All I Want for the Solstice are (Your) Eggs (NeuWrioLette, NSFW)

The Solstice brings Neuvillette a stressed-induced rut that leaves Wriothesley begging for his eggs.

You can also check out the full tags and read it here on AO3!

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Neuvillette is in a mood.

Moods like this come so rarely to him. He is usually genially. Very good at grin and bearing it, as Wriothesley often likes to say. It’s less-so bearing it; Neuvillette it rarely bothered to the point of struggling with such a thing. 

But, on occasion, he can find himself… uncharacteristically riled up. He will find the most minor of things annoying. He will be vexed by every look tossed his way, every word said to him, every bite of food that he tastes. 

Wriothesley finds these days funny.

(They are not, and frankly, Neuvillette doesn’t like that crooked grin that Wriothesley tries to hide behind his palm.)

Sedene finds these days less funny. 

Today, she drops a stack of paperwork on his desk with a too-rough hand. The sound of it is harsh, the slap of paper against the room sounding off like a shotgun blast. Makes Neuvillette’s ears ache. But when he meets her face, Sedene is wearing a look that dares him to challenge her, and it’s because she can tell that he’s off-kilter. 

“Sit up, Monsieur,” she demands with a sniff. 

Neuvillette grunts but stiffens in his chair, leaning against the back of it. The last thing he wants to to draw Sedene’s ire because while he’s not above snapping at others, he refuses to bite at her. Or any other Melusine, for that matter. 

But gods, the day has been long. His head pounds. It is too cold outside, a downright, strangely frigid day for Fontaine. It is usually more temperate in the Court itself. Snow tends to cling to the peaks of the surrounding mountains, not the rooftops of villas. Neuvillette isn’t human, he isn’t bothered by the cold in the same way, but it is an annoyance which he has little, little patience for. 

“Should I call for him?” Sedene asks this with a twisted grin that otherwise might be cute. 

No. The last thing that Neuvillette needs is to have his mate teasing him. Later, perhaps; later when they’re home alone, and it’s quiet, Neuvillette can take time to breathe. 

Still. He pulls at his face, because calling Wriothesley here also sounds wonderful. He needs a break. He deserves a break, even if it’s at the momentary expense of his dignity. He looks at Sedene over his hand. She would be the only one to know. For others, it can be explained away as merely a work meeting. 

Sedene hums, rocking back and forth on her feet. “I should call him,” she decides, already turning away.

“Wait.”

Sedene waits. Turns back to him and waits to hear him out.

Neuvillette finds himself both tongue-tied and embarrassed. “I—don’t. I will see him at home.”

“Monsieur,” she chides, but it’s out of good-natured worry, sounding more exasperated than anything. 

“I will leave early.” Sedene stills at this caveat, her expression tilting slightly. Neuvillette thumbs at his brows, pulling over the worry wrinkle between them. Wriothesley does that. He likes it when Wriothesley does it, too, just a sweet, intimate touch as he jokes about smoothing the wrinkle away. 

Yes, yes, he should leave early. Get some rest.

“You should stake tomorrow off too,” suggests Sedene. 

What. Neuvillette would never, at least not so last-minute. Certainly not at the suggestion of his secretary. “Miss Sedene.”

She shrugs. “It’s the Solstice, Monsieur. Government offices are even closed tomorrow, and yes, I know that you tend to work holidays, but I think that you’ve been here a little too much as of late.” Sedene sighs quietly, rubbing her paw along the edge of his desk. “Even Chief Justices need a day or two, and they are allowed to take one. Or two. Preferably two, maybe even more.”

“I—Miss Sedene.” This time, he says her name as a plea. 

“Monsieur Wriothesley,” she continues, trying another tactic, one that Neuvillette is determined to not let work, “sent you a gift. I left it on your desk earlier.”

“Yes, I saw it,” is Neuvillette’s dry reply. It’s still in its box on his desk, unopened, terribly wrapped in creased and wrinkled paper.

