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Neuvillette stirs before sunrise, silently slipping from their bed to make Wriothesley breakfast; a tangle of sheets and their sleeping clothes resting at the foot. In this indigo light before dawn, Neuvillette admires Wriothesley as he dresses, placing a robe over shoulders, silk soft.
Salt and pepper hair is a mess, from how Neuvillette’s fingers had weaved into strands the evening prior, and beautiful bruises blush the expanse of Wriothesley’s throat, all Neuvillette’s doing.
Even now, a little rush of heat drips down Neuvillette’s spine at the memory of their evening. They’d gone out Saturday evening and enjoyed a dinner at Hotel Debord, knowing they’d spend Sunday at home. Their kisses had tasted of wine and a fine cut of steak indulged in. Neuvillette hardly craves steaks, but for Wriothesley? He’d grace a thinner cut for his husband’s sake.
And they’d come home, a little drunk, stopping in the hall to take drugging kisses from one another. Neuvillette had sunk to his knees, hungered for more than the taste of Wriothesley’s lips, and instead, took him to the bed of his tongue, to taste pleasure through his essence itself.
Neuvillette passes the vanity and catches sight of himself in the mirror. Bruises litter the expanse of his collarbones, but they already begin to heal. He can’t help pressing fingertips to them to savour the dull ache.
How much more present would Wriothesley’s touch be? How much longer would Wriothesley’s touch linger in Neuvillette’s memory if they were to be fully bonded?
Their wedding rings rest on the dresser, catching the light. They’ve married as humans do, yes, but they made the difficult choice of waiting a few more years until sealing their bond.
It’s been five years, and Wriothesley is forty. An admirable age, especially for the Administrator of Meropide. He’s healthy, strong, and perhaps a little stiff from years spent in the Pankration Ring, dealing and taking blows from fists. His nose is a little crooked from breaks, and his own knuckles are scarred, many silver lines across skin.
These days Wriothesley does spend more time in the Overworld. He’s no longer as pale, and he’s adopted a sun-kissed complexion. It’s healthy for him, and Neuvillette is happy they could finally find a place for themselves beyond the Court, bordering the Erinnyes Forest.
“What to do…” Neuvillette whispers to himself as he stands in their kitchenette. They have a tradition of making each other breakfast upon their birthdays, and each year is different.
Fresh Bulle fruit rests in their fruit bowl, picked from the trees nearby. Fresh lemons, too, and honey, brought from the Court after their trip to the market.
Neuvillette hugs his robe tighter around him, shivering. November carries a cold snap that speaks of snow to come in early December, and he knows it’ll only be a week or two until the forest will be covered in white.
He flicks on the stove. Fills the kettle. Begins the tedious process of preparing loose tea leaves, finding the right amount to place in the ornate, silver strainer. Wriothesley takes one sugar with his tea, and Neuvillette’s heart blooms with something tender and warm.
How used to this domesticity he is, and he fears, in a very romantic way, that he will never tire of making Wriothesley tea. When living alone, he’d stowed away imported water in neat rows in his fridge, and nothing more, but now, their shared kitchen is filled with jars of loose tea leaves and Wriothesley himself had helped Neuvillette organize his water in the lower part of the fridge.
They care for each other in the smallest ways, but they both seem to find these simple acts far grander than public gestures and lavish gifts.
–
Wriothesley hears the sound of porcelain and glass rattling, softly, when he wakes up. Sun reaches fingers between the gap in closed curtains, and he opens his eyes to find Neuvillette setting down a tray by his side of the bed, upon the table. It’s precariously balanced, and Wriothesley sits up, reaching out to stabilize it.
“Did you sleep well?” Neuvillette asks softly. He’s beautiful, with his hair down, spilling over his shoulders.
Wriothesley reaches out to brush strands behind those pointed ears, and cups Neuvillette’s jaw, tipping his head down to take a kiss. “Very.”
