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.

A pause from the other side of the door. "Are you, though? You sound... well. You sound miserable."

"A miscalculation. This was unexpected and I am ill-prepared."

"I figured." He what, now? Neuvillette peels back and stares at the stained wood of the door. "I didn't come to stay. I didn't think you'd... look, I brought you something. That's all. It'll help. I think. Maybe. I hope."

Sigewinne must have sent him. Sedene likely sent for inhibitors, or some sort of tincture to lessen his rut. It's a little too late for that but he's willing to try anything at this point. His thoughts linger a little too long on Wriothesley's concern. The stuttering is annoyingly cute, and in a rare moment of giving into those baser parts of himself, his alpha leans into it.

And then he clears his voice, remembering himself. "That is kind of you."

"Right. So I—uh. I'll open the door and you can just... grab it, I guess?"

This shouldn't be so awkward. They are not teenagers despite how they court. They know how this works. His hand still shakes as his fingers curl around the handle and he pulls his office door open.

Wriothesley jumps in surprise. He inhales, his nostrils flaring and his mouth falls open, slack. There is a moment when things turn heated—and not in a good way. They both tense. Neuvillette's skin crawls at the feel of another alpha in his space during such a vulnerable time.

But then he remembers his scent, leather and tea, and Wriothesley's scorching hot words against his ear as Neuvillette palmed his cock that very first time.

It is a miracle Neuvillette maintains a shred of his dignity.

"Wow, you look..." Wriothesley swallows, his throat bobbing.

Neuvillette watches. Neuvillette's eyes bore into his skin, watching every little twitch, tracing over every little scar. He's dying for a taste. A nibble. To sink his teeth in and—

Wriothesely shoves a bundle into his arms. "Okay, there you go. I'll see myself out. Let you have some—" He laughs, a short sputtering sound, and then makes a rude gesture. And he would know, wouldn't he? Wriothesley isn't some wanton omega, he's an alpha too, and he knows just what sort of hormones are raging through his veins.

"Wriothesley." Neuvillette moves before he realizes, his fingers curling around Wriothesley's wrist. A sharp grip. His claws dig in. His thumb is pressed against the pulsepoint and he can feel how quickly Wriothesley's heart beats.

"Yeah?" His voice comes out raspy. Hoarse. A little too deep, tinged with want.

Neuvillette yanks him close and kisses him, uncaring of who's lurking in the halls, or who might see. Wriothesley gasps into his mouth and Neuvillette's tongue slides right in. He devours him. His fingers dig into his wrist as he holds him there, that bundle squished between their chests. He licks into Wriothesley's mouth and moans, hot, heady pleasure rising in his being.

Wriothesley nips at him. He kisses back, all fangs, all tongue, nothing but pure, unadulterated lust. "Gods," he hisses against his lips. "I—"

Neuvillette jerks back. So hot. Dizzy. His head spins as his rut rages. Embarrassing. His alpha begs for him to claim and Wriothesley already has his neck tipped back, the column of his throat right there. He dips close and buries his face into the juncture of Wriothesley's neck.

"I appreciate this," he murmurs. "But we—"

"Bad timing. No, I agree. Not that I don't—Fuck. You know what I mean."

He does. This is the sort of thing that needs to be talked about. Neuvillette does his best to inhale his scent and commit it to memory.

And then Wriothesley says, "This just means you'll like my gift, though."

Neuvillette blinks. "Your gift?"

"Look, just lock this door and handle yourself, okay? And for fuck's sake, rest." Wriothesley hesitates. Worries his lip between his teeth, then tilts his chin up, and kisses Neuvillette again. Short and sweet. The sort of things lovers do, not a rut-crazed alpha and his unusual partner.

Neuvillette sighs. His alpha calms—surprisingly—and the heat relaxes into a gentler simmer.

Wriothesley pulls away and scrubs the back of his neck. "Right. So... Later. After—well. If you need me, you know where to find me."

"Thank you," says Neuvillette. "You've done me a kindness."

Wriothesley's genuine smile curves into a smirk. It's the last thing that Neuvillette sees before he shuts his office door.