She waits expectantly. When he doesn’t expand upon that, she says, “I think that you should go see your mate.”

Neuvillette blinks. The last time that Sedene used this tone with him was on the eve of a rut. Before Wriothesley, he worked through them to the point of near sickness, but there was one time that she refused to entertain it, and called Sigewinne in for help. It’s the only time she’s ever nailed him with one of her guns—and the last. But. 

Well, Sedene is giving him a look, the one that spells trouble, the one that means she will not take no for an answer. 

And, what is the harm in indulging, he supposes? Sedene isn’t wrong when she says he’s been working too much, but the world did not stop turning with the death of Focalors, and now he has more to do than ever before. 

Neuvillette sighs. Rubs at his eyes and gives her a pointed look. “My mate,” he repeats. “He—”

“Will take care of you,” she cuts in.

“I do not require the two of you to mind me. But…” Neuvillette will give her an inch and hope that he does not come to regret it. “I will leave early. And I will take tomorrow off. I’ve never had a person to share this holiday with, and Wriothesley seems to have a fondness for the tradition of it.”

Sedene’s expression softens and she nods. Says nothing else as she turns away and skips from his office. 

Neuvillette watches her go, amused and vexed by how so easily he was manipulated. 

Still. He smiles, just the tiniest upturn of his lips at one corner. He’ll send a message to Wriothesley that he will be bringing dinner home. 

#

Wriothesley is brewing tea when Neuvillette steps into his—their—home. 

(It is a strange thing, calling it that. Wriothesley has unofficially lived there, at least part of the time, for several years, but now they are mated; now it is official, and Wriothesley only stays over in the Fortress as a necessity. Sharing this space has warmed Neuvillette’s heart, and coming home isn’t just stepping into a building, it’s stepping into Wriothesley, in a way. It’s—)

“Sweetheart, is the snow outside your fault?”

Probably. Snow is water, and when Neuvillette is keyed up, the weather in Fontaine turns downright foul. The flurries are soft, sweet things, but unusual to find in the city itself. 

The tension in Neuvillette’s shoulders loosens immediately at the sound of his voice. Perhaps, he should give Sedene more credit. He should definitely listen to her more, because she was right, so, so right. The slog of the day is sloughed away as he kicks off his shoes, and steps into the cradle of Wriothesley’s arms. 

“It smells like pine in here.” It’s a little too sharp for Neuvillette’s nose, and the tingle a little unpleasant. He rubs his face against Wriothesley’s shoulder, his nape, the length of his neck to get rid of it, but also soak up his scent instead. 

Wriothesley chuckles against him. “I decorated a little. Nothing much, just a few wreaths. A small tree on the table. And—” He pauses, fingers finding Neuvillette’s chin, tilting it up.

Ah. Mistletoe. Admittedly, one of the sillier seasonal traditions, but now Neuvillette weighs the pros instead of the cons. He cups Wriothesley’s face, pulling his thumbs across his cheeks. Neuvillette leans forward, pressing their mouths together, relishing the weight of Wriothesley’s lips against his. 

How easily this fixes his day. Neuvillette did not realize just how much he needed his mate until now. He’s been keyed up, his insides tight, but as they kiss, Neuvillette relaxes, sighing against Wriothesley’s mouth, tasting him. They linger. It is a lazy kiss, a sweet thing that doesn’t have tongues or teeth, just a gentle pressing together that leaves them soft and warm.

Neuvillette pulls away and purrs a soft hum of contentment. “I believe that I see the appeal now.”

“Oh? Tell me more.”

Their next kiss is a little biting. Wriothesley tilts Neuvillette’s face for the perfect angle, for better reach, his tongue slipping past teeth. Neuvillette moans, drunk on his taste. Suddenly, there’s heat in his gut. Suddenly, the doorway to the living room is too hot, too tight, and all Neuvillette can think about is whisking Wriothesley away to the bedroom.

