, his gut keeps flipping upside down, and his stomach strains as he attempts to contain raw, maddening desire. He didn't think it would be this bad. Didn't think that simply being touched by someone – over his clothes no less – would trigger his already barely controllable sexual appetite.
He knows he's hard without even checking; that he's producing enough slick to make a mess; that his pheromones would be attracting every dragon in the nation if there were any other than himself.
The clothes touching his skin make him hiss with anger; he removes every piece of clothing fast enough that he’s panting when he’s done, and gritting his teeth at what he sees – he’s flushed, sweating, his rock-hard member throbbing and leaking onto his stomach. He needs an orgasm, pronto. He needs it so bad it makes him want to cry, and scream, and kill something.
Neuvillette bites into his own hand to relieve some tension, a growl erupting from the back of his throat; he lays back down, causing Wriothesley's manly scent to rise again, and inhales deeply while reaching for his neglected cock. He gives it a squeeze, toes curling into the mattress, hips pushing off the bed as desire builds up into a mess of sparks and fire in his belly. Precum drips down; he collects what he can to use as lubricant and smears it over his aching length.
Every stroke is woven with despair, with the painful thought of I need to cum so bad, with anger that translates into quick and harsh pumps. He's more sensitive than usual, his skin tingling where he's touching, jaw trembling as he continues to bite into his hand, tongue coated in his own blood, heart fluttering into his throat. He closes his eyes while fisting himself, the heat pooling in his gut making it harder to breathe the closer he gets to his climax.
It arrives soon – with the tightness of his muscles, with his hips blindly pistoning off the bed and into his hand, with the scream he releases into his palm, with the hot fluids shooting all over his chest and stomach. He keeps pumping after he's done, milking that euphoria until his spent member becomes too sensitive to handle touch. He has a few muscular spasms, one of which causes him to release his now aching hand, and tightens his thighs together with a groan – his hole still yearns to be filled up until it overflows, abused, claimed, but there's some relief in what he's achieved so far.
The first day is always the worst, regarding pains and discomfort. It's his body adjusting to bear a child, and the changes are not only physical but also psychological and emotional, and that's all before the desire to breed becomes excruciating – a nightmare of one week that he has to withstand once every five years. He always goes through his heat alone, not wanting to involve anyone else in his problems – especially not a poor, innocent human – but Duke Wriothesley's timing was… impeccably terrible.
Sighing, Neuvillette gets off the bed, careful not to let his juices drip on the mattress else they cause stains, and moves through the place towards the bathroom. He should clean up and look presentable so that Duke Wriothesley doesn't worry too much.
It's some time past eleven when Wriothesley goes back to his room. It was his wish to go earlier and make sure Neuvillette was alright – or at least that he didn't need any help, because clearly 'alright' is the farthest thing from what he truly is – but the warden got caught up in one thing after the next. He finally pushes the door open, and the first thing he does is call out for Neuvillette.
There's a response from the bedroom. Archons; he hasn't gotten up yet? Wriothesley lays their dinner on the table, takes off his coat and vest and throws them on the couch, then quickly enters the bedroom. "Hey," he greets, catching Neuvillette sitting on the bed, his long silver hair sprawled out as he attempts to comb it. The warden stops moving when he notices something else – there's turquoise scales in his hands, nearly reaching his wrists. Out of curiosity, Wriothesley allows his gaze to go lower – there's not much hidden behind the shirt and robe he's wearing anyway – and finds that his feet, too, have the same translucent plates.
Neuvillette doesn't take long to realize he's being stared at, though, and glances with curiosity at the warden. "Yes? Something wrong, Your Grace?"
"No. I was just…" he motions incomprehensibly with his hand, then gives up. "You have scales."
"Are they an eyesore?"
"Wha—"
"I can cover them up."
Wriothesley stares at him very, very dumbly. "No?" he chokes out, "They're okay. They're... beautiful, actually. Just get comfortable, a'ight? You don't have to cover anything up. I mean, maybe cover your private parts, yeah?" The warden frowns at a sudden, intrusive thought – "Wait, are there scales on your…?"
Neuvillette fakes a cough, a hand curled in front of his mouth. "I invoke my right to remain silent, Your Grace."
...so it's a yes. "Okay. Alright," he clears his throat, cheeks stupidly warm, "You, uh… seem to be feeling better."
The judge quietly nods before returning his concentration to his hair. "Yes… thank you for your concern, Your Grace," is his polished response. Seems to be more lucid than before, at the very least. He's still… struggling, though, eyebrows drawn together and eyes slightly squinted. There seems to be something wrong, as he isn't properly moving his hand and maneuvering it around the locks. Wriothesley frowns and sits beside him on the bed – smells like his shampoo, as well as something sweet but indiscernible, perhaps the judge's natural scent.
"Someone took a shower, I see," he comments, tilting his head to understand just what's so difficult about brushing one's hair.
That's when he sees it – an injury, dyed angry red and forming a row of teeth plus two sharp fangs that seem to have dug even deeper into the flesh, cracking the blue scales. He takes Neuvillette by the wrist to properly examine the wound, seeing his palm equally hurt. "What the hell happened…?!"
"I bit myself. It's nothing to worry about," he assures, "It'll heal soon."
