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On his desk is an egg-shaped censer, no bigger than a Bulle fruit, with a body of green glass. A golden flower sits on top of it, with gracefully crafted gold vines curling down and around, nesting the base, delicate leaves speckled along the meandering lengths.
A letter from Sumeru calls it a dream capsule—a device that could bring forth dreams of a person’s deepest desires, both known and unknown. Knowing The Iudex’s preference for water, it needs no fire—only a drop of water through the flared rim, and the scent of the elusive Viparyas flower will bloom.
Neuvillette has heard of Sumeru’s knowledge capsules, and the magical way they use it, similar to how a predecessor bequeaths memories on a new incarnation.
Similar to how he has the previous Hydro Dragon’s memories.
That humans themselves can harness it, is no small feat.
He has also heard of their recent caution regarding the artifacts, so he approaches this gift with just as much caution.
It’s a gift from Buer, who expressed curiosity in the nations surrounding her, and wished to visit without causing undue grief on the political front. Considering Fontaine’s recent overcoming of a prophecy, and Sumeru’s newfound stability, she hoped it to be a good time to satiate her curiosity.
Despite being a Usurper, Neuvillette looks forward to meeting the god of Verdure. There is much he would like to know from her, and being neighbors, their nations can only benefit from their alliance, which he is sure she would approve.
From the Traveler’s accounts, she is still very much a child, regardless of her domain in wisdom. He is under no illusion that she is like his Melusines, but they’re around the same age (and the same stature), so pardon him if he writes a favorable response, welcoming her and her retinue with open arms.
As for the gift—he takes it with an open mind. The letter had detailed that it is a personal gift for him, and that he may do with it as he wishes, regardless of whether or not he approves Buer’s venture.
The Inazuma delegation months ago had brought many new things as well, including bubble tea, which brings a certain Duke to the forefront of his thoughts.
Neuvillette wonders if this is a gift he can share as well, but immediately thinks better of it.
Child or not, Buer is a god. Gifts from gods are often speckled with danger for mortals, whether intentional or not. The fates like to play with those whose constellations are near divinity, so it’s only common sense for him to inspect it himself, rather than allow it close to any Vision bearer. Even Melusines would not be safe, considering their origins. (He believes in their capability, but he worries.)
He had taken it to the back of the Palais Mermonia, late into the night, dropping a globule of water into the flower’s center, which, true to the letter’s words, activates it.
A light ribbon of smoke—or he should say, water vapor—rises in looping ropes of transparent white, and he can sense no ill will from it.
And just like the water from Sumeru, it takes a moment of savoring for him to taste it—the mildly sweet allure of a pleasant dream. The concentration of it is not immense. Should the afflicted wish to wake, they would do so with no issue.
He’s pleased by it, and the thought of sharing it resurfaces.
Weeks later, on a night when he has an extra slot of time the following morning, after he is tucked comfortably in bed, he tests it on a more personal level.
He adds a drop of water to the golden flower, and the smell of dreams pervade the room, mildly sweet, and alluringly gentle.
It tugs at him, like an insistent child, and he follows its lead down a hazy, starglitter road of fantasy, knowing fully well he can leave at any moment.
(He doesn’t realize the danger of dreams, when they cater to the dreamer.)
He hears seagulls.
He’s on a ship.
The water rocks the vessel back and forth, like a seesaw, or a bassinet.
When he opens his eyes, he finds that he is wet, and very naked.
However, he isn’t bothered by such a thing. It feels the most natural state of being—to be unclothed is to be unhindered, and it’s not like he is wholly without chastity. By human standards, he is bare, but by the standard of his kind, he is dressed. His scales, from tail to hip, adorn him like jewels and armor alike, shining brilliantly for all to admire.
And he certainly has an admirer.
He has many.
Strung up in a net made of twined wire too sturdy to break without exposing his identity, he is held for all aboard the ship to behold.
They hold their breaths in awe, but his hackles raise, because how dare they—
“Let him go,” someone says, breaking the silence of the crew, and the rattle of his ear-fins, which flare with agitation.