“I’m glad.” Neuvillette’s breath catches, and Wriothesley presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth, seeking. “You should have breakfast first, though. It’ll grow cold if we wait.”
“Oh?” Wriothesley lifts a brow, curious, and shifts up the bed, to rest his back against cushions.
“It’s nothing terribly fancy, but…” Neuvillette tucks himself back into bed beside Wriothesley, laying on his side to watch him. He doesn’t eat breakfast, and rather, drinks iced Liyuean water just before lunch. “I attempted to make something we haven’t personally had before. At home, at least.”
Wriothesley reaches for the tray and places it on his lap, taking in all that Neuvillette has made him; a bowl of smooth cream and cultured sheep’s milk, laden with sliced strawberries, Bulle fruit and drizzled in honey. A single square of dark chocolate is slipped into the side, a garnishing.
The second bowl is warmer; tossed slices of fresh bread in olive oil, warmed in the oven until they crisp, laced with salt and pepper. A fried egg lays beneath it all, for the yolk to bleed into bread.
“This reminds me of when we went to Mondstadt, just a little,” Wriothesley says, “I don’t think we’ve ever had as much wine as we did then, but the breakfast the morning after was divine.”
Two years prior they’d been invited on business to discuss trade with the Dawn Winery. Fontaine has always enjoyed lighter wines in the summer, but during Yule, there’d been an increase in demand for mulled wine, and Neuvillette himself had grown partial to it as well, and had decided they’d make a trip of it.
“I don’t think we’ll be allowing strange bards to lure us into their tavern again,” Neuvillette agrees. They both knew who the man had been, slight as he was. “Though, we have a tale to tell at least.”
“At least.” Wriothesley savours breakfast, while Neuvillette reads. Honey is smooth on his tongue, and the softness of fruit is a wonderful contrast. This is balanced; equal measures of sugar and salt and savoury.
Sometimes Wriothesley wonders if Neuvillette actually enjoys the art of cooking, or if he simply enjoys watching Wriothesley savour the food, knowing he’s done well in preparing it.
Perhaps this skill, too, is similar to Neuvillette’s adoration for ceramics. Wriothesley knows better than anyone that keeping the hands busy keeps the mind quiet.
“How does it feel to be four decades old?” Neuvillette asks once Wriothesley is done, porcelain and tray returned to the dresser. He sets his book aside and shifts closer, their knees knocking. Neuvillette presses his nose to Wriothesley’s nape, drawing in his scent. “I, for one, am glad. You’re a danger to the heart.”
“Am I?” Wriothesley sighs. Cards fingers through Neuvillette’s hair, and brushes fingertips along rhinophores. They shiver beneath his attention, shimmering with light. “My knees ache in winter and my hands aren’t any better.”
“Hmm.” Neuvillette presses a kiss to Wriothesley’s neck, just below the flutter of his pulse. Noses and grazes fangs over a collarbone. “Perhaps we should consider mating in the spring. Properly.”
“Really?’ Wriothesley shouldn’t be shocked that Neuvillette had waited this long. “I wouldn’t mind waiting–”
“ – I certainly do.” Neuvillette props himself up. Traces his thumb over the high of Wriothesley’s cheek. “I think it’s about time. We’ve been married for five years, and I’m certain of it now.”
“Forty is a good age to stop at,” Wriothesley has to agree. He smiles a little, finds Neuvillette’s hand and kisses his palm. He runs calloused fingers over knuckles, and takes in how scales shimmer in the morning light, azure and teal and white. “How much do you think bonding will take off my aging?”
“Three or five years. Not much.” Hands take a path down Wriothesley’s chest as Neuvillette speaks. So often have they broached topics like this while tangled with one another in these sheets. It’s intimate and raw and real. “Though I cannot promise that all your scars will be washed away.”
Fingers brush featherlight over the three mottled lines dragging down Wriothesley’s neck. He closes his eyes, breathing out ever so slowly. Neuvillette is the only one who can treat him with such tenderness. He allows himself to be vulnerable with Neuvillette.