"If it doesn't get infected," Wriothesley adds, standing up. "I have a first aid kit. Just give me a second."
"There is no need—"
"My house, my rules."
As he's reaching for the kit in the bathroom, it briefly occurs to him to look at his own hand again – nothing happened when they touched this time. Maybe that was all in his head…? In any case, he takes the little white box back to the bedroom and sits on the bed beside Neuvillette once more, taking a cotton ball and disinfectant from the kit.
"It's alright; I can do it myself," the judge tries.
"Seriously; you can't even brush your own hair. Just sit still and let me handle this," Wriothesley insists. Neuvillette looks away dejectedly.
"My apologies, Duke Wriothesley," he murmurs, "I didn't mean to be a burden."
"You're not. I wouldn't do this if I didn't want to. I just want you to stop," he frowns, Neuvillette flinching when the damp cotton touches his injury, "...dealing with everything on your own. I'm sure there're many more people willing to help you, if only you open up a tiny little bit."
Wriothesley sees it out of the corner of his eyes – Neuvillette tightens his lips for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. "I have trouble expressing my emotions," he explains, "Sometimes… they can be especially difficult to handle, so I typically keep them to myself."
Wriothesley knows what that feels like – been there, done that. Boxing is a good way to release the pent up emotions he has, but he can't imagine Neuvillette punching a bag – or, really, anything – in a thousand million years. Better to not even suggest it, else he makes a fool of himself. "You'll understand them better if you talk about them," he offers, slathering the injured scales with ointment. They're surprisingly warm, and smooth to the touch – it barely feels any different from actual skin, save for the indentations of every plate.
"I feel like I've opened up enough for a lifetime by allowing you to see me this way. If you'd please keep it secret, Your Grace."
"I'll think about it– Just joking," he quickly clarifies, Neuvillette's eyes sharpening at the mere suggestion, "It honors me that you trust me this much. I promise I won't tell anyone that you have beautiful hands; imagine the scandal."
Neuvillette huffs with amusement, the ghost of a smile playing by his lips. "Flatterer."
"Who, me? There must be some kind of mistake."
A comfortable, light veil of silence befalls them for a while. It's only when he begins rolling bandages around the Neuvillette's hand that the judge talks again – "... you are surprisingly proficient at this."
"Had to learn how to patch myself up when I got into fights."
"Did it happen often?"
Wriothesley gives a curt, humorless laugh, giving the finishing touches on the bandages. "I had to survive somehow," is all he's willing to say. "You should be good to go now. Think you can handle…" he motions towards the long strands of hair curling around his sheets, "All of that?"
"Yes. Thank you very much, Your Grace."
"Neat. I'll go take a shower now, if you don't mind, then we can have dinner," he grumbles, tired, while standing up to slide the tie out of his neck and to begin unbuttoning his shirt, "Work was tiring…"
He trails off, noting how Neuvillette's eyes follow every movement of his fingers as he pushes one button out of its hole, then the next, and the next. He seems almost… hypnotized? They make eye contact, though, and Neuvillette is quickly to look away, his throat fluttering as he swallows. His hair soon covers his face and thus rends the judge's reaction unreadable, as if he wasn't difficult enough to understand already. He returns to combing his hair, though, so Wriothesley decides it's nothing important.
He finishes taking off his shirt and drapes it over the bed along with his tie, then moves to the wardrobe to pick up a fresh set of clothes. Wriothesley swears Neuvillette keeps staring at his back, but forces himself not to ask about it – he's too tired to initiate any kind of back and forth, especially with someone as unreadable as the Chief Justice of Fontaine. He takes his things from the bed and excuses himself from the bedroom, retiring for that much needed shower.
Neuvillette releases the breath he'd been holding when Wriothesley walks out of the room. His heart is racing, his head dizzy, his hands trembling – this… this is a terrible idea. He knew it; he can't stay here. The second Wriothesley began undoing his shirt, the musky scent of his sweat rose up and, Celestia, it's mouthwatering. The way his muscles flexed while he undressed and showed his plump, meaty chest was…
The ludex groans and abandons his comb, rubbing his face with both hands instead. His body responds to very little stimulus in this state; there's no way he'll be able to go through the entire week without begging for Duke Wriothesley to breed him again and again, to cum in him until it makes a sloppy mess of his insides.
Neuvillette's breaths become shaky. He clamps his thighs together, knees quivering, his bulge showing from behind his robe. Maybe… just once more. If he cums just once more…
As he's about to grope himself, he sees the bandages wrapped around his hand and stops moving.
It's the first time he has this kind of desire towards someone specific while in heat. Is it because Duke Wriothesley is the only one available to him? Because he just so happened to be around?
Would Neuvillette be this aroused, this desperate for any other person, or is he feeling this way precisely because it is Duke Wriothesley?
They never talked much before – it was always work related business, and even then they didn't meet that often. Neuvillette doesn't know much about him other than what everyone does, and the other way around must be true as well – they're not friends, but rather… well-familiarized acquaintances. He always did put an immense amount of trust and faith in the Duke, but…
Well, there's no rush for answers – Neuvillette has an entire week to seek them.
…if he does stay here for that long, that is.