Cavalierious-Whim

So, for now, it’s just putting pen to paper, jotting down his errant thoughts. Later, they can be pieced together. Later, Anaxa can tug at the strings and make it make sense. As long as he’s left alone, that is. Anaxa doesn’t pause in his work when the door to his office opens with a slow creak. 

“Professor Anaxa?”

“Professor Anaxagoras,” he corrects. Hyacine might receive less of his ire than most, but even he draws the line at the shortening of his name. It’s too childish, too—

“You’re late to your own class.”

Anaxa stills, his pen hovering over his journal. A class? Since when? He looks at the calendar and sees that it’s the second day of the week. Right. Nousporism, level one. He’d forgotten entirely because this year’s batch of students has shown little to no promise, let alone interest in his class. In his opinion, of course. 

The clock shows that it’s late into the midafternoon. Enough so that he even forgot about lunch.

His pen still hovers there. Drip, drip, goes the ink, splashing onto bright and crisp parchment, blotting away his last thought. 

“Well?” prompts Hyacine when Anaxa says nothing else. 

“I—” He pauses, chewing on his next words. “I got caught up in my work and lost track of time. I didn’t realize that it was so late in the day.”

Hyacine waits a beat before clicking her tongue in disapproval. “Regardless of your side work, you’re still a professor with responsibilities. Could you imagine if I forgot about my nursing classes?”

Comparing the two of them is a laughable matter. Anaxa is… Well. Hyacine isn’t entirely wrong; Anaxa should, at least, attend his own classes. Otherwise, his budget might be lost. And then what? He can hypothesize anywhere he can exercise his mind, but the Grove of Epiphany has too many uses to risk removal. 

He should play nice. With a sigh, Anaxa sets his pen aside and shuts his journal. Later, he thinks. Later he’ll resume this pattern of thinking. Later he’ll revisit these questions that plague him. It’s for the sake of man. Their betterment. The less that they rely on Titans, the more they can thrive. 

“Apologies, Hyacine,” he finally says as he stands. “It wasn’t my intention to forget.” When he meets her face, Hyacine is watching him back with a shrewd look. 

“Yes, well, tell your students that, not me.”

“The flock this year is useless,” he mutters—but not so quietly that Hyacine doesn’t catch it.

Hyacine snorts in amusement. “You say that every year.” She gives him a wave and then disappears from the doorway, leaving him to his devices. 

Anaxa casts one last look at his desk and, with a sigh, turns to leave. 

#

A great sacred tree stretches towards the sky in the Grove of Epiphany. 

“The Bough of Rift,” murmurs Anaxa to himself as he stands at its roots. These ramblings are as well-known as his books. Other scholars and students keep a wide berth as Anaxa sorts his thoughts, staring upwards with a hand against his chin. “Born of the void, they turned nothingness into prosperity.” His words melt into soft whispers. “Nothingness…prosperity… No, no. Men speak their own truths, no? Titans aren’t needed for this. And the prophecy, that Flame-Chase Journey—it’s useless. Men make their own paths, which aren’t predetermined.”

That is, at its core, the entire part of his research. What is the point of having a soul if the Titans bear one’s future? What good is living if a man is to walk a predetermined line? None of it makes sense, and so the only correct hypothesis is that the Titans are not the divine beings they are touted to be.

“They can die,” he mutters. Then, Anaxa’s gaze dragging across that grand, sacred tree, he continues with, “You died.”

Or, so the stories say. Anaxa isn’t one for mythology, but it’s had its uses when studying the plight of man. Heretic, he’s called. How distasteful to imply that he’s corrupting today’s youth. Anaxa has no bearing on what others believe, despite how he wishes he did. But if he could prove it, if he could just talk to a Titan—

He stills. Why has he never thought of such a thing? If Flame-Chasing Chrysos Heirs can steal away Coreflames and become demigods, then surely, surely Anaxa can resurrect a Titan. A conversation would prove his theory: that Titans are nothing more fantastical than mere mortals. That it’s mankind who pedestals them unnecessarily. 

What a wild, mad plan. 

But it’s a plan. 

And, frankly, Anaxa has done worse experiments. 

#

An experiment, of course, requires preparation. Anaxa spends weeks and months pouring over books from the libraries. Titan and religious philosophy, personal accounts from Chrysos Heirs of old, even his own theorizing from years prior—but even then, he isn’t much closer to a solid plan. 

How does one summon a Titan? Anaxa has the golden blood of Flame-Chasers, but it’s not as though the Titans roam Amphoreus for any and all to speak with. Cerces themself is a damn tree.

“This book,” he mutters whilst poring over a handwritten volume one day. It’s familiar. Something about the neat and tidy letters catches his attention. “This is…” Anaxa is fairly certain he’s seen this before, which would track. He’d found this volume tucked away on his corner shelf. 

‘Even up till today, I still disagree with that bizarre Flame-Chase Journey,’ the book reads. Anaxa skims until he reaches: ‘After I had proposed the theory that the nature of souls of Titans and humans are no different, and that souls are constructed from seeds of wisdom, I have been waiting for a chance to prove it once and for all…’

Anaxa leans back, his chair creaking under his weight. So, he isn’t the first to think of such a thing. This journal is unsigned, leaving the author unknown. And it’s possible that he’s flipped through it before because hiding it away, his research didn’t used to pertain to his current theory, so it isn’t so much a stretch that it wasn’t useful to him before. 

It’s blasphemy to consider that Titans and humans share the same type of soul. Nousporism touts a similar ideal: that all beings originate from the same source, but that does not mean they are the same. But, to exist in this realm, mustn't their souls have the same composition? That’s the age-old quandary that no one agrees upon.

Madness. Madness—that’s what his fellow scholars already say. Anaxa is a madman with mad ideals, and worse yet, now he wants to prove them. Just a talk with a Titan, a simple conversation, that's all he needs. But how does one even begin to approach what’s considered a divine being?

His gaze falls back to the book. Who was the author?

“Nobody,” he says to himself—but, again, there’s a tug at the base of Anaxa’s neck as he smooths his hand over the worn leather cover. Familiarity pricks at his being. “Alas, the author remains elusive. A pity. They and I seem to share similar theories and concerns.”

How can one create a proper hypothesis if they can’t truly examine every variable? One could argue that it’s merely a thought exercise, but, if given the opportunity, Anaxa would enjoy picking Cerces’s brain—from an academic standpoint, of course.

But, ultimately, a tree is just a tree, and a Titan is nothing more than a man. This, thinks Anaxa in that profound madness of his, renders the prophecy and Flame Chase Journey entirely bogus. Anaxa just needs a moment—one moment—to prove this theory true. 

Back to the book. ‘I once smiled like this, when I first created a mechanical bird that could fly in the sky’, he reads.

And then Anaxa has an absurd idea. Thumbing at his chin, he says, “I suppose there isn’t harm in turning every stone, as ridiculous as it sounds.”

#

Anaxa goes to the great sacred tree and asks for its attention. 

In one hand, he carries that old leather journal, the one that shares his similarly blasphemous thoughts. It’s become a comfort to him, its strange kinship grounding him in his lunacy. Others do not understand, but this nameless author, oh, he knows him, doesn’t he?

Desperation drives him to the roots of Cerces. It’s a tree, a damned tree. And Anaxa feels particularly stupid speaking to a tree. His request is simple and polite. “Bough of Rift,” he says. “Creator divine, I wish to have a discussion of philosophies with you.”

The moment stretches. Leaves rustle gently in the soft breeze, but nothing happens. Anaxa waits and waits before he determines this leg of the experiment a dead end. But, just as he turns around, someone speaks, a quiet, ageless voice wafting through the space. 

“So quickly you demand my presence but are even quicker to lose patience.” 

Anaxa stills. He did not expect this outcome. He’d thought he’d need an experiment. He thought he’d have to resurrect old dry bones with lightning rods and a prayer. “It is not a loss of patience,” he says tartly. “I just do not enjoy being ignored.”

“You were not ignored. It takes great effort to hold a presence here.”

He turns to find a shapeless, non-corporeal being before him. A shadow gilded in gold, neither here nor there, but more so in between. It flutters as it speaks, wavering in and out, but remains solid enough for the moment.

“Child of humanity,” prompts Cerces, “you wish to speak of philosophy?”

“I wish to pick the brain of a so-called god.”

Silence. And then: “So-called.” Cerces, at least, seems more amused than insulted. 

“I have a working theory that I wish for your opinion on. Others call it madness. They think that I’m insane, but I’m not—I’m not. These are not the ramblings of lunacy, it is higherbrow thinking. It is the future as we let go of these lesser myths that hold us back. We, mankind, and Titans—we are one in the same. Same beginnings, same souls, same flesh. Neither is better than the other. Neither is—”

Cerces laughs. That amorphous being cackles, shuddering, beside themself. “You said the very same thing the last time we spoke.”

The last time? Anaxa tilts his head, regarding the Titan with a narrowed, wary gaze. “We have never… I’ve never… You said it was difficult for you to come here, to hold space in this grove. How could we have—”

If Anaxa speaks madness, then this Titan is the true embodiment of insanity. “It doesn't matter,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair. “I am here to carry on a debate.”

