( in all of his centuries of existence, neuvillette has never taken to a man quite like this — has never wanted anyone so ferociously, and has never been charmed by one quite like this. the dragon is caught on the curve of his smile, the pliance and ease that comes from having too many orgasms wrung out of him in a punishingly short amount of time, almost.
neuvillette's breath catches when his hand comes to rest over the distension where the man had taken not one, but two of him. buried so deeply, his balls pressed up against his ass, he can't help a soft, soft sound of want, desire building to a powerful, unrelenting instinct. his hand joins wriothesley's, resting atop his before he guides him to massage and squeeze, twitching at the tension it introduces, the inevitable clench of his hole.
down, and down, it's neuvillette that helps to stroke his cock, tender and slow. every move is an intention to worship, to lay his own passion at the altar of his grace, more of a warm coil than a knife-hot pull of passion. his hungry mouth finds the vulnerable hollow of his throat, and neuvillette suckles a lovebite, licking and kissing the vicious bruise he leaves there. one, and again, a necklace of kiss-bruises that he knows wriothesley will have to carry for the next few days.
slowly, slowly, he continues to move within him, carving out a place for himself, marking wriothesley within and without. his clean hand cradles his face as he pulls up for another kiss, slow and tender, lips and tongues twined with each other in a sensuous build toward more. more, together.
he anchors him with a soft sigh, his thrusts longer, slower, dragging his cocks down those incredibly slick walls. he can feel himself getting close, hot and throbbing, twitching inside of him. he wants to come, yearns to fill him up and and watch the duke take both his loads.
neuvillette's gaze is fixed, still, on him, lavender eyes deep and dark with mirroring devotion. )
That's right, you are mine as well, mon cher. Now —
( his words are husky, and he shifts position just a little, pushing up squarely against his prostate. )
— move with me. Come now, easy. Tighten up around me.
[ wriothesley doesn’t realize he’s slipping until his body stops answering him with the same immediacy it always does. it’s round three—he's pushed far beyond the threshold of where he usually regains control—and neuvillette is still moving inside him with that unshakable, drowning steadiness that shreds through every layer of strength or wall he’s ever built for himself. both draconic cocks are working him open in a way nothing could have prepared him for: one buried deep, pulsing with heat and relentless pressure, the other dragging every engorged ridge against the slackened rim of his entrance in a devastating rhythm that keeps him suspended between pleasure and absolute delirium.
his body feels too hot, too heavy, too slow to keep up with the pace. his thighs tremble beneath neuvillette’s weight, his nerves beginning to fray and overload, each hiccupping cry of his spilling out in soft, uneven waves. the exile in him—conditioned to brace, to calculate, to anticipate betrayal—can’t find purchase in this kind of sensation. there is nothing to counter, no blow to block, no pressure to avoid. where every thrust drives straight through him, heading directly for that place where instinct no longer bothers pretending it has control.
it only deepens when neuvillette moves his hand to hold wriothesley’s cock instead of pressing down on the bulge where they’re joined. from there, the shift turns the moment into something rapturous, and wriothesley sobs openly as neuvillette strokes, thrusts, and leans more of his weight atop him to keep the distention anchored. when he throws his head back to scream, it peters off into a tear-stained mewl the moment neuvillette adds bruising kisses onto the sensitive scar tissue that decorates his throat
the weight of neuvillette’s body, the heat of him, the flex of the muscles bracketing him in—every part of it folds around wriothesley until the room turns quiet and far away. his thoughts no longer run in coherent lines; instead, they collapse into pulses of sensation and base wants. deep. more. stay. don’t stop. don’t let me fall. mere words that flicker through him like embers, glowing briefly as a reverent stare before melting into the unfocused haze swallowing his awareness.
eventually, wriothesley’s world narrows to the two points of contact inside him and the grounding weight above him. the rest of the room around them fades, to where even his own voice sounds distant. his name could be spoken and he wouldn’t respond, because the part of him that speaks is drifting somewhere below his ribs, floating in a thick, velvety dark full of heat and surrender that doesn’t need any explanation.
and there, finally, wriothesley lets his consciousness go completely, dropping weightless and warm into the deep subspace neuvillette has been leading him toward for three rounds straight. he is gone, beautifully and utterly, in the way only neuvillette ever manages to draw out of him. his orgasm isn’t sharp or clean—it’s the hard, full-body clench of his channel, that leaves his abdomen locking in gasping moans beneath their hands. especially the one gripping his cock, where it twitches pathetically in neuvillette’s palm, drawing more sobs from wriothesley as he spills almost nothing, nearly cumming dry.
