[ 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?
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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?