“And did our last debate mean nothing? Did you not write your findings down in that very journal you hold?”

Anaxa looks at that leather-bound book, the one he’s been attached to from the moment he cracked it open. Its words, the theories it contains—

‘Today, I can finally make up for the regret, akin to a calamity, from numerous years ago.’

“Oh,” says Cerces, then. “Oh, I see, now. Perhaps I had made a mistake then. I should never have placed my Coreflame in one so dead.”

Dead. Dead. It’s only then that Anaxa remembers: a wave of the Black Tide descending upon the Grove and razing it to the ground. Anaxa, alongside the others, had defended it to the bitter end until his golden blood soiled the round. Cerces felt it, that blood. Cerces—

The handwriting is his. This journal is his. He’s a dead demigod housing a flame that barely keeps him alive—but that second chance has come at the cost of his sanity. 

But doesn’t that mean a Creator remade him? Doesn’t that mean that the Titans are more than mankind? No, no. The warmth of that Coreflame further proves his point—he’s an alchemist who’s come full circle. He’s been transformed and ascended; he’s become a god in his own right. 

He wrote about this in the journal. ‘My body shall become the vessel to forge the Coreflames of gods, and my soul shall become the chains that force the gods to bow!’

Cerces answered his call. They are there, witnessing his madness turn to might firsthand. 

‘Use me as the firewood to ignite the flames that will bring light to the truth!’

Anaxa laughs at the irony of it all. “I’m my own evidence,” he claims, growing more manic by the moment. “I’ve proven my theory. Man can ascend to their fullest potential. We can be on par with gods. It’s here, isn’t it? It’s all in this journal, it’s all…”

He forgets the Titan is there. Cerces watches in regret as Anaxa falls into his maniacal rant. He’d forgotten this entirely, that he’d been dead. But he’s revived, still flesh and bone, still contemplating the state of man and their place in the Cosmos.

“‘Do not fear blasphemy,’” he reads, flipping to the end of the journal. “‘It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!’” 

There are notations. Red marks of madness and other iterations that Anaxa pores over. He’d forgotten. Death has driven him to derangement, but that is where he’s found the truth. It’s been here the entire time, right under his fingertips, penned in his own hand. 

When he looks, Cerces is gone. Or, maybe they were never there to begin with. The Grove is empty and overgrown, no longer sweet-smelling and serene with leaves rustling in the breeze. There is no Hyacine or a litany of other scholars giving him space. Death shrouds this place, which is as decayed as his mind, a mere shell of the school it once was.

Zhongli doesn’t even need to take his last turn, they both know where this ends up. 

“Ajax,” he purrs, breath hot against the shell of Childe’s ear, “I do think this match goes to me.”

Childe swallows around the lump in his throat. Zhongli’s pressed against his back again, strong arms framing him, hands braced against the table. Never with too much weight—Zhongli would never risk the balance of a pool table, but this is safe enough, just a gentle lean-to that boxes Childe against smooth and polished wood.

His cock is fully hard now, pressed against the swell of Childe’s backside. “You won’t fuck me here,” says Childe, his tone snarky, teasing. And Zhongli won’t—it’s too public, even if they’ve basically reserved the space for themselves. Zhongli will do a myriad of other things aside from shoving his cock in deep, the way Childe wants. 

Still, it’s fun to tease him. Playing the game is only part of the appeal, the rest is working up Zhongli even when he’s won. 

Zhongli laughs. “No,” he agrees, “but you know better than anyone, Ajax, just what I am willing to indulge in.”

“Taking your sweet time to tell me, aren’t you?”

“It’s indulgence,” says Zhongli, emphasizing the word as he repeats it. “Where is the pleasure in making this quick?”

That’s the thing, though—be it rivals who fuck, barely friends with benefits, whatever this is—it is quick and dirty. It’s making out in the corners after edging themselves with tease after tease. It’s retiring to a hotel room for an hour before parting until the next time. Childe likes it; it’s messy, but it’s easy—easy because they can disengage the moment they get it out of their system.

But Zhongli, with his older, gentleman-like sentimentalities, takes it for a romantic spin even if they both know that this is a means to an end.

“You’re the quick shot,” replies Childe, looking back over his shoulder and fluttering his eyelashes in a mock-bashful way. “You never last long enough for me.”

Zhongli tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “Are you issuing another challenge?” He can’t resist the allure of another game, it seems. 

“No, but I know that I can get you off in record time—and you like that about me. One and done, quick to move on.”

A boundary, carefully laid out. Zhongli huffs but pulls away, giving into Childe’s goading. The reminder never hurts and always works, Zhongli falling into Childe’s trap time and time again.

“Quickly, then,” agrees Zhongli, turning them until his ass is resting against the pool table. “We wouldn’t want to get caught breaking Rouran’s no fucking rule, do we?”

It’s a flimsy rule at best with vaguely laid terms—and Rouran knows that more people than not get each other off in the corners of the billiard hall; the Pearl Galley isn’t known for just class and elegance; it’s, as Zhongli earlier said, pure indulgence and hedonism at its finest. But Zhongli’s a man of propriety and to hear him curse so openly shows just how much he’s already fallen, which is why it’s always a thrill that Childe has such sway over him. 

Childe drops to his knees. Squeezes at Zhongli’s defined thighs, pulling the fine fabric of his trousers across them. “This is what you want, right? My mouth?” He nuzzles the bulge of Zhongli’s cock where it’s trapped, hidden from him. 

“I—”

“A simple man, when it comes down to it, aren’t you?” Childe already paws at the closure, fingers deft as they yank at buttons, prying the fly open. He leans forward to kiss the strip of skin there, smooth and pale, dusted with coarse hair that trails down. 

Like a god, he thinks, fingers pulling at Zhongli’s trousers, loosening them. Zhongli does so little to be fit, but he’s divine. Perfect. Childe can’t wait to get his mouth around his length. 

Zhongli’s trousers and underthings are tugged down just enough to free his cock. Long and thick, it curves just slightly, twitching the moment Childe’s gaze falls onto it. Leaks from the tip already. Childe takes hold, swiping this thumb through the precome dribbling from the slit before letting go entirely.

“Quick, like I said,” he teases, bringing his thumb to his mouth for a taste, making a show of swirling his tongue around it.

Zhongli stares; watches him with this flushed, unreadable expression, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes wide. He swallows thickly, his throat bobbing, and oh, this is why Childe loves this game. Zhongli thinks he has control but he doesn’t. He’s like any other man, thinking with mostly his dick, a bluff easily called upon. 

Childe wastes no time leaning forward. Fingers curl around Zhongli’s cock again, stroking it gently from base to tip. He guides it to his mouth, lips wrapping around the head for a quick suck—and that, alone, makes Zhongli buckle. 

A hand flies to the back of Childe’s head. Zhongli’s fingers thread through his hair, pulling at it slightly until his scalp stings just a little—but oh, it’s the good kind of burn; the kind that leaks heat into his belly, that makes his cock hard and wet. 

Zhongli squirms as Childe swirls his tongue around the head of his cock. His thighs tense, and he leans back against the table, bracing himself on his free hand, head tipping back to show off the line of his throat. Childe swallows, looking up through long, auburn eyelashes, and fuck, the expression on Zhongli’s face is nearly enough to have him coming in his trousers. 

They’ve barely begun. A quick shot, teased Childe, but the fact of the matter is that it’s true: Zhongli is a man who feels, who lives in these moments so fully that it doesn’t take much to tip him over the edge. Childe slides down his cock, pulling it into his throat until. He hums, moaning around it, stroking the rest with his hand—and that has Zhongli scrabbling against the table in a way that will definitely, definitely unbalance it. 

“Ajax,” he hisses, unable to stop the small swivel of his hips, driving his cock deeper. Zhongli holds Childe’s head there firmly and ruts against him again, again, with slow, sharp movements. 

Childe chokes slightly, his throat constricting. Zhongli’s cock throbs against his tongue, twitching as Childe widens his mouth to better ease along his length. But he’s close, Zhongli; Childe can tell by his stuttering movements, by the way that he tugs at his hair, and tries not to shove himself as deep as he can go. And Childe could take him, he has before, nose pressed to the coarse hair of his belly, but—

Zhongli won’t last that long, not with Childe bobbing his head, and meeting those gentle, rolling thrusts of Zhongli’s hips against his mouth. 

“I’m—I’m—” Zhongli never sounds embarrassed. Despite Childe’s earlier teasing, this isn’t something he worries over. He might tip over the edge quick, but that’s only the beginning; if Childe doesn’t come too, Zhongli will just drag him to a hotel room and fuck him there. 

It’s hot and messy. Drool pools in the corners of his mouth, dripping, making an utter mess of his chin. There’s a wet schlick as Zhongli’s cock slides against Childe’s tongue. And gods, the feel of it. Childe is lightheaded from arousal and lust. Forces himself to breathe through his nose as he bobs his head, back and forth, back and forth—

“Ajax, you’re so good,” murmurs Zhongli, brushing back Childe’s sweaty bangs, taking in the sight of his lips stretched wide around his cock. “You always take me so well.”

Childe moans, eyelashes fluttering closed. The praise hits, dripping down his spine, making his cock ache. A rough touch of his palm grinding against it takes the edge off, but he’s empty, too empty, and his ass clenches at the promise of a rough fuck. 