“But Captain Wriothesley—“
“Let him go.”
The words are firm, and Neuvillette studies the commander—the Captain—of the vessel.
Dark-skinned and pale-eyed, with a patch over his right eye. His neck is as exposed as it is covered (much like someone else he knows), the neckline of his shirt plunging down almost to his torso due to undone buttons, while a choker with a dangling chain rests lightly against the sliver of bare chest.
A thick coat stays on his shoulders, despite the lack of straps and buckles.
It is a coat worthy of a leader. A mantle, really.
Although the crew had protested initially, they do not grumble when they follow his instructions, their compliance speaking their respect for the man at the helm.
The net, held up by a crane, is steered to the side of the ship, and Neuvillette feels his tail’s weight rest on the banister of the deck before the net drops, and he is free to dive into the waves below.
He doesn’t know why he doesn’t do it immediately.
He looks back at the captain, who looks back at him, arms crossed.
“Well?” He smirks. “I’d welcome you to stay, but you didn’t seem too fond of the idea earlier.”
Something about his tone ticks Neuvillette off, so he flicks his tail, turns back to the sea, and dives in with nary a splash—
“Oh my. If this isn’t embarrassing, I don’t know what is.”
At the mouth of an alleyway, Neuvillette’s eyes dilate to adjust to the darkness, catching the sight of a man standing over another, very unconscious man, who has a growing puddle of blood beneath him.
The first man, the man still standing, is masked and cloaked, clearly an assassin, and bears a knuckle duster on his right hand, dripping with the same blood that has been spilt. It’s an obvious crime scene, so Neuvillette makes the declaration:
“Turn yourself in quietly, stranger.”
“I can’t do that, unfortunately. Let’s hope we meet under better circumstances, Monsieur.”
He has a split second to summon his cane and the waters that would apprehend the criminal, because the criminal is already scampering away, scaling his way towards a balcony and onto the second level of the city.
As the leash of Neuvillette’s Hydro captures the man’s ankle, he’s stunned to see the Hydro freeze, and used as a boost to accelerate the criminal’s escape.
Seconds later, the Marechaussee Phantom fill the alley, closing it off from civilian access.
“Secure the perimeters. Obtain permits to search the buildings of Quartier Lyonnais. Pay attention to cloaked or masked men clad in red, with one knuckleduster. Summon the healers, this man is in need of medical attention—“
“Yes sir!”
An hour later, Neuvillette receives a report.
The victim is dead—had been dead on site, and the killer is nowhere to be found. The identity of the victim is a man by the name of Charle, and word on the street has it that he’s a dealer for Sinthe. There is suspicion that he accidentally offended the House of the Hearth, and had been targeted, but no concrete proof exists of such a thing, only the recollection of an old woman who had been half out of her mind due to senility.
“Monsieur, your two o’clock is here!”
“Thank you Sedene, please allow him entry.”
He tucks the report away to meet with the Lord of the House of the Hearth, and stills when he smells the scent of blood.
A man with ash-gray hair walks in, eyes shockingly pink, and attired in red. He’s walking with a mild limp, even if he hides it well, and on his right hand is a thick set of wraps that tucks neatly into a knuckle guard.
Neuvillette rises to meet the killer Lord of the House of the Hearth.
“Monsieur Neuvillette,” he greets, offering his weaponless hand. His voice is airy, raspy almost, different from the voice in the alleyway, and a Pyro Vision is clasped onto his coat, but Neuvillette knows.
“Lord Wriothesley.”
He shakes the killer’s hand, and he knows—
He is in a courtroom looking down at a boy—tried as an adult but still a boy—bandaged from head to toe, wrists shackled together, and eyes dead as a fish, asking a single question:
“How do you plead?”
The boy looks back at him, soulless as a husk.
“Guilty.”
Later, a file makes its way onto his desk with a new name—
‘Wriothesley.’
There are three people in his bed, four if he includes himself.
