The Iudex has no vices.

That’s what the people of Fontaine believe. They’d be very surprised to know of how wrong they were, which is why Neuvillette must guard such secrets with unwavering ferocity.

Especially from you.

You’re very sweet to him. Very understanding. And when he looks at you, he sees a bare neck he wants to bite into. Every part of your skin begs to be marked as his territory. He keeps his office cold sometimes just to see your erect nipples underneath that paper-thin blouse of yours. Imagines running his forked tongue around them and suckling gently. You’re always quite receptive in his imagination.

He doesn’t stare. But when he’s sitting and you’re standing, they’re at eye level, and he can’t be blamed for having an imagination.

And there are your lips, fluttering with words he pays utmost attention to. Or perhaps it’s more of the movement and the sound as opposed to the words. He wishes he could be more attentive, and there’s certainly no honour in his perverse obsession, but he really can’t stop himself. He is both a connoisseur and collector. You are the subject of this.

What you don’t know won’t hurt you. There is a little guilt, Neuvillette supposes, locked in that drawer along with one of your chewed pencils and a wrapper your lips had touched, but he’s always too far gone by the time he opens it to care. A hand ghosting over his crotch, desperately in need of a fix. Not going all the way, not in his office, just something-

But there’s a light knock on the door that can only be you, and he shuts it hurriedly.

“Come in.”

Nobody else would’ve been permitted to knock at this time. Sedene must’ve let you through.

“Are- are you busy?” You say, timidly walking towards his desk and no doubt acknowledging the way he looks startled. “It’s not that important. I hoped you would be on break right now.”

“No,” He replies, pulling papers towards himself in an attempt to imitate normality. “I planned on stopping soon. Perhaps you’d care to join me?”

You perk up a little, much to his delight.

“I’d love to, but first, have you seen my lip balm anywhere? I swear I left it in your office.”

There is a part of him that wants to tell you to wait one moment whilst he fishes it out of his drawer. He is the Iudex. Confronted with probable cause, he absolutely cannot lie.

“I believe I remember you having it, but…”

You put up your hands, perhaps a little ashamed of bothering him over something so trivial. Oh, if only you had dull excuses to come into his office every day.

“Don’t worry about it. It’ll probably reappear.” You laugh, cutting him off.

He’ll buy you a new one. You don’t need to know the motivations behind your loss of it. And you certainly don’t need to know of the rest of his hoard. Tonight, he will selfishly take it out of the drawer and learn what your lips taste like. He will clench his fingers around it and feel a guilt like no other, but for one brief moment, a deep, dark part of him is somewhat fulfilled.

Which is certainly enough reason to do it over and over again.

———

You’ve been having strange dreams as of late. Neuvillette knows this. He just wishes it didn’t mean you started to fear looking him in the eye.

Walking in dreams is trivial for a being as ancient as him.

It’s too tempting to imagine you waking up terrified with a sticky mess between your thighs. Some of the shame of his obsession seeping into you, defiling your body the same way you unknowingly defiled his mind. Tongue running through your folds, your voice ringing through his ears, moving together in harmony until the connection severs and he finds himself abruptly awoken.

He tries not to overdo it, he swears, but his appetite is insatiable.

Not quite ready to subject himself to the very human pain of rejection, he endures every moment he must be apart from you with his unassailable dignity. Though, he is well aware that it isn’t dignified to steal your lipstick-stained tissues, or kiss your knuckles with such ulterior motives, yet he knows how to make it all seem innocuous. When he’s finally running his tongue along the letter seal of your court order, he’ll know the next thing it meets will be the inside of your mouth. By then, it’ll be far too late to escape his clutches.

Your feet skid meaninglessly across the dirt. A dull ache in your back has started to evolve into a more fiery pain that sears up your spine. The skin of your wrists is rubbed raw against the wooden stocks, and the pressure on your throat is nearing unbearable.

Word spreads too fast in this land. The crime of blasphemy is too easy to distort in the first place. And the weather is too cold to do anything meaningful, so everyone huddles indoors and speaks to one another. It’s a perfect concoction for your demise, ignited by one simple ingredient: Father Neuvillette was looking for you.

You’d only tried to leave, to move onto better things. Was leaving such a sin?

He had thought so.

“The dragon sovereign would certainly take great offence to one of his devotees deserting him.” Father Neuvillette had told you, finality lacing his statement.

“He- he would?” You’d asked, in shock at his harsh tone. “Even someone as insignificant as me?”

Then he had softened a little, saying, “You are by no means insignificant. I assure you that your work is both valued and respected. However, if you feel that way, I take no issue with altering your duties…”

When your agreement to this suggestion transformed into being personally involved with all of Neuvillette’s daily affairs, you had grown suspicious. Eventually, you had ran from the beloved Father Neuvillette, fearful of his possessiveness over you. The touches that lingered, the invisible leash he liked to keep on you, and something you couldn’t quite place your finger on- something inhuman.

You didn’t get very far, no, the townspeople were too desperate for his approval. You’d been caught and made to stand in the cold for hours, and some part of you knew that Father Neuvillette was dragging this out on purpose. Perhaps not necessarily out of cruelty, but wanting to prove what you were without him. A filth-ridden sinner, too weak to escape your bonds.

