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The clock tower of the Court of Fontaine had long since chimed the late evening hour, its resonant peals echoing over a city slowly quieting for the night. Within the hallowed halls of the Palais Mermonia, however, one office remained illuminated. The light spilling from the grand windows of the Iudex’s chambers was a familiar sight, a beacon of ceaseless duty. But tonight, the duty was a carefully constructed fiction, a pretense for two.
Neuvillette stood with his back to the door, one hand resting on his ornate desk, the other gesturing vaguely at a stack of case files that had already been reviewed, signed, and were ready for archival. The severe, authoritative coat he wore in court was gone, shed hours ago, leaving him in a high-collared white shirt that seemed almost soft in the warm lamplight. The fine fabric was cinched at the wrists by elegant cuffs, and a pristine cravat was knotted perfectly at his throat, a last bastion of his unassailable decorum. His long, silvery-white hair, a cascade of moonlight, was swept over one shoulder, revealing the elegant, sharp point of an ear and the faint, otherworldly blue of the horns that curved gracefully from within his hair.
“...and so, the revised maritime regulations for the transport of goods from the Fortress of Meropide will require your ducal seal before implementation,” he stated, his voice the same calm, melodic timbre that silenced courtrooms and passed judgment. “There are several clauses regarding the inspection of contraband that I believe warrant your particular attention, Your Grace.”
From his seat across the expansive office, Wriothesley made a low, noncommittal sound in his throat. He wasn’t listening. Not really. He’d read the damned regulations himself that afternoon. This summons, delivered by a frantic Melusine citing “strict business matters of the utmost urgency,” was a farce, and they both knew it. It was a game they played, a delicate dance of propriety and longing.
His pale eyes, stark against his more tanned complexion, roamed over the figure of the Iudex with a slow, deliberate hunger. He cataloged the signs of a day spent wrestling with the foolishness of mortals. The tension in Neuvillette’s shoulders, a rigid line beneath the fine white cotton. The slight, almost imperceptible flush that colored the tips of his pointed ears, a tell Wriothesley had come to cherish, a betrayer of the Chief Justice’s otherwise flawless composure. He watched Neuvillette’s long, pale fingers, devoid of gloves, straighten the already perfect stack of papers for the third time—a nervous habit that screamed louder than any admission.
Wriothesley’s gaze drifted lower, following the elegant, aristocratic line of Neuvillette’s spine. The man’s posture was impeccable, even in supposed privacy. The dark blue slacks he wore were tailored to perfection, hugging a lean frame that held a subtle, surprising strength. Intricate silver patterns, like flowing water, were sown along the outer seams, disappearing into the tops of the most absurdly captivating articles of clothing Wriothesley had ever seen. Spats. Not the simple kind that covered an ankle, but impossibly high, thigh-hugging sheaths of darker blue leather, fastened by a dizzying array of golden buckles that ran from just below the knee all the way up his thighs.
And Archons, what thighs they were.
Long, lean, and elegant. Wriothesley’s mind, usually occupied with prison logistics and underground dealings, was now entirely consumed by the way the very top edge of the spats dug into the pale flesh of Neuvillette’s upper thighs. It was a subtle indentation, a whisper of constriction that sent a hot, coiling jolt straight to his groin. He imagined the skin there would be soft, sensitive. He imagined undoing every single one of those goddamn buckles, slowly, just to hear the hitch in Neuvillette’s breath. His eyes traced the gentle, perfect curve of the Iudex’s ass, barely defined beneath the tailored fabric but undeniably present, a promise of something firm and exquisite to hold onto.
“Your Grace? Are you attending?” Neuvillette’s voice cut through his haze, a sliver of impatience sharpening the edges. He had turned his head slightly, and his dragon-slit pupils, now a piercing shade of violet in the low light, were fixed on him.
Wriothesley let a slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Every word, Monsieur Neuvillette. Every last, riveting word about… contraband.” The lie was blatant, wrapped in a low, teasing drawl.
Neuvillette’s lips thinned into a severe line. He turned fully away again, presenting his back as if to dismiss him. “If you are not going to take this seriously, Wriothesley, then perhaps this meeting was a miscalculation.”
That was it. That was the invitation. The final, formal move in their little play before the curtain fell.
Wriothesley rose from his chair. The sound barely there on the thick rug, his heavy, buckled boots making no noise. He was a predator in his own prison, and he knew how to move without a sound. He crossed the distance between them in a few long, deliberate strides, his shadow swallowing the lamplight on the floor. He saw the exact moment Neuvillette realized he was no longer in his seat; the Iudex’s back went ramrod straight, a silent, sharp intake of breath the only sound.
He didn’t stop until his chest was flush against Neuvillette’s back. He was broader, more solid, and the contrast was electrifying. He could feel the heat radiating from the other man, could smell the faint, clean scent of rain and something uniquely him. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around Neuvillette’s waist, lacing his bandaged fingers together over the man’s stomach. He rested his chin on a slender shoulder, his breath warm against the shell of Neuvillette’s ear.
“Your Grace,” Neuvillette began, his voice a strained, breathless thing. “This is highly inappropriate. We are discussing matters of state.”
“Are we?” Wriothesley murmured, his voice a low rumble. He tightened his grip, pressing their bodies more firmly together, letting Neuvillette feel the hard evidence of just how much he’d been ‘attending’ to him. “Felt more like you were trying to find a way to keep your hands busy so you wouldn’t have to admit you just wanted to see me.”
A shudder ran through the Iudex’s frame. A soft, defeated sigh escaped his lips, the last of his resolve crumbling. He leaned back, melting into Wriothesley’s embrace, his head tilting to the side to give him better access. “You are insufferable.” The words were meant to be a reprimand, but they came out as a soft, fond whisper.
“And you’re a terrible liar,” Wriothesley countered, turning his head to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below Neuvillette’s ear. He nipped gently at the lobe, earning a sharp, hitched breath. His hands began to move, no longer content to be still. One of them slid downwards, slowly, deliberately, over the fine fabric of Neuvillette’s slacks. He didn’t grope, not yet. He simply traced the shape of him, his palm moving around his hip, cupping the firm curve of one ass cheek, the tips of his fingers pressing into the dip where leg met torso.
“Wriothesley…” The name was a plea and a prayer. Neuvillette’s hands came up to rest on the desk in front of him, his long fingers gripping the dark wood for purchase. His horns had begun to emit a soft, cerulean glow, a beacon of his arousal that he could never quite control.
“Shhh, Monsieur,” Wriothesley whispered, his other hand moving to the front, his knuckles brushing over the front of Neuvillette’s trousers, feeling the burgeoning hardness there. “Court’s adjourned.” He dipped his head again, his lips finding the nape of Neuvillette’s neck, right where the silver hair began. He licked a stripe up the pale column of his throat, tasting salt and rain. “Now, about those regulations… I have a few clauses of my own I’d like to… insert.”
Neuvillette’s grip on the edge of the desk tightened, his knuckles white. The pretense of business, of propriety, had evaporated like mist in the morning sun, leaving only the raw, humming tension that had been simmering between them for months.
“A bold proposition, Your Grace,” Neuvillette managed, his voice a low murmur. He made no move to pull away, instead subtly shifting his weight, pressing his ass more firmly into the solid warmth of Wriothesley’s hips. It was a silent, deliberate answer to the Duke’s own unspoken question, an admission that he was just as ready, just as wanting.
“I’m a bold man.” Wriothesley’s hand slid from Neuvillette’s hip, moving to gently cup his jaw. With slow, deliberate pressure, he turned the Iudex’s head until their lips were only a breath apart. Neuvillette’s pale, violet-slitted eyes were wide, luminous in the lamplight, his horns now pulsing with a steady, soft blue glow. “And you, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Wriothesley breathed, his own gaze intense and unwavering, “are a terrible actor.”
