[ 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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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. ]
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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.
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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?