featheredflames | The B in ABO stands for BROTHERS

The B in ABO stands for BROTHERS

After a long time of searching and tracking his brother down, Joshua Rosfield is finally bracing himself to come face to face with his brother. It has been years since the Night of Flames and the tragedy that befell their home thanks to their mother's treacherous betrayal. He himself had almost succumbed to his injuries and Clive had been tossed into the Sanbrequoi army without a second thought, branded and treated worse than a mutt with mange. When Cyril had told him the fate of his brother and the truth of what had happened that night, Joshua had wept till he could no longer squeeze another tear out of him. Fate had been unkind to them both, certainly, but Clive had endured a particular sort of suffering Joshua would not wish upon anyone.

And now...now that he was grown and could handle his own, he would save him. Somehow. The details were only half worked out, but if Joshua was good at anything it was coming up with a solution on the fly. Jote had been sent ahead and Joshua had reassured her he would be fine. That he would have to do this alone. Needed to.

There might be a beast that slumbered inside of his brother, but was that not true for every human? Beyond eikons and magicks there were primal urges and needs that had to be met. Society was not only tiered by those who were branded and not, but by their physical disposition. Joshua had presented as an Omega late in life, well into his teenage years, due to the trauma he had endured. It had been a struggle to come to terms with his body, to force the suppressant medicine down his throat along with everything else. His body always seemed to want to work against him, but it had always been that way, hadn't it? If it wasn't illness it was discomforting desires, the urge to submit himself to those of an opposite disposition...

No. He would be fine. He would corner Clive when he was alone, reveal himself and the two of them would leave together. There would be no mishaps, no hiccups or mistakes - he couldn't afford for there to be.

It is just outside Northreach that Joshua finds his brother alone, lost in thought, staring at the flames of a fire. The sight of the brand on his cheek makes his chest ache, but he would make this right. Somehow, he would save Clive...he just needed to convince him that he was who he said he was. Surely that would not be difficult to accomplish.

...But Clive was a soldier, and a good one at that. He would be a fool to sneak up on him...so Joshua doesn't. Making sure the coast is clear he moves to approach him, tattered hood down to show his face. He has remained hidden for far too long. It was now or never - he had to make his move.

"...Clive?"

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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.

But Joshua is no ghost. He is skin, bone, and blood, physical to the touch and not a mere delusion of his brother's mind. That said, perhaps he should have thought this through better. Put on his back and winded from Clive's entire weight now put upon him, Joshua is left to stare up at his brother, eyes wide as he frantically scans his branded face.

He doesn't think he is real.

Which, in all honesty, is valid enough of a belief to hold. Joshua has been dead to the world since the night everything went up in flames. Clive had no reason to believe he was alive...not to mention the fact his brother was clearly in his rut making everything all the more complicated and worrisome.

He does not struggle against him (it won't get him anywhere - Clive is solid muscle and mail) but he does implore him to listen. To take a moment to relax and think. Founder...would he, could he even listen to him in such a state?

"C-Clive...it is all right. You are all right...I promise."

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 head－ 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, fuck―"

Forgive him...oh but he would, even if the teeth against his face and throat hurt and have his heart racing, an uncomfortable mixture of pain and pleasure overriding his senses. Suddenly he is all of ten summers again and he has wings and a beak, while Ifrit's sharp toothed muzzle bit and tore at feathers and flesh...

He shakes the memory from his mind, heart thumping against his ribs, practically threatening to burst forth as Clive grinds against his thigh and keeps him pinned. No...no he can't. They cannot. He does not want to relive another instance of Clive committing an act against him that he will surly regret. He is out of his mind and Joshua needs to bring him back.

But how?

"Clive-! Stop! Think about what you are doing!"

He can feel blood and spit, both sticky against his face and throat and it takes every ounce of his own self resolve to not descend into a moment of pure panic.

"You do not want this..."

Stop, the voice says, and it manages to sink through the mud-thick cocoon of his rut-induced arousal. When Wyvern peels himself back, thighs still straddling the man beneath him, weight still bearing down, he straightens to a half-sit and looks down at Joshua with heat-dulled eyes and blood-smeared lips.