He closed the final inch. The first touch of their lips was not a gentle press, but a firm, knowing claiming. It was a kiss that spoke of weeks of stolen glances across courtrooms and brief, charged touches over shared cups of tea. Wriothesley’s mouth was hot, insistent, tasting faintly of the coffee he perpetually drank and something else, something uniquely him—a dark, earthy musk. He didn’t deepen the kiss immediately, instead mapping the shape of Neuvillette’s lips with his own, a soft, wet friction that sent a shiver through the Iudex’s spine.
Neuvillette met the kiss with a quiet intensity that belied his stoic reputation. His lips parted on a silent sigh, granting Wriothesley the access he sought. The kiss deepened, tongues sweeping against each other in a slow, languid dance. It wasn't a battle for dominance, but a conversation. Wriothesley’s was a teasing exploration, a confident mapping of every sensitive surface, while Neuvillette’s was a rarer thing: a response, a quiet surrender that was in itself a form of control, drawing the other man deeper, demanding more with every subtle shift of his head.
Wriothesley’s hands moved from Neuvillette’s waist, one tangling in the silvery cascade of his hair, careful to avoid the sensitive horns, while the other slid up his chest. He finally broke the kiss, both of them breathing a little heavier, and guided Neuvillette to turn in his grasp until the back of his thighs hit the solid edge of the mahogany desk. The papers they had been pretending to discuss scattered, fluttering to the floor in a silent cascade of white. Neither of them paid any mind.
“All this talk of regulations,” Wriothesley murmured, his lips now tracing a path down Neuvillette’s jaw to the pale, elegant column of his throat. “And you’re covered in them.” His bandaged fingers went to the pristine cravat, deftly unknotting the intricate silk. He tossed it aside. Then, he started on the buttons of the white shirt. Each small, pearlescent button was a victory, a layer of the Iudex’s formidable public armor being methodically stripped away.
With each button undone, more of the man himself was revealed. The pale expanse of his chest was not built like Wriothesley’s, not corded with the rugged muscle of a fighter. It was a landscape of smooth, unblemished skin, lean and elegant, the subtle definition of his chest muscles and the faint shadow of his ribs hinting at the strength beneath. Wriothesley’s gaze was hungry as he pushed the fabric aside, exposing the skin to the cool air of the office. He leaned in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss directly over Neuvillette’s heart, feeling the frantic, rapid beat against his lips.
A low, almost inaudible sound escaped Neuvillette’s throat. He braced his hands on the desk behind him, his long fingers gripping the polished wood as Wriothesley’s attention, and his mouth, trailed lower, over the flat plane of his stomach. But then, Wriothesley stopped. He pulled back, his pale eyes glinting with a familiar, teasing light. He knelt.
The shift in position was profound. The Duke of Meropide, a man who bowed to no one, was kneeling before him. Neuvillette’s breath caught. Wriothesley’s gaze was now level with the absurdly intricate spats. He reached out, not to touch skin, but to run a thumb over the dark blue leather covering Neuvillette’s shin.
“Now for the real bureaucracy,” Wriothesley said, his voice a low, reverent growl. He started with the lowest buckle, near the ankle. The quiet click of the metal releasing its hold was deafening in the silent room. He didn't rush. He undid each buckle with a slow, deliberate care, his fingers brushing against the leather, his knuckles occasionally grazing the fabric of Neuvillette’s trousers beneath, rolling them up as he went. It was a painstaking, methodical disassembly. Click. Click. Click. His gaze remained fixed on Neuvillette’s face, watching the subtle flutter of his eyelashes, the way his lips parted slightly, the ever-brightening glow of his horns.
As he undid the final buckles at the very top of Neuvillette’s thighs, he let his hands linger, his thumbs pressing into the juncture where the tops of his rolled up slacks met flesh. He carefully peeled the stiff, shaped leather down and away, letting the spats fall into a heap on the floor, slipping off each shoe as he went. He did the same for the other leg. And then he simply stared.
The spats, a symbol of Neuvillette’s unassailable formality, had left their mark. Adorning the pale, smooth skin of his long legs were a delicate lattice of reddened lines, a map of constriction where the tops of the leather had dug into his flesh. The angry pink stood out in stark, beautiful relief against his otherwise alabaster skin. It was an intimate, secret sigil of his restraint, now laid bare.
Wriothesley reached out, his touch impossibly gentle, and traced one of the faint indentations with the pad of his thumb. Neuvillette flinched, not from pain, but from the sheer, unexpected intimacy of the gesture. Wriothesley leaned forward, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to one of the marks, then another. He was worshipping the evidence of the man’s composure, adoring the very lines that proved how tightly he held himself together.
His gaze traveled up from the marked thighs to the front of Neuvillette’s dark blue slacks, where the evidence of his arousal was now a bold, undeniable ridge. With his eyes still locked on Neuvillette’s, Wriothesley reached for the button of his trousers.
The final metallic clink of the button on Neuvillette’s trousers was a sound of ultimate surrender. Wriothesley’s bandaged fingers hooked into the waistband, and with a slow, deliberate tug, he pulled the fine material down. The dark blue slacks and the silk of his undergarments slid down those long, pale legs, pooling around his ankles in a heap of forgotten formality.
Freed from its tailored prison, Neuvillette’s cock sprang forward, heavy and flushed with blood. It was as elegant and otherworldly as the rest of him—an impressive, formidable length of pale flesh, thick and flawlessly smooth save for the faint, almost imperceptible pearlescent sheen to the skin. Veins traced paths like rivers under marble, and the head was a deep, regal plum, glistening with a bead of translucent fluid that welled at the dragon-like slit at its tip. It pulsed with a steady, living rhythm, a silent testament to the arousal he had so stubbornly tried to conceal.
Wriothesley didn't touch him. Not yet. He simply knelt there, his pale eyes full of a dark, possessive reverence. He watched the subtle tremor in Neuvillette’s thighs, the way his hands gripped the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles were bone-white. He was giving the Iudex a moment to exist in this state of utter vulnerability, letting him feel the cool air on his exposed skin, letting the anticipation build into an almost unbearable pressure.
“So this,” Wriothesley finally murmured, his voice a low, husky thing that was for Neuvillette’s ears only, “is what lies beneath all that judgment.”
He leaned in, his own breath hot against the sensitive skin of Neuvillette’s inner thigh. His tongue darted out, not for the main prize, but to trace one of the reddened marks left by the spats, a slow, wet lap that made the Iudex’s entire body jolt. A small, choked sound caught in Neuvillette’s throat, and his hips gave an involuntary twitch forward.
That was the only encouragement Wriothesley needed. He shifted his attention, his face now directly before the object of his worship. He didn't take him into his mouth. Instead, he nuzzled against the thick, heavy shaft, inhaling his scent, the clean, rainy aroma now mixed with a potent, musky arousal. Then, with an artist’s focus, he concentrated on the very tip. His tongue swept out, broad and wet, and he began to lap at the glistening head. He swirled his tongue around the corona, tasting the sweet, slick dew of his pre-cum, paying special attention to the unique, vertical slit. He worried at it gently with his lips, sucking lightly, drawing more of that fluid out, eliciting another strangled gasp from the man above him.
Neuvillette was losing his battle for composure. His head had fallen back, his silver hair spilling over the edge of the desk, falling out of its already loose braid. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw tight. The only sounds he made were soft, breathless pants, each one a little more ragged than the last. His hands, which had been gripping the desk for dear life, finally released their hold. After another moments hesitation, long, pale fingers threaded into Wriothesley’s short, dark hair, not pulling, but clenching, anchoring himself to the source of the overwhelming pleasure.