“Ajax. Ajax.” Zhongli’s voice is ragged with need, cracking on the second utterance of his name. He’s pressure-cooked, near his end. Won’t last much longer. “I’m going to—in your mouth, darling. Please, please.”

Darling is a tease that’s just too good, sordid in its nature, clinging to Childe like the rest of the praise that Zhongli doles out. Childe drowns in it, moaning again, desperate to get off—but to do that, he needs more from Zhongli. To taste him, feel him, watch as he loses himself—something.

Zhongli doesn’t come in his mouth, to Childe’s supreme dissatisfaction. In an effort for a little more friction, Zhongli pulls out too much. Spills against Childe’s lips instead, soiling his face. Choking on Zhongli’s come isn’t fun, but neither is getting it up his nose—but thankfully Zhongli’s aim isn’t the worst it’s been. He still pets Childe's hair, nails raking across his scalp as he takes a good look. 

“Made a mess of me, didn’t you?” asks Childe.

“I—I didn’t mean to. It’s—” Snapped from his reverie, Zhongli pulls out a silk handkerchief that definitely shouldn’t be used like this. “Here, let me help.”

He cleans off Childe’s face with a gentle, soothing touch. His thumb traces after, catching any leftovers, any extra streaks of his come.

Childe’s tongue darts out to catch the pad of that thumb, licking around the joint. Then he tilts, drawing it into his mouth for a suckle, which—yeah, that does exactly what he meant for it to.

Zhongli curses, softly, gaze trained on Childe who still kneels at his feet, despite the smarting of his knees. The bulge of Childe’s own cock isn’t missed. Zhongli sighs, pulling a hand over his face as his eyes drop to linger on that too. 

Bingo. Zhongli’s caught in his snare, and though Childe lost their billards match, he’s won this next little game. 

“Yours or mine?” Childe’s mouth curves against Zhongli’s thumb, which is still pressed against his lips. He gives it a tart little kiss before pulling away. 

The answer is his, as it usually is. Zhongli always books the nicer options that are further away, but Childe is a simple man; it’s quicker to his bed, so that’s where they find themselves next. And it’s quick and dirty, with Childe’s face shoved into the sheets. Zhongli draped against his back as he fucks him properly until he’s a keening, whining mess who’s lost his words.

“No doubt she kicked you out.” Wriothesley's voice is full of mirth. “How long did it take her?”

“That isn’t a relevant inquiry,” replies Neuvillette, already feeling defensive. “Besides, I am thankful for the distraction. It is too quiet without you here.”

Wriothesley sighs, and Neuvillette can see the way his face crinkles up clearly in his mind’s eye. Gods above, Neuvillette has an alarming ability to be pathetic, doesn’t he? Wriothesley has only been gone two days, and he’ll be back by the weekend. Neuvillette yearns, though. His chest aches in Wriothesley’s absence. 

“Soon, sweetheart. I’ll be back before you know it.” He falls quiet again, this time long enough for Neuvillette to, perhaps, expect that Wriothesley has cooked up a half-baked idea. “So,” he eventually continues in a long drawl, “a half day tomorrow? Are you going to sleep in?”

Neuvillette is more likely to leave work early instead, which Wriothesley knows. “Perhaps an early lunch—”

“What are you doing right now?”

Neuvillette stills. Wriothesley's tone is low. It bleeds liquid warmth, the kind that fuels heat in Neuvillette’s gut. “Beloved,” he warns. 

“Dinner can wait, right?”

Dinner can wait, yes. Neuvillette isn’t even undressed yet, though, still wearing—

“Tell me what you wore to work today.”

Neuvillette chokes off a soft groan because of course, of course, Wriothesley will want to engage in something salacious.

“A suit,” he replies, tossing other thoughts away. “The navy plaid one that is bespoke from Chioriya Boutique.”

The sound Wriothesley makes is sinful, a deep sigh that flutters through the phone and right into Neuvillette’s ear. To hear a man become so undone just by a descriptor of his clothing… 

Well. Wriothesley fell in love with a picture of him from the collarbones down, clad in a three-piece suit, so maybe Neuvillette shouldn’t be surprised that his imagination can so easily run wild. “Are we doing this right now?” he asks, his own words curled with amusement.

“As opposed to later? Sweetheart, I already have you on the phone. Apparently you’re on the couch. There isn’t a better time.”

It’s later in Mondstadt by several hours. It might be cruel for Neuvillette to make Wriothesley wait until he’s eaten and freshened up. Plus, Wriothesley's voice—oh, the sound of it. Deep and rich, the edges curled with arousal. It’s so easy to sense his need by just listening. 

“You’re thinking about it.” Wriothesley's voice is a deep purr against his ear. “You haven’t said no. I think you need this too.”

“I—” Neuvillette huffs. Wriothesley knows him like the back of his hand. There is no point in trying to deny it. “Yes,” he sighs, settling into the couch. Might as well get comfy. Might as well—

His fingers dig into his thigh, pulling at the fabric of his trousers lightly. Neuvillette’s cock twitches, already half-hard. And maybe that should be embarrassing, on account that he was just teasing Wriothesley, but he is a man in love, and he misses his husband. 

Wriothesley's voice shouldn’t affect him so, but then Neuvillette thinks back to his streaming days. That deep timbre and sarcastic curl drew him in. He fell in love with that voice. Then there was that private call where Neuvillette couldn’t see anything above the neck, but he could hear Wriothesley. Wriothesley had told him he did not dole out explicit content but still guided Neuvillette through getting off. Still touched himself at the sight of it, all the while calling him sweetheart in that curling tone. That’d been the end of them both.

From that moment on, Neuvillette had been a gone, gone man.

“Neuvillette?”

Neuvillette blinks, realizing that he’d been lost in his thoughts. “Apologies, beloved. I was—”

“What were you thinking about?”

What a question. Neuvillette could drive Wriothesley to madness by playing coy. Or, he could drive him mad in another way entirely.

“Our first night together,” he says. “Not in person. No, I mean the video call, the one where I—”

“You saw me,” says Wriothesley with humor. “And I saw you. Most of you, at least.”

“But I also heard you. Beloved, are you aware of what your voice does to me? How it makes me feel?” Neuvillette lets loose a shaky breath as his hand skirts across the front of his now tented trousers. Just a little squeeze, some friction to take the edge off. “You told me how to touch myself.”

“Is that what you want right now?”

Is it? “Anything,” murmurs Neuvillette. “I just want to hear your voice.”

“Knowing you, you’re still in your work clothes.”

“I…yes.”

Wriothesley laughs, the sound of it crackling over the connection. “Open up your trousers for me, sweetheart.”

“Wriothesley—”

“You won’t?”

“That isn’t what I said. I just—”

“Let’s paint a picture, hm? Are you in the bedroom? The bath?”

Neuvillette huffs. “The couch, regrettably, as I already told you.” The black leather one that used to be a prop in Wriothesley's streaming. There’s something funny about it, something a little silly about how it’s come full circle. “The television is on. I’ve just been resting.”

“That’s good, baby. You deserve that rest.” 

Those words wash over him. Neuvillette’s eyes flutter closed, and he melts against the smooth, soft leather. This way, it’s easy to imagine Wriothesley here. He forgets about the phone lodged between his ear and shoulder. Imagines that the hand against his straining erection is Wriothesley's instead. 

“Sweetheart,” says Wriothesley, quieter, softer. “Neuvillette, open your trousers for me?”

Fingers ghost the fly, popping open the topmost button. “Okay. Okay.”

“Do you want to pretend it’s me there? That I’m the one touching you?”

That’d be impossible to imagine. Neuvillette is too rational, too even-minded to pretend, but— “Just guide me, beloved. Tell me what to do.”

“Fuck, that’s—” Wriothesley sucks in a breath. Moans softly, taking a little too long to answer. Neuvillette knows that he must’ve just started touching himself, that he’s likely coaxing his own cock to fill out in his hand. A quick stroke. A thumb across the tip, spreading precome around. 

Maybe it’s easier to imagine these things than Neuvillette initially thought. 

“Sweetheart, have you pulled yourself out yet? Are you touching yourself?”

“Not yet.”

“Slowly, then. Got it.”

That isn’t what Neuvillette meant, but he says nothing else. He told Wriothesley to guide him, so he’ll listen. He’ll do as he says as long as he keeps talking, as long as his voice keeps bullying his ear. 

“Speakerphone, Neuvillette.”

Oh, that’ll be embarrassing. “Wriothesley.”

“There’s no one else there, just you. Don’t you want to use both of your hands?” A pause. “I want you to use both of your hands.”

Neuvillette fumbles slightly with shaking hands as he toggles on the speakerphone. He lays it on the arm of the sofa next to him, watching it sink into the soft leather. The sound quality isn’t as good. He’d rather have Wriothesley whispering in his ear directly, but this will do. It’ll be enough. 

“Okay,” he says. “My hands are free, beloved. I’m yours. Tell me what to do.”

“Just touch yourself for me, sweetheart. Slow and steady. Drag your fingers down your stomach. Feel the muscle there.”

