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Wriothesley feels like it’s a dream.
He’s fucked plenty of others before but it’s always been a fight with bites that break flesh, and the threat of broken bones and torn flesh. He reaps what he sows with his preference for alphas—that’s what he’s always told himself. And it isn’t like he hasn’t fucked an omega or two either, or betas; whomever it was has always been a means to an end.
Neuvillette is different. He plagued his thoughts and fueled the sorts of fantasies that had to be driven away by Wriothesley's hands. Wriothesley has desired him for long enough that he still isn’t quite sure this is real, that Neuvillette is really underneath him in his rough-worn sheets in a too-small bed.
Arousal chokes the air. Neuvillette moans, back arching as he begs for more. He catches Wriothesley's gaze through half-lidded eyes and tilts his face until his neck is on display. A sign. A call. There is no sour smell of rank alpha, only the addicting scent of arousal as he begs to be bitten. Wriothesley can’t stop looking. The pale stretch of the column of Neuvillette’s throat is tempting, and Neuvillette knows it.
“Go on,” he murmurs, his voice low and heady. “Do as you wish.”
Neuvillette understands. He’s an alpha too and carries the same instincts and desires, and he knows that Wriothesley itches to latch onto his neck, sinking his teeth into that damned gland. To hold him there and fuck him deeply until he’s lost all his words, thoughts full of only the press of Wriothesley's cock.
He would let him. Neuvillette. He’d let Wriothesley indulge however he wishes, and Neuvillette would love it in return , relishing it in the same way that he begs to be filled.
Truly a dream—how Wriothesley's sheets are stained with Neuvillette’s ocean-salt scent; the way that he keens underneath him and wriggles his hips for more; those moments when he rolls them over and rides Wriothesley instead because instincts be damned and this is what they want.
Wriothesley does not trust many but he trusts Neuvillette, and for Neuvillette to not just give himself freely, but to ask for it, to itch for it… Wriothesley's alpha is caught between roaring in satisfaction and shrinking back in fear of eventual denial.
No alpha can handle this for long. No alpha actually enjoys being taken.
But Neuvillette is unlike any other alpha. And Wriothesley isn’t the standard either, and that is why the two of them fit together like puzzle pieces, notches lining up perfectly. Made for each other. Aren’t there stories about that? Fairytales of fated pairings and destined mates?
He’s thinking about this too much, but can’t help it. Anxiety pricks at Wriothesley’s spine and lingers in the back of his skull, white-hot in the same way his pleasure is.
No, no, Neuvillette. It’s too early to think of something so permanent as mate, but it’s hard to ignore the instinctual pull that tugs at Wriothesley's being. He leans over him, nuzzling Neuvillette’s sweaty nape. Tilts his hips up and thighs back for a better angle, and Neuvillette goes so easily, letting Wriothesley manhandle him without a second thought.
“So good for me,” he mutters, trying to forget his worries, “and so pliant. You love this and my cock.”
The more he says it the easier it is to believe. Even with Neuvillette gasping underneath him, yes, yes, Wriothesley's alpha still wonders when it’ll all come crashing down. But it doesn’t, it never does, and he takes the moment to just fuck Neuvillette earnestly.
Neuvillette does not lay there prettily like an omega, taking it as expected. Though he wants this, there is an aggressiveness to his need as his claws rake down Wriothesley's back, and in how they tussle in the sheets. Neuvillette nips at his mouth, at his throat, at the line of his shoulder, goading Wriothesley on, daring him to go harder and rougher.
Wriothesley bites him back, teeth sinking into soft flesh. Neuvillette’s ass tightens around his cock, squeezing it in a vice grip. He moans, meeting every thrust, begging Wriothesley for more, clinging to him possessively.
He could fall in love like this; probably already has. Wriothesley is so woefully gone for this man that he’s willing to roll over and take him too. That’s trust—a level of trust that he allows almost no one. He—
He’s thinking too much again.
Neuvillette cups his cheeks and pulls him in for a stinging kiss. Teeth scrape against Wriothesley's lips. That too-long tongue explores every corner of his mouth. Wriothesley thrusts into Neuvillette hard, his cock sliding through his insides like a hot brand.
Perfect, he thinks. To perfect to be real, too perfect for me, too—
Wriothesley comes suddenly, tipping over the edge whilst lost in his thoughts. Neuvillette doesn’t snarl as his seed fills him; no, he pulls Wriothesley closer, desperate to keep every last drop. Wriothesley doesn’t think of breeding others, but he thinks of how his come will drip from Neuvillette’s hole when he pulls out, and what a waste it’ll be.