He stills at that thought. 

No, no, he’d wanted a quiet night in by the fire. They’d eat the nice takeaway he’s brought home, they’d retire to the couch, and they would just enjoy the night together. Maybe some soft lovemaking. Maybe a nice bath after, with a lot of wandering hands, but—

Wriothesley’s hands slide down Neuvillette’s side, fingers digging into his hips. He guides Neuvillette to turn and presses him against the wall as that kiss deepens, turns hot and sultry, and oh, Neuvillette doesn’t think this is what mistletoe is supposed to bring about. 

It’s because he was keyed up, surely. Neuvillette is needy. The moment that Wriothesley’s knee slips between his legs and lifts against his trousers, Neuvillette moans against his mouth, a thing, reedy sound that Wriothesley swallows up. 

When they part, Wriothesley’s out of breath. He peels back just enough to look at Neuvillette, his expression pinched. “Neuvillette, are you rutting?”

He is not. He is…

Not entirely convinced that he is not.

(The schedule would be wrong, but there are plenty of things that can knock it askew. Wriothesley knows his calendar. Wriothesley also knows his cycle has been messed up before, and stress is definitely a trigger. And Neuvillette has been so stressed; stressed taking over Fontaine; stressed with balancing its power; stressed by mountains of paperwork, and the late nights, and feeling bereft of his mate—)

Neuvillette blinks. Heat crawls through his belly, sinking into the base of his spine. He feels tight—too tight for his body, too full of—

He blanches. Oh, Sedene knows. She’d be able to see the swirling Hydro in his gut, the presence of eggs, if they were there. Neuvillette is rife with embarrassment. He whines, hiding his face against Wriothesley’s throat. Why must he notice these things so late? Decades ago, he could sense his cycle weeks in advance, but now he’s so busy, he’s up to his eyeballs in things, that he didn’t notice the signs until now.

Usually, his ruts are manageable. He used to work through them. Then, with Wriothesley, it takes a night, maybe an additional morning, to clear the worst of it from his system. This time, he’s made eggs. He feels them, heavy in his gut, begging for release. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t need to be embarrassed.”

Yes he does. Yes he does. Neuvillette is supposed to be good at keeping a hold of himself. He is supposed to have standards.

(But, apparently, those standards include the innate desire to breed his mate full. They’ve talked about this. Wriothesley’s even seen his eggs, played with them, had fun with them, but Neuvillette doesn’t think that fucking his fist and expelling them onto the sheets will be enough this time because it barely was the last.)

“Eggs,” he murmurs. “How did I not realize… Beloved, I—”

Wriothesley stills. Pets through his hair and guides Neuvillette’s face away from his neck.

“You’re worried,” he says, knowing him too well. “Neuvillette, why are you worried?”

“I—I’m—” They’ve talked about this. Children, raising a family together. One does not mate another without doing so. Neuvillette’s instincts rage to fill his mate until it takes, until there’s a brood on the way, and— 

“I cannot think clearly,” he murmurs. The pine itches his nose, but it’s mostly Wriothesley’s arousal that’s caught his attention. What a wicked temptation, what a sinfully sweet desire that fills the air. 

“Wait, no, tell me sweetheart. I know you can.”

Neuvillette swallows the lump in his throat. “Eggs, Wriothesley. Spilling them into the bed will not be enough. I will want to…” 

They are flexible in this manner. They’d talked about him carrying children, which would be vastly easier considering his anatomy, but now that the thought is in his brain, Neuvillette cannot think of anything other than Wriothesley taking at least one of them.

Wriothesley still pets through his hair. “Is this the talk about children?” he asks. “Are you level-headed enough for that?”

“I’m not so far gone.”

“But this is the talk about children, right? Not some weird hypothetical.”

Neuvillette sucks in a breath. Closes his eyes and counts to three. Still can’t find the words to say, but his expression must speak volumes. 

