by the strange pull

Blessed Be the Soiled Shirt

Neuvillette's rut comes early and though he doesn't spend it with Wriothesley, Wriothesely still finds a way to help out.

CW: Contains Smut

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He is in a mood.

Up until this point, his ruts have been a minor annoyance, a relatively mild, biological need usually handled by squeezing his cock dry between his palms. Occasionally, he requires a partner. Once in a blue moon, his alpha rages enough to breed another full, but Neuvillette has always prided himself on holding himself in check, above those baser instincts.

This time, his blood rages. His rut burns through his veins. He is frazzled beyond repair, cracking at the seams, his edges unraveling. Absurd. Annoying. He has work to get done but as he tries to read through reports the letters dance about the page as his vision swims.

Sweat clings to his brow. He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He has no time for this. He already jerked off once earlier to no avail. Heat simmered through his veins despite a speedy orgasm, and he's since maintained that slow boil throughout the entire day, burning the edges of his arousal even now.

Oh, he's needy. His alpha begs for more, begs for him to go out and seek someone willing to take his knot, and the worst part is that not just anyone will do. Neuvillette thinks of tanned skin and calloused fingers; of leather and tea, and a deep laugh. Broken and busted knuckles soothed beneath his fingers, and biting kisses that linger too long.

His elbows settle onto his desk and he buries his face against his palms. "Pathetic," he whines. "Archons, I'm so—"

It wasn't due for weeks. He's so regular that a timepiece could be set by his cycle, and yet this rut snuck up on him, sneaking its teeth into his being before he could stop it. He would've asked. He had a plan. There would have been wining and dining, and a nice gift set of the finest teas before he propositioned Wriothesley as a rut-mate.

And Wriothesley would have agreed, eagerly, and with a proverbial tail-wag. Neuvillette thinks that makes this entire thing worse. He can still seek him out, he can—

A morose groan as he tries to ignore his aching erection and further thoughts of Wriothesley.

He turns back to his paperwork and ignores the curling of his gut. The sweat that drips down his face. Thoughts of Wriothesley's bruising kisses, which only leave his cock twitching and harder than before. How perverse. Neuvillette is better than this. He's practiced and proud, he's a centuries-old dragon, not a slave to his instincts—

He grinds the heel of his hand against his tented erection because he's so fucking desperate.

A knock at his door causes him to jerk. He swallows, his throat dry. Gods, he needs water. He always needs water, but right now he really needs water—

"Neuvillette?"

Cold dread slithers down Neuvillete's spine. Wriothesley. Just on the other side of his office door. His alpha begs him to tear it from the hinges and drag him inside. He stands abruptly and goes to the door—and just barely manages to stop short of it.

"Sedene said you were feeling under the weather so I thought I'd come and check on you."

"I—" Where does Neuvillette even begin? Wriothesley isn't a fool. Anyone within a hundred feet of this door would be able to smell it, him, his rut. The door is cold underneath his palm. "I'm managing," he finally murmurs.