Wriothesley felt the grip in his hair and a low hum of satisfaction rumbled in his chest. He knew his lover. He knew the signs. He could feel the tension coiling in Neuvillette’s thighs, the way his whole body was tightening, drawing closer to the edge. And so, with a knowing cruelty, he changed his rhythm.
He finally took him into his mouth.
He didn't overindulge himself at first. He took just the tip, sucking it into the hot cavern of his mouth, creating a devastating vacuum, his tongue working relentlessly, pressing into the sensitive area just below the head. Neuvillette’s hips jerked, a more forceful, demanding movement this time. His grip in Wriothesley’s hair tightened. Wriothesley grinned against him, then slowly, so slowly, began to take more. Inch by agonizing inch, he slid down the thick, smooth shaft, his throat opening, his lips sealed tight around the base. He took him all the way down, until his nose and lips were pressed into the soft curls at the root of his cock, until he could take no more.
He held him there for a long moment, letting Neuvillette feel the full, magnificent pressure of being completely devoured. The soft blue glow of his horns flared, bathing Wriothesley’s face in an ethereal light. Then, just as slowly, he began to withdraw, dragging his tongue along the sensitive underside all the way back to the tip.
He established a rhythm then, a long, slow, deep stroking of his tongue and throat that was designed for one thing only: to torture. He would bring him up, feeling the muscles in Neuvillette’s stomach and thighs clench, feeling the frantic pulse against his tongue that signaled an impending release. And just as the Iudex was about to shatter, Wriothesley would slow, pulling back to lazily lick at the head, or ceasing all movement to simply hold him deep in his throat, denying the very release his body was screaming for.
“Wrio…” The name was a broken, breathy thing, the first word Neuvillette had managed to speak. It was not a command to stop. It was a plea to finish.
Wriothesley pulled back just enough to look up, his pale eyes burning with a dark, triumphant fire. His lips were slick, his expression one of pure, unadulterated adoration. He saw the desperation in Neuvillette’s face, the shattered pride, the raw, unmasked need. And he knew he had him exactly where he wanted him: completely undone, and entirely his. He gave Neuvillette’s pleading gaze one last, lingering look before his head dipped down once more. There was no more teasing, no more calculated denial. This was a focused, brutal assault on the senses, an overwhelming tide meant to drown him.
He took him deep again, his throat opening to accommodate the full, thick length. His bandaged hands came up to cup Neuvillette’s ass, his thumbs pressing into the firm muscle, tilting his hips up, angling him for an even deeper, more devastating fit. His tongue worked at the base while his throat milked the shaft in a relentless, punishing rhythm. He was swallowing around him, creating a wet, slick friction that was inescapable. He felt the powerful muscles of Neuvillette’s thighs bunching and trembling under his grip, the shuddering that was beginning deep in his core.
Neuvillette’s world narrowed to the hot, wet friction of Wriothesley’s mouth, the firm, grounding grip of his hands, and the low, guttural sounds rumbling in the Duke’s chest. The soft, breathless pants became sharp, ragged gasps. His back arched off the desk, his body straining, chasing the feeling. The soft blue light of his horns pulsed erratically before flaring into a brilliant, blinding cerulean, illuminating the office in an otherworldly glow. A deep, guttural groan was torn from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated release that he couldn’t suppress.
His body locked up, a violent shudder wracking his entire frame as a torrent of thick, hot seed flooded the back of Wriothesley’s throat. It was copious, tasting of ozone and something ancient, a potent, divine offering. Wriothesley didn’t flinch, didn't pull away. He held him steady through the climax, taking every last drop, his throat working to swallow it all down in a gesture that was both possessive and profoundly devotional.
Only when the last shudder had subsided and Neuvillette’s body went boneless, slumping against the desk in a boneless heap, did Wriothesley slowly, gently release him. He licked him clean with a few slow, deliberate swipes of his tongue before pressing a soft, final kiss to the now-soft flesh. The intense predator of moments before was gone, replaced instantly by the tender, caring lover.
He rose from his knees, his movements smooth and unhurried. Neuvillette was still lost in a post-orgasmic haze, his eyes closed, his breathing slowly returning to normal. Wriothesley leaned over him, his hands coming to rest on the Iudex’s trembling thighs. He began to pepper his skin with soft, reassuring kisses, starting from the pale expanse of his stomach. He kissed the faint line of his hip bones, the space just above his navel, his mouth a warm, soothing presence against the cooling skin.
His lips trailed higher, over the lean muscle of his chest, pausing to press a kiss over his still-hammering heart. "There now," Wriothesley murmured, his voice soft, stripped of all its earlier teasing. His hands followed the path of his mouth, not with hunger, but with a gentle, soothing touch. He ran his palms up Neuvillette’s sides, over his ribs, his thumbs tracing calming circles on his hips. He was putting him back together, piece by careful piece.
He continued his reverent path upwards, kissing the sharp line of his collarbone, the vulnerable hollow of his throat. Neuvillette’s eyes fluttered open, his violet pupils soft and round, hazy with pleasure and affection. He watched as Wriothesley finally moved to his face, cupping his cheek with one hand, his thumb stroking gently under his eye.
Wriothesley leaned in, his forehead resting against Neuvillette’s. They stayed like that for a long moment, simply breathing each other in. The frantic energy had dissipated, leaving behind a profound, quiet intimacy that was more potent than any climax.
Then, Wriothesley kissed him. It was nothing like the claiming, hungry kiss from before. This was slow and deep, a soft, searching press of lips that spoke of love and adoration. It was a kiss of reassurance, of comfort, a silent promise that he would always be there to catch him when he fell apart. Neuvillette melted into it, his arms coming up to weakly wrap around Wriothesley’s neck, his lips parting to kiss back with a weary, boneless sweetness that was more honest and intimate than any passionate frenzy.
The soft, tender kiss lingered, a silent conversation that said more than words ever could. When Wriothesley finally pulled back, he kept his forehead pressed against Neuvillette’s, his thumbs gently stroking the sharp, elegant lines of the Iudex’s cheekbones. The brilliant cerulean glow from Neuvillette’s horns had subsided, leaving only a faint, pulsing azure that mirrored the calm, steady beat of his heart returning to normal.
The office was quiet save for their shared breaths. Wriothesley’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of his lover, beautifully undone and leaning heavily against the desk, his long limbs pliant and relaxed. A slow, fond smile touched Wriothesley’s lips. He couldn’t resist.
“So,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm rumble that vibrated through their point of contact. “Have we reached a satisfactory verdict on the matter at hand, Monsieur Iudex?”
A moment passed. Neuvillette’s eyes, which had been hazy and unfocused, slowly regained their sharp, intelligent light. A flicker of his usual, dry composure returned to his expression. He pushed himself up slightly, regaining some of his posture, though he made no move to detangle himself from Wriothesley’s embrace.
“A preliminary hearing, perhaps,” Neuvillette replied, his voice smooth as silk, though a touch huskier than usual. He met Wriothesley’s gaze, a ghost of a challenge in his own. “The main argument has yet to be presented.”
Wriothesley let out a low, surprised chuckle, the sound rich and genuine. Archons, he loved this man. He loved the way Neuvillette could be completely shattered one moment and then, with a few breaths, reassemble his formidable wit as if it were a judicial robe. “Is that so? I was under the impression the prosecution had exhausted its evidence.”
He leaned in to press another soft kiss to Neuvillette’s lips, intending to perhaps help him to his feet, to move them somewhere more comfortable than the hard edge of a desk. But Neuvillette had other plans.
As Wriothesley drew back, a flicker of something deliberate and commanding entered the Iudex’s eyes. With a slow, fluid grace that seemed impossible given his recent state, Neuvillette lifted one of his long, pale legs. The limb, adorned with the faint red marks of his earlier restraint, slid with sensual slowness around Wriothesley’s hip. The heel of his bare foot hooked firmly behind the Duke’s thigh, anchoring him in place. Then, with a surprising strength, Neuvillette pulled, tugging Wriothesley’s body flush against his own, pressing their hips together.