Neuvillette’s hand drops to his cock. He strokes himself and Wriothesley watches, his gaze tilted down as he gasps and moans, pulling himself to the end. “Full,” he moans. “Wriothesley, Wriothesley—” He comes then, spilling across his stomach in thick ropes.
And again, Wriothesley cannot help but stare when Neuvillette goes limp underneath him, chest heaving, a soft groan fluttering from his lips. Divine. What a vision. Wriothesley will never tire of it, or the tight, yielding heat of Neuvillette’s body.
This is where the mortification and dread settles in; when Wriothesley is spent, desperate to cuddle and soak up these hazy moments, all the while wondering when Neuvillette’s alpha will decide it’s too much and bolt. It hasn’t happened yet, but—
Warm hands cup Wriothesley's face again and tug him down. When he looks, Neuvillette’s gaze is glassy but clear—and he watches him curiously. Cautiously. Neuvillette drags a thumb over the rise of Wriothesley's cheek, and he asks, “Are you alright?”
Wriothesley swallows. “Yeah,” he replies, but it’s flimsy.
Neuvillette’s mouth tightens. “Wriothesley,” he says, quietly, softly. And then he repeats, “Are you alright?”
“I…” Wriothesley doesn’t want to say no. He is alright—for now. But anxiety clings to him like a second skin. Alphas do not act like this, they do not wallow in self-pity, and they do not feel sorry for themselves.
Neuvillette smells it, the acrid tang of his panic. His jaw tenses and his nostrils flare. But Neuvillette is also patient, petting Wriothesley's face sweetly as he waits for him to speak.
The answer does not come easily. It has to be coaxed from Wriothesley, pulled from him like a bad tooth with those soft touches. “Everyone else never wants to… this is when they leave. And we’re having fun. We enjoy this, but always, eventually, it’s incompatible. We’re both alphas, we—”
“Oh,” breathes Neuvillette. He pulls Wriothesley's face down until their foreheads rest together. “I see.”
“Neuvillette—”
“Come here.” Neuvillette’s tone is crisp but kind. Wriothesley shifts, his softened cock slipping free as Neuvillette guides him to lay across his chest. Sweat and sticky. Neuvillette smells like salt water and the damp, humid air at low tide.
“I’m sorry,” whispers Wriothesley against his collarbone.
“Don’t be. It’s easy to forget that I am not like the others.”
Right. Right, right, right. It’s Neuvillette’s mantra, the reminder that he’s ancient and has learned to rear back those instincts. And though he struggles—any alpha would—he still holds a sort of calm restraint that Wriothesley would kill another for.
This is what drew Wriothesley to him; Neuvillette’s otherworldliness, carrying the scent of an alpha but holding himself higher than those base instincts. Now Wriothesley is wiser. He understands that it is one part facade and mostly practice, but it must be rubbing off on him because Wriothesley's alpha heels as Neuvillette pets his hair.
The come down from their coupling this time is quieter than usual. Neuvillette’s chest rumbles softly as he breathes, and Wriothesley basks in that soft purr, his anxiety slowly leeching away. The mess is forgotten, crusting between them. Claws scrape against his scalp in an easy, metered motion. Neuvillette hums, letting Wriothesley take his time to wind down, to parse out his thoughts, to say what he wants.
“I don’t want you to leave. I don’t want to leave. I want you to stay over. I want to sleep at your place. I want—”
“There is no need to explain.”
“I feel safe. With you. Which I don’t. I never do. That’s why I don’t want to lose this.”
Neuvillette’s hand stills against the crown of Wriothesley's head. “Beloved,” he calls him— and oh, that does things. Wriothesley has never been called something so sweet. He wants to hear it time and time again, to drown in the way Neuvillette’s slight accent curls around the word. “Of course, I will stay. You just have to ask.”
Wriothesley is terrible at asking for things, particularly when it's for himself. Always others before him. He’s the last concern. He doesn’t need anything. But he needs Neuvillette. He needs him like a man dying of thirst. And here Neuvillette tells him that he can take his fill, that he’s allowed that cup.
Wriothesley tilts his face and kisses the line of Neuvillette’s collarbone. He never knew water could taste so sweet.