featheredflames | 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?"

Threaded | Flat

From:

flamebrand

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.