"Stop. I'm going to... stop, I want..."
Ithyris pulls off. Looks up at Bryn with those blown-black eyes and his mouth wet and swollen and red and Bryn almost comes from the sight alone, his cock jerking against his stomach, and he bites down on his own lip hard enough to taste copper to keep himself from tipping over the edge.
"What do you want?" The prince's voice is destroyed. Barely above a whisper, rough and dark and stripped of every layer of composure and authority until there's nothing left but the raw material of the man underneath.
"You." Bryn doesn't have the capacity for cleverness. His body has overridden his brain in a coup so complete that the strategic mind he's relied on for six years has been deposed entirely and what comes out of his mouth is honest and desperate and stripped of every defense he owns. "I want you. All of you. I want..."
He can't say it. His face is burning and the words won't form and the gap between what he wants and what he can articulate is vast and humiliating and Ithyris must read it in his expression because something in the prince's jaw shifts and his eyes go impossibly darker and he presses his forehead to Bryn's stomach and breathes, one ragged inhale, steadying himself against Bryn's skin.
"I need to open you up," Ithyris says against his skin, the words warm against Bryn's stomach. "I won't hurt you. I'll go slow. I'll stop the moment you tell me to."
He shifts down between Bryn's legs and pushes his thighs apart and Bryn lets him, trembling, heart pounding so hard he can feel it in his vision, and the prince looks at the whole of him spread open and the sound Ithyris makes is low and gutted and reverent, the sound of a creature seeing something it has spent its entire life carrying the shape of. He presses his mouth to the inside of Bryn's thigh. Then lower. His tongue traces a line down and then he licks over him, flat and wet and deliberate, and the sensation is so strange and so intimate and so overwhelmingly good that Bryn makes a sound that is almost a sob and his hand flies to the prince's hair and grips.
He works Bryn open with his tongue. Slow, patient, thorough, pressing inside him, getting him wet and relaxed while his hands grip Bryn's hips and hold him steady because Bryn is shaking apart beneath him. The sensation is nothing Bryn could have imagined, nothing his strategic mind could have predicted or prepared for, the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, the prince's mouth on the most private part of him and the pleasure of it building in slow, liquid waves that roll through his body and leave him gasping. His hand is in Ithyris's hair. His thighs are trembling where they're spread around the prince's shoulders. He is making sounds he will deny to his grave, small and broken and pleading, and he doesn't care because caring requires a level of self-awareness that has been stripped from him along with everything else.
When the prince's finger replaces his tongue Bryn tenses. Ithyris feels it immediately, stills, waits. Bryn hears a faint, quiet click and glances down and sees that the prince's claws have retracted fully, drawn back into his fingertips until his hands look almost human, blunt-nailed and careful. The gestureis small and deliberate and it says more about the prince's awareness of Bryn's body than any words could. He presses one thick finger in slowly, and the intrusion is strange, a fullness and a stretch that borders on discomfort and hovers there.
"Breathe," Ithyris murmurs against his thigh. "Breathe for me, Bryn."
He breathes. The prince works his finger deeper, slow and careful, and the discomfort shifts and changes and when Ithyris curls his finger and presses against something inside him the pleasure that shoots through Bryn's body is so sudden and so intense that he arches off the ground and cries out and his cock jerks and leaks against his stomach.
"There," Ithyris says, and does it again, and Bryn nearly screams.
The prince opens him with patience that borders on cruelty, one finger and then two, his fingers stretching Bryn with a care that his retracted claws make possible, his mouth returning to Bryn's cock to keep him suspended between pleasure and the unfamiliar ache of being spread open, and by the time he's worked three fingers into him Bryn is begging. He doesn't know when he started. He doesn't know what he's saying. The prince's name, mostly. Please. More. Words that aren't words, just sounds, and Ithyris responds to each one with his hands and his mouth and his voice murmuring against Bryn's skin, low reassurances that Bryn can barely hear over the roaring in his own ears.
"You're ready," Ithyris says, pulling his fingers free, and the emptiness makes Bryn whimper and he hates the sound and can't stop it. "Look at me, Bryn."
Bryn looks at him. The prince is kneeling between his spread thighs, flushed and scaled and breathing hard, the violet patterns extending down his chest and across his shoulders, more extensive than Bryn has ever seen them. He unfastens histrousers and frees himself and Bryn sees the full size of him for the first time and his breath catches.