“The aches and pains of aging will be slowed, but you know my knee still ails me in winter as well,” Neuvillette continues. “Your hair, though,” he brushes over the greying at Wriothesley’s temples. Dips lower to the crows feet by his eyes. “The grey will go and the lines in skin will be taken away to some extent. It’s a slow process, I think.”
“I’d still choose you, even if all these scars went,” Wriothesley confesses. He sinks further into pillows, and lets Neuvillette curl into his side. A tail brushes over his shin beneath the sheets, and as he places a palm upon Neuvillette’s waist to bring him in, he feels the smooth quality of scales beneath his palm.
“I’ve never seen you as lesser-than.” Neuvillette makes a point to press a kiss to the scar beneath Wriothesley’s eye. To the other, beside his nose; a new one from a clean break after a prisoner caught him off guard when being inducted. “Even without these scars, I’ll never see you as someone different.”
“I quite liked going grey,” Wriothesley has to chip in too. He kisses Neuvillette’s shoulder. Slips a leg between Neuvillette’s, and brings their bodies flush together. Neuvillette has always ran colder, and Wriothesley is warm. “What did The Steambird call me? A silver –”
“ – Fox. A silver fox,” Neuvillette supplies dryly, a little frown tipping elegant brows down. “You are, but I'd rather not have the Ladies of the Court noticing that.”
“My beautiful, jealous husband.” And they are both laughing now, soft and muffled into each other’s mouths and into the quiet of their home. Beyond, the wind picks up, and they can hear the distant shore and the waves that lap upon the pebbled sand. “Is this the price I pay for marrying a dragon?”
“Yes, most definitely.” Neuvillette cannot deny it.
“And how possessive you are.” But Wriothesley loves this.
He loves the soft bites Neuvillette gives him, just above where his shirt collar rests when in uniform, sure that all will see it, along with purpling bruises and kiss-bitten lips. He scents Wriothesley, too, and sometimes they wear each other’s colognes to work when Neuvillette’s ruts are near.
It’s perfect, really, how they’ve managed so far without being fully bonded.
“Bonding is a deeper thing, though, I know,” Wriothesley carries on. He brings Neuvillette to lay atop him, knees astride a strong waist. Neuvillette slips hands beneath Wriothesley’s robe, palms smoothing over muscle and fine hair. “I want that.” He cradles Neuvillette’s face, admiring how the sun catches in pale hair.
“Then is this your way of telling me to enjoy you as you are before we bond?” Neuvillette’s eyes shine with humour, amethyst alight with silver.
It’s far from the first time Wriothesley has been adored. Neuvillette has tasted sweat from his brow, taken with a draconic, split tongue. The waters of his body and his essence; Neuvillette has seen it all. He’s memorized every scar upon Wriothesley’s body, a breathtaking constellation set upon skin that tells of a life lived, and just as much death escaped by a breath.
“When do we not enjoy each other?” Wriothesley asks in turn. He’s right. And he knows it.
They’re both insatiable. Even now, Wriothesley is achingly tender, open and pliant from last night’s doings.
And Neuvillette is painfully gentle, easing fingers into the warmth of Wriothesley’s body, coated in Hydro. So often do they chase pleasure in the morning, wanting to shower and start their days, but today they indulge and fall into a slower rhythm of love.
This is worship, Wriothesley realizes, as Neuvillette descends the strong lines of his body, leaving kisses in his wake; to the rise of a nipple, to the muscle of his chest, and the soft skin just below his navel. Each scar, the deep ones, at least, are lingered upon.
Wriothesley fists the sheets. Tangles his free hand in Neuvillette’s hair, partly to keep it from Neuvillette’s face, and partly to stay grounded himself.
He wants to see Neuvillette. Wants to see how those eyes darken with pleasure. How his lover becomes addled upon his taste and pleasure alone.