He wants to scream. It's wrong, all of it: how good this ghost feels, how he speaks to Wyvern with the name Wyvern wants to forget, how he's forced to feel when all he has anymore is pain.

"Joshua..."

His gloved hand slides over the outline of that pretty, pretty face. The curve of a soft cheek, the corner of one piercingly blue eye. The stranger wearing his brother's face is the most beautiful thing Wyvern has ever seen.

"My brother. My world." His eyes mist with frustration and adoration. "Founder, I've gone mad."

"You are not mad." Just...distressed, and understandably so. With his free hand Joshua reaches up to cup Clive's cheek, wishing more than anything that he could erase the brand beneath his palm.

"I am here and I am alive...I promise you that this is no trick or delusion." It hurts, admittedly, to think that he would be considered such. Clive had not forgotten him, but being considered dead was more or less the same was it not? The corners of his eyes sting with tears that threaten to spill over, but he holds them back.

"I am so, so sorry Clive...I never meant to let you suffer alone for all these years...circumstance did not allow me to approach you but brother I have missed you dearly..."

Hearing sorry in that soft, ember-warm voice makes Wyvern (Clive?) shake his head vehemently. He hates it, hates hearing it, hates the thought of his brother ever being sorry for anything. If this really is his brother, that is― it's still unbelievable, an impossibility that Wyvern struggles with through the haze of his rut.

"No," he whispers. His vision blurs, but he doesn't know why; he can't acknowledge nor understand his own tears for what they are. He'd thought he had none left to shed. "It was me, I didn't protect you―"

The conversation is garbled. He has a feeling that he isn't responding properly to what's being said to him, like a dream in which he jumps from location to location, time period to time period, with no sense of logic or narrative cohesion. He strips his gloves and gauntlets off to press warm, callus-rough hands to this stranger's (?) perfect face. Founder, he could never have imagined what kind of young man Joshua might have become if not for his failings.

"Flames, you're so fucking beautiful," he breathes. "And you smell so perfect."

His voice hitches, just a bit. "My Joshua. I never dared to even dream of you."

He should not pity his brother, not when Clive would hate to be pitied by him. Still, there is an insurmountable ache that grips him deeply, chest aching as rough hands cup his face. Clive cannot believe it is true, that he is here, and why should he? How could he? Even so, he hopes he can prove it, that his brother will see and hear reason. If he does not, they will both be doomed.

"My brother...you need not dream. I am here, in the flesh. Hale and whole, I swear to you." He offers up a smile despite everything, his own eyes wet as a swell of emotions well up inside of him, threatening to spill over.

Clive himself smells...appealing, but that is neither here nor there. As complicated as his feelings are toward his brother, he need not burden him further, not when he was on the brink of breaking.

"Clive, I promise this is reality. Calm, please, and we shall speak. I will not leave you, Founder I swear it."

The haze of paranoia recedes, but his need is still omnipresent, screaming through his too-hot blood. Joshua's scent fits in his mind like a key in a lock; something in his heart clicks, and it makes Wyvern― Clive, he thinks to himself, dazed― fuzzy, dazed, inebriated.

He doesn't sit up. He stays hovered over Joshua, breath half-ragged like little puffs through his teeth. His pupils still feel blown, and his entire world dials down to this young man who claims is his brother, who feels like Clive's brother, who speaks like Clive's Joshua.

It makes Clive's heart twist, and love floods through his anger-grief, mixing with lust. His emotions are a curdled mess; it's hard to think right with so much of it still spilling from every inch of him.

"Joshua." Fuck, he's real, he's alive. "Founder, it's you, you're..."

A soft sob, and he leans in to press his mouth against Joshua's, barely aware of the taboo of it, that they're of blood. There's no space in his mind to care about any of it. He licks and pries like a man starved, and claims Joshua's tongue with a full-bodied shiver.

"My brother. My brother." The rut compulsion screams mine mine mine; the joy of reunion, and his primal instinct to claim. He struggles to separate the two.

