It should be a delusion. It must be. Again, Wyvern thinks that this must be a trick, that someone is watching from a vantage point in the distance, jeering and laughing at how their Branded mutt has fallen for such a base deception.
But it doesn't feel like a deception. Doesn't smell like one, either. Pupils so blown that his blue eyes are nearly black, Wyvern cranes down and jams his face into the crook of this stranger(?)'s neck, nearly colliding into him with his need to breathe him in.
Flames, he smells so fucking good. Familiar and sweet and perfect, so fucking perfect. Even the chime of his voice is perfect, a lower register than what he remembers his brother's sweet, imploring voice to sound like, but not entirely dissimilar in accent and cadence; guilt and self-loathing climbs up his throat like bile as he realizes he's invoking the sacred memory of his brother in this abysmal, shameful, primal moment, but Wyvern can't help it.
His teeth sink into soft skin, just where the stranger's jaw meets his neck. One gloved hand scrabbles at the front of the phantom's robes, nearly tearing it in an effort to find skin; the other finds a wrist to pin above that beautiful flood of gold hair.
He can't register what's being said to him. Clive, he hears, and he shakes his headοΌ no, no, he's not that person anymore. The last person to call him by that name is dead now.
"I'm sorry, please, forgive me." He chokes on his words, but doesn't stop. His cock is hard and heavy against the front of his trousers, and he ruts against the younger man's thigh as he bites, and bites, and bites. His teeth find the cartilage of a well-shaped ear, the jut of a jaw, the smooth column of an unmarred neck. "Joshua, fuckβ"
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Date: 2025-12-10 01:43 am (UTC)But it doesn't feel like a deception. Doesn't smell like one, either. Pupils so blown that his blue eyes are nearly black, Wyvern cranes down and jams his face into the crook of this stranger(?)'s neck, nearly colliding into him with his need to breathe him in.
Flames, he smells so fucking good. Familiar and sweet and perfect, so fucking perfect. Even the chime of his voice is perfect, a lower register than what he remembers his brother's sweet, imploring voice to sound like, but not entirely dissimilar in accent and cadence; guilt and self-loathing climbs up his throat like bile as he realizes he's invoking the sacred memory of his brother in this abysmal, shameful, primal moment, but Wyvern can't help it.
His teeth sink into soft skin, just where the stranger's jaw meets his neck. One gloved hand scrabbles at the front of the phantom's robes, nearly tearing it in an effort to find skin; the other finds a wrist to pin above that beautiful flood of gold hair.
He can't register what's being said to him. Clive, he hears, and he shakes his headοΌ no, no, he's not that person anymore. The last person to call him by that name is dead now.
"I'm sorry, please, forgive me." He chokes on his words, but doesn't stop. His cock is hard and heavy against the front of his trousers, and he ruts against the younger man's thigh as he bites, and bites, and bites. His teeth find the cartilage of a well-shaped ear, the jut of a jaw, the smooth column of an unmarred neck. "Joshua, fuckβ"