That’s…that’s… Neuvillette does as he asks, fingers trailing the trail of hair there, down to the base of his cock. The muscles there strain and flex underneath the featherlight touch. He shudders slightly, pleasure zinging down his spine as Wriothesley's voice purrs through the speaker on his phone. 

“Feel good? Words, baby, I want to hear you.”

“Yes, but—”

It isn’t enough. This light-handed touch only leaves heat in its wake, but Neuvillette supposes that’s the entire idea. A gentle tease. A nudge in the right direction, an appetizer to the main course. 

He isn’t entirely sure that he won’t come immediately the moment he gets his hand on himself. Neuvillette is rarely so quick to tip over the edge, but he’s more keyed up than he realized, and then there’s Wriothesley—oh, his husband. 

“You want more, don’t you?” Wriothesley chuckles, deep and warm, and gods above, if that doesn’t make Neuvillette’s cock twitch in response. 

“Can I—” Neuvillette swallows the request down. 

There’s a delicious aspect to asking, isn’t there? In having Wriothesley guide him? That’s what Neuvillette asked for, what he craves, and so—

“Can I touch myself?” he tries again, the question tumbling from his mouth. “Wriothesley. Beloved, please tell me that I can touch myself.”

“Fuck, that’s—” Wriothesley sucks in a breath. A soft groan—that’s the sound that he makes when he’s squeezing his cock tightly to prevent an early end. Neuvillette’s heard it enough to recognize it. What a wonder. Neuvillette wishes that he could see, that Wriothesley was here with him, his hand around his cock instead. 

But a phone call is the next best thing.

“Go on, sweetheart.”

There are so many options, so many ways in which Neuvillette can indulge. Does he keep it light and teasing, trying to drag it out? Or does he stroke himself to completion hard and fast to the sound of Wriothesley's praise?

Neuvillette shoves a hand into the opening of his trousers, the heel of his palm grinding against his pubic bone. Then lower, lower, until his hand is heavy against his length, and there’s finally skin against skin. It’s a simple touch, but it’s enough to spark fire in his veins, to make that growing ball of pleasure spread.

“Neuvillette,” says Wriothesley, a gentle reminder to offer a narrative. 

Right. Right. Neuvillette licks his lips, but his throat is parched, and though this is good, he wants more. “I’m not—My hand is just…resting in my trousers. A nice weight against my—” Oh, it’s an embarrassing word, but— “—cock. I haven’t yet divested any of my clothes.”

“Why not?”

“I fear I may come the moment I get my hand on myself. Already, I’m close. My cock aches, and I need more, but I don’t want to…”

“But I want you to, sweetheart. Neuvillette, touch yourself properly. Let me hear you.”

Neuvillette lifts his hips, shoving his trousers down around his knees. This has never been his favorite place for this sort of thing, even with Wriothesley there. The leather of the couch is cold against his ass, slightly sticky as it clings to his skin. But it’s soft, supple. It warms quickly against his skin once he’s settled again. 

His cock twitches against his thigh, begging to be touched. Neuvillette takes his time, though, nails catching against his skin as he drags his fingers down his stomach to the base of his cock. When he finally takes hold of himself, it’s overbearing. He whines, hips bucking against his palm. Gives himself a stroke, groaning at the sweet friction as the tip grinds against his palm. 

Neuvillette moans. Can’t help it, can’t hold the sound back. He lets out a shaky breath as he pumps his cock once, twice.

“Just like that, baby,” says Wriothesley, a quiet purr over the phone call. 

This, Neuvillette thinks, just might be what he needed. Never one to touch himself much, even out of habit, he finds relief in both his hand and Wriothesley's voice. 

“What are you doing?”

“I—the point is for you to tell me. I want—”

“I know, but you have to give me a starting point.”

Right, that. It’s not as though Wriothesley can see him. He’s working off his imagination, what Neuvillette tells him, and the sounds that he can’t hold back. “I’ve finally…taken ahold of myself.” 

Gods, this is embarrassing, but anything for Wriothesley, anything to feel less lonely, to take the edge off.

“Good boy. Pretend it’s my hand. Touch yourself the way that I like to.”

How Wriothesley touches him depends on his mood. Sometimes, he wants to drag it out. Those days, he’ll take his sweet time, dragging Neuvillette to the edge over and over before finally letting him slip over the edge. Teasing, lilting touches that alternate between a tight squeeze and a loose hold—those days pull Neuvillette through the wringer. 

But other times they’re a little more desperate. Maybe it’s because they haven’t seen each other. Maybe it’s because they don’t have a lot of time to tug one out, or they’re beaten from the day and too tired to do anything more than a quick but satisfying hand job. 

Tonight… Tonight Neuvillette is bone-weary, but not so much that he wants this over with quickly. There’s an appeal to drawing it out, in being slow and steady, edging himself until he can’t bear it anymore. 

Another soft grunt floats through the phone speaker. Neuvillette hears a soft, wet sound—Wriothesley’s hand on his cock, now slick with lube. He knows that breathy, needy sound. Wriothesley likely won’t last long, not if he’s already struggling to choke off his orgasm. 

“Sweetheart?” 

Right. Right, Neuvillette is supposed to be narrating. “Apologies, beloved, I was thinking.”

“About me, right?”

“About how you’d touch me.” It’s easier now to slip into this role. Once Neuvillette hears Wriothesley's hand working himself over, it’s less embarrassing to be on the other end of it. It emboldens him, makes him want to lean into the play, if only to hear what Wriothesley sounds like the moment that he comes. 

Neuvillette thumbs at the tip of his own cock, dragging it across the slit where precome wells. “Would you handle me slowly?” he continues, amusement lilting his voice. “You love to do that, to pull me to the edge over and over until I feel as though I might die.”

“I—”

“Ever so appealing. I wouldn’t entertain the thought if I didn’t equally love it. But other times…other times you’re quicker, faster. We don’t have enough time to truly indulge in those moments, so it’s hot and sordid, just your hand on my cock, desperate to wring it dry.”

Wriothesley sucks in a breath. A moan flutters from his mouth, and Neuvillette can imagine it, him—Wriothesley, lying in the bed, head tipped back, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Pulling at his cock, trying to distract himself, writhing about to prevent from tipping over too soon. 

"You're killing me here. You—you’re—”

“You asked for this,” Neuvillette reminds him. “You wanted to know what I was thinking—”

“No, I wanted to know how you’re touching yourself so I could guide you. Instead, you gave me the opening statement to a court proceeding.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?” It’s rather bold of Neuvillette to ask. These are the sorts of things that Wriothesley whispers into his ear, and rarely the other way around. But the separation between them, the fact that this is over the phone… Neuvillette knows that words matter here, and Wriothesley cannot and will not be able to withstand his dirty talk. 

And that is what sets Neuvillette’s gut alight. He gives himself a stroke, squeezing around the head. His hands aren’t calloused like Wriothesley's; they don’t offer the same type of friction, but oh, it’s still good. Divine, really. If Neuvillette were to close his eyes, it’s easy to imagine that it’s Wriothesley touching him instead. 

“If it would help,” murmurs Neuvillette, sinking deeper into that worn leather couch, “please know that I am, certainly, touching myself. My hands are softer than yours, and while it isn’t the same, it’s—”

Close enough to dream. Neuvillette strokes himself once, twice, with that heavy-handed squeeze that Wriothesley favors when they have to get off quickly. “I’ve memorized that way you touch me. It’s close enough to imagine that you’re here.”

“Tell me, sweetheart. Please, tell me.”

So Neuvillette does. He licks his hand, wetting it to make the glide easier. “The head,” he whispers, lost in that burning heat, in the pleasure that throbs in his gut, “I’m so wet at the tip. My cock aches. It twitches in my palm, beloved. I—”

“Fuck,” hisses Wriothesley. His hand moves faster—Neuvillette can hear it—and judging by the way that Wriothesley trips up on the curse and how his breath hitches, he must be close. 

“Beloved, what of you? Tell me, what are you thinking? How are you touching yourself? I can only paint half of a picture.”

“Hah, that’s—” Another strangled moan that sounds suspiciously like Neuvillette’s given name. A pause as Wriothesley gathers himself. “All I can think about is how good you always feel. How good you are to me, how good you sound. I wish I could watch. I wish I could see you touch yourself. I wish I was there. I wish—” He cuts himself off and chuckles. “I don’t think my hand’s moved so quickly in a long time, sweetheart. Every stroke, and all I’m thinking about is how I wish it was you, instead.”

Yes, yes, this Neuvillette understands. His own cock twitches against this palm, nothing but a dribbling mess. “I’d prefer having you inside. I’m empty, husband. I’m so empty, and it’s—”

Never enough. Never, never enough. Neuvillette moans as he squeezes at his length, trying his best to nurture that heat, to cultivate that pleasure into something sharper, hotter, meaningful. 

Wriothesley will be home before either of them know it. They’ll get their hands on each other and—

“Sweetheart, I’m—”

His voice, that deep timbre whispering filth as if his mouth was right there, near Neuvillette’s ear. As if there weren't a thousand miles between them, as if they weren't time zones apart. Neuvillette thinks of that first night on camera together. That night, he was done for. Only Wriothesley can elicit a response like this.

“A little more, beloved. I need just a little more, and then we can—together.”