“Okay, yeah, let’s get you into the bath.”

“Wriothesley—”

“Bath, sweetheart, come on.”

Wriothesley coaxes him down the hall. Sets about starting the bath and stripping Neuvillette down. “You’re already a little too warm,” he murmurs, brushing Neuvillette’s hair back before tying it up and off of his neck.

“I’m fine.”

“I know you are, but into the water nonetheless.”

The water is lukewarm. Neuvillette settles, back against Wriothesley’s chest, and the tension eases. His pre-rut was mild, enough so that he didn’t notice it, but now that he’s here, his agitation over the last few days makes perfect sense. What a fool he is.

“So,” says Wriothesley against his ear, “explain it to me. I know we’ve talked about it, but go through it.”

Talking about the possibility is not the same as explaining the intimate functions, and what would be required. “Your body is mostly water.”

A soft huff. “Because I was an oceanid?”

“Because mortals are mostly water.” Gods, this is going swimmingly. But Wriothesley doesn’t laugh, he just listens, and that’s enough for Neuvillette to keep on. “I have almost perfect control over anything related, and as such, I can manipulate many a thing. My eggs are mostly water until they are fertilized, but your body, too, can be modified to carry them. It would take just a wave of my hand, Wriothesley.”

Wriothesley hums thoughtfully. 

“Even so, I cannot imagine it would be comfortable. This is why I said I was the optimal choice, instead. My body is capable of both conceiving and inseminating—”

“You make it sound so romantic.”

“Wriothesley.”

“Sorry, sorry, I’m listening.”

Neuvillette finds himself distracted, drawling patterns in the surface of the water with his fingers. “We’ll do what we did the last time. I will make do with your hands.”

“Sweetheart—”

“This is my preference, Wriothesley.”

It is not. Not at that moment, at least, but tomorrow he’ll thank himself for his forethought. 

Wriothesley hums again, a soft sound of dissent, but he doesn’t try to talk Neuvillette out of it. Instead, he just noses at Neuvillette’s temple, scenting him in a way that soothes Neuvillette’s instincts. “It must hurt,” he says.

“It’s bearable.”

“Bearable doesn’t mean painless.” Neuvillette grunts, which makes Wriothesley kiss the side of his head. “There’s no need to tough it out. I’m your mate, right? Be honest with yourself, with me.”

Being honest, Neuvillette has learned, is hard with your partner. He doesn’t lie—he would never, not with Wriothesley—but the words are still hard to say, and often he finds himself silent in lieu of them. 

Wriothesley’s hands drift downwards. They trace the insides of Neuvillette’s thighs, right where they meet his groin. The friction of the water would bother others, but Neuvillette is water incarnate, so when Wriothesley’s hand curls around his half-hardened cock, he just moans, hips rolling against it, seeking out more. 

“Only halfway there?” Wriothesley’s voice is a hot tease in his ear, his hand a decadent pull over his length. It’s barely slipped out from his vent, just enough so to get fingers around it.

But, this will make it better, thinks Neuvillette. He’d ignored the ache of his cock, letting his need burn a hole deep in his gut instead. The slow boil is easier to handle, but with one slow stroke from base to tip, everything sharpens like a flash fire. 

“I’m—this is—”

“Let’s take the edge off,” murmurs Wriothesley, his face pressed against Neuvillette’s ear. 

Yes, yes, that. Neuvillette will be able to think more clearly, make better decisions like not fucking his eggs deep into his partner. It would take just a wave of his hand to make a nice pocket inside of Wriothesley, a temporary womb suitable for carrying an egg. 

And Wriothesley would, he knows that he would, feels the eagerness that tugs at their bond. This is why Neuvillette’s avoided this. This is why he’s just going to have to make do with Wriothesley’s hand tight around his cock—cocks—instead. 