#

Wriothesley has not done him a kindness.

Well, no, he has. And he hasn't. All that placid calm that just washed over Neuvillette turns turbulent the moment he unfolds the bundle.

A shirt; button-down with long sleeves. Soft and loose cotton dyed a dark gray. Rumpled despite being folded, clearly having been worn. Or slept with. Or dragged over every inch of Wriothesley's body. Neuvillette can practically feel the way his eyes dilate, how his nostrils flare wide.

He brings it close, shoving his face into it. Leather. Sweat. Black tea and orange peels. Unfettered alpha. His own dragon rises, jaws gnashing. But then Neuvillette groans, remembering this is Wriothesley, that he's obsessed with his scent. Everything settles deep in his gut all the same. Arousal floods through his being at both the chase of another alpha and the promise of a fight.

Neuvillette shakes out the shirt. It hands from his fingertips limply, cut long enough to be tucked in. Wide across the shoulders. Nearly to his thighs. He pauses. His cock aches, twitching in his trousers.

He too is dressed down, sans his typical coat. Too hot, too much sweat. He'd felt like his skin was crawling so he ditched it earlier in the day, opting for his thin undershirt instead. Neuvillette brings Wriothesley's shirt to his nose again and inhales deeply. His bones loosen. His cock hardens to its limits. It isn't so hard to imagine he's on the brink of popping a knot from thought alone.

He is not like this. Gods, he's better than this. Where has his decorum gone? Has it been so long since his last proper fuck that the mere smell of his willing partner is about to bring him to his knees? Neuvillette is prideful, having risen above his alpha. Calm and composed. Level-headed when so many others are not.

But at that moment he's a slave to his desire, to those old instincts crawling to the surface as he drowns in Wriothesley's scent.

"Fuck," he curses. Entirely out of character. Unbecoming of him. "Archons, I'm—"

He's what? Weak? Desperate? No, no, to be needy isn't weak—and Wriothesley knows that. It's the entire reason he brought him this gift, why he didn't look at him with disgust, but rather that damnable smirk, knowing full well just what it'd reduce him to.

Neuvillette slips an arm into the sleeve, pulling the shirt on. He's taller, but Wriothesley's wider, and despite the difference, the shirt still hangs on his frame loosely. He crosses the room and drops to the settee unceremoniously.

He's given in. There is no use in pretending he is not gone. Neuvillette settles back into the cushions, spreading his legs, squeezing the bulge of his cock through the fabric of his trousers. Then he turns his face to the side and tugs the collar close.

Wriothesley wore this. The tang of sweat assaults his senses, sinking into his pores as he drags his nose along the length of the collar. His alpha should hate this—and it isn't as if his dragon is quelled. There's a soft rumbling underneath his skin, mildly unsettled, but it's drowned entirely out by the lust of his rut.

And he would just blame that, his rut, the hormones, the need to breed another full. It would be easier. But Neuvillette knows that even outside of these vulnerable hours he would still have tugged this shirt on to try and memorize the scent. He'd still be fucking his hand to the thought of Wriothesley, a keening cry whistling from his lips as he wonders how tight he'd be around his cock.

He undoes his trousers and shoves them down around his thighs. Just enough to free his length, just enough to get his hand around it. He sweeps his thumb over the tip and whines. What a mess. Wet and leaking. Needy. So desperate.

Even the stroke of his hand isn't quite enough. No, he needs—

"Wriothesley," he hisses, taking the damnable shirt and wrapping it around his cock. The fabric, though soft, scratches at his cock but he doesn't care. He nips at the collar, his tongue teasing it, catching the leftovers of whatever Wriothesley left behind.

He wore it, slept in it, left it in his sheets. The cotton is drenched in the smell of him, and all for one purpose. It takes nothing to imagine him bent over, ass in the air. He'd snap. Probably. Gnash his teeth, but ultimately submit. Wriothesley would open up perfectly around his fingers, tight and slick with oil. And Neuvillette would feed his cock in slowly, enamored by how wide his rim stretches.

