[ 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
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?