All of those thoughts derail entirely when Wriothesley’s other hand sneaks further down, fingers tracing the edges of his vent. They drag through slick that’s denser than water. Neuvillette moans, jerking away because in his rut, that isn’t what he wants, he wants—

“Shh, I just want to feel the other one.” Wriothesley’s fingers dip into his vent, just barely, trying to coax out Neuvillette’s second cock. His ovipositor is slower to wake, despite the eagerness of his instincts, and Neuvillette moans as those fingers sink in, just enough to brush against its hardening length. 

All the while Wriothesley still holds his other cock, still pulls over that length, thumbing across the head that peeks from the water. “I love you like this.” Wriothesley’s tone is full of shock and wonder. “You’re less reserved during your ruts. Come on, sweetheart, tell me what you want.”

“I want—I—” Neuvillette ruts against Wriothesley’s hand, desperate to get off quickly. “Beloved, I want to come. I want—”

“I don’t think that’s what you want.” Those words sink into Neuvillette’s very pores, dark and so tempting. He whines as Wriothesley’s thumb smears precome around, as his other fingers brush against the thick ovipositor that aches inside of him. “Use your words, Neuvillette.”

Those words are lodged in his throat. Neuvillette just fucks himself on and into Wriothesley’s fingers, clawing at the tub, uncaring of the water that splashes over the edge.

If he can let loose like this, maybe he can fuck Wriothesley without much consequence. Then he can fuck his eggs into the bedsheets later, when Wriothesley is too tired to take his cock. 

But then Wriothesley has to make this so, so much more difficult than it needs to be. 

“Do you want to breed me?” 

Oh, that’s—

Wriothesley knows exactly what that is, chuckling at how Neuvillette’s cock twitches in his hand. Finally, his second cock has swelled enough to slip from his vent. Finally, that tightness in Neuvillette’s belly is only an annoying itch, his ovipositor resting against his thigh. 

“You should definitely breed me. I want that.”

He, he—

Neuvillette comes suddenly, spilling into Wriothesley’s hand, soiling the bath water. The tension hasn’t loosened, though; the tension is still coiled tight, and those eggs sit heavy in his gut to the point of immense discomfort.

But Wriothesley, his mate, oh he said those damnable words. Neuvillette stands abruptly, a wave of bathroom sloshing over the sides of the tub. Wriothesley follows, and they don’t even pat themselves dry, Neuvillette just pulls the water from their skin, flicking it to the side. 

They fall into the bedroom, a tangle of limbs, of bodies, of mouths mashed together, and tongues licking across each other. He’d nested, he belatedly realizes. The bed is littered with old clothing, and blankets, and things that smell like Wriothesley.

Gods, he’s a fool. 

Wriothesley laughs as he falls into the bed, yanking Neuvillette down against him. “I meant it.” Wriothesley says this serious, his eyes clear, his being open and accepting. “Come on, sweetheart, breed me.”

“Wicked boy,” says Neuvillette as he settles over him. “It is cruel to tease me.”

“I’m not teasing you—”

“Tempt me, then. Wriothesley, you are making this difficult.”

“It’s the Solstice. I love you. You’re rutting. Come on, I want to know what an egg actually feels like—oh.”

Wriothesley’s words stutter as Neuvillette’s fingers slip into the cleft of his ass. All neurons are firing. Neuvillette can barely think past shoving his cock—both of his cocks, into his willing mate, but—

Have some damn decorum, thinks Neuvillette. He is above his baser instincts. He can control himself.

(Barely. Wriothesley paints a picture, already spreading his legs, already rolling over onto his belly in the way he knows Neuvillette likes. That’s worse. That is so, so much worse, but Neuvillette does nothing to stop Wriothesley from presenting himself in the way good mates do. Relishes it, even, especially in their bed, in their den.)

“So easy,” purrs Neuvillette when his thumb sinks right in to Wriothesley’s hole. The Hydro that drips from his palm makes a mess, but it’s a mess worth it. Wriothesley takes one, two fingers so perfectly. Then three, moaning at the stretch, at how they curl and bully his prostate. 