from there, wriothesley’s body continues without conscious thought, and neuvillette feels each reaction like a tide pulling at his own bones. wriothesley’s hips lift in small, uncoordinated movements, trying to meet each slow thrust with the instinct of someone whose body hasn’t yet realized his mind is already gone. the muscles that once flexed now shiver under neuvillette’s touch, softening around him as though the tension that used to define him has given way into something unguarded. when neuvillette pushes deeper, wriothesley exhales a broken sound against the sheets—a breath that catches and dissolves as his body tightens around both shafts with a reflexive clutch that pulls neuvillette even deeper into him. it is involuntary, primal, and nakedly honest.
even as wriothesley continues to stare upward, vacant and unseeing. his hips keep moving, unconsciously answering neuvillette’s every motion as if it’s the only thing he still knows how to do. ]
( wriothesley's heat howls for him, begs deliverance, and the dragon delivers with overwhelming devotion. it is that devotion that sees him push wriothesley far beyond what any human can endure, penetrated by twin dicks, and pushed past the edge over and over again before he even has time to recover.
and he can see how it fractures wriothesley from the inside, when he cannot escape from neuvillette's ardor, and all he can do is take, takes and take. he hears the sob, wrecked and broken, poured out and filled with the heat and honey of neuvillette's passion as he fucks him steadily — in, out, in out, again, again, pressing up all the intimate spaces within him and claiming him for himself.
he sees the light dim in those beautiful eyes, how wriothesley is swept out with him, certain with the tide. he cradles the back of his head then, captures his mouth in a kiss that speaks of unspoken affection, the blazing heat of a man discovering what worshiping another truly feels like. )
Look at me. I'm —
( he guides him to cling to him, and the final tightening, the clutch of him is what tips him over in a wordless cry, his name caught in his throat when neuvillette's orgasm finally hits him — powerful, unrelenting; thick, sticky spurts of warm cum gushing inside of him. pulse after pulse, thickly coating his walls and all the way inside, filling him up and slowly softening, until his seed oozes out of him and onto the sheets. neuvillette shudders, overcome by the force of his orgasm, lips tracing the outline of his name. )
[ it’s a shame wriothesley isn’t cognizant enough to process what’s happening around him, let alone catch the sound of neuvillette’s voice when it finally breaks and breathes his name at the height of climax. instead he's somewhere far removed from thought, weightless and quiet, though his body hasn’t quite stopped responding to neuvillette's movements. he yields to the deep press of lips against his slackened mouth, where the rest of his body softens instinctively, and he trails the barest of scratches down neuvillette’s arm—not as a gesture of intent, but simply as the last of his strength slipping loose from his fingers. his legs had long since fallen apart around neuvillette's hips, relaxed and pliant beneath the pressure of being opened so completely, and now his arms falter as well; no longer able to hold the shape neuvillette had coaxed him to keep a grip of.
then, somewhere inside, he registers the shift in weight. the slow swell beneath his navel as the full depth of neuvillette’s cum settles into him causes a quiet ripple across his abdomen, just enough to make his overstretched rim tighten around the twin cocks still lodged inside. it's not pain that pulls at his nerves, but the unfamiliar sensation of being made to hold more than what ought to be possible, of being filled to the point of overflow and yet still clenching to keep it close. it’s that lingering tremor of muscle, acting on its own, that begins to draw the rest of him back from where he drifted.
the world doesn’t return all at once, but rather it begins with the weight of the dark, thick and still around him, is a sort of heaviness that tells him the day has long since slipped away. any faint clarity that follows comes in flickers—the feel of clean sheets beneath his palms, the cool air that brushes over the sweat on his skin, the soft give of the mattress as his hips shift slightly to one side. he blinks once, then again, and exhales a quiet 'oh' without meaning to when a warm trickle spills past the edge of his abused rim and slicks across the back of his thigh. the breath he gives is low and full of realization, and it’s only after the sound escapes him that he understands what it means.
there’s no thought behind the next motion, only a desperate need that takes shape in the hollow space left behind. he brings his hand down between his thighs with slow precision, fingers dragging through the mess already leaking out, and presses in just enough to try and coax some of it back. it doesn’t work. wriothesley knows it won’t. and yet the rest of him stays still, as if moving too much might break whatever fragile hold he has on himself.