He is proportional to his size in every other way. Thick and long and flushed dark, the head wet, and the sight of him sends a spike of fear through the arousal because Bryn's brain, in a brief moment of clarity, does the math and finds it concerning. But the fear is tangled so deeply with the want that he can't separate them and he doesn't try to, because he has spent his entire life trying to separate things that were tangled together and it has never once made him happier.
"Go slow," he whispers.
"Always." The prince grips himself and positions the head against Bryn and Bryn feels the blunt, hot pressure of him and he exhales and wills his body to open and Ithyris pushes in.
The stretch is enormous. Bryn gasps and his hands fly to the prince's forearms and grip and Ithyris stops, just the head inside him, and waits. His whole body is shaking with the effort of holding still. The tendons in his neck are taut and the scales at his throat are flickering rapidly and his eyes are locked on Bryn's face, watching for pain, reading every shift in Bryn's expression with the same intensity he brings to everything. And the care in it, the restraint, the way the prince is trembling with how badly he wants to move and isn't, cracks something in Bryn that he thought was already broken. It's not possible to break something that's already broken, he thought. He was wrong. There's always another layer.
"More," Bryn says.
Ithyris sinks deeper. Inch by inch, pulling back and pressing forward, working himself into Bryn in slow, rocking thrusts that let Bryn's body adjust to each increment, and the fullness is overwhelming, a pressure so deep and so complete it borders on too much. Bryn feels every inch of the prince, the thick drag of his cock against Bryn's walls, the stretch of his bodyaccommodating something it was not designed to accommodate and doing it anyway because Bryn's body has apparently decided that it will reshape itself around this man if that's what's required. When Ithyris finally bottoms out, his hips flush against Bryn's, Bryn is so full he can feel the prince in his stomach and his chest and his throat and there is no part of him that is not occupied by this feeling.
"Bryn." His name on the prince's lips. Wrecked. Holy. Spoken the way Ithyris says everything that matters, with his whole self behind it. His forehead drops to Bryn's and his breath comes in shattered gasps against Bryn's mouth. "You feel... gods, you feel..."
"Move," Bryn manages. "Ithyris, please move."
He moves.
The first thrust punches the air from Bryn's lungs. The prince pulls back slowly and drives in deep and the angle finds that place inside him and the pleasure detonates through his body and he cries out and his nails rake down the prince's arms, leaving lines in the skin between the scales. Ithyris does it again. And again. Finding a rhythm that is slow and deep and devastating, each thrust dragging against every nerve ending Bryn possesses, and he is pinned beneath the prince on the forest floor and being taken apart from the inside and he has never felt anything close to this, the pleasure and the fullness and the weight of Ithyris above him and the sounds the prince is making, rough and broken and his.
The scales flicker across Ithyris's skin where his control slips, violet shimmering over his shoulders and down his arms, spreading and receding with each thrust, and Bryn watches them move across the prince's skin and finds them beautiful in a way that would have terrified him a week ago and now just makes him want to touch them. His eyes blaze above Bryn, darkand bottomless, and he whispers against Bryn's ear as he moves inside him.
How perfect Bryn is. How tight. How Ithyris has dreamed of this, of him, of what Bryn would look like under him, and the reality is better than anything he imagined. How he wants to keep Bryn full of him, wants to stay inside him until neither of them can move, wants to mark him so thoroughly that every Drekian in the palace will scent it on his skin and know that Bryn is his, has always been his, was always meant to be his.
Ithyris's mouth finds Bryn's throat. His hand wraps around Bryn's cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts, and the dual sensation of being filled and stroked overwhelms every remaining circuit in Bryn's body. He claws at the prince's shoulders. He hears himself making sounds that are not words, gasps and broken syllables and the prince's name, always the prince's name, and his legs wrap around Ithyris's waist and pull him deeper and the prince groans, raw and animal, and his hips drive harder.
"Close," Bryn gasps. "I'm close, I'm..."
"Let go." Ithyris's voice is destroyed, barely a voice at all, just breath and heat and the ragged remains of words. His hand tightens on Bryn's cock, his thumb working the head, his hips snapping into Bryn at the angle that makes his vision go white. "Let go for me, Bryn. I want to feel you."