Wriothesley moans, low and deep. “Okay, let it be known, I’m dying here. I’m close. What else do you need? What can I do?”

“Be here,” muses Neuvillette a little bitterly. “I already told you what I need, though. I’m empty, Wriothesley. What I would give to have your fingers spreading me open. What I’d do to come on your cock instead.”

“Fuck, that’s—more of that. Please.”

Neuvillette never shucked off his pants entirely, so he shifts, kicking them off entirely for better access. Now, he can spread his thighs wider. Now, he has a better reach. One hand still holds his cock. The other slides down, down. Fingers ghost his balls, the smoothness of his taint; lower until he reaches the cleft of his ass.

“I want…”

“Are you going to open yourself up? Are you going to pretend it's me? That I’m there?”

Neuvillette makes an aching, needy sound as a finger pulls across his rim. “No,” he says. “No, I’d rather wait. Wouldn’t that be divine? I’m denying myself this pleasure until you come back to me, husband.”

“Sweetheart—”

“But the thought of it,” interrupts Neuvillette, his fingers still pressed against his entrance as a teasing weight. Just enough to drive that fantasy, to make him mad with want. His other hand moves, stroking his cock harder, faster. “Your fingers are perfect, beloved. Mine do not compare. Nothing does, and so I’d rather wait. Touching just my cock is enough for now.”

The palm of Neuvillette’s hand pulls across the head of his cock, smearing precome everywhere. “Gods,” he mutters, utterly lost in the feel of it. “Archons, Wriothesley, I—”

“Go on, sweetheart. I want to hear it. Come for me, yeah? That’s all I need. I’m close too, so give that to me. That’s all I’ll need to be right there with you.”

Oh. Oh, that’s—

Neuvillette tenses, all that pleasure coming to a head. It coils tighter and tighter, driven by Wriothesley's addicting tone. 

“Fuck, listen to you. Like that, just like that. Does it feel good?”

“Yes, yes, it’s—” 

“I wish I were there.”

“Soon,” replies Neuvillette. “A matter of days, beloved, and then I can touch you again. You can touch me. We can—” He chokes off a moan as he squeezes his cock. 

Heat crashes over Neuvillette. That tension snaps, pleasure flooding his veins as he comes all over his hand. What a mess, wet and sticky, pulsing in streams. Neuvillette moans, sweat beading along his brow, as that warmth slows, syrupy and sweet, pooling throughout his being. 

And Wriothesley—Oh, Wriothesley. He moans too, no doubt caught by the sound of Neuvillette’s orgasm crashing through him. The wet glide of Wriothesley’s hand seems louder, punctuated by a breathy hiss of Neuvillette’s name. He’s equally gone. Lost to the sauce, as Navia likes to say. Neuvillette can tell the moment that he falls over the edge with a drawn-out, low moan and the way that his hand stops moving. 

It’s in that moment that Neuvillette thinks of another thing: those early days, when they would send each other ill-advised, sordid photos. How many times had he woken up to a text showing off Wriothesley's generous cock, glistening at the tip?

Neuvillette looks at his own hand, which is smothered in his spend. What would Wriothesley do at such a sight? Neuvillette says, “A moment, beloved,” before taking hold of his phone to snap a picture, showing off his still half-hard cock and come-splattered fingers. It takes nothing to send it, just the press of a button. 

Another curse drips from Wriothesley's mouth, which makes a smile curl across Neuvillette’s face. 

“Delicious,” says Wriothesley. “I wish I could get a taste.” Because he would. Gods, he’d devour him and clean up the mess if he had the chance. Then, he’d probably rouse Neuvillette’s cock again and demand another round. 

“When you’re back, then. You can taste me however you want.”

Things fall quiet, then. Neuvillette basks in the afterglow of his orgasm and the knowledge that Wriothesley had been just as needy.

“Better?” asks Wriothesley when he finally finds himself again. 

“Mhmn, yes.” Neuvillette is relaxed now, loose-limbed and satisfied enough that he’ll be able to turn down for the night without much effort. Still, he’s a little lonely. Their home is so quiet without Wriothesley crashing around, dropping things, and making a mess with his mildly clumsy self. 

“Are you still on the couch?”

“It’s comfy enough.”

“Sure, but I need you to clean yourself up for me, sweetheart.”

That strikes a chord. The first time they did this, Wriothesley had coaxed him the same way, pulling Neuvillette from that sweet high and making sure that he didn’t fall asleep as a crusted mess. 

Neuvillette doesn’t immediately answer, which prompts Wriothesley to continue. “Knowing you, you didn’t even undress. Go strip and wash up, Neuvillette. You can keep me on the phone.”

“But the time difference—”

“Won’t matter for another twenty minutes. I’m not there to take care of you, so you have to do it yourself.”

Neuvillette grunts but sits up, knowing that Wriothesley is correct. If he falls asleep like this, he’ll wake up with an aching back. He forces himself to move, his muscles protesting. At his soft groan, Wriothesley laughs. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let’s get you into bed.”

True to his word, Wriothesley stays on the phone the entire time as Neuvillette strips the day from himself. He washes up quickly and pulls on a pair of Wriothesley's pajamas. They’re too big on his slender frame, but they’re soft and comfortable, and they're his husband’s. 

Gods, he misses him. Wriothesley cannot come home soon enough. 

“The bed is empty,” he mutters once settled into the sheets. “And cold.”

“Trust me, I’d rather be there. This hotel bed is hard and lumpy.” 

That brings laughter to Neuvillette’s mouth.

“Just a few more days. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Hm, I know. I was just…”

Needy. So, so needy, and overwhelmed with desire the moment he heard Wriothesley's voice. Truly, it takes so little for Neuvillette to slip—but, now, he feels better, more relaxed, and at peace with Wriothesley's quiet murmur humming in his ear. The tinny quality of the call is no replacement for having Wriothesley in the flesh, but it’s a close second. Better than nothing. 

“No need to explain. I… I get it. I understand.” A pause. “It helped?”

“I fear that I want you more now. But yes, it is…manageable.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better, that picture is going to do me in. How am I supposed to last a few more days with that image at my fingertips? I’m going to be thinking about it at work.”

Neuvillette buries his face in Wriothesley's pillow, breathing in the lingering smell of his preferred aftershave. “It was a spur-of-the-moment idea.”

“I’m not complaining, sweetheart. I can never have enough for the spank bank.”

“Wriothesley!” hisses Neuvillette, affronted. 

“What a mess you made,” Wriothesley continues to tease.

The conversation shifts after that, easing into something softer, more relaxed. They chatter about their day until Neuvillette lolls about in a light doze. He realizes, belatedly, that Wriothesley has fallen quiet to his monologuing. 

“Wriothesley?” 

Silence, and then—a soft snore. 

Neuvillette huffs, a broad smile finding his face. It’s usually him that falls asleep on their calls to the sound of Wriothesley's voice. Judging by his described day, though, Wriothesley was exhausted before Neuvillette ever called him. How lucky he is to have been indulged despite that. 

“Beloved, I love you,” he says quietly. “Rest well.” 

It hurts to hang up the call, but Neuvillette ends it. His thumb hovers over his phone screen, another idea burning through him. He’d taken another picture earlier, in the bathroom—one of him in Wriothesley's sleepwear, loose around his form. Only the top, which meets his mid-thigh, shoving off the curve of his ass when posed facing the side. 

He had the thought to send it to Wriothesley in the morning, a pointed attack meant to drive Wriothesley mad all day. 

Instead, he sends it now. 

Wriothesley wipes away the water that drips from his brow. 

Turning his face to the downcast sky, he chuckles softly. The gray clouds are soggy with his mate’s despair, and no, it isn’t funny—but Wriothesley cannot help the warmth that curdles through his gut at the pining. To be so old, to have spent so long together, and see that Neuvillette still feels this way about him…there’s a selfish glee to it. 

Wriothesley's work keeps him away. He could retire, he could leave the safety of Fontaine to his peers but—

Well, idle hands and idle minds. Wriothesley has and will never do well as a kept man. But for all that he roams; for all that shines chivalrous in his actions, he never truly feels until he’s back home and in the arms of his mate. 

Neuvillette can be lonely, the rain falling from the sky testament to that. But that rain is also an oath, the very same oath that Neuvillette muttered when sharing his vows. 

For when you are far from me, beloved, you can always feel my presence in the rain.

Wriothesley holds his hand out. The water he cups is cool against his skin and familiar, as it carries Neuvillette’s power. A mottled scar where his neck meets his shoulders itches underneath his leathers. This rain means love, and Wriothesley is more than welcome to soak it up, to wash himself in it. 

Perhaps he should. Shed his armor for a rinse in the storm, and then tuck away into a quiet cave to oil his leathers and whet his sword. It’s time to head east and then north. The call of his mate pulses in his throat, his ears, and heats his gut.

“Soon, sweetheart,” Wriothesley murmurs to himself. “Soon I’ll be—”

There is a cry of distress from just beyond the nearby swell of land. Wriothesley barely hears it over the din of the rain, but he catches the tail end of it—a sharp, distinctly feminine sound of agony. 