All of them are dressed down, coats and armor thrown aside to lay upon the chaise, distant, if there.
He only recognizes one (Wriothesley, with salt and pepper hair, with blue eyes and yellow-ringed pupils), but the other two do not spark panic or hostility, even as they crowd him, sandwiching him between them. They both smell like Meropide (of sea salt and bronze), even if they do not have the familiar scent of bergamot and tea.
Words are exchanged, but there’s a sleep haze over him, and he’s more interested in examining them than he is of knowing what they’re discussing.
The one that went behind him is dark-skinned, all tawny and weather-worn. He is thinner than the rest, with wiry muscles that bulge in places, like the forearms and the thighs, speaking of a specialty in trade.
A sea farer.
A captain.
It’s no wonder he smells more of the ocean than of anything else, but there is also the scent of Pyro powder—the smell of cannons.
He cushions Neuvillette’s back, legs spread to accommodate him, and Neuvillette lays his head on the Captain’s heart, his hair carded by dexterous fingers, known for tying all sorts of knots and pulling at tumultuous sails on turbulent seas.
The other stranger, who brackets Neuvillette’s torso with his elbows and lay in between Neuvillette’s legs, is pale.
Pale, pale beyond belief, with ashy gray hair, and shockingly pink eyes. There’s a scar on the side of his neck, a strange knot of veins with a cute heart shape. It reeks of something ominous.
It must have been intentional.
It must have been cruel.
The position of the Knave is not one that is lightly acquired. The toll that the ‘King’ pays is a heavy one indeed.
Neuvillette lifts a hand to thumb at the indented skin, and the man tilts his head to give Neuvillette better access, which, something tells Neuvillette, should not be as easy as this. It also gives Neuvillette a clear view of the embroidery on the Harbinger’s sleep blouse—a vague semi-circle in the shape of a fist, with four fly-away strikes—If one tilts their head to the side, they might just see a heart, clutched in a clawed grasp of four fingers.
An ominous symbol if Neuvillette’s ever seen one.
Still, there is no caution when the man lays his head on Neuvillette’s stomach, tilted at an angle, in a way where they can make eye contact.
“Like what you see?”
The man looks at him fondly, terribly so, and Neuvillette hums in agreement, less as a response to the question, and more a general pleasure at having the man so trusting.
When Neuvillette slides his hand from neck to cheek, the Fatui presses into it, tender and sweet in a way his own Wriothesley doesn’t allow himself to be.
It’s a fascination that makes his heart skip a beat.
“If you look at them any more, I might just be jealous,” Wriothesley sighs, leaning his head on Neuvillette’s shoulder.
“You have him all to yourself. The least you could do is share,” the Fatui grumbles.
“I concur,” the Captain says. “Plus, this isn’t even all of us.”
“Shut up. No one asked you guys.”
Neuvillette’s breath hitches at Wriothesley’s dark tone.
He doesn’t know the other two well, but he knows his Wriothesley. He knows the laughs, the jokes, the kind heart, and the words that Sigewinne says about him. He also knows about the darker side of Meropide, the purgatory that awaits the worst of criminals who are only monsters wearing human skin, maintained by The Administrator. The side of Wriothesley that people rarely see.
Most of the time, they see the Duke. The man who would see his vassals cared for. The man who would give mercy to the unfortunate and the innocent. The man who would allow redemption for the worst kinds of people, if only they looked for it.
It’s Wriothesley all the same, either Duke or Administrator, but his capability to be so hostile still takes Neuvillette by surprise.
No, not by surprise—it’s a strange mix between anticipation and…want?
“The real question is who’s his favorite,” the Fatui continues, heedless of the glower aimed his way. His eyes peer up coyly through a fan of pale lashes as he draws a finger down Neuvillette’s shirt, popping open a button.
“Isn’t it obvious?” The Captain leans over, voice close and deep as he kisses the pointed shell of Neuvillette’s ear. “Look at the way he’s hugging you.”