“You’re beautiful,” Neuvillette murmurs against the crook of Wriothesley’s hip. Here, nothing but soft skin resides, and arousal, his length against his thigh, prerelease welling. Neuvillette takes Wriothesley in hand, thumb brushing over the head in maddening, light circles. Hydro drips down Neuvillette’s wrist, and Wriothesley doesn’t think he’s seen anything as erotic as this.
Neuvillette rests between Wriothesley’s legs, on his hands and knees, breath faltering and lips brushing down his length.
“I won’t…” Wriothesley shudders. Muscles seize and release, as Neuvillette takes Wriothesley to the back of his throat and swallows around him, all while crooking those fingers up, grazing his prostate. “Last. I won’t last,” he breathes out, a broken moan following.
The scales lining Neuvillette’s spine shimmer in the sunlight, akin to light upon a lake, ever-changing and refracting. It’s beautiful. Breathtaking and otherworldly, and so very Neuvillette.
“Don’t, then,” Neuvillette murmurs, words slurred. His focus is honed in solely on Wriothesley, and he presses his tongue to the underside of his length, feeling how hot-blooded desire is.
Wriothesley trembles beneath Neuvillette’s doings. He’s oversensitive and his lower back protests, but this is perfect. Being taken apart so sweetly, a knife’s edge drenched in honey, disguised, is something he’ll always love.
Orgasm is a gentle unfurling, heat in Wriothesley’s belly, and he shatters in Neuvillette’s hold.
“Perfect,” Neuvillette praises Wriothesley in the aftermath. Dips his tongue to heated flesh to rid it of release. “You are so very perfect for me, Wriothesley.”
And they linger there, listening to the cadence of each other’s breathing. Neuvillette leaves soft kisses to skin. Coaxes another orgasm from Wriothesley, this one an easily snapped band. He doesn’t chase his own release, though, and it bothers Wriothesley.
“We should shower,” Neuvillette has to tell Wriothesley, once they have changed the bedding and taken dishes back to the kitchen. “Go for a walk along the beach after.”
Wriothesley is a giver, and perhaps that is to a fault, but Neuvillette doesn’t chase Wriothesley away when he gets to his knees in the bathroom either as they wait for the water to warm. \
It’s only much later that they go to the beach. The weather is fine, the wind only a little cold, nipping the tips of noses and ears. And it’s here that Neuvillette gifts Wriothesley a ring.
“We already have rings,” Wriothesley tells Neuvillette. It’s beautiful, though, gold, with a small sapphire set within. It winks in the sun, brilliant.
“Yes, but this one has something more to it,” Neuvillette says. He’s smiling. He’s nervous, Wriothesley realizes, and that has his own heart sitting in his throat.
He lifts the ring up and looks at the inside of the band, to find an engraving.
Je t'aime pour tous les temps que je n'ai pas vécu.
“I love you for all the times I have not lived,” Neuvillette says as Wriothesley reads. “I wanted this year to be special. A mark of sorts, for what is to come, if that makes any sense–”
“ – Neuvillette, it’s perfect.” Wriothesley’s eyes burn, waterline filling with tears. He’s not a crier. Not an easily stirred one, at least, but this love he harbours in his heart is far too great to hold, and so it spills over, fiercely. “You know I don’t need anything else but you, yet you still…”
“I have one as well. For when the time is right,” Neuvillette says. He takes the ring from Wriothesley and slips it onto his finger. It fits perfectly. “Moments like these should be celebrated. You can only be bonded once, after all.”
“But I’ll still fall in love with you, over and over, with each day that passes.” Wriothesley isn’t a heavy romantic either. The words simply fall from his tongue, meant to be said. “That’ll never change.”
“We mate for life, Wriothesley. I fear you won’t ever be rid of me, even if we do fight in the years to come,” Neuvillette has to say. They walk further down the beach, hand in hand, shoulders brushing.
“What a wonderful misfortune that is then, to be yours.”
“A misfortune, indeed.” Neuvillette stops for a kiss. They both taste salt upon each other’s lips.
Salt has never been sweeter.