The rain is forgotten. His love and his mate are forgotten as his knightly vows slip into place instead. With a hand on the pommel of his sword, Wriothesley sweeps through the rain, sodden and soaked, until he finds a woman stuck in a marshy bog. Her leg is caught. She yanks, wrenching at it to no avail. In her flailing, she finally catches sight of him through a narrowed gaze. 

“Sir knight! Help, I’m—”

Wriothesley wades through the sea of grass. He nearly slips too, his boot sinking into the slick mud at the edge of the pond. Up close, it’s less of a bog, the water clearer than he expected. But with the rain, and the foliage thick around them, it comes as no wonder the woman found herself caught. 

“Stop moving,” he says, pulling at his sword belt. “It’ll just weigh you down. This doesn’t look deep, but the more you struggle, the harder it’ll pull at you.” His leathers fall to the ground next, leaving Wriothesley in only his trousers and an old, dubiously soiled shirt. The less he wears, the easier it’ll be to move about the woman and yank her out. 

She does as he says, her round face shocked with fear. This, thinks Wriothesley as he wades into the pond, is exactly why he still holds his mantle, why he cannot sit home alone with empty hands, and his sword hanging on the wall. Who would have been here to save this woman, if not him?

The closer he gets, though, the stranger this situation seems. The pond water is crystal clear. Mud doesn’t cling to his boots, though the lakebed is soft underfoot. And the woman—she’s small with a round face and a pert little nose, but it’s like the edges of her are blurred. 

The instinct to turn away comes far too late. Wriothesley let his chivalrous need get in the way of his well-practiced restraint. Once within an arm’s length, the woman’s arm lashes out, sharp nails sinking into the meat of his forearm. 

“Sir Wriothesley,” she greets, giving him a wide, feral grin. And then she yanks, and yanks, and yanks—and Wriothesley tumbles into the water down, down, down.

There is no rain down here, only the wet murky depths of the Underwater. Neuvillette’s lingering presence in the back of his mind has been muted, almost completely shuttered. Wriothesley drowns, the loss of that cleaving through him. 

His last thought is, hysterically, just how stupid he was to fall for the oldest trick in the Archonsdamned book.

#

To He Who Stole My Throne,

I already see it—the way that your face is scrunched right up. You will frown as you read this, and then you will say that you’ve only taken back what is rightfully yours, but that is just it, Monsieur Neuvillette: what you claim as your own has never been yours, either. 

What of long-dead dragons? You are not the first Sovereign, nor the last. Celestia stole that power, and it was granted to me, and for what—for you to usurp it yourself? Tsk, tsk, Monsieur Neuvillette. I hope that you have enjoyed watching Fontaine from your perch in the Court. 

You, no doubt, are begging the question of Why is She Who has Been Banished writing me a letter?

It is a simple matter, my dear Iudex. I have always liked games, which annoyed you quite so when you were still my Chief Justice. I have missed our quarrels. I have missed our friendship. I am lonely, Monsieur Neuvillette, and it pains me to see others so stricken with adoration and affection, to see them swathed in the riches of love.

So, I have stolen away Sir Wriothesley. It was quite simple, really. Your little guard dog cannot resist a damsel in distress, and so he fell right into my trap. 

If you wish to retrieve your little pet, you must follow the rules. Three trials, Monsieur Neuvillette, no more, no less. You must pass three trials of my choosing, and then you can leash your little dog and lead him back home. Otherwise, he will live out his days here, with me and my kin in the Underwater.

Tick tick, Monsieur. I know that you are rarely late to meetings, but this time around, you’re already behind.

Mistress Furina, 

Sorceress of the Underwater

The parchment dampens in Neuvillette’s palm, curling in on itself until it melts away into nothing but limp, soggy bits. He flicks his hands, flinging the mess aside.

Clorinde watches from his left, hand on the hilt of her rapier even though he is the only threat within the entirety of the Court. She hesitates, lips parting slightly, throat bobbing. It is a long stretch before Clorinde manages to break the silence. 

“Is it… Did Wriothesley write?”

Ah. There are two people who send such informal missives: one is a beleaguered old dragon beyond the border and in Liyue, and Wriothesley himself. This parchment was homespun and crinkled, likely stolen from Wriothesley's knapsack to prove a point. 

“No.” Neuvillette sighs, dragging a hand through his long hair, making a mess of his complicated updo. “Wriothesley has…” 

Neuvillette has never once considered that another might view his mate as a weakness. Wriothesley is a man of his own. He is strong, handsome, and takes care of himself, but he has a bleeding heart, whereas Neuvillette is a little more callous, a little more… 

He doesn’t quite understand the need of helping others to the tune of Wriothesley's chivalrous nature, but that is where the attraction first started. Neuvillette wanted to know, and over the years he has come to care for his people in his own way. Wriothesley, though—no, Wriothesley must take up his sword, must be an active participant, must get his hands dirty, and see those callouses left in a day’s good work for it to mean something. 

His mate—

Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? Wriothesley might be his mate, and Clorinde might know that, but to the Court and the general public, Wriothesley is viewed as mainly a strange and provocative interest of their Sovereign’s. Eventually, Neuvillette will lose interest. Eventually, the man will be left to finally grow old as Neuvillette’s attention turns to the next new and shiny thing. They’re wrong, of course. Neuvillette would never. He is a dragon, not a crow, and though he hoards what he loves, it has little to do with being the next new thing, and everything to do with just being Wriothesley.

Mistress Furina would not know. She is like everyone else, and thinks that Wriothesley is just a toy to be broken.

“My mate has been kidnapped, it seems.”

Clorinde’s brow rises straight to her hairline in surprise. “Your Highness—”

“Mistress Furina wishes to play a game,” continues Neuvillette. “Those were her parting words in this letter. I must complete three trials to get him back.” He pauses then and laughs, a dark, heady chuckle that sounds distinctly inhuman. “She is mistaken to think that this is a game. Wriothesley is no toy; he is my husband, my beloved mate. She has stolen part of my hoard.”

Clorinde stiffens and swallows. “Shall I rally a company?”

Neuvillette hums, considering this, but then replies, “No.” His mouth curls into an amused tilt. “Not that I think Wriothesley is incapable…but there is a sort of pleasure in being the knight in dashing armor.”

“Truthfully, I cannot imagine you in armor.” Clorinde knows that she is allowed the latitude of speaking freely in his presence, and her tease does well to lighten the tense mood. 

They stand on the balcony of his throne room. The once bright blue sky darkens, and a mist takes shape into a storm, wetting the air. 

“Leathers are uncomfortable,” he admits. “But, anything for my Wriothesley. Hold down the fort whilst I’m gone, Clorinde. I do not think it will be for long.”

Clorinde nods, giving him a salute, her mouth twisted into a wry smile.

#

Here, there is no rain, just the rank smell of rusted metal and mildew. Mist still clings to Neuvillette. With a wave of his hand, the water collects at his fingertips, then drips to the ground, feeding the withered plants that pockmark the chamber. 

“I never took you for a gardener, Monsieur,” greets Furina, her sharp voice cutting through the stagnant air.

Neuvillette stills. He is calm and cautious, but alert. He knows that voice like the back of his hand, and though he wants to bare his teeth, he forces himself to play nice. 

“Mistress Furina,” he greets, lifting his face. She’s perched high on a gnarled tree branch just to the left, one leg resting over the other. Furina watches him like a hawk, eyes narrowly slitted. “To what do I owe this great displeasure?”

She huffs at that, her pert nose turned upwards. Loose ringlets hang around her shoulders and neck, dusting the rest of her thin frame. Her clothing is grand—as grand as any Archon can manage—and crisply tailored to the nines. Ruffles and frills, a tightly laced bodice, and a stiff, high-necked collar—it’s a wonder the woman can breathe. 

“Can’t a woman seek out an old friend?”

“We aren’t friends,” he says. “You’ve stolen my partner.”

Furina clicks her tongue. “So distrustful.”

Neuvillette arches an eyebrow. It’s been an eon, at least, since they last came across each other. “Do you not remember your last visit to the Court of Fontaine?”

Furina’s expression shifts ever-so-slightly, the skin around her eyes creasing. But, like Wriothesley, she’s learned the tricks and the trade. Professionalism is paramount, and even though she is a now disgraced Archon, she still remembers how to play the part. 

Visiting, perhaps, is not the right word. It was Furina who took up residence in the Court of Fontaine, parading herself after being gifted the power of the Sovereigns by Celestia.

“I do remember losing my home—”

“To its rightful heir.”

“Who is rather rude when it comes to transfers of power. Truly, Monsieur Neuvillette, for an—”

“You are the usurper.” He pauses. “Were. I thought we were past this, Mistress Furina.”

Furina’s mouth ticks downward on one end. “Semantics,” she replies. “At the end of the day, it’s all semantics. How was I supposed to know that Focalors had a grand scheme against me? Where’s the loyalty nowadays?”

Neuvillette could say a lot about loyalty. Loyalty is bitten into his skin and lurks in the back of his brain. He feels it in his hands and even tastes it in the rain. He doesn’t need to tell her these things, though. His wild romance with his precious knight is well-penned on paper, and has even inspired books. 

“I am here to collect Wriothesley.”

Furina’s grin is a smart, twisted thing. “I knew that you wouldn’t be able to resist. Have you missed me that much?”