Neuvillette becomes heatedly aware of every point of contact between him and the Fatui, between him and the Captain too, as well as Wriothesley’s gaze upon him, dark and unreadable. He sees it out of the corner of his eye, even as something tells him not to make eye contact, and swallows in trepidation, but also in thrill.
There’s something about this other side of Wriothesley that sends heat down to his belly.
The Captain’s hand, the one not combing through his hair, trail down his chest, slipping lower down his shirt with every button that the Fatui undoes, calloused fingers rolling over a nipple casually, waking Neuvillette’s dormant body with tingles of sensation.
“Is that true, Monsieur?” Wriothesley pulls away, but his tone is buttery and smooth, daring Neuvillette to say yes.
Neuvillette quivers at it as his blouse is fully undone, thrown open for the two not-strangers to fully explore the planes of his chest, as his hips are lifted up so they can peel off his pants, until he’s as bare for the sea as he is for them.
“I want all of you,” he answers honestly.
It doesn’t matter which Wriothesley it is.
They’re all versions of Wriothesley, all hardworking, empathetic men with darker sides to them like the sea has its depths, but whose bleeding heart is warm beyond belief, and as long as it’s him, Neuvillette will never push them away.
Will never say no.
His Wriothesley laughs—it’s a sharp bark, but it is filled with amusement. Delight.
“Okay Monsieur. You can have all of me. All of them. But remember…” A hand, still clothed by the athletic tape and steel rings on each finger lays on his shoulder as a pair of lips brand itself on his cheek, the kiss like an ignition. “You’re mine.”
The Captain and the Harbinger seem to take Wriothesley’s approval as a signal, descending upon Neuvillette like starving wolves.
His chin is lifted gently to meet a pair of fiery lips, and a hot, wet tongue asking for entry.
He closes his eyes in acquiesce, opening his mouth and allowing the slot of their mouths—allowing the taste of tobacco and ale and the craven hunger of the Captain to plunder every crevice of his maw, licking at teeth and tongue until saliva slips out from the corner to drip down his chin, but he can’t care, not when claw-like fingers dig into his hips as a liquid fire tongue laves at his slit—
“Mmmgh!!”
He whines into the kiss when that lava-tongue dips in, but something is wrong—or not wrong per se but unusual, because something hard sits at the flat of the tongue, and it’s not soft, quite like what he expected. That hard bit flicks to the movement of the tongue, forcing his awareness on it when it is not flesh, and as a result, is intrusive in a way that unsettles.
In a word, it is uncomfortable, at least, until it carves deeply at a spot where his dicks are covered.
That hard bit dips into that hooded opening, and his body seizes with electricity, all his nerves lit like fireworks as his cocks try to push out, but that wicked tongue pushes back, not allowing them out, and he cries, bucking his hips uselessly against the beastly grip, which scores his skin with deep red welts, deeper and redder the more he struggles.
The tongue not only doesn’t allow his dicks to emerge, it wriggles deeper within him, lips covering his slit from top to bottom hotly and suctioning against the flowering opening of his vent, which leaks slick with each hard, long pull, and he moans, but it doesn’t feel like he moans because the sound is something the Captain drinks up—
He wonders how he must taste like, when every second feels as if he is the one being devoured, both up top and down below, and he’s just drowning in Wriothesley.
When he’s released from the kiss, he almost doesn’t know it, but the Captain pinches his chin and—
“Look at him,” he says, voice like honey and rum as he directs Neuvillette’s gaze downward to the Harbinger, whose head is pinned tightly by Neuvillette’s milk white thighs. His face is buried into Neuvillette’s vent, and the way his lips seal around Neuvillette’s sex is pure lechery.
And his eyes—oh when he looks up, it almost seems bashful, if Neuvillette hadn’t known any better. It’s like he’s found paradise.
If Neuvillette hadn’t been breathless already, that look alone would steal the air straight out of his lungs.
