[ something is drifting.
it slides through the back of wriothesley’s mind like a warm current and he feels it long before he understands it: a swelling pressure rising and falling in steady waves. where each pull drags him further from the surface of himself. he’s vaguely aware that his breathing no longer matches the rhythm he thinks he’s keeping; his chest lifts a touch too late, falls too early, as though someone else has taken over the timing for him.
the sheets beneath him feel strangely unreal—cool and damp in patches, then warm in others, almost like flushed skin. wriothesley’s fingers twitch against the sensation, not so much grasping for the sheets as remembering how to feel them again. each movement arrives a fraction too late, as though his thoughts have to wade through thick fog before reaching his muscles.
then a low sound resonates through him and for a moment he mistakes it for his own pulse. until it deepens—threading into a purr wriothesley knows far too well by now.
“wriothesley,” neuvillette says, gentle and steady, his own name spoken like a hand offered through the haze.
he tries to answer, but his mouth feels full of something thick and sweet that melts around the edges of a word before it can form. his lips part anyway, and what slips out is little more than a sound—thin, breathy, needy in a way he certainly didn’t intend. only then does wriothesley remember to blink. tears have pooled and half-dried along his lashes, leaving them clumped and tangled. as his focus returns, wriothesley realizes the exquisite taste lingering on his tongue is a mix of their spend, gathered onto neuvillette’s fingers and pushed into his mouth at the peak of his last orgasm. now he can only moan weakly around the spit-soaked digits while neuvillette shushes him and gently withdraws them, licked clean albeit faintly wrinkled.
it’s a mess of a scene as wriothesley drifts back from whatever depths neuvillette managed to pull him both into and up from. an ache settles between his legs as he notices his spent, leaking cock, nearly hidden beneath the swell of his navel, with a thin ribbon of cum still dribbling out amid the evidence of their earlier rounds. meanwhile his wolf tail barely twitches, weighed down by the damp filth soaking through the fur there—or perhaps by the hazy state of mind the two of them sometimes coax him into on slower nights.
only belatedly does it occur to him that he must have climaxed while riding neuvillette’s cocks. and the realization shows in the way neuvillette looks up at him now: pupils blown wide, gaze slitted, lips parted around uneven breaths. his normally impeccable hair is mussed, with damp strands clinging to his cheek while others frame the scales and lithe muscle across his chest as it rises and falls unevenly. a scaled hand comes to brush over the slight distention of wriothesley’s belly.
wriothesley mirrors the motion, though his hand finds little more than sheets, hair, and flushed skin as he reaches blindly for something to steady himself.
between them, the bond hums—and from wriothesley’s side it feels like the flood of his whole being slipping through his ribs to meld with neuvillette’s until their bliss becomes one and the same. it spills through the tether in soft pulses where his voice should be, because all he can manage are quiet, ruined little sounds where neuvillette’s name ought to be. ]
( his wriothesley is lost. lost within the extended boundaries of their lovemaking, the riptide of their mutual desires and neuvillette's burgeoning, quiet domination, drawing forth wriothesley's submission and guiding him to open up and trust, to cast his thoughts and care aside and to feel and experience everything that the iudex can offer him.
and he has succeeded a little too well at this, when he leads him into his third (fourth?) orgasm, wringing thick streaks of cum from him while neuvillette buries his own seed deep inside his yielding body. the thick coil of pleasure embraces them both, but neuvillette retains his awareness, anchoring them both to this moment. he calls his name softly, gently, and feels... pleasant, set afloat. a blissful, glorious warmth and oblivion of complete surrender.
his. wriothesley is now all his.
he nuzzles him then, pleased by the gift of wriothesley's complete trust. it is a precious thing, fragile like butterfly wings and yet endlessly beautiful, and he grasps his hands to draw it back to himself. hold on to him, dearest, and he will see you through.
neuvillette croons soft praise in their native tongue, reverent and affectionate. he moves slowly this time, massaging the distension of his belly in deliberate circles, reminding him of just who he belongs to. he leans down to kiss him deeply, right before he pulls out of him, masking the abrupt emptiness with firm manhandling, urging him onto his hands and knees.
easy. easy, he has you. neuvillette trails kisses and soft licks from nape down the curve of his spine, right to the small of his back, before he's spreading his asscheeks to let all of that cum ooze out of his hole and down, down his ballsac and thighs to the mattress. )
What a mess you've made.