When he slicks his cock and presses the tip to Wriothesley’s rim, Wriothesley jerks away.

“That isn’t… I want—”

Neuvillette sucks in a breath, his nostrils flaring. His other cock. Wriothesley’s taken it plenty of times before, taken both of them, even, but never when it’s been laden with eggs. He shouldn’t. He…

(Just a little bit, right? That can’t hurt. His mate is begging for it so sweetly, and he can pull out before the point of no return. No, no, the thought of Wriothesley being spread open on that spear-shaped tip; of him taking this length deep, of fucking himself back on it—maybe that will be enough for this rut to pass.)

His ovipositor is slicked instead. The tip of it is designed to sink right in, and so it does. Neuvillette thrusts in, right to the root, pulling Wriothesley’s hips against him. 

Wriothesley cries out in pleasure. His chest drags against the sheets. His fingers pull at the soft material, bunching it up, but oh, he feels divine. Relief washes over Neuvillette as his instincts heel ever so slightly. 

His mate is a tight, hot vice around him. He holds Wriothesley firm as he rocks against his ass, forcing his thick length even deeper. 

“Fuck. Fuck, that feels—” Wriothesley’s moan is lost to the sheets, but he lifts his hips, and drives them back, trying to take even more. 

“So good for me,” praises Neuvillette, earning himself a tight squeeze around his ovipositor. His other cock lies against Wriothesley’s ass, settled against his two cheeks, drooling precome against the small of his back. 

What a sight. Neuvillette stares, lost in the vision of Wriothesley before him. This is almost perfect. All he needs—

Is to pull out before mistakes are made. But that’s an impossible task with the Wriothesley moves with him, with how he begs. 

“Feels good,” he moans. “Sweetheart, please, sovereigns, it feels good.” Wriothesley grinds back against him, keening at the way he’s being filled. 

And Neuvillette just watches how easily he takes him, how deep his cock sinks. The base of it bulges as an egg drops into place. There are only a couple—but a couple is more than plenty, and the ache is a dull, angry thing that just makes him want more, more, more. “Beloved,” he murmurs, petting the base of Wriothesley’s spine. On the next thrust, the swell of that egg bullies Wriothesley’s rim. A quick grind, just as a tease, leaves Wriothesley shaking in the sheets. “Wriothesley, I need to—”

“Fuck, just give them to me. I want them, I want—” Wriothesley’s voice cracks.

Neuvillette smells no lies. No, no, Wriothesley smells calm, collected, aroused. Neuvillette steels himself. He can make that pocket and deposit them in the way that his instincts demand. Wriothesley is a greedy mate, begging for it, and that makes this both better and worse. Neuvillette can dissolve the eggs. He can make sure none of them are fertilized. 

“Sweet boy,” he murmurs, laying himself against Wriothesley’s back. His hand snakes around his front, palm flat against Wriothesley’s groin. He shifts the water in his body, molding it to his will, rearranging it in the way they both need. 

Wriothesley stills. Grunts. But whines when Neuvillette halts, saying, “No, it’s not—just feels weird. Not bad. Strange. A good strange. It’s like you’re…” 

There is something strangely intimate about it, this, Neuvillette sculpting Wriothesley’s body to fit their needs. What’s left behind is a perfect little pocket that can house eggs. He’ll dissolve them. This is a temporary thing, born of lust and need, but Neuvillette can’t help but wonder what Wriothesley might look like, full of them. 

“There are several,” he warns. “I cannot guarantee it will be comfortable.”

(It isn’t for him. Neuvillette’s insides ache, desperate to spill everything into his willing mate.)