As if spurred on by Neuvillette’s gaze, the Harbinger sucks harder, drawing out Neuvillette’s dicks while the tongue continues to push them in, and it’s like he’s fucking Neuvillette with Neuvillette’s own cocks.
In one swipe, that bit catches on one of his cock heads and—
“Ahhh!”
—he’s gushing past the Harbinger’s mouth with a climax that snuck up on him—
His hips can’t move, but his back arches, and he cums harder than he’s ever had in his life.
The pleasure washes over him in waves, and his vent is clenching around the thick tongue fighting the tight passage with his twin dicks.
The Harbinger rides it out, tongue-fucking Neuvillette, the bit digging deliciously and torturously up against the fold of his vent and his ovipositor, until the orgasmic convulsions are nothing but weak pulses, and when the Harbinger pulls away, tongue slipping out with webbings of slick, face moist and full of Neuvillette’s fluids, Neuvillette sees a metal ball sitting at the tip of his tongue—a piercing.
Neuvillette’s cock heads peek out of his slit, just the slightest bit, free to emerge at last, and yet, no longer wholly erect—not quite satiated, but not ready for more pleasure.
It’s the horrible (and visceral) in between of too much and not enough.
Thick white liquid leaks from their tips, dribbling down in lazy rivulets and tracing the outline of his vent until it slides down to the crack of his ass, and—
There’s the indent of teeth, at the swell of his pubic bone.
The skin is unbroken, but the glittering scales are bent out of shape, bent to the curve of the Harbinger’s bite.
“Beautiful,” the Captain whispers, one hand drifting down to where the cock heads continue to leak, rubbing the glans with two fingers with a benign intent, earning a whimper from the dragon sovereign—until they plunge in to clamp his cocks between the two widths, just to drag them out.
He squeals, undignified, like a farm animal, and his hands, which had been bracing him against the Captain’s knees, reach desperately for the Captain’s wrists instead, in an attempt to stop the unearthing of his swollen, too-sensitive members.
“Ahhh…! A…ahh…! Too much…! Please…!”
“It’s okay darling, you can take it. Tell your cocks not to be shy…”
The pull is relentless—but more than that, he…doesn’t want it to stop. His grip on the Captain’s wrists are so tight that he could very well just snap the joints.
He could. It wouldn’t take much.
But he doesn’t.
Inch by agonizing inch, they’re tugged out from their cover, and although his hips attempt to follow the drag of his cocks, the Harbinger’s grip keeps him grounded, and his lengths are helpless to the Captain’s gentle, if merciless grip.
He sobs when they’re fully and forcefully unsheathed, a ragged, leftover orgasm following the tail end, bursting out with a copious, if weak spray of slick.
His vent is open now, hole winking hard enough that it can be seen through the flex of his stomach. Thrown beyond arousal, his body seeks the ministrations of a mate—and he wants.
He wants so badly.
The Captain’s hand is shiny with a mix of cum and slick as they drag upwards, fingers splayed at rest over Neuvillette’s torso.
The Harbinger lays nibbling kisses all along his thighs, if only to make the muscle in his legs jump along with the rest of him. A myriad of hickeys line the inside of soft flesh, mottling pale skin with lurid reds and purples.
There’s a lull as the men wait for Neuvillette to catch his breath, but there’s a charged tension in the air that has yet to clear.
It’s far from over.
“How do you want us?”
The question takes a minute to register.
When it does, Neuvillette looks over at Wriothesley, whose pupils are blown wide open, the ring of gold nothing but a thin string of an outline. If not for that, and the pulsing vein at his neck, Neuvillette might have thought him unaffected.
“All of you,” he mumbles. “I want all of you at once.”
“Are you sure, sweetness?” The Captain kisses the shell of his ear. “You’ve barely had either me or the Knave—you think you can handle your Warden too?”
“I want it.”
It’s not a matter if he can handle it or not—but rather what he desires—and he wants to be feasted on and to feast in return. His body, whether it can ‘handle’ it or not, is hungry for it.