( is all he says before his tongue slides right into that hole, lapping the rest out of him and soothing that tight, tight channel. )
[ it’s one thing to expect the moment his thoughts begin to lag, and another to recognize it while it’s happening. he’s been guided through this sort of high a handful of times now, they've spoken about it at length, and wriothesley has grown more accustomed to the weight and warmth of neuvillette's affection around him. it makes the feeling of sinking—into himself, into neuvillette, into the bond between them—come easier.
and at some point, the effort of thinking stops entirely. there’s no clear moment when it happens, only the quiet absence of it after. where everything narrows onto neuvillette and his presence—where wriothesley is held, how he’s moved. as time stretches, or maybe it folds in on itself; wriothesley can’t tell anymore, and he doesn’t need to.
not when he’s guided to lean down and kiss neuvillette, barely registering the shift in their positions until it’s already happening. not when he’s eased onto his back at first, maybe to rest, as arms lift to wind loosely around neuvillette’s shoulders as if by instinct; coupled a soft sigh leaving him at every murmur of praise pressed against his mouth. he’s simpler like this, stripped down to something quieter, where the usual urge to push back—even in jest—has no place. and all that remains is the need to stay attuned to neuvillette, to follow without hesitation.
so he nods between kisses, agrees to making 'a mess' before the words fully reach him; blinking slow tears from his eyes as a string of mumbled “yes… yes” slips free before he can gather anything more coherent. ]
Yeah, ah, looks good. [ he adds belatedly, gaze dipping between them and to where they're still connected as he braces his footing and lifts his hips, chasing the feel of neuvillette’s cocks as he moves to rut against them out of pure instinct. it takes him a moment to understand what feels different. it's not the stretch of his abused rim, nor the heat that’s already consumed him, but higher—just beneath his navel, where something presses outward against neuvillette’s warm hand. and the slight swell shifts when their hips meet, leaves a soft, disorienting movement that draws a low moan from him over the next few thrusts. ] Feels good, too.
[ it’s a shame the feeling doesn’t last. the sound he makes when neuvillette finally withdraws doesn't hide his disappointment, his body trying to follow, to cling closer despite the lack of strength behind it. yet there’s no real resistance when he’s guided onto his hands and knees, only a faint, instinctive attempt that fades as quickly as it starts. he isn’t kept there long either; as the first press of neuvillette’s tongue has him sinking down onto his elbows, arms folding beneath him as wriothesley squirms to present more fully, his tail twitching sharply at the base before curling tight. ]
Leave it— [ the thought barely forms, clipped and unsteady, but it carries the weight of a plea. there’s a difference between being cleaned and being kept a mess, and even in this haze his body knows which it wants. it shows in the way wriothesley presses back a moment later, the response coming before the awareness, a delayed moan following after. ] —Want you inside.
[ it’s unclear what he means—whether it’s the cum, neuvillette’s cocks, or a deeper press of tongue—but the distinction doesn’t seem to matter to him. not when he can’t quite reach for and cling to neuvillette the way he wants to, and begging for it is the closest he can get. ]
( he wants neuvillette inside him? of course, of course. how can he deny him when he beg him like this, full of unabashed yearning with that delectable edge of desperation? neuvillette is relatively kind in most things; his very nature will not allow him to be otherwise. but wriothesley's unsteady pleading and the open vulnerability that seeps into the strain of his voice plucks the strings of ancient, feral instinct, reverberating along the chords of learned restraint
writhesley is a melted mess, guided and held down, submissive and completely yielding, and he doesn't respond to him in words. he simply holds both asscheeks open and presses deep, lapping at the tight ring of his hole before pressing in deep, desire spiking. wriothesley might feel the insistent, deep push of a longer tongue, the firm part of his hands, and the way the appendage rubs along the sensitive walls of his hole. he tastes his own cum, savoring every moment of it while he slowly, deliberately fucks him with his tongue.
still, he's not without affection, a hand coming up to rub the base of his tail fondly while he pleasures him, taking the offering he so clearly presents. )
[ it’s nothing like the sublime stretch of neuvillette’s cocks, but his tongue comes close—enough to fill wriothesley in a way that brushes the edge of what one of them feels like. and wriothesley has been more than spoiled tonight; enough that skin, fur, scales, and sheets alike are left damp and clinging, soaked through with the mess of them both. the more often neuvillette drags him under—deeper into that slow, euphoric state—the easier wriothesley submits, unfurling without hesitation, letting his senses narrow until there’s only one feeling that matters, and letting neuvillette take care of everything else. it leaves him pliant and willing, with nothing left in him but the urge to chase neuvillette—through the way he clings, the way he begs, the way his voice slips loose into open, helpless sound when neuvillette’s tongue curls and brushes along places already shaped to take both draconic lengths.