The intention was unmistakable. It was a silent, elegant, and utterly undeniable demand for more.
Wriothesley’s breath hitched in surprise, his eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into a slow, delighted grin. He rested his hands on Neuvillette’s waist, feeling the warmth of his skin, the subtle flex of muscle as he held him captive.
“Oh?” Wriothesley’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, his pale eyes glinting with renewed fire. “Presenting new evidence, are we? I thought the court was in recess.”
Neuvillette’s other hand, which had been resting on Wriothesley’s shoulder, slid down to the center of his chest, his long fingers splaying over the dark fabric of his waistcoat. He gave another deliberate tug with his leg, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
“On the contrary, Your Grace,” Neuvillette stated, his tone perfectly level, as if he were issuing a final judgment in court. His violet eyes held Wriothesley’s, serene and absolute. “I am simply calling my first witness to the stand.”
Wriothesley let out a low, rumbling laugh that seemed to start deep in his chest. He was utterly captivated. The sight of the Chief Justice of Fontaine, a being of immense power and near-divine authority, holding him captive with a single, elegant leg while issuing a summons to his metaphorical stand was a fantasy he hadn't even known he had.
“And what testimony are you hoping to extract, Monsieur?” Wriothesley purred, his hands resting lightly on the curve of Neuvillette’s waist. “I must warn you, my secrets are heavily guarded.”
Neuvillette’s expression remained serene, but a dangerous, knowing light danced in his pale violet eyes. “The truth, Your Grace,” he stated simply. “And I have my methods of interrogation.”
His hands, which had been resting on Wriothesley’s shoulders, began their slow, deliberate work. There was no fumbling, no frantic haste. His long, pale fingers moved with the same precision he used when perusing ancient legal texts. They went to the buttons of Wriothesley’s dark grey waistcoat, undoing them one by one. The contrast of his luminous skin against the dark fabric was a thing of beauty in itself.
As the waistcoat was unfastened, he didn't immediately cast it aside. Instead, he pushed the panels open, and his hands slid beneath, gliding over the black cotton of Wriothesley’s button down. He mapped the solid, warm planes of the Duke’s chest, feeling the hard muscle, the steady beat of his heart that had picked up its tempo. He leaned in, his lips replacing his hands, pressing a soft, warm kiss through the fabric directly over Wriothesley’s heart.
Wriothesley’s breath hitched. “A compelling method,” he managed, his voice a little strained.
Neuvillette hummed in agreement against his chest before moving on to the next layer. His fingers found the top button of the black shirt. Each one was a small, quiet victory. As the shirt parted, it revealed a landscape so different from his own. Wriothesley’s skin was a warmer, tanner hue, a canvas of a life lived hard and fought for. Raised, jagged scars crisscrossed his torso and arms—some newer ones large, dark, others merely faint, silvery cuts—testaments to past brawls and blades. And then there were the dark, ever-present bandages that wrapped around his neck and disappeared beneath the shirt.
Neuvillette did not shy away from them. His touch was reverent. As he pushed the shirt from Wriothesley’s broad shoulders, letting it hang open, his fingers traced the edge of a particularly long scar that ran across his collarbone. He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to it, his lips warm against the slightly raised tissue. He kissed the hard curve of his pectoral, the dip at the base of his throat, his mouth a slow, worshipping exploration of every inch of skin he uncovered. He moved with a languid, hypnotic grace, and Wriothesley found himself completely surrendering to the attention, his head tilted back, his eyes half-closed.
It was in that moment of surrender that Neuvillette made his move.
Wriothesley, lost in the feeling of Neuvillette’s lips on his skin, leaned forward slightly, seeking to capture his mouth in a kiss. It was the only opening the Iudex needed. With a sudden, fluid shift of his center of gravity, Neuvillette pressed firmly against Wriothesley’s chest. The leg hooked around his hip tightened, pulling Wriothesley off-balance. It wasn’t a violent shove, but an act of perfect, undeniable leverage.
Wriothesley stumbled back a step, a surprised grunt escaping him as he was turned around, his back hitting the hard, cool surface of the mahogany desk with a solid thud. Before he could even process the shift, Neuvillette was following him down, a waterfall of silver hair and lean grace. He moved with him, never breaking contact, and settled himself directly onto Wriothesley’s lap, straddling his still-clothed thighs.
The Duke landed on his back, propped up on his elbows, a look of stunned, delighted disbelief on his face. The air was knocked from his lungs as much from surprise as from the impact. Neuvillette, now poised above him in a position of absolute command, placed a single, cool hand flat on the center of Wriothesley’s scarred chest and pushed. Gently, but with an unyielding pressure that tolerated no argument, he forced Wriothesley flat onto the desk, his head resting amongst the few scattered papers that remained.
Wriothesley stared up at him, at the vision of the Iudex looming over him, his long hair having fallen out of its usual meticulous styling, framing his face, his glowing horns casting an ethereal light on his severe, beautiful features.
Neuvillette looked down at him, his expression perfectly composed, as if this were the most natural position in the world for them to be in. His hand remained, a warm, firm weight on Wriothesley’s chest.
“My apologies for the forwardness, Your Grace,” Neuvillette said, his voice a low, melodic murmur that was laced with an almost imperceptible thread of triumph. “The witness was being uncooperative. I find a change of venue is sometimes necessary to… facilitate the truth.”
For a moment, Wriothesley was just… stunned. He lay flat on his back on the grand mahogany desk, scattered legal documents crinkling beneath his head and shoulders, staring up at the impossible sight above him. Neuvillette. The Chief Justice of Fontaine, a being of near-mythical stature and unshakeable dignity, was straddling his lap, his expression one of cool, collected command. A low, incredulous laugh rumbled out of Wriothesley’s chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. He was so, so fucked.
“A change of venue,” Wriothesley echoed, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and burgeoning lust. A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face as he settled more comfortably onto the hard surface, propping his head up with his hands, lacing his bandaged fingers behind his head. He was completely at the other man’s mercy, and he had never felt more alive. “I have to admit, Monsieur, your methods are… compelling. By all means, facilitate the truth. I’m an open book.”
The hand on his chest remained, a firm, warm weight that pinned him as effectively as any shackle. Neuvillette looked down at him, his silver hair cascading around his shoulders, his eyebrows knitting together at the words. “The truth,” Neuvillette murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic melody, “is not something one simply reads. It must be drawn out. Carefully.”
With that, he shifted. The movement was subtle, a slight adjustment of his weight on Wriothesley’s thighs. His free hand, which had been resting on the desk for balance, began a slow, deliberate journey downwards. Wriothesley’s eyes tracked the movement, his breath catching in his throat. The hand didn’t move toward Wriothesley’s straining cock, which was pressing insistently against Neuvillette’s ass through layers of fabric. Instead, Neuvillette’s long, pale fingers traced the line of his own hip before sliding around, disappearing behind him.
Wriothesley watched, utterly transfixed. He saw the subtle shift in Neuvillette’s expression, the slight parting of his lips, the way his long eyelashes fluttered against his cheek as his own finger found his entrance. A faint pink flush began to creep down from Neuvillette’s neck, a beautiful tide of color against the alabaster canvas of his chest, made all the more vivid by the stark white of his open shirt. His nipples, already peaked, tightened into hard, exquisitely sensitive points.