The banquet of his Duke and other iterations of him is such a rare occurrence, (dream or not, does it matter?) he can’t pass it up.
“Let him have it,” the Harbinger purrs. “I’d like to hear him beg for mercy.”
“One at a time, first. Then altogether,” Wriothesley offers. “To make him beg.”
“Not that it’s hard,” the Captain chortles.
He’s not wrong. Neuvillette had already begged him earlier.
Easing him into it seems like a better idea, and he lets them arrange him however they want.
The Captain lays on the bed horizontally, head near the edge, and gestures for Neuvillette to straddle him. His cock, a respectable length that could easily reach Neuvillette’s belly button, is flushed and hard, and boast a handsome nest of curls at the base of the shaft.
When Neuvillette shuffles close, the Captain takes hold of his hips to align his cock along Neuvillette’s vent, the length sidling up his twin erections with a schlick sound.
The thick, bulbous head is bigger than his hole, but when the Captain’s thumbs pry apart the lips of his vent, revealing the hole some more in between the piths of his cocks, the opening yields spongily to the cockhead’s kiss.
One firm push, and the cockhead pops in wetly—and Neuvillette shudders.
It sits warm and heavy at the opening of his vent like a polite visitor, but it doesn’t stay that way for long.
“Come now darling. Don’t dwaddle. You have two more people waiting for you,” the Captain coos, hooking his fingers along the top of Neuvillette’s spread thighs, and dragging him down to spear himself on that thick, unforgiving shaft.
“Ahh…ah…aah…”
His voice escapes with whimpers with each pant of breath as his passage gives way, and the fleshly folds of his insides conform to the cock sliding into him.
The cockhead meets a barrier, but the Captain only allows Neuvillette to rise up slightly before pulling him back down, and the penetration continues past that point, deeper and deeper and deeper until—
—it’s all the way in.
The tight stretch of his muscle ripples along the cock, leaking past the plug to soak at the Captain’s pubic hair, and his own cocks are squeezed between their torsos.
At some point, his arms rest on the Captain’s shoulders so he doesn’t fall over, because his thighs feel absolutely useless.
“Is it my turn?” The Harbinger asks, barely a breath later.
He takes handfuls of Neuvillette’s ass, the claw of his hands making pinpricks as he kneads them like a baker does with dough.
“Prepare him first. He’s going to be too tight with one cock already in him.”
“Tsk. With what lube?”
“Sweetheart, can we get some Hydro?”
“Why bother? Just use his own slick.”
“…you’re so smart, me from another world.”
“Why thank you. It was either be smart, or die.”
Past the sassy exchange between the three, the Harbinger scoops up half a handful of leaking slick from the connection point between Neuvillette and the Captain, and brings it to the back. It dribbles down the crack of Neuvillette’s ass, and he helps it along with a propagating dose of Hydro, making the slick viscous enough that the Harbinger wouldn’t have to procure more—
One blunt finger pushes in the pucker of his moistened hole, and he jolts in surprise.
A hot chuckle breathes crisply against his ear as the Harbinger eases himself against Neuvillette’s back.
“Don’t worry, I can behave. Point is to prepare you so you don’t bleed. Wouldn’t be fun if I injured you…”
Belatedly, Neuvillette realizes the Harbinger’s claws—that’s what he’s talking about.
He hadn’t even thought about injury to himself—if the Harbinger snuck a curved talon inside of Neuvillette, how would it feel?
Would it ‘hurt,’ just like that piercing did?
He clenches at the thought, bringing a moan out of the Captain, and the Harbinger laughs in mild disbelief.
“…unless you’re into that? Pain?”
Not quite.
“I am ‘into’ you,” Neuvillette rasps, peering behind him just in time to catch the widening of pink eyes, and the vivid, beautiful flush on the Harbinger’s cheeks as flattery and absolute infatuation overtakes his expression.
“I am ‘into’ you too. So much. Damn. Damn, you’re so—“ the Harbinger thrusts his finger into the warmth of Neuvillette—quick, light jabs that aren’t really all that great for stretching, but the Hydro-infused slick sneaks in and helps the process along, until two, three fingers fit inside, not with ease, but it fits, and that’s good enough.