Clive licks into his mouth, kissing him deep and desperate, and all Joshua can do is give into his brother's desire. He knows that Clive will regret this, that this will simply add another layer of guilt atop the so-called sins he knows his brother carries on his shoulders. What happened that night years ago was not Clive's fault, but the mantra that rings in his ears against the backdrop of the crackle of fire is true; he is Clive's brother and nothing would ever change that.

A whimper of a sob finally breaks free from his own throat as Joshua lets go, snaking his arms around Clive's neck to hold him close. It isn't as if he doesn't desire him, he does, but this is a terrible thing for them to indulge in when one of them is not sound of mind. Still, what is there to do beyond give Clive what he wants? He is a man who has been denied so much in his life...

"Ah, Clive...my brother...please..."

It is okay, he wants to say, to reassure, but no words are formed as a moan of his own desire takes their place instead.

Joshua moans for him, and the pretty sound of it is like flint and tinder. Clive hums, huffs, and grinds back up along the length of his brother's body, rubbing against him with the insistence of a wolf trying to scent its mate.

His voice rasps, low and throaty, like smoke curling from a fire. "You came back to me." With equal measures apology and possessiveness. To me. "Even though I couldn't save you, even after my failings."

He loses himself in that thought; that Joshua, too, yearned for him. That these years apart had been just as torturous for his brother as it had been for him. It isn't a relief to think on it, but turns Clive's possessiveness into corrosive protectiveness, and he dips to rake his tongue along the skin that he broke with his teeth earlier, hot and wet and insistent.

"Never again. My brother, my omega―" Something sparks behind his eyes when he says that word, omega. Right, that's what Joshua was, is. "―I'll care for you. Keep you safe. Keep you so close to me."

His Omega. Founder, how those words are like an arrow right to his chest, igniting the slumbering need he had been trying to keep snuffed out. His attempts are in vain however, as he gives himself even further over to Clive, fingers digging into armor that covers his brother's shoulders. If only he could rid him of it...but no. He shouldn't. They shouldn't.

"Yours..." he breathes out, word airy and trembling. Fate had made it so they were opposites in this regard and was this the reason why, was it not? Clive was made for Joshua and vice versa. If there was one gift their parents had given them, it was each other. Another moan is drawn out of him, the wet of Clive's tongue stinging the wound he'd marked him with. Still, it's pleasant in a twisted way. Mayhaps that was simply something Joshua would have to deal with and accept. "Clive...do you really want this? Here? I will not rebuke you but I do not wish...I do not want you to regret it..."

"I would never regret you," is immediate. Thoughtless, even. Half-mad with lust, but convinced that nothing about Joshua will be something that he regrets; it'll only the spontaneity and thoughtlessness of his own actions that will haunt him, when he comes to.

His too-hot hands still wander over Joshua's face, then downwards. Over his now-bruised neck, down to his collar, then over his chest. He wants to commit every inch of Joshua to memory, but it strikes him that they're on hard ground and cold gravel, with not even a bedroll to cushion them― even through his rut, his protectiveness flares above his need to pry Joshua open and claim him.

This is his brother. His beloved brother, who he'd thought he'd lost forever. Who he'd seen be mauled and mutilated, torn apart as he was helpless to do anything but watch. And so, he shudders through his basest instincts, and slowly starts to pry himself away from that enticing, perfect smell.

"They'll look for me," he rasps. They, referring to the Sanbrequois. "But wherever you go, I'll follow. Please."

Where are they? Clive distantly remembers Aevis saying something about Northreach being close, and how they'll never have the luxury of visiting The Veil.

Clive may not regret his brother, but Joshua knows all too well that Clive will regret any notion he may have about putting himself upon him. He shudders out a breath, eyes wide as he stares up at Clive, wanting nothing more than to deliver him a sense of peace he clearly has been denied for far too long.

"Let them look. They shall not find us, I swear it."

And if they did, they would know what it was like to burn.

"Northreach...if I recall it is not far from here...a few bells of a trek if we keep to the path. We could shelter there."

His face was not known to many and, as loath as he was to exploit his brother's brand, he could pass him off as his own personal servant. Ironic, really, when in a way he already was as his Shield.