“I miss my—”

“Yes, yes, you miss your little pet.”

Neuvillette’s jaw tenses, but it would do him no good to refute her. No, the knowledge that Wriothesley is his mate is Neuvillette’s pocket ace, ready to be revealed when she least expects it. For now, he will play her damned game.

“The rules?”

Furina holds up three fingers. “For you, Monsieur Neuvillette, I have three trials and only one rule, which is that you cannot attack me directly. How you choose to win these trials is up to you. You are a clever man, and I’m sure that you will need clever answers to win your little knightling back.”

It is then that Neuvillette realizes Furina thinks that she has an advantage here. What a fool. If she knew the depths of his bond with Wriothesley, of that mark notched into his neck, of the years they spent together raising a family and living for each other, she would reconsider. 

Neuvillette takes a moment to feel for their bond. It’s dull, but not quite lifeless. There’s a tiny, quaking pulse in the back of his head, a soft fluttering of Wriothesley's consciousness. He’s safe, relatively unharmed, just weak and tired. 

Relief washes over him. Neuvillette turns to Furina, stiff-backed and severe, and says, “Then let the games begin.”

The moment he says this, Furina’s mouth warps into a wicked, cruel smile, and the world around him melts away, leaving him to fall, fall, fall into a fathomless dark.

#

Time shifts, and Neuvillette finds himself unsteady on his feet. 

“Our first little game is admittedly silly, one more of chance than not.” Furina’s voice is a buzz against his ear like an annoying gnat. “Take a look at those before you and tell me, Monsieur, which is the one who belongs to you?”

This place is bright—brighter than the depths of the Underwater. Meropide was once a prison, and now houses Furina and the outcasts that followed her to the Below. This place, though—this place smells of leaves and fresh flora. The air is clean, and the sky is bright, not a cloud in the sky. 

A dream, he thinks. Or a nightmare, depending. Neuvillette—

No, no, Neuvillette will win these bouts and bring his mate home. There is no room for failure, not that he thinks he will. There are books published and words spun of how true love can conquer all, and until this point, Neuvillette has never quite understood what that might mean. But as he steps into these trials, as he takes a look at what awaits him, a wry little smile graces his face. 

Furina thinks that she will win, but she will not because she cannot fathom the bond that he and Wriothesley have shared for so long. 

Before Neuvillette are three beings who bear no resemblance to his mate. An old man, bent over and stooped, eyes crusted with decay, and knobbly hands creaking as they hold onto a cane. A young, tart woman with full lips and a crooked smile, hair pulled back into a braid, tied with a neat blue ribbon at the end. A dog, its charcoal coat gleaming in the sunlight, and a tail that wags at the mere sight of him. 

None of these are his mate. Neuvillette knows instantly. Can feel it in his bones. Wriothesley pulls at him instinctively, and none of these creatures bear any of that weight. 

Furina wouldn’t lie, but she would stretch the truth. This trial seems easy on the surface, but there is more to it, something not so easily gleaned at first glance. Take a look at those before you, she’d said—but she didn’t say just how many that might be.

Neuvillette tilts his head. He sniffs, and smells—ah. Tea and leather oil. A musk tinge that belongs to one man alone, but it does not come from either of the three obvious choices before him. And the irony isn’t lost on him. It is usually Wriothesley who is compared to a dog, a pet on a leash, and other hurtful words from those who do not understand. But Neuvillette’s nose is strong. He’s spent days and nights with his face tucked against Wriothesley's nape, breathing in the smell of him, committing it to memory. 

His nose brings him forward, step-by-step, until his heeled boots hit a puddle on the ground. Neuvillette stills. His gaze tips down to find a rather ugly toad, its throat billowing as it breathes. 

Neuvillette kneels and holds his hand out, warmth filling him as the toad hops into his palm. “A cruel joke,” he says to Furina, standing straight, “to turn my beloved into something so foul. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

He gets no moment with Wriothesley, though. His mate poofs away in a puff of smoke, leaving Neuvillette’s hand bare. The space twists, melting away for a second time, leaving Neuvillette dizzy and off-kilter.

“Don’t mock me,” says Furina. Her tone is pinched, annoyed. “I think that warts rather suit him, don’t you? Which brings upon the second round of fun.”

There is no darkness this time, just a dizzying array of swirling colors before they knit back together. This time, the scenery looks and feels like the countryside, just at the edge of a beach on Erinnyes. Ocean water laps at his ankles, and his feet sink into wet sand. It is false, though. None of this is real. Neuvillette feels no water, and none of it comes to his command. 

Wriothesley stands before him, tall, wide-shouldered, and so effortlessly handsome. Neuvillette’s gaze rakes over his form, taking in his scars, the curling hair plastered against his brow. Just how long has it been since Wriothesley was last home? Neuvillette missed him, but oh, the hurt of it hits full force in that moment. He wants, needs, to pull his mate close, to hoard him away for at least a decade. 

“Go on, then,” Furina tells him. “Take his hand, and I’ll give you two a moment.”

Neuvillette crosses the distance in an instant, desperate for the feel of him.

Wriothesley chuckles when their hands meet, his warm and calloused fingers pulling at Neuvillette’s gloves. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, tugging Neuvillette closer by the curve of his wrist—

But then Wriothesley is gone, and in his place is that gnarled old man from moments before. 

“Do not let go of him, Monsieur,” cackles Furina, amused as that old man shifts, as his skin begins to bubble and boil. “Whatever you do, do not let go of Sir Wriothesley, or you just might lose him forever.”

“Sweetheart,” hisses the old man—Wriothesley, thinks Neuvillette instead. He still smells of him, of that well-known bergamot that usually seeps from his pores, not the reddened and cracking skin Neuvillette sees instead, or the pus-filled sores that blister across the old man’s body. 

Then the flesh melts further. Skin withdraws, melting away, leaving nothing but muscle and sinew, and then dry and brittle bone. Those bones crack and crumble—but still, Neuvillette holds on, grasping a dead and decayed hand. 

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” asked Wriothesley once, a stupid, stupid question that he’d caught wind of after listening to one of their sons poke fun at his wife. 

There’s a worm now, in his palm. It smells of the earth, of leather, of citrus, and the fresh crispness of his Cryo Vision. Neuvillette would love Wriothesley no matter his form, be it old and infirm, blistered and ill, or dead and decayed in the ground. Neuvillette lives and breathes this man, his beloved mate, and there isn’t a shape that Wriothesley could take that would make Neuvillette love him less.

“Beloved,” he says, tipping his face close as that worm grows and grows, melting, morphing into something else—a spider, a roach, a half-rotted and spoiled banana, a—

Furina must find no fun in a man who has no qualms because, again, Wriothesley disappears from his immediate space. 

This time, it is quiet. The scene morphs into something darker, like the shade of twilight, the sky brushed in the soft navy of dusk. There is a village bathed in the low light of streetlamps flickering with Pyro. 

“How flattering.” Her whispers are closer this time, a hair's breadth from the pointed tip of Neuvillette’s ear. “Amused by Sir Wriothesley, I knew, but I did not realize that you loved him so. What will the others think? The Hydro Sovereign taking a partner with such intent? Monsieur, surely you realize the danger that this puts him in.”

A poisonous feeling curdles Neuvillette’s stomach. What could Furina be planning for the final trial? She will stay true to her word, but she is a wild and conniving thing driven by loneliness. They used to play these sorts of mind games, what-ifs, and thought problems back when she held him below her thumb. 

Back then he thought that’s where he belonged; he had thought the Sovereigns bequeathed their power willingly, not that it was snatched away in the wake of their death. Eons ago, he was a young and naive fool, but now, now, Neuvillette has a reason to live, to be more, to wield the power that is his birthright.

“Hide him. Hide this man you claim to love, for won’t your attention only put a target on his back?”

Oh. Oh, this is—

Wriothesley appears beside him, clad in his plain trousers and a shirt that’s seen better days.

“The village people are not kind to what they don’t know,” says Furina. “Untold magics. Dragons and knights—just what sort of creature bewitches the most Sovereign of all?”

Furina is jealous. This is jealousy, Neuvillette realizes. Furina is lonesome down here in the Underwater, and she is jealous of their bond, of their closeness, of the fact that Neuvillette will never be alone. 

“You’ve made a mistake,” he tells her, “in thinking that I fear for Wriothesley’s life.”

“Neuvillette?”

Wriothesley's questioning plea of his name is ignored. Instead, Neuvillette stares into the space, uncaring of the shouts of fake men, of the threats of burning and pitchforks. 

“Monsieur,” taunts Furina, “you’re running out of time. Think of the mistake that you’re about to make.” She reappears, sitting on nothing in the air, one leg crossed over the other, elbow against her thigh, and chin resting on her knuckles. 

Neuvillette bristles at her blatant tease, but it quickly smooths out. Time to play that ace in his pocket, time to turn the tables. He’s entertained Furina’s games for far too long. “And what of the mistake that you’ve made, Mistress Furina? Surely you don’t think you can toy with the mate of a Sovereign and come away unscathed?”

The villagers in this dream march down the path to where they stand near the ocean. Shouts ring out through the night, but Neuvillette’s attention is on Furina and Wriothesley alone. 