but the pressure against his rim does little to stop the creeping edge of something more complicated than shame. the gesture might be instinctive, born from the heat of rut and the echo of mating, but the ache that unfurls in his chest can't be so easily explained. it burns without warning, as though the weight of having been wanted so deeply is somehow too heavy to carry now that the moment has passed. and so wriothesley draws his hand back and rests it flat over his sternum, not to brace, but to soothe, pressing down in an attempt to calm the irregular rhythm of his breathing. the gesture is neither dramatic nor desperate, but it carries with it the quiet admission of something unsettled.
wriothesley doesn’t cry, doesn’t tremble or flinch, but there’s a tension building low in his belly that refuses to ease no matter how still he lies. the intimacy of what has passed lingers in the air, thick and warm, but it does nothing to shield him from the sudden onset of doubt—the kind that creeps in after affection and makes him question why the afterglow feels lonelier than it should. ]
( neuvillette feels it before he sees it — the way exhaustion sets deep in his bones, the muted reception of neuvillette's ejaculate spilling inside of him, claiming wriothesley for himself. there is the way he tries to keep all of his seed inside, fruitless, but no less sincere.
wriothesley moves on autopilot, almost, pushed into a space that neuvillette is only beginning to have a concept of. there is a distance in his eyes and a pliance in the way he holds him that surprises neuvillette, and he can't help but snag his cum-stained hand to lift it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it. one more. another. another. he kisses those rough knuckles, the warmth of his palm.
the tension ripples around him, and neuvillette can't help but frown, cupping his face with the other hand. those eyes are distant, unfocused, and too vulnerable at the very same time. wriothesley is retreating, and he doesn't know why. )
My Wriothesley. ( he says quietly, his gaze searching, concerned. ) Look at me. Return to me.
[ wriothesley is slow to rouse from sleep, his mind rising through what feels like warm layers of water—where each one resists him in a different way and scatters his thoughts in soft, unsteady waves. nothing in him feels aligned or coordinated. where his gaze is fixed on some point beyond their walls, openly adrift in the early pull of troubling thoughts. when neuvillette laves gentle affection onto his soiled hand, it stirs only a few faint twitches—more reflex than intent. and the more he tries to carry himself as he should, composed and self-aware, the more clearly he seems lost, unable to find the footing of his usual mental clarity. ]
How— [ it isn't quite a word, but more a hollow rasp that slips out before he can catch it. even he seems faintly surprised by how hoarse his voice sounds after crying beneath neuvillette, though the realization doesn't reach his face for a long moment. ] How long has it been? Did I sleep past lunch? Did we already eat?
[ his questions fall one after the other in a muted, unsure rhythm, each one barely catching its breath before the next. his brow furrows as his eyes fall shut, the motion guided by a touch that gently redirects his gaze forward—toward something he can’t quite parse yet. when wriothesley tries to rub at his temples to soothe himself, his fingers clumsily knock against the steady warmth of neuvillette’s hand already resting there to show he's caught him during the lapse. it’s only then, in that small moment, that he truly registers the other man's presence. but the awareness remains dim at the edges, his senses still dulled and uncooperative. and so wriothesley brushes past the offered comfort and rubs at his eyes roughly, as if he might scrub himself back into a version that feels at little more steady. ]
Neuvillette... What happened to me? [ wriothesley shifts, uneasy, as he tries to piece together the scene; but the memories are half-formed, his mind dulled and padded, as if everything had been wrapped in too many layers to reach anything clearly. ] I remember, but only in parts.
[ he doesn’t look up—not yet. not until he can string it all together. or at least, that’s the reason he gives himself. but beneath the pause, something heavier lingers: a quiet, aching sense of being hollowed out, where in its place sits the silent pull of a longing he can’t yet name. the need for reassurance presses under his ribs like a dense weight, and no less urgent for being wordless. ]
( he's coming back, returning like the sunrise that has graced them a lifetime ago. he's certain they have gone beyond that and up until lunch, every hour spent tangled in him just scant minutes. neuvillette watches him unfurl, sluggish and exhausted, and wonders if he has gone too far feeding that heat-induced frenzy.
his exhaustion sits comfortably in his bones, and the familiar weight and shape of his lover in his arms has him more relaxed than concerned. whatever this is, the way he had slipped away from him earlier, compliant and obedient, they can figure it out. he soothes him then, petting his hair and running his fingers through it, keeping their limbs tangled together. it surprises him that wriothesley had been pushed so far, and he can't help the relief when his questions fill the spaces between them.
he presses a soft kiss to his forehead, instinctively moving to soothe his unease with light touches and more kisses, keeping him cradled in his arms. time to untangle some of these threads, first. )
You're all right, mon cher. You are back with me now, and I shall prepare lunch for us soon. What is it that you remember? Perhaps we can start from there.