If that was a mantle Clive still wished to wear. He shifts beneath Clive's weight, letting his hands drop at his sides. The only question that remained was whether or not Clive would manage to make it to Northreach without incident due to his rut. If they could make it to Northreach there was always The Veil. He had an Undying contact that knew the Dame...it would be a safe place. Safer than any other options they have available to them.

"Brother...do you think you can make it? Or is your need so dire?"

The need is, in fact, dire. It's a constant burn under Clive's skin, compounded upon by a primal instinct that says that Joshua's scent is his, for him, made for him. That, alongside the alpha compulsion to mate his omega before another alpha does, makes it near-impossible for Clive to imagine going without Joshua for however long they'll need to reach Northreach, but－

－he balls his hands into fists, tight enough that his blunted nails dig into his palm.

"If I take you now," slides between grit teeth, "I won't stop."

A warning, made without any reservation. Not even the obvious sin of bedding his brother is enough for Clive to consider a future in which he doesn't claim Joshua; that roadblock has been torn though like parchment, shredded in the wake of this unexpected reunion and his overwhelming need. He thinks he might die if he goes on being denied of who he knows now is his mate, fated beyond doubt.

"The Imperials will find you here, full with my knot." Lust-thick, near-delirious. Clive can feel his own musk grow stronger, intent coloring his desire. "And I dare not let them see any inch of you."

It is a promise Joshua knows Clive will make good on. Hearing his brother voice such salacious prospects has him shuddering beneath him, swallowing hot as he does his best to tell his own body to calm, to know reason.

"Then...let us away, before you've made it so our bodies cannot be apart." Founder, to imagine his own brother knotting him, heavy under his muscled weight, pressed face first down into a pillow...or against the forest floor...

No. He needed to focus.

"I am yours, Clive. I always have been...you just have to show restraint until we reach Northreach. Can you do so?"

They are brothers, and yet that feels like the least of Clive's concerns anymore. If anything, the thought of any other claiming his omega for themselves makes Clive's hackles rise, jealousy and possessiveness like twin compulsions kneaded into one.

Joshua was born for him. Clive failed once to protect him, but never again. His precious brother will never leave his sight. So, despite the need raging inside of him, he wills himself not to tear into the thin fabric of Joshua's tunic, and allow the both of them to rise back up onto their feet.

"I... can try. For you."

Though he holds Joshua close by the waist, their bodies still pressed together even when vertical.

"Founder will it that I keep my sanity around you."

(Ironic!!)

"Endure for me, Clive."

Is it cruel of him to use his brother's clear attachment to him in his favour? Certainly, but they have no time to waste and everything to lose the longer they linger here together. Pressed to his brother's front Joshua cannot help but sigh, inhaling his scent. Even if his own heat isn't here yet, suppressed by the disgusting tinctures Jote forced him to swallow, it did not mean he was unaffected. It was hard not to be when he'd be bitten and Clive had forced himself upon him.

But, he reasons and rationalizes, it wasn't Clive's fault. If anything it was his own...and now he would do what he could to set things right.

Gingerly he pushes away from his brother, opting to take his hand in one of his own and extinguish the flames of the fire with his other. Clive has whatever he needs to bring on his person already...and so they are off to follow the path to Northreach.

The trek is a tiresomeone, not because it is particularly long and hard, but because Clive is barely able to focus. Joshua does his best to redirect his attention, promising himself in full to his brother once they have a suitable space to do so...but once or twice he cannot help but fear that Clive will find himself unable to wait and take him against a tree or the forest floor. Eventually the gates of the town come into view and Joshua peels his hand from Clive's grasp, ordering him to stay silent as he pulls up his hood to speak with the guards.

The Veil, he says. He need use of it for his bearer, so he can be functional once more. They cast glances of disgust Clive's way but move aside, not paying either of them much attention at all and Joshua is ever grateful for it.

"If their directions are correct it should be down this street and to the left. We are almost there, Clive."

