by the strange pull

Heel

Wriothesley gets to spank Neuvillette cause he's had a bad day.

CW: Contains Smut

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"So good for me."

Neuvillette jerks as Wriothesley's hand presses against the curve of his spine. There is hesitation from them both as Neuvillette sucks in a breath, nostrils flaring. It isn't fear. Gods, no. But there is a thrill there, a tendril of exhilaration that claws through his chest as his alpha perks in interest. A little teeth gnashing, a little bit of fight. A low growl bubbles from his throat, unable to be held back.

Wriothesley's hand stills, thumbing digging into his spine to rub circles. "Is this still okay?" he asks. Not in judgment but genuine curiosity, a need to know. An out. He always gives him an out.

And despite the way that his instincts squirm, Neuvillette wants to see this through. "Yes." A soft murmur as he tucks his face into the meat of Wriothesley's thigh, spread over his lap, ass in the air. Mostly naked—from the waist down, his shirt rucked up above his hips.

Wriothesley is careful as he touches him. Soft, sweeping motions. Gentle. Intended to not spook. He knows the sorts of instincts that Neuvillette wrestles with which makes his submission all the sweeter. And Neuvillette wants to give into him. Wriothesley needs it that day; needs to unwind and let loose, to take pleasure in something that calms him. To gain back a shred of control after a taxing day of work.

The irony isn't lost on either of them. Neuvillette is often amused that one alpha is soothed by the other because by all accounts it should be the opposite. But they've never been the standard—either of them. Their natures have always been contradictory to others but complimentary to themselves.

Wriothesley's chambers are chilly. The air is damp and humid. The couch is utilitarian, unlike the posh fair found in Neuvillette's home.

"We've never done this before," murmurs Wriothesley. His hand is hot against his back, unwrapped, bare, searing hot against Neuvillette's skin. A grounding weight. Already Neuvillette feels his alpha shrink underneath it, lulled by the way Wriothesley drags a thumb down every notch of his spine.

"I'm aware."

"We don't have to—"

"Wriothesley." He doesn't immediately answer. Neuvillette shifts, turning his face back to look at him. Wriothesley's face is pinched, contemplative. He still smooths his thumb over his lower back, tracing the edges of each vertebra, as if he's counting his words alongside each movement.

Neuvillette doesn't smell distress. Hesitation, yes—but that is standard when they enter new territory. "Wriothesley," says Neuvillette again, "do you need this?"

Wriothesley's eyes meet his. "No." An honest answer. That was something that Wriothesley always promised him—the truth. Even though he's had a bad day, even though he's wound tight and frustrated and just wants to let go; he can do that with cuddling, scenting, and a nice cup of tea.

But Neuvillette knows him. "Do you want this?"

Ah, there it is. A crack in Wriothesley's composure. His nostrils flare. His eyes glint with mischief. He brushes his knuckles down the length of his back, palming over Neuvillette's ass. Heat rises. Neuvillette's alpha shifts, but in arousal, not disgust.

"Yes," says Wriothesley.

Neuvillette smirks, the subtlest curve to his lips. "Then do your worst, Your Grace."

Wriothesley's eyes narrow at that. The tease never fails to land, which is why Neuvillette often abuses it. A surefire way to rile him up. Wriothesley's fingertips dig into his asscheek, testing the give. "Safe word?"