You don’t see the high priest before you hear him. And what you hear is silence.

Everyone around you has fallen quiet. Reverence. The lightest of footsteps make their way towards you, and his robes slowly come into the vision of your downcast eyes.

He breathes out your name in a tone that is almost comforting. The wind lashes against your skin. A hand reaches for your head and you twitch, but it simply runs over your hair. You stare into his polished shoes, making out your sorry reflection, haggard and weary.

“My poor, misguided, little lamb.”

His hand moves to your cheeks, squeezing ever so gently. You could bite his gloved fingers, but the ache in your body is persistently tiring, and it’s so cold.

Biting the hand that feeds you is unimaginable at a time like this. So when he places his hand at your left cheek, caressing it, you lean into the touch.

“You must be tired. Worry not. You’ll be asleep soon.”

In my bed remains unsaid.

You’ve been spat at and stared at and yelled at all day. Father Neuvillette’s words are like a blanket draped across your shoulders.

“I’ve missed you,” He mutters. “You must tell me who laid their filthy hands on you. Some of your bruises appear to be fresh.”

You don’t get the chance to respond verbally or otherwise before he steps away, demanding your release.

With an aching body and teary eyes, you look around at the crowd. Their eyes are still filled with hate. Neuvillette looks the same as he always does, mildly indifferent, though he is intent on holding you close to his body once you’re finally released from the stocks. He cradles the back of your head with his hand, pulling you close, blocking out the sight of your surroundings. And you shut your eyes as Father Neuvillette speaks to the crowd, thanking and dismissing them.

“Are you grateful?” He asks.

You nod into his robes, mumbling out a “yes”. He hums in response.

“I must keep a closer eye on you in the future,” He says, wrapping his other arm around your waist and squeezing you in a possessive hug. “Wandering off on your own is dangerous, little lamb. You’re lucky they found you in time.”

So that’s how he sees things. You, as an incapable animal. Himself, as a protector and guardian.

You’d let him believe that all he wants. Every primal instinct in your brain advises against upsetting Neuvillette for reasons your consciousness can’t quite deduce.

And I immediately started thinking of how deranged he gets with cleaning you. Water is supposed to wash away all sins. He feels like he needs to bathe you the second someone even looks at you in a way he dislikes. It manifests in small ways at first, when he’s pining, visiting perfume shops and imagining what he’d like best on you. Small gifts of items like hand lotion and cuticle oil, and his concealed elation when he smells them on you. As things move on, it gets a little more intense.

The clothes he picks out for you, once perceived as a symbol of his affection, now read as a mark of his ownership. It’s all soft muslins and spotless cottons, light, airy, silk linings gliding against your skin like a gentle caress. So perfect, so nicely pressed, and so frequently changed in and out of. Dragons like him have heightened senses. He doesn’t like the way someone’s perfume trail clings to you, or how the smoke of a wood-burning stove has embedded itself into the fibres of your dress. You’ve always been understanding of his sensitivity to scents, but sometimes it’s just so… excessive. Why does it only apply to you? How can you possibly be reeking of someone else when all that businesswoman did was place a hand on your arm? She wasn’t even wearing perfume- she was only in the room for ten minutes- she-

Don’t you want to bathe with him? He’s really gentle. Had you ever known love before his hands ran over every part of you, carefully trailing the suds across your skin? Thin fingers massage your back and you remember how your friend wrapped an arm around you earlier. It’s not the kind of thing you’re supposed to connect, but your brain offers it anyway. Do you shave? Will you let him shave you? He has a surgeon’s precision with everything… holding the razor, or a makeup brush, or a comb. He’ll do everything for you. He’ll work the conditioner into your hair- it’s his nose that’s going to be buried in it sooner or later. Will you do it for him? He doesn’t like you going to the effort, but… it’s nice. It’s the same conditioner too. You’ll even smell alike now.

There is no practice Neuvillette has that is more religious than insisting you bathe after every sexual activity. At first, you think it’s very kind of him even if occasionally unnecessary and able to wait, but the less that these activities are “showing love” and more “perverse defilement”, maybe you’re glad he seems to snap out of things within a few minutes and take you to the bathroom. You’ll ask him not to bathe you this time. You’ll insist you can do it yourself (because maybe it’s just his fingers already on you but you can feel your skin crawl) but he’s not content with just watching. If he committed the sins, he can cleanse you of them.

The modesty he has you display in public betrays the activities he gets up to in private. A high collar and covered wrists feels almost comical. You used to think Neuvillette was just making you match him, which… well, is cute and inoffensive - but you’ve come to realise that the more you’re covered, the more barriers there are between your skin and everything around you. He complains about his own clothes, and therefore feels sympathy for yours, but please, just hold on, we’ll be home soon and you can take everything off. There is no deadly disease plaguing Fontaine, but Neuvillette’s disdain seems to create that illusion for you. It’s all too easy to convince himself that you have a delicate constitution after you catch just one cold, and he clings to that shred of reason to excuse his behaviour.