“I’ll love it. I always love whatever weird shit you have going on down there. I just—fuck, that’s…”

It likely feels bigger than it is. Neuvillette’s eggs are about the size of a small, curled fist. Like Navia’s hand, small and dainty. Ovular. Soft and pliable, because they are mostly water. Still. Big enough to pull at Wriothesley’s rim, to sit heavy once inside. 

“Relax,” purrs Neuvillette as he slowly grinds into him. Wriothesley does, soft and yielding. “Like that, just—yes, perfect.”

His ovipositor leaks slick that eases the way. The first egg slips in on the next downstroke, and Wriothesley goes taut. 

“Oh. Oh, that’s—” The sound that he makes is delirious with pleasure. His own cock is hard, hanging below him, brushing against the sheets as he seeks out more. “Fuck it’s big. It’s so big. That’s—that’s—”

Neuvillette should commend himself for taking such care. His instincts want him to rut into Wriothesley with wild abandon, to just take what he wants, what he needs, and fuck his eggs deep, but—

No, like this. This is good. This is—

“Perfect,” he manages. “My mate, my beloved, perfect mate. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

Not all instincts can be ignored. Neuvillette can’t help but think that Wriothesley is taking this so well with the way that he just begs, and begs for more. He cries out when the first egg falls from the tip of Neuvillette’s length. His other cock, the one trapped between their bodies, twitches, desperate for its turn. 

He can’t. He can’t.

(But he should, right? Wriothesley is, has been begging for it, and who is Neuvillette to deny his mate? The Solstice is cold, which makes it perfect for this, his rut, and fucking Wriothesley full of children.)

Neuvillette tosses that idea out. He pulls out to the tip and thrusts in sharply, harshly, pushing that egg deeper, and oh, the way Wriothesley responds. His back arches. His fingers dig into the sheets, and he lifts his hips to meet the next thrust. He moans his name, drawn-out, keening cries of Neuvillette as that egg slips deeper.

It has to be helped into the right place. Neuvillette’s palm hasn’t left Wriothesley’s belly, and he thumbs at the damp, sweaty skin there as that egg rolls into the right place, helped alone with his command of Hydro. 

Another bulge, another egg. This one comes quicker, slipping down the shaft of his ovipositor, tipping into Wriothesley’s open and accepting hole. 

Wriothesley moans. “Fuck,” he curses, but then— “So good. Just like that. More, sweetheart. More. Please, I’m so full. I’m—” Wriothesley just keeps babbling as that second egg slips into him and is fucked deeper to join the first. 

The things this does to soothe Neuvillette’s instincts. This is what all of his other ruts have been missing over the centuries. A willing mate, a place to drive his eggs deep so that they can watch them take. Neuvillette has never thought much of children, not until Wriothesley, but this, all of this, is exactly what he’s needed. 

“One more, beloved.” Neuvillette knows that he must be heavy against Wriothesley’s back, but he craves the closeness, the slide of their skin together. The third egg is quick too, sinking right in and finding its home. 

Wriothesley’s stomach bulges underneath Neuvillette’s hand. What a delightful thing, the curve, the swell, the way the eggs shift ever so slightly as he ruts against him. Perfect. Divine. 

(But then everything blurs. Neuvillette’s other cock still aches, twitches with need. There’s one last thing he has to do, and it’s to shove that length in and finish the damn job. Neuvillette’s hot, sweltering in their bed. He’s a greedy, greedy creature, and he needs, wants this claim so viscerally that he doesn’t even know where to begin with articulating it.)

 “You haven’t bred me yet,” says Wriothesley, the comment cutting through his thoughts. “Neuvillette, sweetheart, you haven’t—” A soft groan as Neuvillette’s fingers dig into the swell of his belly. 

Then Wriothesley moans his name, his first name, the given one that only he knows. He begs for it, begs to be taking properly, and Neuvillette finds himself stripped of every restraint. His ovipositor slips free, leaving behind a soft, gaping entrance. His other cock is smaller, but no less good, and he doesn’t even have to slick it to slide right home. 