Funny, how Fate likes to play games: it has rewarded Clive with this utterly impossible reunion, but has done so at the worst possible time, with his sanity scattered to the winds. For a good portion of their trek to Northreach, he thinks he must be sleepwalking－ living some sort of fantasy that he's created mid-rut, liable to wake up at any time by the smoldering remains of his campfire, Wyvern yet again－ but that spiked boot never drops, and the gentle, safe scent that he associates so strongly as his remains a consistent, maddening reminder of his need until they pass through the gates of Northreach.

He thinks he must have ground his teeth flat by the time the Veil comes into view. (Distantly, there's a realization that, despite all of the times he's marched adjacent to Northreach in all of his years traversing Sanbreque, he has never been inside it proper.) Joshua bids him to remain silent, but he doesn't think he has any words in him to speak; when the lady of the House, Isabelle, comes out to appraise the two strange men who have darkened her doorstep, she takes one look at Clive and seems to understand the sorry state he's in.

Come inside, before you scare half my girls away with your scent, she teases airily. A real concern, apparently. Clive says nothing as they're shown to their rooms in the back of the manor, corralled near the kitchens and the courtesans' living quarters, away from immediate earshot of the clientele.

Clive floats through the entire affair. He only waits until the door closes behind them to pull Joshua closer by his arm, nesting their bodies front to front again in desperation.

"Joshua," sounds almost like a plea. His hand scrabbles along his brother's form, trying to find a way to wriggle his palm under that heavy cloak.

Led into the brothel and into a small room in the back that affords them as much privacy as they can afford right now, Joshua is pliant once the door is closed and his brother sets himself upon him. Clive is desperate and truly, he has to commend his resistance. He has made it this far and there is no reason to deny him any longer - not that he ever would.

He does not wish to make his brother beg.

Instead Joshua will do him a kindness and move to help lift the cloak off him, encouraging Clive to help. Rid of the heavy outer garment he takes his brother's sweet, branded face in hand to kiss him - lips, bridge of nose, cheek - in a bid to soothe and reassure.

In an ideal would he would have a chance to clean himself before offering himself up to his brother, but this is not the place for fantasy. Reality is the only truth here, and the fact of the matter is his brother is going to mate him. Part of Joshua wants to laugh, remembering how innocently he had insisted Clive would be the one he would marry, that they would rule Rosaria together. There would be no handtying like his younger self had imagined there would be, but at least he would be Clive's.

He just didn't think it would ever manifest like this.

"Shh, it is all right. I am yours and here for you, Clive. I will no longer stray from your side and we shall endure this together. I promise. You have me."

Sweet, gentle touches. Clive has forgotten what those look like, what they feel like. He has made friends with risen knuckles, the flat of a boot, the blunt end of weapons; the soft slide of fingertips and lips almost makes him cry again, the sensation of them so foreign after years of hard surfaces and cold contempt.

And now, he is convinced that this must be Joshua. Joshua, with his strong smile even when the frailty of his body betrayed him－ Joshua, whose featherlight grip around his finger was nevertheless the sweetest, most powerful gesture Clive had ever felt from anyone. His brother has always been the one to recontextualize his world, bright eyes and warm smile far more brilliant than the spread of a phoenix's wings.

Desperate as he is, Clive stutters with emotion. He moves to strip himself of his own layers, impatient and trembling, but the next kiss he leans in for and initiates is far less biting, more affection-laced than lust-laced, even if there's an (un)healthy abundance of the latter.

"You were the only thing that kept me going," he finally murmurs after their lips part, as he kicks bits of armor and leather aside to walk Joshua backwards towards the bed. "My brother, my fated mate."

He doesn't do anything so crass as to shove him on his back again; this time, Clive lifts Joshua into his arms, then settles him gently onto the mattress. Like the prince that he is.

"I want to see all of you."

Clive is still desperate, still needy, but the ferocity seems to have faced just moments ago makes way for sweet, brotherly affection instead. The kisses are fueled less by frantic need and more now by appreciation and desire. Oh but how it makes him ever so weak. Clive lifts him atop the mattress and he finds himself flushed at the request, at each of his brother's words.

"I wish I could have come to you sooner...I am sorry, Clive."