“Inside,” Neuvillette beckons, ass pushed out in invitation, hips rocking down onto the Captain, whose hips buck in response, poking at Neuvillette’s core which makes him tighten up again.
It won’t end—the cycle will just make them cum before the Harbinger or Wriothesley can even have a taste of Neuvillette.
"You're really..." The Harbinger forgoes words as he bites into the junction of Neuvillette's shoulder, teeth blunt as they burn their mark on unflawed skin. He pushes his length in between Neuvillette's cheeks, and Neuvillette can feel bits of metal along the length as they sink past his rim. It's more than one—it's two, three, four, five, six piercings, like notches that are a bit too hard to be comfortable, but something in Neuvillette's hindbrain purrs, satisfied by its characteristic, as some dragon species possess ribbed dicks similar—
A seventh pops in, and Neuvillette tenses as he's suddenly deluged with a pleasure so raw and unadulterated, his vision whites out and his lower half spasms uncontrollably with a half-orgasm.
He tosses his head back, body dropping down limply to be speared wholly upon those cocks as a pair of hands hold his face.
"—onna be the death of me..."
Neuvillette wants to protest—he would not like to be cause of his beloved's death. He knows that's the humor that Wriothesley has, and that particular phrase is more cultural than it is just-Wriothesley, but he wants to protest nonetheless.
At the same time, the words are worshipful, and Wriothesley looks as if the very visage that Neuvillette presents is a cause for ascension.
One hand leaves his face to paw at his stomach, which bulges out slightly with the curve of having two cocks inside of him. Two thick, heavy cocks that throb with the heartbeat of two smitten men—
"Shit," the Harbinger growls, releasing Neuvillette's shoulder to admire the red-blue-purple love bite he's made. "I can feel you through him..."
"Me?" the Captain chuckles, words almost a wheeze. "I felt you sliding in with all those studs."
Neuvillette keens.
Something about the fact that they could feel each other rubbing through the thin walls of his flesh makes him feel, and he's suddenly struck with a need.
"Wriothesley..."
"You're so greedy, Monsieur," Wriothesley laughs with equal measures of incredulity and desire. "Alright then. Here, open up."
He pushes down his pants and holds his cock to Neuvillette's mouth, slicking the pink of his lips with a wet gleam of precum. It's salty and musky, and Neuvillette, who wouldn't usually like such flavors, feels his mouth gush with saliva. He molds his mouth over the cockhead, confidently taking it into his mouth until the length hits all the way to the back of his palate—but he still hasn't even taken half the length yet.
His throat protests, and he gags on it, eyes burning with reflexive tears.
"Aww...look at you," Wriothesley coos. "You're trying so hard. The things I would do to you if the other two weren't here...Do you want some help?"
Neuvillette looks up through the fan of his eyelashes and it’s a wordless plea. Please.
“Can’t even take yourself off of my cock to answer. Well, that’s fine.” Wriothesley threads his fingers through Neuvillette’s hair, tangling with the roots of his rhinophores as well, which sends tremulous tingles down his spine, “I’m sure you’ll tell me to stop if you really want to, but you’re just too much of a whore—“ and then yanks him straight down until Neuvillette’s nose is at his pubic bone, and the coarse hair there tickles his upper lip.
When the cock goes down all the way down in one surge, it pushes his shout back into his voice box until it’s a garbled moan.
He can smell Wriothesley’s musk. A smell that is just him, undeniably and irrevocably—
It permeates his senses, and he feels it all the way up in his head.
The hands in his hair slowly yank him back, and the cock slides out of his throat at its own pace—even as his esophagus tries to expel Wriothesley’s thick length, it doesn’t go any faster, and the tears finally spill down his cheeks, too much to stay on the lids of his eyes.
When the cockhead rests easy in his mouth, coating his tongue with more precum, Neuvillette’s own cocks throb.
