Was it foolish of the Sanbrequois to leave one of its Branded alone, on the outskirts of their main encampment? Possibly. But Wyvern is one of the few Alphas who have presented so obviously in their midst, and the scent of his rut is intimidating even to the Betas who occupy most of the Imperial army－ it's for this reason that he's been sequestered from even the circle of his fellow Bastards, only shackled by the threat of what happens to Imperial deserters when they're inevitably discovered.
Wyvern could go. But he won't. Not after the last time he'd tried, half-mad from his cycle, held down by unwanted hands threatening to rip the Rosarian cuff from his ear for the transgression. His handlers had laughed and jeered then, watching their Alpha slave grovel like an Omega for their mercy; Wyvern had had his forehead pressed to dirt, a palm over the left side of his face, shaking with seething, nauseating lust and corrosive anger.
Never again. The indignity was too much－ he wouldn't suffer it a second time.
His resolve is to sit, unmoving and unfeeling by the fire, until the worst of his rut sloughs off. A difficult, painful process, but not at all impossible given how little desire he has to bare himself in front of another living thing. If he can only shut himself off from the rest of the world, from himself－
－but, ah, Fate never makes things so simple for him. Wyvern smells this incoming presence before he sees him, hears him, and by the time Joshua opens his mouth to speak, the sheer draw of that intoxicating scent has him nearly out of his mind.
Warm, sweet, inviting. Like home. Like soft sheets and the curl of his (dead) (dead, dead, dead) brother's fingers against his chest, relaxed in sleep. It's powerful, overwhelming, maddening, and Wyvern's next breath hisses out of grit teeth, near-furious at how much this alien sensation makes him feel when he doesn't want to, makes him need when he shouldn't want to.
It can't be Joshua. The man he's seeing through blurred vision and his haze of lust is a beautiful phantom of what his brother could have been if he hadn't－ if he fucking hadn't－
"Joshua", he croaks anyway, as he scrambles up to his feet. "Joshua."
It's impossible. Joshua is dead. Wyvern can feel tears stinging at his eyes, humiliation roiling in his gut. The Sanbrequois have doubtless found another way to grind his precious memories into dust, but still, he can't stop himself; he crosses the distance between himself and this stranger in a whiplash second, grabbing without care or reservation, panting like the disgraced hound that he's become.
"Joshua," is gravel in the back of his throat. A shove, and Wyvern forces the beautiful ghost onto his back to mount him, to pin him with his weight and strength.
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Date: 2025-12-09 06:26 am (UTC)Wyvern could go. But he won't. Not after the last time he'd tried, half-mad from his cycle, held down by unwanted hands threatening to rip the Rosarian cuff from his ear for the transgression. His handlers had laughed and jeered then, watching their Alpha slave grovel like an Omega for their mercy; Wyvern had had his forehead pressed to dirt, a palm over the left side of his face, shaking with seething, nauseating lust and corrosive anger.
Never again. The indignity was too much－ he wouldn't suffer it a second time.
His resolve is to sit, unmoving and unfeeling by the fire, until the worst of his rut sloughs off. A difficult, painful process, but not at all impossible given how little desire he has to bare himself in front of another living thing. If he can only shut himself off from the rest of the world, from himself－
－but, ah, Fate never makes things so simple for him. Wyvern smells this incoming presence before he sees him, hears him, and by the time Joshua opens his mouth to speak, the sheer draw of that intoxicating scent has him nearly out of his mind.
Warm, sweet, inviting. Like home. Like soft sheets and the curl of his (dead) (dead, dead, dead) brother's fingers against his chest, relaxed in sleep. It's powerful, overwhelming, maddening, and Wyvern's next breath hisses out of grit teeth, near-furious at how much this alien sensation makes him feel when he doesn't want to, makes him need when he shouldn't want to.
It can't be Joshua. The man he's seeing through blurred vision and his haze of lust is a beautiful phantom of what his brother could have been if he hadn't－ if he fucking hadn't－
"Joshua", he croaks anyway, as he scrambles up to his feet. "Joshua."
It's impossible. Joshua is dead. Wyvern can feel tears stinging at his eyes, humiliation roiling in his gut. The Sanbrequois have doubtless found another way to grind his precious memories into dust, but still, he can't stop himself; he crosses the distance between himself and this stranger in a whiplash second, grabbing without care or reservation, panting like the disgraced hound that he's become.
"Joshua," is gravel in the back of his throat. A shove, and Wyvern forces the beautiful ghost onto his back to mount him, to pin him with his weight and strength.