It is hard to forgive himself for staying away as long as he had, but fate and life had not been kind in that regard - not by any measure. All he can do now is be grateful for the opportunity he has now to make things right.

"You may do so."

He is not much to look at, admittedly, far skinnier than someone of his height should be...but if Clive wants to see him, to take him...he has the right to. His parents may have given life to him, but it was his brother that had been the one to name him, to truly love and cherish him.

"Shall I undress for you? Or would you rather remove my clothes?"

You may. To be told that he can, in his brother's voice, sets his nerves alight in ways that Clive never thought was possible. It makes him want to surge forward and tear that tunic off of Joshua like the savage creature that he's become, but he keeps those ugly impulses at bay for long enough to answer:

"If you'd let me."

Deferential in a way that he wasn't, not even under Sanbreque's boot. His compliance towards the Empire was bought with blood and violence, but compliance wasn't loyalty. Wyvern was their pet drake, but Clive has always been and will ever be Joshua Rosfield's.

With that, Clive rakes his palms under his brother's layers and works on shimmying him out of them. The tunic first, its collar unlaced with clumsy, overeager fingers; belts and buckles afterwards, with increasingly impatient insistence. He makes a sound like a starved hound when he finally gets an eyeful of bare, pale skin－ his nose presses against Joshua's clavicle, breathing in that warm, sweet scent as he works one hand downwards, under the waistband of Joshua's trousers to palm between his legs.

"Perfect," he rumbles. It's hard to form words that are more than two syllables, but he tries. "My perfect omega."

Joshua isn't in heat, but he's warm where Clive tries to stroke him, the outline of his pretty cock intoxicating against Clive's palm. He can feel his mouth water, and he rumbles again, low and throaty where his mouth presses against Joshua's neck.

Clive makes the decision to remove his clothing and Joshua lets him do so without any hesitation. It is a relief honestly to see his brother operate without a sense or need to lower himself for Joshua's sake. Sure, he may be his Shield, but to Joshua they have always been equals, or, at the very least, Clive has been his better. Having the Phoenix as an eikon and in turn being the one who was to assume their father's throne meant nothing as far as Joshua was concerned.

He has no experience in such matters and the way Clive kisses and mouths at his skin while a rough, calloused hand finds his cock has him groaning out his brother's name louder than he means to. He is sensitive, body ever so reactive to his touch. Clive has barely done anything to him and yet his heart is racing, skin alight and warmed.

Founder help them both.

"Yes, I am yours...and how truly blessed I am...that the Founder saw to it to make you an Alpha."

Surely it was by design. It had to be.

The warmer Joshua gets, the stronger his scent seems to become. Enticing Clive to press closer, to cover him with his body, to claim him as Clive's body wills him to. His hands draw away, and he's straddling Joshua on the bed before he can truly register what he's doing, knees splayed with his own erection straining at the front of his dust-streaked trousers, peeling his bloodstained linen undershirt off in one fluid motion; the tanned skin and muscle under that layer is a map of scars and bruises, both old and fresh, and Clive lowers himself down before Joshua can be put off by the sight.

It's a relief, to press skin to skin. The fire within him attunes to the fire that Joshua radiates, and Clive breathes a soft moan of his own as aether flares wherever their bodies touch.

"Only for you," he murmurs, and kisses the sentiment into Joshua's mouth. Sloppier this time, greedier. His touch snakes back down again, this time moving to do away with the last of Joshua's clothes, blindly tugging fabric down the sinful narrowness of Joshua's waist, past the soft, pale skin of Joshua's thighs.

Halfway done (and too impatient to finish the undressing), Clive hitches Joshua's hips up and tests his brother's willingness to let him trace along the heat of his entrance. Again, he isn't slick the way omegas would be when they're in heat (or, at least, that's what Clive has heard about omegas), but just the thought of being inside his beloved brother makes him see stars.

"Have you felt empty, Joshua?"

His sweet, perfect bird. Clive is almost out of his mind again, with how much he wants him. He pets between Joshua's legs again, rubbing the flat of his middle along his warmth.

"Have you ever touched yourself here?"

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