Neuvillette hasn't fucked him yet. The timing hasn't been right. Everything has clicked into place and they've had their fun, but it's usually him who is bent over the desk and coming on Wriothesley's fingers. His alpha begs to claim him. He wants to see Wriothesley squirming on his cock as he breeds him full.

Oh, he'd be handsome. So perfect, face flushed pink and pressed into the bed. Neuvillette had a plan; a plan that was wrecked the moment his alpha craved for more. His rut came early and he isn't so uncouth to call Wriothesley up for a quick fuck so he'd locked himself away to handle it alone again.

But then the kiss. The shirt disguised as kindness when meant as a tease. Wriothesley fucking his tongue into his mouth, and even if only for a moment, it proved nearly too much. Neuvillette nearly dragged him into his office right then, and Wriothesely would have dropped to his knees without complaint.

Neuvillette gasps. Sucks in fresh air, does anything he can to stave off his orgasm. This should be savored. Another time he would drag the shirt across his skin slowly. For now, he just squeezes his cock tightly and strokes, gritting his teeth at the friction.

A groan. A soft, hitched pant of Wriothesley's name. He doesn't typically knot but it swells nonetheless, and no amount of pressure is enough to satisfy it. One hand chokes his knot so tightly that he nearly goes cross-eyed. The other strokes his length, pretending it's Wriothesley and he thinks—no, he knows—his next rut will not be like this. He won't be alone, he'll be tucked away in a bed, his face buried in Wriothesely's nape as he clings to him.

He comes with that thought seared into his brain, with Wriothesley's name on his tongue, both a cry and a curse. His hand is soiled. The shirt tail is drenched in his come. It is both satisfying and not. For the moment, his lust is quelled. But his knot—he groans, his instincts feeling as if they've been cut short. The pleasure is muted. Not enough.

Neuvillette whines, a pitiful, keening sound that he hides in the collar of Wriotheley's shirt. The fuzzy haze that settles over his brain is, at least, enough to drag him under for a while.

"And for fuck's sake, rest," said Wriothesley, worry pinched between his brows.

A bitter laugh. "You damn well know this is your fault."

That smirk, the one flashed his direction right before Neuvillette shut the door in his face. A quiet, teasing thing. His blood slows, almost like the start of a hibernation. A low purr settles deep in his chest. Neuvillette doesn't bother to clean himself but manages to at least pull his trousers back on. He curls into the pillows and somehow, sleep tugs him under.

#

Sedene gives him a knowing look but waves him to Neuvillette's office without complaint.

The door is unlocked. It's dark when he lets himself inside and it smells like the inside of the Pankration Ring Locker Room after a string of good brawls. Neuvillette. Gods, he smells him everywhere, his rut thick in the room. Wriothesley squirms in his skin, caught between running and wanting to fuck his hand.

Not the point. Nooooot the point.

He finds Neuvillette draped over his couch, his trousers undone at the waistband. Covered in his spend, crusted over after he passed out. A dreadful mess.

Wriothesley sighs and leans over. "Been there," he murmurs. It's then that he notices. His shirt. Neuvillette wears it, his chin tucked to the side, nose shoved into the collar. Wriothesley swallows at the sight. "Shit, you can't just..."

Of course, he can. He gave him the damned shirt. And it helped—clearly it did, but Wriothesley didn't mean to—

Neuvillette stirs with a soft groan.

"That's my queue." Wriothesely only came to check on him and bring a few other things. He knows—gods, he knows. He's spent god knows how many ruts popping knot after knot to the thought of this ridiculous man. And now Neuvillette wears his shirt steeped in his pheromones. And he sleeps, dozing easily. Comforted.

His alpha curls in his chest, content. Wriothesely dips forward and kisses Neuvillette's forehead. Then he peels back and forces himself to leave.

On his desk, Wriothesley leaves three things: Painkillers for that headache he knows Neuvillette has. A jug of fresh water, the fancy kind that costs too much.

And another shirt, this one crisply folded and a little less rumpled, but nonetheless freshly doused in his scent.