there’s nothing coy in the way neuvillette moves—no teasing, no modest sampling of his own spend left inside wriothesley, only a deliberate, thorough mapping of overworked nerves. his tongue traces every inch of wriothesley’s channel with an intent that feels almost reverent in its precision, each slow curl and probing press paired with the deft pressure of his fingers at the base of wriothesley’s tail, grounding and undoing him all at once. and for the first time this evening, wriothesley breaks with a sobbing whine, caught between the two sensations until they blur together and he can’t tell which one is pushing him faster toward the precipice of another climax. through tears, he reaches back on instinct—shaking, needy—grasping to keep himself spread as neuvillette withdraws a hand only to keep stroking at his tail.
it doesn’t last; it never does this many rounds in. wriothesley’s strength gives way in uneven increments, slipping through his fingers as he’s caught between the sharp, trembling pain of overstimulation and the deep, dragging pleasure of being taken so far below the surface that thought itself starts to lose shape. his body can’t decide whether to thrash or arch, so it does both in broken, faltering rhythm—light, desperate movements born of nerves overloaded past reason, of pleasure turned so intense it borders on something wrecking. and still, the only thing that stays clear is the need for neuvillette—the need to want him, to reach for him, to give him one last shuddering finish on his cocks before whatever is left of wriothesley’s control dissolves completely. ]
Neuv— [ the plea bleeds into a broken sound on the way out, muffled by tears and the way he sinks forward onto his chest, knees spread and pressing weakly into the mattress as if that alone might brace him against the next wave. one hand tries to hold himself up, but it falters—rolling uselessly onto his wrist every time neuvillette’s tongue pushes deeper, as if savoring the last frail bit of strength before both muscle and wriothesley’s will finally yield. ] Neuvi— [ meanwhile, wriothesley’s other hand pinches and twists into the sheets, and his call of neuvillette’s name slows into something distant and far more besotted. unable to cling to neuvillette himself, wriothesley settles for the next best thing—pulling the soiled sheets close so he can breathe in the scent of his sovereign and lap at the taste left there in plain, obvious worship. ]
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i write sins and this awful travesty (4 u)- depression! at the disco
no subject
and he has succeeded a little too well at this, when he leads him into his third (fourth?) orgasm, wringing thick streaks of cum from him while neuvillette buries his own seed deep inside his yielding body. the thick coil of pleasure embraces them both, but neuvillette retains his awareness, anchoring them both to this moment. he calls his name softly, gently, and feels... pleasant, set afloat. a blissful, glorious warmth and oblivion of complete surrender.
his. wriothesley is now all his.
he nuzzles him then, pleased by the gift of wriothesley's complete trust. it is a precious thing, fragile like butterfly wings and yet endlessly beautiful, and he grasps his hands to draw it back to himself. hold on to him, dearest, and he will see you through.
neuvillette croons soft praise in their native tongue, reverent and affectionate. he moves slowly this time, massaging the distension of his belly in deliberate circles, reminding him of just who he belongs to. he leans down to kiss him deeply, right before he pulls out of him, masking the abrupt emptiness with firm manhandling, urging him onto his hands and knees.
easy. easy, he has you. neuvillette trails kisses and soft licks from nape down the curve of his spine, right to the small of his back, before he's spreading his asscheeks to let all of that cum ooze out of his hole and down, down his ballsac and thighs to the mattress. )
What a mess you've made.
( is all he says before his tongue slides right into that hole, lapping the rest out of him and soothing that tight, tight channel. )
no subject
and at some point, the effort of thinking stops entirely. there’s no clear moment when it happens, only the quiet absence of it after. where everything narrows onto neuvillette and his presence—where wriothesley is held, how he’s moved. as time stretches, or maybe it folds in on itself; wriothesley can’t tell anymore, and he doesn’t need to.
not when he’s guided to lean down and kiss neuvillette, barely registering the shift in their positions until it’s already happening. not when he’s eased onto his back at first, maybe to rest, as arms lift to wind loosely around neuvillette’s shoulders as if by instinct; coupled a soft sigh leaving him at every murmur of praise pressed against his mouth. he’s simpler like this, stripped down to something quieter, where the usual urge to push back—even in jest—has no place. and all that remains is the need to stay attuned to neuvillette, to follow without hesitation.