A soft, wet sound, almost imperceptible, reached Wriothesley’s ears. It was the sound of Neuvillette’s body responding, of the Hydro Dragon’s unique biology preparing a welcome. A slick, natural heat was blooming where his finger worked. He saw Neuvillette’s jaw tighten as a second finger joined the first, his back arching almost imperceptibly. At the same time, the cock resting against Wriothesley’s stomach gave a strong, promising twitch, beginning to swell and harden once more, brought back to life by his own ministrations.
Then, he began to rock.
It was a slow, torturous rhythm. A gentle, circular grinding of his hips that sent bolts of friction through both of them. With every rotation, Wriothesley could feel the damp heat seeping through his trousers, could feel the broad, firm muscles of Neuvillette’s ass clenching and unclenching against him. He was preparing himself, stretching, slicking his own passage, all while never breaking eye contact. It was the most intensely erotic thing Wriothesley had ever witnessed.
“Taking… a thorough inventory of the evidence, I see,” Wriothesley managed to get out, his voice strained, his own hips instinctively wanting to buck up to meet the maddening rhythm.
A sharp, quiet hiss escaped Neuvillette’s lips as he pushed his fingers deeper. His eyes squeezed shut for a fraction of a second, and the serene mask slipped, revealing the raw pleasure and building desperation beneath. “A… meticulous approach… is required for a case of this magnitude,” he breathed, his own voice losing its flawless composure, becoming ragged at the edges.
He tried to add a third finger, but the attempt was aborted with a choked gasp. His hips stilled. The pleasure was too keen, the need too great. Patience had reached its limit. The careful, methodical examination was over; raw, desperate need had taken the stand and was screaming for a verdict.
With a wet, slick sound that was shockingly loud in the quiet office, he pulled his fingers free. He didn't look at them, didn't acknowledge the glistening evidence of his own desire. His eyes, now dark with a burning, primal hunger, were fixed on Wriothesley’s face, then down to the straining bulge in his trousers.
“The deliberation is over,” Neuvillette stated, his voice a low, guttural command.
His hands were on Wriothesley’s belt buckle before the Duke could even form a reply. The metal clinked loudly as he unfastened it with a sharp, frantic tug. There was no more slow, teasing disassembly. This was a desperate, hurried stripping, a man possessed by a need so profound it eclipsed all else. He tore at the button on Wriothesley’s trousers, his knuckles brushing against the hard length beneath. He didn’t bother to pull the trousers or the briefs off entirely, simply shoving them down with impatient hands until they were bunched unceremoniously around Wriothesley’s upper thighs, trapping his legs.
Wriothesley’s cock sprang free, thick, hard, and painfully ready, slick with his own pre-cum. He arched his hips off the desk, a silent offering, a desperate, non-verbal plea.
Neuvillette stared down at it, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. He was a vision of beautiful contradiction—the regal Iudex, utterly undone, poised to take what he wanted with a raw, almost feral urgency. He reached down, his hand wrapping around the base of Wriothesley’s shaft, not to stroke, but to guide. To align.
He slowly lowered himself, the glistening, wet pink of his entrance hovering just over the thick, waiting head of Wriothesley’s cock. The heat radiating from him was scorching. Wriothesley’s hands came up, his bandaged fingers digging into the firm flesh of Neuvillette’s hips, holding him steady, ready to pull him down.
“Final ruling, Monsieur Neuvillette?” Wriothesley rasped, his own control stretched to its absolute breaking point.
Neuvillette looked him dead in the eye, his violet pupils blown wide, a universe of love and desperate, aching lust swirling within them. A single, perfect tear, born not of sadness but of overwhelming sensation, welled in the corner of his eye and traced a shining path down his temple.
“Guilty,” he whispered, and began to sink down.
It was an act of agonizingly slow, deliberate torture. Wriothesley felt the wet, impossibly hot tip of his cock press against Neuvillette’s entrance. He watched, mesmerized, as Neuvillette’s face, so often a mask of serene composure, twisted into an expression of pure, unadulterated sensation. His lips parted on a silent gasp, his silver brows knitting together as the broad head of Wriothesley’s cock breached his slick, waiting flesh. There was a sharp, exquisite sting of being stretched, of a body yielding to accommodate a perfect, filling pressure.
Wriothesley’s hands, which had been gripping Neuvillette’s hips, gentled their hold. His thumbs began to stroke in slow, soothing circles, a silent message of reassurance, of worship. He felt every millimeter of the impossibly slow impalement. He felt the tight, gripping heat of Neuvillette’s inner muscles clenching around him, the incredible, natural slickness that coated him, making the passage slick and searingly hot. A low, guttural groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure was torn from Wriothesley’s throat, a sound he couldn't have held back if he’d tried. He was being swallowed, sheathed in wet, velvet heat, and it was the most profound feeling he had ever known.
Inch by agonizing inch, Neuvillette sank down, his own body trembling with the effort of taking Wriothesley’s full, thick length. The flush on his chest deepened, spreading down his pale, lean torso. His open shirt did nothing to hide the way his heart hammered against his ribs, or the tight, beaded points of his nipples. He braced his hands on Wriothesley’s shoulders, his long fingers digging into the hard muscle, his knuckles white. The single tear finally slipped from his cheek, tracing a path down his jawline until it finally dropped onto the tan expanse of the chest below him, a testament not to pain, but to an overwhelming pleasure that was so intense it bordered on it.
When the base of Wriothesley’s cock was pressed firmly against him, when he could take no more, he stopped. He was fully impaled, their bodies joined in the most intimate way possible. Neuvillette’s head fell forward, his forehead coming to rest against Wriothesley’s shoulder, his silver hair spilling over the Duke’s scarred skin. For a long moment, there was only stillness. A moment suspended in time, filled with the profound intimacy of being fully and completely joined. The only sounds were their ragged, hitching breaths, the soft crinkle of legal documents beneath Wriothesley’s back, and the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the glowing horns. Wriothesley’s hands rested on the full, firm curves of Neuvillette’s ass, holding him, grounding him, cherishing the weight of him.
“If this is the sentence…” Wriothesley rasped, his voice thick with emotion, his own control frayed to a single, trembling thread. “…then I plead guilty to everything.”
Neuvillette lifted his head. His violet eyes were dark, hazy pools of want and affection. He leaned down, capturing Wriothesley’s mouth in a deep, wet, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt, rain, and their mingled arousal. He broke the kiss, his breath ghosting across Wriothesley’s lips.
“The sentence…” he panted, his voice a broken whisper, “…must be… carried out… in full.”
And then, he moved.
It started with a slow, deliberate rotation of his hips, a circular grinding motion that sent waves of unimaginable pleasure through both of them. Wriothesley’s eyes rolled back in his head. The feeling of his length being stroked and gripped by Neuvillette’s inner muscles was beyond anything he had ever imagined. He felt the head of his cock pressing against something deep inside the Iudex, a place that made Neuvillette’s whole body jolt, a choked, guttural sound torn from his own throat.
Finding that spot, Neuvillette abandoned the circular motion. He rose up, slowly, his muscles quivering with the strain, drawing Wriothesley almost completely out of his body until only the very tip remained inside. Wriothesley let out a frustrated groan, his hips bucking up, chasing the feeling. But Neuvillette was in control. He held the position for a torturous second, letting them both feel the agonizing brink of separation, before sinking back down with the same agonizing slowness.
It was the first deep, magnificent drag, and it shattered what little was left of their composure. A hoarse cry was ripped from Wriothesley’s lungs, and his hands clenched on Neuvillette’s ass, his bandaged fingers digging into the soft flesh. Neuvillette threw his head back, his long neck exposed, a sound that was half-sob, half-moan escaping his lips as he took him all the way down once more.