[ there’s something in him that reflexively bristles at the sound of neuvillette’s voice at first. how the other sounds far too composed—far more rightly himself—while wriothesley is left grasping at fractured recollections that eventually blur into sensations rather than anything that's truly discernible in his mind’s eye.
maybe he spends a little too much effort trying to sincerely answer neuvillette’s question—not to give anything coherent for now, but more to use it as an anchor. something to hold onto while working through the frustration and fog of a mental crash he still can’t make sense of yet. and for a moment, the closeness between them feels like too much. especially when nerves fire beneath neuvillette’s fingers, right at the sensitive spot just below the crown of his head—leaving him shivering and raw, like an exposed nerve still being scratched open.
even under the press of soothing kisses and touch, wriothesley sinks deeper into their bed—a little more inward, his brow furrowing instead. he huffs before his ears flatten in exhaustion, and finally, he speaks: ]
It started when I woke up—felt hotter than usual. We knew it’d be another full moon, but it’s never felt like that for me.
[ it isn’t a ‘what do you remember’ so much as a challenge he’s set for himself—to piece everything together from the start. ]
( something's wrong. wriothesley looks dissatisfied, and even distressed — the flat of his ears are a dead giveaway, which inexplicably makes neuvillette anxious in the wake of just about fucking him into catatonia.
had he hurt him? he's not entirely sure; this is the first time he has gone all out on him, forcing him past his limits through overstimulation and relentless passion. he rubs his ears lightly, trying to soothe him. is this all right? should he be more affectionate?
neuvillette hesitates. ) You were... whatever you were feeling was overwhelming you. Like you needed — like you needed me to put you on your back and ravage you mindless.
( he cuddles up closer with a soft sigh, looking back at him curiously. ) I lost control, and pushed you past your limits. I am sorry, Wriothesley.
[ it feels ironic to be so timid and bashful over the way neuvillette recounts their morning. as if they haven’t done worse to each other already in their intimacy, but wriothesley forcibly tries to realign himself; as lashing out at neuvillette wouldn’t do either of them any good. and the more he shakes off the haze of being fucked stupid, the less sure he feels of himself—especially when neuvillette maneuvers his touch to help soothe the apprehension wriothesley is likely giving off in waves.
the other’s words do help, though. especially in the way they turn the lens of scrutiny back onto himself, even if it feels like wriothesley is unduly reprimanding himself for a lapse in control. subdrop is a hell of a drug. ]
You’re right. I wanted just you, and only you— [ he reaches up to rub a hand over his face, trying to ground himself before pressing his palms between his eyes—trying to sound more like himself, and less like a softened mess. ] I still do. And that’s what’s worrying me.
[ despite the redness from where he’d scrubbed at his skin, there’s still a light dusting of pink across his features—from the square of his chest and up to the tips of his ears. and when he finally looks up at neuvillette, he looks exhausted but still caught in the early throes of his heat—or rut. it's hard to say which given the way both his and the other soul have distinct voices and almost tortuous demands of neuvillette; from wanting to be bred and tended to, or shoving knot after knot into his mate until it takes. ]
But you’re not the only one who’s bothered by losing control. [ it isn’t shame or regret that colors the worried stare he lifts to neuvillette—it’s the way he’s spent a lifetime clinging to a solid grip on himself, his instincts, his responses. now, that control feels like it’s unraveling, tangled up with his needs and wants in a way that feels dangerous to let go of—especially when it whatever the mood is feels so easyand pleasant to sink down into. ] I’m wondering... is it wrong of me to have enjoyed all of it?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
neuvillette's breath catches when his hand comes to rest over the distension where the man had taken not one, but two of him. buried so deeply, his balls pressed up against his ass, he can't help a soft, soft sound of want, desire building to a powerful, unrelenting instinct. his hand joins wriothesley's, resting atop his before he guides him to massage and squeeze, twitching at the tension it introduces, the inevitable clench of his hole.
