Werewoof rob/dam

It's only once Robert's hips have stuttered and rocked to a stop inside him that Damien remembers to breathe. Before that, it's like he only knows how to inhale against Robert's mouth.

Robert is rougher each night leading up to the full moon; more /thorough/, and filthy. Even if he could find the words on his sore lips, Damien wouldn't complain.

Rougher is good. Rougher means the ache lasts longer, a sweet-sore reminder of taking his knot and keeping it there for ten, twenty minutes. A reminder of Robert settling on his chest during the wait, the both of them sticky and worn out, staring at Damien with sleepy affection like it's he who controls the ebb and flow of the oceans.

More thorough is good. When he slides out but stays put - (he hasn't /left/ afterwards for months, welcome, /wanting/ to stay, for breakfast, lunch…) -  and buries his nose in Damien's neck, breathing deep like he's the subtlest notes of a fine wine. When he kisses trails of coal embers down his middle, to the apex of his thighs - (a kiss for one, two) - and bows his head to lick him clean. It's good, it's /good/, then and all other times, bare legs curled around his head while rough stubble etches into Damien's nerves, as come and ache is kissed from him and swallowed, taken, given.