The slow, magnificent rhythm Neuvillette established was a form of hypnotic torture. Each deep, deliberate slide down Wriothesley’s shaft, each agonizingly slow withdrawal, was a fresh wave of overwhelming sensation. Wriothesley was completely undone, a prisoner on his own back. His world had narrowed to the hard wood of the desk beneath him, the glorious weight of the man on his lap, and the searing, wet heat that connected them. His bandaged hands weren't gripping anymore; they were caressing, kneading the firm, pale flesh of Neuvillette's ass, his thumbs tracing the divots of his lower back, urging him on, begging for more.
The sounds were a symphony of pure carnality: the wet, percussive slap of their bodies meeting, the rustle of discarded documents below them, the sharp, ragged counterpoint of their mingled gasps. Wriothesley watched, utterly enthralled, as Neuvillette’s face, usually a mask of judicial calm, became a portrait of raw pleasure. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw tight, his lips parted as desperate, breathy moans escaped him, sounds he would deny ever making if questioned in the light of day. Sweat began to sheen on his pale skin, slicking the elegant column of his throat and glistening on the lean muscle of his chest, each droplet catching the ethereal blue light of his horns.
But even a dragon has his limits. The flawless, punishing grace of his movements began to falter. A hitch appeared in the perfect cadence of his thrusts as a particularly deep slide scraped against that spot deep inside him—that bundle of nerves that sent lightning through his entire system. His hips stuttered. The slow, steady rhythm broke. With a low, desperate groan, he stopped his vertical movement and ground down, his hips moving in a tight, slow circle, trying to chase the overwhelming pleasure, to pin it down, to milk it for all it was worth.
For Wriothesley, the change was electrifying and agonizing. The friction shifted from a deep, plunging pressure to a focused, searing heat that targeted the most sensitive parts of his length. A raw, unrestrained sound was torn from his throat. His own climax, which had been building steadily, surged forward, a tidal wave about to crash. His back arched, his hands clamped down, and he tensed for the inevitable release.
And then, just as he was on the precipice, Neuvillette stilled. The grinding stopped. A full-body tremor wracked the Iudex's frame as he rode out the peak of his own pleasure, his inner muscles clenching and unclenching around Wriothesley in a devastating, involuntary spasm. For Wriothesley, it was like a lifeline being cut. The intense, focused pressure vanished, replaced by a tight, pulsing grip that did nothing to push him over the edge. His climax receded like a cruel tide, leaving him aching, frustrated, and impossibly, painfully hard.
“Neuvi…” Wriothesley’s voice was a raw, strained plea. His hands tightened on Neuvillette’s hips, urging him to move, to do anything.
After a moment, Neuvillette’s trembling subsided. He took a few deep, shuddering breaths and, with a visible effort of will, resumed his slow, deep riding. The rhythm was back, and Wriothesley let out a relieved groan, sinking back into the haze of sensation. He was being driven mad, and it was glorious. He built again, the pressure coiling tight and low in his gut, climbing higher and higher until he was right back on that razor's edge of release. He was seconds away, his vision whitening at the corners…
And again, it happened. Neuvillette hit that same spot, and his body betrayed him. His control shattered. He cried out, a sharp, keening sound, and his hips locked, grinding down with a desperate, frantic energy, his own pleasure taking precedence over everything else. And once again, Wriothesley was left stranded, his orgasm stolen from him at the last possible second.
This time, the frustration that shot through him was white-hot, mingling with a possessive, predatory instinct. He had been a willing captive, but his patience was at its end. He looked up at the man on his lap—the man he adored, who was currently lost in his own world, accidentally torturing him—and a dark, decisive thought took root.
“Alright,” Wriothesley growled, the word a low, dangerous promise. “That’s enough of that.”
Before Neuvillette could process the words, Wriothesley acted. It wasn't a struggle; it was a sudden, explosive shift of power. He engaged his core, his powerful legs finding purchase on the floor. His hands, which had been caressing, became steel clamps on Neuvillette’s hips. In one smooth, powerful movement, he rolled them, reversing their positions completely.
The world tilted on its axis.
A sharp, startled cry of "Wriothesley—!" was ripped from Neuvillette's throat as he found himself suddenly on his back, the hard surface of the desk now against his skin once again, Wriothesley's heavy, muscular body pressing him down. The movement was so swift, so unexpected, that he was left breathless, his silver hair fanned out like a halo around his head amongst the scattered papers. Their bodies never disconnected; Wriothesley was still buried deep inside him, a hot, thick weight that was now a source of grounding pressure rather than a prize he had to work for.
He opened his mouth to protest again, to reassert the dominance he had so carefully established. But the words died on his lips. His body, which had been trembling with exertion, went subtly slack. The strain of holding himself up, of dictating the pace, was gone. A wave of profound relief washed over him, so potent it was almost as dizzying as the pleasure itself. He was being pinned, possessed, and he was secretly, deeply thankful for it.
Wriothesley settled his weight between Neuvillette’s pale thighs, propping himself up on his forearms, caging him in. He looked down at his lover, at the stunned, wide-eyed expression, the flush on his chest, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He saw the flicker of indignation in those violet eyes, but he also saw the exhaustion, the surrender, and the deep, trusting love beneath it all.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering just over Neuvillette’s. His voice was a low, triumphant purr, laced with a teasing affection that took the edge off his takeover.
“Court is back in session, Monsieur Iudex,” Wriothesley breathed, his hips giving a slow, deliberate thrust that drove him deeper, drawing a choked gasp from the man beneath him. “My turn to cross-examine the witness.”
Neuvillette’s protest died on his lips, replaced by a shuddering breath. The brief flash of indignation in his violet eyes melted away, leaving behind a raw vulnerability that struck Wriothesley to his very core. He saw the surrender, the exhaustion, and beneath it all, an ocean of trust. He was giving himself over completely, and Wriothesley understood the sanctity of that gift.
The teasing glint in Wriothesley’s eyes faded, extinguished by a wave of something far deeper, far more intense. The game was over. The verbal sparring had been a delightful prelude, a necessary dance of intellect and wit that made what came next all the more profound. Now, looking down at the man who held his heart—sprawled on the hard desk, beautifully undone and utterly at his mercy—all that was left was a raw, aching need to be as close as humanly, or draconically, possible.
“My turn,” Wriothesley repeated, but his voice was different now. It was no longer a taunt, but a solemn vow. A promise to take care of him, to worship him, to give him the release he had been so desperately, and clumsily, seeking.
He leaned down, pressing a slow, deep kiss to Neuvillette’s lips—a kiss that sealed their new arrangement. Then, he began to move, not with thrusts, but with a deliberate, reverent repositioning. He pulled back just enough to grasp one of Neuvillette’s long, pale legs at the ankle. He lifted it, the limb surprisingly pliant, and brought it up to rest on his own broad shoulder. Neuvillette’s breath hitched at the intense stretch, his body folding in on itself. Wriothesley repeated the motion with the other leg, draping it over his opposite shoulder.
Neuvillette was now all but folded in half, a beautiful, impossible angle of pale limbs and silver hair. His knees were pressed against his own chest, his ass tilted up perfectly, granting Wriothesley the deepest, most absolute access possible. He was utterly exposed, his heart and his body offered up in a gesture of ultimate submission. A soft, wounded sound escaped his lips, a murmur of his lover’s name.
Wriothesley’s hands came to rest on Neuvillette’s thighs, pressing them gently but firmly down, deepening the angle, sinking himself impossibly further inside. A choked, full-throated groan was torn from Neuvillette’s chest, and his hands, which had been lying limply at his sides, flew up, his long fingers tangling desperately in Wriothesley’s short, dark hair, gripping handfuls of it as if it were his only anchor in a storm of sensation.
And as Wriothesley began to move, their mouths crashed together.
It wasn't a kiss of finesse or tenderness. It was a brutal, frantic claiming, a desperate attempt to erase any remaining space between them. Tongues tangled, teeth scraped, and they drank each other's frantic, ragged breaths. It was the kiss of two souls who had spent months dancing around their desire and were now, finally, allowing it to consume them completely.