down, and down, it's neuvillette that helps to stroke his cock, tender and slow. every move is an intention to worship, to lay his own passion at the altar of his grace, more of a warm coil than a knife-hot pull of passion. his hungry mouth finds the vulnerable hollow of his throat, and neuvillette suckles a lovebite, licking and kissing the vicious bruise he leaves there. one, and again, a necklace of kiss-bruises that he knows wriothesley will have to carry for the next few days.
slowly, slowly, he continues to move within him, carving out a place for himself, marking wriothesley within and without. his clean hand cradles his face as he pulls up for another kiss, slow and tender, lips and tongues twined with each other in a sensuous build toward more. more, together.
he anchors him with a soft sigh, his thrusts longer, slower, dragging his cocks down those incredibly slick walls. he can feel himself getting close, hot and throbbing, twitching inside of him. he wants to come, yearns to fill him up and and watch the duke take both his loads.
neuvillette's gaze is fixed, still, on him, lavender eyes deep and dark with mirroring devotion. )
That's right, you are mine as well, mon cher. Now —
( his words are husky, and he shifts position just a little, pushing up squarely against his prostate. )
— move with me. Come now, easy. Tighten up around me.
no subject
his body feels too hot, too heavy, too slow to keep up with the pace. his thighs tremble beneath neuvillette’s weight, his nerves beginning to fray and overload, each hiccupping cry of his spilling out in soft, uneven waves. the exile in him—conditioned to brace, to calculate, to anticipate betrayal—can’t find purchase in this kind of sensation. there is nothing to counter, no blow to block, no pressure to avoid. where every thrust drives straight through him, heading directly for that place where instinct no longer bothers pretending it has control.
it only deepens when neuvillette moves his hand to hold wriothesley’s cock instead of pressing down on the bulge where they’re joined. from there, the shift turns the moment into something rapturous, and wriothesley sobs openly as neuvillette strokes, thrusts, and leans more of his weight atop him to keep the distention anchored. when he throws his head back to scream, it peters off into a tear-stained mewl the moment neuvillette adds bruising kisses onto the sensitive scar tissue that decorates his throat
the weight of neuvillette’s body, the heat of him, the flex of the muscles bracketing him in—every part of it folds around wriothesley until the room turns quiet and far away. his thoughts no longer run in coherent lines; instead, they collapse into pulses of sensation and base wants. deep. more. stay. don’t stop. don’t let me fall. mere words that flicker through him like embers, glowing briefly as a reverent stare before melting into the unfocused haze swallowing his awareness.
eventually, wriothesley’s world narrows to the two points of contact inside him and the grounding weight above him. the rest of the room around them fades, to where even his own voice sounds distant. his name could be spoken and he wouldn’t respond, because the part of him that speaks is drifting somewhere below his ribs, floating in a thick, velvety dark full of heat and surrender that doesn’t need any explanation.
and there, finally, wriothesley lets his consciousness go completely, dropping weightless and warm into the deep subspace neuvillette has been leading him toward for three rounds straight. he is gone, beautifully and utterly, in the way only neuvillette ever manages to draw out of him. his orgasm isn’t sharp or clean—it’s the hard, full-body clench of his channel, that leaves his abdomen locking in gasping moans beneath their hands. especially the one gripping his cock, where it twitches pathetically in neuvillette’s palm, drawing more sobs from wriothesley as he spills almost nothing, nearly cumming dry.
from there, wriothesley’s body continues without conscious thought, and neuvillette feels each reaction like a tide pulling at his own bones. wriothesley’s hips lift in small, uncoordinated movements, trying to meet each slow thrust with the instinct of someone whose body hasn’t yet realized his mind is already gone. the muscles that once flexed now shiver under neuvillette’s touch, softening around him as though the tension that used to define him has given way into something unguarded. when neuvillette pushes deeper, wriothesley exhales a broken sound against the sheets—a breath that catches and dissolves as his body tightens around both shafts with a reflexive clutch that pulls neuvillette even deeper into him. it is involuntary, primal, and nakedly honest.
even as wriothesley continues to stare upward, vacant and unseeing. his hips keep moving, unconsciously answering neuvillette’s every motion as if it’s the only thing he still knows how to do. ]
no subject
and he can see how it fractures wriothesley from the inside, when he cannot escape from neuvillette's ardor, and all he can do is take, takes and take. he hears the sob, wrecked and broken, poured out and filled with the heat and honey of neuvillette's passion as he fucks him steadily — in, out, in out, again, again, pressing up all the intimate spaces within him and claiming him for himself.