so he nods between kisses, agrees to making 'a mess' before the words fully reach him; blinking slow tears from his eyes as a string of mumbled “yes… yes” slips free before he can gather anything more coherent. ]
Yeah, ah, looks good. [ he adds belatedly, gaze dipping between them and to where they're still connected as he braces his footing and lifts his hips, chasing the feel of neuvillette’s cocks as he moves to rut against them out of pure instinct. it takes him a moment to understand what feels different. it's not the stretch of his abused rim, nor the heat that’s already consumed him, but higher—just beneath his navel, where something presses outward against neuvillette’s warm hand. and the slight swell shifts when their hips meet, leaves a soft, disorienting movement that draws a low moan from him over the next few thrusts. ] Feels good, too.
[ it’s a shame the feeling doesn’t last. the sound he makes when neuvillette finally withdraws doesn't hide his disappointment, his body trying to follow, to cling closer despite the lack of strength behind it. yet there’s no real resistance when he’s guided onto his hands and knees, only a faint, instinctive attempt that fades as quickly as it starts. he isn’t kept there long either; as the first press of neuvillette’s tongue has him sinking down onto his elbows, arms folding beneath him as wriothesley squirms to present more fully, his tail twitching sharply at the base before curling tight. ]
Leave it— [ the thought barely forms, clipped and unsteady, but it carries the weight of a plea. there’s a difference between being cleaned and being kept a mess, and even in this haze his body knows which it wants. it shows in the way wriothesley presses back a moment later, the response coming before the awareness, a delayed moan following after. ] —Want you inside.
[ it’s unclear what he means—whether it’s the cum, neuvillette’s cocks, or a deeper press of tongue—but the distinction doesn’t seem to matter to him. not when he can’t quite reach for and cling to neuvillette the way he wants to, and begging for it is the closest he can get. ]
no subject
writhesley is a melted mess, guided and held down, submissive and completely yielding, and he doesn't respond to him in words. he simply holds both asscheeks open and presses deep, lapping at the tight ring of his hole before pressing in deep, desire spiking. wriothesley might feel the insistent, deep push of a longer tongue, the firm part of his hands, and the way the appendage rubs along the sensitive walls of his hole. he tastes his own cum, savoring every moment of it while he slowly, deliberately fucks him with his tongue.
still, he's not without affection, a hand coming up to rub the base of his tail fondly while he pleasures him, taking the offering he so clearly presents. )
no subject
there’s nothing coy in the way neuvillette moves—no teasing, no modest sampling of his own spend left inside wriothesley, only a deliberate, thorough mapping of overworked nerves. his tongue traces every inch of wriothesley’s channel with an intent that feels almost reverent in its precision, each slow curl and probing press paired with the deft pressure of his fingers at the base of wriothesley’s tail, grounding and undoing him all at once. and for the first time this evening, wriothesley breaks with a sobbing whine, caught between the two sensations until they blur together and he can’t tell which one is pushing him faster toward the precipice of another climax. through tears, he reaches back on instinct—shaking, needy—grasping to keep himself spread as neuvillette withdraws a hand only to keep stroking at his tail.
it doesn’t last; it never does this many rounds in. wriothesley’s strength gives way in uneven increments, slipping through his fingers as he’s caught between the sharp, trembling pain of overstimulation and the deep, dragging pleasure of being taken so far below the surface that thought itself starts to lose shape. his body can’t decide whether to thrash or arch, so it does both in broken, faltering rhythm—light, desperate movements born of nerves overloaded past reason, of pleasure turned so intense it borders on something wrecking. and still, the only thing that stays clear is the need for neuvillette—the need to want him, to reach for him, to give him one last shuddering finish on his cocks before whatever is left of wriothesley’s control dissolves completely. ]
Neuv— [ the plea bleeds into a broken sound on the way out, muffled by tears and the way he sinks forward onto his chest, knees spread and pressing weakly into the mattress as if that alone might brace him against the next wave. one hand tries to hold himself up, but it falters—rolling uselessly onto his wrist every time neuvillette’s tongue pushes deeper, as if savoring the last frail bit of strength before both muscle and wriothesley’s will finally yield. ] Neuvi— [ meanwhile, wriothesley’s other hand pinches and twists into the sheets, and his call of neuvillette’s name slows into something distant and far more besotted. unable to cling to neuvillette himself, wriothesley settles for the next best thing—pulling the soiled sheets close so he can breathe in the scent of his sovereign and lap at the taste left there in plain, obvious worship. ]