Wriothesley’s first thrust was slow, deliberate, and devastatingly deep. He was tentative, learning this new, brutal angle. He felt for that specific spot, that divine bundle of nerves that had sent the Iudex into a spiral before. He found it. Neuvillette's entire body went rigid, a sharp cry muffled against Wriothesley's mouth, his grip in his hair tightening painfully.
Wriothesley didn't retreat. He didn't tease. He held himself there, pressing firmly against that spot, letting Neuvillette's body acclimate to the overwhelming pleasure. Then, with a low growl, he began to move in earnest, his thrusts powerful, steady, and aimed with a marksman's precision. Each deep, driving plunge was focused on that one spot, a relentless, targeted assault designed to shatter him.
The change in Neuvillette was immediate and profound. His body was no longer his own. He was a vessel for sensation, a bowstring pulled taut and thrummed by a master's hand. The quiet, breathy moans became a litany of broken sounds, a desperate, ongoing prayer of "Wriothesley— ah— Wrio—!" His hips, which had been still, began to move in time with the Duke’s powerful thrusts, not to take control, but as an involuntary, frantic response, trying to meet the force that was overwhelming him.
The kiss broke as Neuvillette threw his head back against the desk, a long, keening cry tearing from his throat, his body arching violently as Wriothesley’s rhythm became faster, harder, more relentless. The sounds in the office were primal now—the wet, slapping echo of their bodies colliding, the ragged, desperate panting, the soft thud of Neuvillette’s head against the scattered papers with every powerful stroke.
Neuvillette’s hands untangled from Wriothesley’s hair, his arms trembling. They slid down Wriothesley’s sweat-slick shoulders, seeking purchase. His long, elegant fingers, which had signed laws and passed judgments, splayed across the scarred landscape of Wriothesley’s back. And as another wave of pleasure, so intense it was almost unbearable, crashed over him, his nails lengthened almost imperceptibly without his conscious consent, and dug in.
Eight sharp, stinging lines were dragged down Wriothesley’s back, a desperate, possessive marking. Wriothesley hissed, the sharp pain a brilliant counterpoint to the slick, tight heat that gripped his cock. It didn’t deter him; it spurred him on. A low, triumphant groan of approval tore from Wriothesley’s chest, and the last vestiges of control evaporated into the sweat-slicked air.
The rhythm was no longer about pleasure; it was about annihilation. It was a frantic, desperate pounding, a collision of hips and flesh driven by a singular, primal need to get closer, to merge, to dissolve the very atoms that separated them. Their kisses devolved into something more elemental. They were no longer kisses but a frantic panting into each other's mouths, a desperate sharing of a single, ragged lung. Wriothesley’s mouth was bruising, his teeth grazing Neuvillette’s swollen lips, and Neuvillette met him with equal fervor, his own tongue sweeping into Wriothesley’s mouth as if seeking refuge.
Wriothesley’s hands dug into Neuvillette’s hips, the bandaged skin providing a rough friction against the Iudex’s smooth, damp flesh. He wasn't just holding him anymore; he was lifting him. With a powerful flex of his arms and back, he all but lifted Neuvillette’s lower half from the desk with every deep, driving thrust, forcing his body to take every brutal, magnificent inch of him. Neuvillette was airborne for a fraction of a second with each plunge, his only connection to the world the searing heat filling him and the iron grip of the man possessing him.
He was a beautiful wreck. A cascade of silver hair plastered to his sweat-sheened face and the mahogany desk, his elegant limbs tangled around Wriothesley's shoulders, his body a taut bowstring of pure sensation. The sounds he made were no longer words, not even names, just a series of high, choked cries that were swallowed by Wriothesley’s mouth. They were clinging to each other like drowning men, two separate beings fused into a single, desperate entity, hurtling towards a point of no return.
Wriothesley felt it first—the deep, internal tremor that signaled Neuvillette’s imminent shattering. His inner muscles began to clench around him in a frantic, pre-orgasmic flutter. That exquisite, involuntary tightening was the final push Wriothesley needed. His own climax, held back twice by Neuvillette’s unintentional teasing, roared to life with the force of a tidal wave.
“Neuvi—!” His voice was a raw, broken thing.
With a final, impossibly deep thrust that buried him to the hilt, his body locked up. A torrent of hot, thick seed flooded the tight, gripping heat of Neuvillette's body. The same instant, Neuvillette keened into his mouth, a raw, silent sound of a soul being torn from its vessel. His entire body convulsed around Wriothesley’s cock, his back arching violently off the desk as his own release crashed through him, a blinding, white-hot cataclysm that left him utterly spent.
For a long, breathless moment, the only sound was the harsh, rasping panting of two men who had pushed their bodies to the absolute limit. The storm had broken, leaving in its wake only the quiet reverberations of pleasure.
Instantly, the predator vanished. The fierce, possessive lover who had just driven Neuvillette to ruin was replaced by the tender, devoted man who adored him. Wriothesley’s entire posture softened. He didn’t pull out. He remained buried deep inside, letting their bodies pulse together in the quiet aftermath, a silent testament to their connection.
He lowered Neuvillette’s hips with an almost reverent gentleness, allowing his full weight to rest on the desk once more. The change in pressure drew a soft, boneless sigh from the Iudex. Wriothesley then carefully took one of Neuvillette's legs from his shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to the trembling inner thigh before gently lowering it to the desk. He did the same with the other, his movements slow and full of a profound tenderness that was a stark, beautiful contrast to the frenzy of moments before.
With Neuvillette’s body now resting fully on the desk, Wriothesley collapsed onto him, his head finding the crook of Neuvillette’s neck, his face buried in the damp, silver strands of his hair. He nuzzled him, his lips ghosting over the sweat-slick skin of his throat, pressing soft, reassuring kisses to his jaw, his temple, his cheek. He was breathing him in, re-learning his scent, reassuring both of them that they were still here, still whole.
The death grip on Wriothesley’s back released. The sharp nails receded. Neuvillette’s hands, trembling with exhaustion, unfurled. They slid up Wriothesley’s neck, his long, elegant fingers combing gently through the short, damp hair at his nape, a soft, soothing caress that was both a comfort and a quiet question. Are you alright? Wriothesley answered by nuzzling closer, his own arm tightening around Neuvillette’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer, as if he could absorb him through sheer proximity. He felt the faint, stinging lines on his back, a map of Neuvillette’s surrender, and a possessive, deeply fond smile touched his lips. He would treasure those marks.
A long, comfortable moment passed. The world outside the heavy doors of the office, with its laws and duties, ceased to exist. There was only this. This messy, beautiful intimacy on a desk strewn with the ruined pretense of their meeting.
Eventually, Wriothesley knew they couldn’t stay like this forever. The mahogany was unforgiving, and the chill of the late night was beginning to seep back into the room. With a soft, reluctant sigh, he pressed one last, lingering kiss to Neuvillette’s shoulder.
“Alright, love,” he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly thing against Neuvillette’s ear. “As comfortable as your desk is, I think you’d be better off somewhere… softer.”
He began to withdraw, slowly, deliberately. The sensation was a new kind of intimacy—a slick, wet parting that left them both feeling strangely empty. With a final, soft sound, he was free. He immediately helped Neuvillette to sit up, his hands steady on his lover’s back. Neuvillette moved with a boneless grace, though a faint tremor still ran through his limbs.