“Beloved,” he says. Neuvillette holds out a hand blindly but doesn’t need to look—no, he always knows where Wriothesley is because he feels it through the carefully tempered bond they share. 

Furina watches as their hands meet, fingers curling around each other, locking together intimately, as if made to do that alone. “Sweetheart,” Wriothesley says, stepping closer, laughing at the absurdity of this entire situation. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, but these games, and Mistress Furina—”

“Quiet,” says Neuvillette, dipping forward to press their foreheads together. Wriothesley's weight is welcome. Neuvillette is complete like this, pressed together, soaking up his scent as a hand trails up Wriothesley’s hip, his side, over the length of his shoulder. “Let me enjoy this, you. I’ve missed you, beloved.”

“Tick, tick,” reminds Furina as those shouts come closer.

But Neuvillette doesn’t care. He purrs as he drags his nose down the fine arch of Wriothesley's face, and across days-old stubble that scratches Neuvillette’s delicate skin. He isn’t close enough. Neuvillette needs more, needs to prove to the world that he isn’t a pet, or a little guard dog. He tugs at Wriothesley's shirt collar, pulling it open and loose, dragging it down one shoulder to reveal a deep-seated scar notched into Wriothesley's nape. 

Furina pales at the sight of it.

Neuvillette presses his thumb to those teeth marks, his claw catching against the gnarled mess of skin he left behind centuries, eons ago. 

“My beloved mate,” he whispers. “My other half, my one and only. You know that you carry my power. You know that these fools would only fear you as they fear me. Bewitched, she’d teased—yes, I suppose so. But if I am a man bewitched, I am happy to have been such a fool to tie myself to you.”

The crux of Neuvillette’s power has branded Wriothesley's skin in such a way that even these mimics made of Furina’s power recognize it. She utilizes Hydro herself, and what is Neuvillette but the Sovereign of all water? She can feel and see Neuvillette’s claim as clear as day.

The mimics bow in reverence with one severe look of Neuvillette’s narrowed gaze, tumbling to the ground in a shower of puddles. Furina gapes. She babbles, her words incessantly annoying. 

“I—oh, I didn’t realize. I didn’t—Monsieur—”

Neuvillette could strike her down, but Wriothesley stills him with a gentle touch against his wrist. “Cut her a little slack, would you? She meant no harm.”

“She stole you from me. She threatened to imprison you here for all eternity—”

“And you go stir-crazy too when I’m gone for too long.”

Neuvillette does not appreciate his baser instincts being called out so crassly, but Wriothesley is not incorrect; Neuvillette has been known to do silly, stupid things when feeling particularly bereft.

He sighs. Thumbs over the arch of Wriothesley's cheek, and then that small scar underneath his left eye. “You are the better half,” admits Neuvillette. “And frankly, I would rather be done with this so I can steal you back home.”

“She’s a kid—”

“I’m older than you,” interrupts Furina, rather rudely. She shrinks back when they turn their gazes back to her. “And I’m—I’m—”

An apology is on the tip of her tongue, but instead of forcing it out, she evaporates into thin air, taking the space they occupy with her. 

Neuvillette and Wriothesley tumble, shocked by the change of scenery, sprawling about on frigid, wet ground. “Sand,” hisses Neuvillette. “I hate sand. It gets everywhere, and it—”

His mouth snaps shut as he turns, finding Wriothesley on his back, hiding laughter. Neuvillette leans close, the angle awkward, his hair damp and sticking to his brow. He must look a mess. Feels worse, exhaustion tugging at his bones. 

Wriothesley just lies there on the beach, regarding him with a warmth that could thaw the most frozen peaks of Snezhnaya. “My hero,” he teases.

“Beloved.”

“My knight in shining armor—”

“Wriothesley.” He did not wear armor, which had nothing to do with Clorinde’s tease and everything to do with ease of movement.

“Did you enjoy being the one to rescue me?” Wriothesley gives him an insufferable grin, the one that still makes Neuvillette’s chest tighten. “It was nice being the damsel in distress for once.”

“Ridiculous,” says Neuvillette. “What could have possibly happened for you to find yourself in such a spot?”

Wriothesley doesn’t answer, he just reaches up and tugs at Neuvillette’s cravat. “Sweetheart, I love you.”

Eons together, and those are the three words that will still do Neuvillette in. The bond between them sears, hot and flushed, desperate for more. But not here. Later, he thinks. 

“You are my other half,” says Neuvillette instead, willing his need away for the time being. He thumbs over Wriothesley's mating mark with a tender touch, fingers dipping into his shirt collar. “Only you, Wriothesley. Always you.”

Wriothesley calls him by his given name, a quiet, barely-there whisper hidden by the clap of the ocean against the shore. And then: “I smell like shit, but can I get a kiss?”

Phainon stirs, just barely. Still dozes, his face buried against the back of Mydei’s neck, but his cock twitches, filling out more, and oh, what a way to wake up. Mydei’s own length hardens, resting against his thigh. 

They’d been indulging more, lately. Whatever this is; a relationship, for sure, but one without a title, or name. Phainon is—

(His person. That’s it, isn’t it? Mydei collects many people quietly, but Phainon is different. Phainon just is. Ever-present, a part of him, wholly, instinctually. He goes to sleep to the thought of him, wakes up to—)

Well. Mydei’s mouth curls slightly with that thought. Wakes up to many things, like Phainon’s cock settled deep inside of him. Again, Mydei wriggles his hips gently to ease the pressure rising inside him. 

A hand catches against Mydei’s waist, squeezing tightly. Cold fingers with callused pads dig into the soft flesh there. “Mydeimos,” is Phainon’s raspy murmur, still half-asleep as he shifts against Mydei’s back. He’s the only one allowed to call him that, who says it with reverence and awe, not as a curse, and the moment it’s muttered against his neck, Mydei finds himself melting.

He wants more; more of this syrupy sweetness, of this laziness on a cold, early morning. A pocket of time, just for the two of them. Warm, soft sheets, drenched in their smell, in them. 

Mydei tilts his hips for a better angle. Slides along the length of Phainon’s cock, delighting in how he fills out, his erection full and hard. Like that, he thinks. Just like that. He’s too stubborn to say such a thing aloud, but Phainon knows, he must. Mydei doesn’t grind against anyone. He lets only Phainon bed him, so—

“Mydei.” This time, Phainon gasps his name, awareness falling over him. Nails dig into the sharp jut of Mydei’s hip. A gentle thrust has Phainon’s cock carving through his insides. “I—you—” Another soft groan chasing a sleepy rut against Mydei’s ass. 

Each movement is slow and languid. Savoring. Phainon must still be half-dozing, acting mostly on instinct as he rocks against Mydei’s backside. A sigh against the back of his neck. A thumb, tracing the edge of Mydei’s hip bone with sleepy sluggishness.

Mydei could come like this, from the pressure of Phainon’s cock thick in his ass, and the languid rocks that carve a space deep inside of him. He nearly touches himself—nearly—but no, no this is perfect.

Phainon is not unaware, but his brain hasn’t fully caught up with the rest of him, no doubt chasing Mydei’s heat in a middling half-dream. But the way that he says Mydei’s name, the way that he mouths at the back of his neck, at how he pulls ever-so-slightly at his hips—

A gasp against Mydei’s neck. A sharper, heavy thrust of his cock, and a shuddering moan of his name shocks Mydei to the core. Then, a hiss, a curse. “Fuck, this—you’re—”

Mydei cants against him. Snaps his hips back to drive Phainon’s cock deeper. 

“What a way to wake up,” says Phainon. “Titans, ah, you’re—” 

Phainon spills the moment awareness catches up with him. A whimper of Mydei’s name drips off his tongue. A few more stuttering thrusts, this time the angle right, and Kephale above, Mydei’s chasing that high just as easily, his cock twitching as he paints the inside of his thigh white. 

A chuckle against his neck. Another kiss, this one biting, teasing, as Phainon’s teeth catch against the skin there. Then he buries his nose into Mydei’s sweaty nape because in the aftermath of their lazy fucking, the room is too warm. 

Silence settles, stretches. 

“You’re too good to me,” murmurs Phainon when it becomes unbearable. “I know that we agreed on... I know that this was okay, but couldn’t you wake me up? It’s embarrassing to finish so quickly.”

Mydei snorts. “One and done?” 

“No. No, just—”

“The morning is young. The sun isn’t even fully up. There’s time for another.”

Phainon’s hand slides to rest against Mydei’s belly, nails just barely digging into the muscle there. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, as if he isn’t the one thinking about how big his cock is, or just how deep it is when fully nestled. “And unlike you, I can’t come back to life.”

“You’re still hard. Are you saying you’re done?”

“Mydei,” replies Phainon, wholly exasperated.

But Mydei also knows that he can’t turn down a challenge, that the promise of a game is too good to ignore. Not so much a trap, but rather, a calculated strategy—and one that works, because Phainon’s hand slips lower, lower—

Mydei sucks in a breath when Phainon’s fingers sweep through the mess Mydei’s made against the insides of his thighs. “I wonder,” says Phainon, bringing those fingers to Mydei’s mouth, expectant, “just who will last longer this time?”

One way to find out.