[ wriothesley wakes in a slow, disoriented stir, blinking against the lingering darkness of another early morning into the new year. the sky outside is still black, the hour unholy, and for a moment it feels as if he’s simply caught in an odd dream. but then it hits him—a sudden, rising wave of heat and vertigo that grips him the moment he tries to sit up. his body doesn't cooperate. his hands fist into the damp sheets at his side of the bed, breath coming shallow and uncertain as sweat clings to his collarbones. there’s something wrong. he knows it immediately, and not in the distant, logical sense that usually accompanies his instinct. no, this is visceral—raw and pulsing, a low thrum beneath his skin that even leaves him aware of how entirely off his scent is. his pulse is erratic, pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to keep pace with something far older and deeper than blood. and while he can’t place it, his body seems to know exactly what’s happening.

and for what might be the first time in his life, wriothesley looks toward neuvillette with no armor; no pretense, no measure of control. the older man is still asleep, peaceful in a way that makes wriothesley's breath stutter. then heat floods his abdomen, thick and sudden and insistent. it’s not embarrassment or desire in the usual sense—it’s need, hollow and aching, something that blooms low and deep and refuses to be ignored. his limbs feel too hot, his skin too tight, his bones straining beneath a pressure he can’t ease. so he shifts, restless, and it takes him a full moment to realize his cock is hard and already leaking onto his stomach. however, the shame doesn’t land. there’s no room for it—not with how his lungs keep drawing in air that feels thick and cloying, as if the room itself has grown too close. ]

Neuvillette. Neuvi—

[ he tries to call neuvillette’s name. but even that thread of control is already slipping, because the moment he speaks, he breathes in deeper, and this time the scent hits him like a blow. it’s not a lingering trace of shared sleep or the faded remnants of their intimacy. it’s something else entirely as neuvillette’s scent is full and sharp, soaked in sovereignty and old power, the kind that settles into the air like a gathering storm. it clings to wriothesley’s tongue, floods his throat, and sends a sharp tremor down his spine. his breath catches on a low moan, not from pleasure but from sheer instinct—some part of him responding before his mind can catch up.

his tongue finds the slope of neuvillette’s neck, dragging slow over the pulse point where scent lingers strongest. it’s a reverent motion—desperate and unthinking—and his hips buck forward of their own accord, cock sliding messily against his abdomen as he presses closer into the heat and gravity of the other man. logic is a distant thing. where all he knows is that neuvillette smells like safety and something in wriothesley wants to drown in it.

he breathes the man’s name again, but it’s no longer an attempt to wake him. it’s a prayer now, strung with quiet pleading, sweet and cracked at the edges as he mouths at neuvillette’s shoulder and jawline, pressing open-mouthed kisses and sharp little nips against the skin where that scent sings strongest. he’s moaning now, softly, almost feverishly, as he ruts against whatever part of neuvillette he can reach. it isn’t coordinated or even intentional. it’s just need, primal and pulsing through his body like a current, leaving him dizzy and undone. he wants—no, he aches—to be touched, claimed, steadied, anything to keep from falling apart. but even without a clear thought in his head, it’s neuvillette’s presence that he clings to. the one fixed point in a world that’s just become far too hot to hold. ]