Wriothesley’s gaze softened as he took in the sight. Neuvillette sat amidst the wreckage of their passion, his silver hair a glorious mess, his lips swollen, his skin adorned with a faint flush and the sheen of their efforts. He was the most beautiful thing Wriothesley had ever seen. Noticing the goosebumps rising on Neuvillette’s pale arms, Wriothesley reached for his own discarded coat still hung over the back of his chair, draping the heavy greatcoat over Neuvillette’s shoulders. The dark, formal fur was a stark contrast to his luminous skin, swallowing him in warmth and the faint scent of Wriothesley’s cologne.
Neuvillette pulled the coat around himself, a silent gesture of thanks, his eyes still hazy and soft. Wriothesley then stepped back from the desk, his trousers still bunched around his thighs, and began to fix himself with a practiced ease, his movements unhurried. He glanced around the office, a slow, appreciative smirk growing on his face. Papers were scattered everywhere. An inkwell had been overturned, a dark stain spreading across a case file. It was chaos. It was perfect.
“Well,” Wriothesley began, his voice laced with a light, teasing warmth as he fastened his belt. “I must say, Monsieur Iudex, this has been the most productive business meeting I’ve ever had the pleasure of attending.”
Neuvillette, who was slowly gathering his wits, shot him a look. It was meant to be stern, but the effect was ruined by the lingering flush on his cheeks and the utter exhaustion in his posture. “I would hardly call this ‘productive,’ Your Grace. Several important documents have been… compromised.”
“Compromised?” Wriothesley chuckled, moving to stand before him, gently brushing a stray silver strand of hair from his cheek and tucking it behind a pointed ear. “I’d say they’ve been consecrated. Besides,” he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “the negotiations were a resounding success. Though, I have to admit… I was surprised by your particular style of debate this time.”
Neuvillette’s brow furrowed slightly. “My style?”
“Mmm,” Wriothesley hummed, his pale eyes glinting with mischief. He couldn’t resist. “For a man renowned for his quiet, measured judgments, you’re surprisingly… emphatic… when you’re making a point. Quite vocal, in fact. All those little… arguments you were making…”
The shift was instantaneous. The soft, pliant lover vanished, and the Iudex, flustered and indignant, began to reassemble himself. Neuvillette sat up straighter, pulling the heavy coat around him like a suit of armor. He turned his head away, focusing on a far corner of the room as if finding it suddenly fascinating.
“I have absolutely no idea what you are referring to,” he stated, his voice regaining its formal, melodic timbre, though it was a shade too high to be completely convincing. “I was entirely silent. You must be mistaken.”
“Silent?” Wriothesley’s grin widened. He reached out, his bandaged thumb gently tracing the line of Neuvillette’s jaw, turning his face back to his. “My love, you were singing. A whole damn opera. There were high notes I don’t think an Aria at the Opera Epiclese could hit.”
The flush on Neuvillette’s cheeks deepened to an almost lavender hue. His lips thinned into a severe line, a clear sign of his utter mortification. “That is a gross and rather vulgar exaggeration. I remained perfectly composed. Any… sounds… you may have perceived were merely the result of the… structural stress on the desk.”
Wriothesley threw his head back and laughed, a full, genuine sound that echoed in the grand office. He was so utterly, hopelessly in love with this magnificent, prideful dragon. He leaned in, silencing any further ridiculous denials with a soft, lingering kiss.
“Alright, Your Honor,” he whispered against Neuvillette’s lips, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Whatever you say. But for the record,” he added, his voice dropping to a husky purr, “it was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”
The final kiss was not a conquest, but a balm. It was soft and slow, a silent apology for the teasing and a profound declaration of the adoration that lay beneath it. When Wriothesley finally pulled away, the last traces of his roguish grin had vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unguarded tenderness.
Neuvillette did not pull back or look away. The fight had gone out of him completely, the indignant flush on his cheeks softening into a warm, weary glow. The severe line of his lips relaxed, and his violet eyes, cleared of their defensive pride, now held a deep, quiet affection that was more devastatingly honest than any of his earlier frantic cries. He let out a long, slow breath—a sigh of such profound surrender that it seemed to carry the weight of centuries of solitude. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the solid warmth of Wriothesley’s chest, his hands clutching the lapels of the heavy coat as if it were a lifeline.
Wriothesley’s arms came around him instantly, holding him close. One hand cradled the back of Neuvillette’s head, his bandaged fingers threading gently through the silver silk of his hair. He simply held him, letting the Iudex feel his steady presence, his unwavering support. He could feel the last of the tension leaving Neuvillette’s body, the rigid posture of the Chief Justice melting away to reveal the exhausted man beneath.
“Come on,” Wriothesley murmured into his hair, his voice a low, comforting rumble. “Let’s get you off this godsforsakenly hard desk.”
He helped Neuvillette to his feet, his hands steady at his waist. Neuvillette’s legs were shaky, his balance uncertain, and he leaned heavily on Wriothesley without a word of protest. For a man who stood as the unshakable pillar of Fontaine’s justice, the act of allowing himself to be so physically supported was an intimacy all its own. Wriothesley bore his weight easily, guiding him to the plush armchair he himself had occupied what felt like a lifetime ago. He gently eased him down into the seat, Neuvillette sinking into the cushions with a sigh, pulling the heavy coat tighter around his bare chest.
Wriothesley then turned his attention to the aftermath. He moved with a quiet, domestic efficiency that was strangely at home in the grand, chaotic office. He gathered Neuvillette’s discarded trousers and shirt, folding them with a care they hadn’t received when they were torn off, and placed them on the edge of the desk. He righted the overturned inkwell, using a stray piece of blotter paper to contain the dark, spreading stain. He began to collect the scattered legal documents, not reading them, but simply stacking them into a neat, respectable pile, restoring a semblance of order to the space they had so thoroughly desecrated.
From the chair, Neuvillette watched him. He watched the way Wriothesley’s broad shoulders moved under his black shirt, the economical grace of his actions. He was a man accustomed to bringing order to chaos, whether in the depths of Meropide or in the aftermath of their passion. He wasn’t just a lover who took; he was a partner who stayed, who cleaned up, who cared for the quiet moments as much as the explosive ones.
“You… do not have to do that,” Neuvillette said, his voice soft and a little rough from disuse.
Wriothesley didn’t look up from his task, but a small, fond smile touched his lips. “I know,” he replied simply. He placed the last of the papers onto the stack and finally turned to face him. “But I can’t have the Chief Justice starting his day with his desk looking like a brawl broke out in a print shop. Bad for morale.”
He walked back over to Neuvillette and knelt before the armchair, bringing them eye to eye. He reached out, his hand gently cupping Neuvillette’s cheek, his thumb stroking the soft skin.
“You okay?” Wriothesley asked, his voice sincere, his pale eyes searching Neuvillette’s for any sign of regret or discomfort.
Neuvillette leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. He was more than okay. He was… settled. Grounded in a way he hadn’t been in centuries. The loneliness that was his constant companion, a low hum beneath the surface of his life, was silent.
“Yes,” Neuvillette whispered, his voice full of a quiet, wondering truth. He opened his eyes, and the look he gave Wriothesley was one of such raw, unguarded love that it made the Duke’s breath catch in his throat. His hand came up, his cool fingers gently tracing the fading red marks his own nails had left on Wriothesley’s shoulders during their earlier frenzy. “And you?”
Wriothesley’s heart clenched. He captured Neuvillette’s hand, turning it over to press a firm, warm kiss into the center of his palm. “Never better,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
He stayed there for a moment, kneeling before him, simply holding his hand. The passion had been a wildfire, but this—this quiet, tender aftermath—was the warm, enduring hearth they could both return to. This was the truth of them.
“My own private quarters are much closer,” Neuvillette said quietly, his thumb stroking over Wriothesley’s bandaged knuckles. “With a proper bed. And a bath.”
Wriothesley’s expression softened into a loving smile. “Lead the way, Monsieur,” he said, his voice gentle. “I think we’ve concluded our business here for the night.”