he sees the light dim in those beautiful eyes, how wriothesley is swept out with him, certain with the tide. he cradles the back of his head then, captures his mouth in a kiss that speaks of unspoken affection, the blazing heat of a man discovering what worshiping another truly feels like. )
Look at me. I'm —
( he guides him to cling to him, and the final tightening, the clutch of him is what tips him over in a wordless cry, his name caught in his throat when neuvillette's orgasm finally hits him — powerful, unrelenting; thick, sticky spurts of warm cum gushing inside of him. pulse after pulse, thickly coating his walls and all the way inside, filling him up and slowly softening, until his seed oozes out of him and onto the sheets. neuvillette shudders, overcome by the force of his orgasm, lips tracing the outline of his name. )
no subject
then, somewhere inside, he registers the shift in weight. the slow swell beneath his navel as the full depth of neuvillette’s cum settles into him causes a quiet ripple across his abdomen, just enough to make his overstretched rim tighten around the twin cocks still lodged inside. it's not pain that pulls at his nerves, but the unfamiliar sensation of being made to hold more than what ought to be possible, of being filled to the point of overflow and yet still clenching to keep it close. it’s that lingering tremor of muscle, acting on its own, that begins to draw the rest of him back from where he drifted.
the world doesn’t return all at once, but rather it begins with the weight of the dark, thick and still around him, is a sort of heaviness that tells him the day has long since slipped away. any faint clarity that follows comes in flickers—the feel of clean sheets beneath his palms, the cool air that brushes over the sweat on his skin, the soft give of the mattress as his hips shift slightly to one side. he blinks once, then again, and exhales a quiet 'oh' without meaning to when a warm trickle spills past the edge of his abused rim and slicks across the back of his thigh. the breath he gives is low and full of realization, and it’s only after the sound escapes him that he understands what it means.
there’s no thought behind the next motion, only a desperate need that takes shape in the hollow space left behind. he brings his hand down between his thighs with slow precision, fingers dragging through the mess already leaking out, and presses in just enough to try and coax some of it back. it doesn’t work. wriothesley knows it won’t. and yet the rest of him stays still, as if moving too much might break whatever fragile hold he has on himself.
but the pressure against his rim does little to stop the creeping edge of something more complicated than shame. the gesture might be instinctive, born from the heat of rut and the echo of mating, but the ache that unfurls in his chest can't be so easily explained. it burns without warning, as though the weight of having been wanted so deeply is somehow too heavy to carry now that the moment has passed. and so wriothesley draws his hand back and rests it flat over his sternum, not to brace, but to soothe, pressing down in an attempt to calm the irregular rhythm of his breathing. the gesture is neither dramatic nor desperate, but it carries with it the quiet admission of something unsettled.
wriothesley doesn’t cry, doesn’t tremble or flinch, but there’s a tension building low in his belly that refuses to ease no matter how still he lies. the intimacy of what has passed lingers in the air, thick and warm, but it does nothing to shield him from the sudden onset of doubt—the kind that creeps in after affection and makes him question why the afterglow feels lonelier than it should. ]
no subject
wriothesley moves on autopilot, almost, pushed into a space that neuvillette is only beginning to have a concept of. there is a distance in his eyes and a pliance in the way he holds him that surprises neuvillette, and he can't help but snag his cum-stained hand to lift it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to it. one more. another. another. he kisses those rough knuckles, the warmth of his palm.
the tension ripples around him, and neuvillette can't help but frown, cupping his face with the other hand. those eyes are distant, unfocused, and too vulnerable at the very same time. wriothesley is retreating, and he doesn't know why. )
My Wriothesley. ( he says quietly, his gaze searching, concerned. ) Look at me. Return to me.
no subject
How— [ it isn't quite a word, but more a hollow rasp that slips out before he can catch it. even he seems faintly surprised by how hoarse his voice sounds after crying beneath neuvillette, though the realization doesn't reach his face for a long moment. ] How long has it been? Did I sleep past lunch? Did we already eat?