“You’re so brutal with him,” the Captain clicks his tongue.
"He loves it." The Harbinger exposes him, hands reaching around to tug at Neuvillette's cocks, one in each hand. Small blessings that he's gentle with it, but even then, when his thumbs rub at the glans on top, Neuvillette shakes, fucking himself to the powerless compulsion of his body's nerves.
"Is that right?" the Captain croons, as if he doesn't feel the way the vent writhes around his dick.
The Harbinger strokes him from root to tip, and his cocks leak all over that hand as he lifts one hand from the Captain's chest to Wriothesley's hip, urging him to go deeper.
"That answers it, doesn't it?"
When Wriothesley takes it as his cue to thrust all the way in, choking Neuvillette with his thickness, that's when the other two move as well.
He’s so, so full as he chokes on Wriothesley’s length, even though he hasn’t moved, (they haven’t moved), and he looks up to find a man he almost doesn’t recognize.
Rapture.
That’s what it is.
The deep, intense furrow of the brow, the snaggletooth that bites down on a plush lip until it pierces through the skin—
From a man who had just as much control as he, there is nothing but raw desire—desire, as in the dire need to possess him, the possession that could ruin him, and the ruin that could destroy them both.
It won’t be forever—neither of them can afford forever—but it would definitely be all night.
The Captain's hands on his hips lift him up, and the cocks (both the Captain's and Harbinger's) slide out of him with more ease than when they went in, but it leaves him empty, gaping, and he weeps for it—before the hands slam him down, cocks punching back in ferociously, and the piercings, all seven of them, sluice past his prostate.
"MNGHH!"
His eyes roll to the back, nails digging into flesh, regardless of who they're on, and his angry, rigid cocks kick in the Harbinger’s hands with spurts of release, painting the Captain's torso with streaks of white.
They don't fuck him as hard, but they move inside of him in slow, rocking movements, fucking him gently into another climax before the first one ends, except this time he's cumming with his vent, and he swallows when he feels another pool of precum gather in his throat, thinking only Wriothesley, Wriothesley, Wriothesley—
Wriothesley jerks awake to an image emblazoned to the back of his eyelids, even though he's sure he's never seen a sight so divine.
Neuvillette, on his knees, straddling him as his swollen and wet vent squirt with each time he takes Wriothesley all the way in.
Neuvillette, his collarbones decorated in a necklace of colors from Wriothesley’s bites, his plush ass swallowing him down to push out his belly in the front, his twin cocks leaking constantly and twitching in his hands.
Neuvillette, eyes wide and unseeing as he drinks down Wriothesley’s seed, cherry-pink mouth opening to show the mess of cum and saliva, tears tracing the curves of his cheeks, drool and other fluids smeared on either side, dribbling down his chin—
“Fuck…”
His pants are undeniably wet, like that of a prepubescent boy.
Perhaps it’s time to visit the Iudex and remember the splendor and nobility of the symbol of justice before Wriothesley presumes too much.
His mind certainly does when it pushes the image of Neuvillette debauched on the bed, cum all over his belly, rhinophores crimped and trembling as his sex ejects one last aftershock of a climax.
“Get it together,” he hisses, taking his cock in hand with a punishing grip.
Neuvillette would never—
But his mind doesn’t care.
“Wriothesley…”
He can hear the breathy moan of his name in Neuvillette’s voice, and unbidden, his hand starts stroking, fast and hard.
He cums embarrassingly quick, and he had half a mind to catch it with a corner of the sheets instead of all his bedding, whispering Neuvillette’s name with quiet reverence—with adoration—with shame as he reaches the end.
When he’s done, his dick is still half-hard, and he hates himself just a little bit.
Let it be known that the Duke is a man of control—and what he lacks in control, he makes up for in secrecy.
And that dream?
The image of Neuvillette like…that?
Definitely a secret he’s going to keep to his grave.
(Of course, discovering that a certain someone shares that secret will be another story altogether.)