“Beloved,” he murmurs, forehead pressed against the back of Wriothesley’s neck. This part will not last long. This part will be too fast for his taste, but he’s been edged for long enough, and it’ll take nothing from him to breed his mate properly. 

Wriothesley is soft and warm around him. He moans, driving back against each thrust, begging for it, demanding this of him. Neuvillette’s claws dig in, catching against soft skin. They move together so perfectly, instinctively, like this was meant to be. That must be the rut talking. Neuvillette groans, fucking his mate with sharp, deep thrusts, and then he’s spilling, he’s—

He wasn’t supposed to do that. 

But how could he not? Wriothesley smells content, happy, as Neuvillette shudders against him, coming with a cry of his name. Those eggs shift slightly, tangible evidence that this has been a true rut, one that will likely succeed with…

Well. Something. 

Neuvillette blames the Solstice, blames their shared sentimentalities, and Wriothesley teasing him too damn much. Blames how much he loves this man, how he craves every part of him, how he wants to create something together. It was supposed to be him. He’s built for this, but Wriothesley—

Wriothesley hasn’t come yet. 

Neuvillette’s face falls over his shoulder, tilted to bite at his ear. “Mate,” he murmurs, drinking up Wriothesley’s scent, basting in it as he rides out his high. His and drops to Wriothesley’s cock, only to find it wet, tacky, half-hard and flagging. 

Oh. Oh, he’d—

Untouched. His mate came untouched, just by being filled, by being bred. Neuvillette didn’t know that he could love this man more. “Perfect,” he says for the thousandth time. “Beloved, you never cease to amaze me. You are so, so perfect in every way.”

Neuvillette has enough brain function to guide them onto their sides. Wriothesley laughs at his soft mutterings, at the way he paws at his belly, possessively; at how he refuses to pull out his spent cock. 

His rut has faded. He’s filled with a different sort of ache now, one that can be fixed by taking Wriothesley’s cock next, but for now, Neuvillette soaks up this moment, the feel of this, the way that everything seems to have slotted right into place.

“You are a wicked thing,” says Neuvillette says way later, after the haze of… that begins to wear off. “I… we… We should have thought things through. I should have—”

“We can do it, I think. Raise a family,” cuts in Wriothesley. He leans back fully, pressing against Neuvillette’s chest.

Neuvillette detects no lies, no worry. Wriothesley seems awash with comfort and contentment. He seems completely unperturbed by this last minute, mildly accidental… eggening. 

How embarrassing. Neuvillette hides his face in Wriothesley’s nape, letting loose an apologetic grumble. 

“I mean it.” Wriothesley’s voice is quiet, wistful. “And, we’ve talked about this—”

“In theory, Wriothesley.”

“So putting it into practice is okay.”

Neuvillette makes a defeated noise. By now his cock has slipped free, and both have retreated back into his vent. But Wriothesley grounds him. He can’t stop petting over those eggs, and the soft swell of where they sit. 

Wriothesley hums thoughtfully. “It’s a thought for tomorrow.”

“It should be a thought for now—”

“I’m not going anywhere. I asked for it, begged for it, really. Let's enjoy it, okay?”

That, he can do. Neuvillette purrs against his back, chest rumbling with satisfaction as his rut finds a break in its heat. Later, he’ll want to make love again, but for now… yes, this is…

“Perfect,” he murmurs.

“You keep saying that.”

“With intent. Wriothesley, I love you. I only know love because of you, I—this is impossible to articulate.”

Wriothesley chuckles. “You don’t need to, sweetheart. I love you too. Let's rest. We’ll figure it out later.”

Neuvillette wishes he could have Wriothesley’s confidence. Ah. Well. A problem for, as Wriothesley said, the next day. For now he just wants to bask in the warmth of his mate, of their prospective children, of other holiday indulgences yet to come. 

He is content. Settled. Mate, he thinks again, slipping into a blissful doze.