[ his questions fall one after the other in a muted, unsure rhythm, each one barely catching its breath before the next. his brow furrows as his eyes fall shut, the motion guided by a touch that gently redirects his gaze forward—toward something he can’t quite parse yet. when wriothesley tries to rub at his temples to soothe himself, his fingers clumsily knock against the steady warmth of neuvillette’s hand already resting there to show he's caught him during the lapse. it’s only then, in that small moment, that he truly registers the other man's presence. but the awareness remains dim at the edges, his senses still dulled and uncooperative. and so wriothesley brushes past the offered comfort and rubs at his eyes roughly, as if he might scrub himself back into a version that feels at little more steady. ]
Neuvillette... What happened to me? [ wriothesley shifts, uneasy, as he tries to piece together the scene; but the memories are half-formed, his mind dulled and padded, as if everything had been wrapped in too many layers to reach anything clearly. ] I remember, but only in parts.
[ he doesn’t look up—not yet. not until he can string it all together. or at least, that’s the reason he gives himself. but beneath the pause, something heavier lingers: a quiet, aching sense of being hollowed out, where in its place sits the silent pull of a longing he can’t yet name. the need for reassurance presses under his ribs like a dense weight, and no less urgent for being wordless. ]
no subject
his exhaustion sits comfortably in his bones, and the familiar weight and shape of his lover in his arms has him more relaxed than concerned. whatever this is, the way he had slipped away from him earlier, compliant and obedient, they can figure it out. he soothes him then, petting his hair and running his fingers through it, keeping their limbs tangled together. it surprises him that wriothesley had been pushed so far, and he can't help the relief when his questions fill the spaces between them.
he presses a soft kiss to his forehead, instinctively moving to soothe his unease with light touches and more kisses, keeping him cradled in his arms. time to untangle some of these threads, first. )
You're all right, mon cher. You are back with me now, and I shall prepare lunch for us soon. What is it that you remember? Perhaps we can start from there.
no subject
maybe he spends a little too much effort trying to sincerely answer neuvillette’s question—not to give anything coherent for now, but more to use it as an anchor. something to hold onto while working through the frustration and fog of a mental crash he still can’t make sense of yet. and for a moment, the closeness between them feels like too much. especially when nerves fire beneath neuvillette’s fingers, right at the sensitive spot just below the crown of his head—leaving him shivering and raw, like an exposed nerve still being scratched open.
even under the press of soothing kisses and touch, wriothesley sinks deeper into their bed—a little more inward, his brow furrowing instead. he huffs before his ears flatten in exhaustion, and finally, he speaks: ]
It started when I woke up—felt hotter than usual. We knew it’d be another full moon, but it’s never felt like that for me.
[ it isn’t a ‘what do you remember’ so much as a challenge he’s set for himself—to piece everything together from the start. ]
no subject
had he hurt him? he's not entirely sure; this is the first time he has gone all out on him, forcing him past his limits through overstimulation and relentless passion. he rubs his ears lightly, trying to soothe him. is this all right? should he be more affectionate?
neuvillette hesitates. ) You were... whatever you were feeling was overwhelming you. Like you needed — like you needed me to put you on your back and ravage you mindless.
( he cuddles up closer with a soft sigh, looking back at him curiously. ) I lost control, and pushed you past your limits. I am sorry, Wriothesley.
no subject
the other’s words do help, though. especially in the way they turn the lens of scrutiny back onto himself, even if it feels like wriothesley is unduly reprimanding himself for a lapse in control. subdrop is a hell of a drug. ]
You’re right. I wanted just you, and only you— [ he reaches up to rub a hand over his face, trying to ground himself before pressing his palms between his eyes—trying to sound more like himself, and less like a softened mess. ] I still do. And that’s what’s worrying me.
[ despite the redness from where he’d scrubbed at his skin, there’s still a light dusting of pink across his features—from the square of his chest and up to the tips of his ears. and when he finally looks up at neuvillette, he looks exhausted but still caught in the early throes of his heat—or rut. it's hard to say which given the way both his and the other soul have distinct voices and almost tortuous demands of neuvillette; from wanting to be bred and tended to, or shoving knot after knot into his mate until it takes. ]
But you’re not the only one who’s bothered by losing control. [ it isn’t shame or regret that colors the worried stare he lifts to neuvillette—it’s the way he’s spent a lifetime clinging to a solid grip on himself, his instincts, his responses. now, that control feels like it’s unraveling, tangled up with his needs and wants in a way that feels dangerous to let go of—especially when it whatever the mood is feels so easyand pleasant to sink down into. ] I’m wondering... is it wrong of me to have enjoyed all of it?