Ithyris lines himself up and pushes in.
The sound Bryn makes is not a sound he's ever made before. He is still open from the forest, still slick from the prince's earlier release and the prince's tongue, and Ithyris sinks into him easier this time, one long, deep slide that bottoms out with his hips flush against Bryn's, and the fullness is just as overwhelming, the thick stretch of him filling Bryn until he can feel the prince in his throat, but the pain is gone and what's left is pure, bright,devastating pleasure that radiates outward from the place where they're joined and fills every part of him.
The prince fucks him lovingly.
There is no other word for it. Ithyris moves inside him with long, slow strokes, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in deep, and his forehead is pressed to Bryn's and his eyes are open and watching Bryn's face and his hands are gentle where they frame Bryn's head, his fingers threaded through Bryn's short hair. He adjusts his angle and finds the place that makes Bryn shake apart and hits it on every thrust, steady and deliberate, and Bryn is gasping and clawing at his shoulders and wrapping his legs around the prince's waist to pull him deeper.
"You're perfect," Ithyris breathes against his mouth. "Feel what you do to me, Bryn. Feel how much I want you."
He reaches between them and wraps his hand around Bryn's cock and strokes him in time with his thrusts, his thumb working the head, smearing the wetness leaking from the tip, and the dual sensation of being fucked deep and stroked tight destroys whatever is left of Bryn's composure, which was already in ruins and is now beyond recovery. He comes with a sob, his body clenching around the prince, his cock pulsing in Ithyris's fist, spilling over his fingers and onto Bryn's stomach, and the orgasm pulls sounds from him that he will never admit to making, broken and raw and the prince's name, the prince's name, the prince's name.
Ithyris follows. His hips slam forward and he buries himself to the hilt and comes inside Bryn with a groan that shakes through his whole body and into Bryn's, and Bryn feels the hot rush of it, pulse after pulse, filling him in a volume that should be impossible. It doesn't stop. The prince comes and comes and Bryn feels it spilling out around his cock, leaking from where they're joined, running hot down Bryn's thighs and onto the sheets, and the prince's hips keep grinding against his, workinghimself deeper, and his face is pressed into Bryn's neck and his body is shaking.
Ithyris doesn't pull out.
He shifts. Rolls onto his back, taking Bryn with him, and Bryn is suddenly on top of the prince, straddling his hips, the prince's cock still buried inside him, and the change in angle makes them both groan. Ithyris is still hard. Still filling him. And the look on the prince's face as he gazes up at Bryn, flushed and wrecked and adoring, with his hands settling on Bryn's hips, is the look of a creature that has found exactly what it was made to find.
"Again," he says.
"I can't..."
"You can." His hands tighten on Bryn's hips. His fingers dig into the bruises already forming there and the pain is bright and grounding and Bryn's cock twitches against his stomach, not fully hard again but responding, and the realization that his body wants more even when his mind says it's impossible is dizzying. His body, apparently, has more stamina than his self-doubt.
Ithyris lifts him. His hands grip Bryn's hips and he lifts Bryn up the length of his cock, slow, the drag of him against Bryn's oversensitive walls making him whimper, and then he pulls Bryn back down. Bryn feels every inch of the prince as he sinks, the thick head pressing over that spot inside him, and the pleasure is so intense it almost hurts, his body wrung out and raw and still somehow desperate for more.
The prince does it again. Lifts him and pulls him down. Again. Again. Using his hands on Bryn's hips to fuck him up and down on his cock with a steady, relentless rhythm, and Bryn is a wreck above him, his hands braced on the prince's chest, his thighs trembling, his head dropped forward, and he can feel the prince's earlier release leaking out of him with every upstroke, slick and obscene.
"Look at you." Ithyris's voice is raw and worshipful. "Look at how beautiful you are. Taking me so well. Made for me, Bryn. Every inch of you was made for me."
Bryn can't speak. He can't think. His cock is hard again, curving toward his stomach, leaking, and every time the prince pulls him down the head of Ithyris's cock drags over that place inside him and sparks detonate through his body. The prince watches his face and adjusts his grip and angles his hips up to meet him and the precision of it, the way he finds exactly the right spot and hits it over and over, is devastating and deliberate and Bryn is not going to survive this man.
"I'm going to keep you just like this," Ithyris says, and his hips snap up hard and Bryn cries out. "Full of me. Coming on my cock. You're going to know, Bryn. You're going to know what you are to me. You're going to feel it in your body every time you move tomorrow."
"Ithyris..." Bryn's voice is a ruined thing. The prince's name and nothing else, because language has abandoned him and all that's left is sensation and the sound of Ithyris's name in his mouth.
"That's it." The prince pulls him down hard and grinds up into him, deep, and holds him there, his cock pressed against that spot, and his hand wraps around Bryn's cock and strokes, fast and tight and merciless. "One more. Give me one more. Come for me, Bryn."
Bryn shatters.
The second orgasm tears through him with a violence that bows his spine and whites out his vision. He clenches around the prince so tightly that Ithyris swears, a guttural word in Drekian, and Bryn's cock pulses weakly in the prince's hand, barely anything left to give, and the pleasure goes on far longer than the release does, rolling through him in waves that leave himshaking and gasping and making sounds he will never recover from.
Ithyris comes. His hands clamp on Bryn's hips and he drives up into him one final time and holds, and Bryn feels the prince pulse inside him, another flood of heat, filling him impossibly fuller, and the sound Ithyris makes is Bryn's name torn apart and reassembled as a prayer. His cock kicks inside Bryn and his fingers bite into Bryn's skin and his body goes rigid beneath Bryn and then he collapses, chest heaving, eyes glassy, and Bryn collapses with him.
He is lying on the prince's chest. Ithyris's cock is softening inside him, finally, and Bryn is so full of the prince that it's leaking steadily from where they're joined, and he doesn't care. His body is beyond caring. Every muscle is spent. He is trembling and sore and thoroughly, comprehensively wrecked and he has never felt anything close to this in his life, this total depletion, this complete surrender of every wall and every defense and every carefully constructed piece of himself.
Ithyris pulls out gently, and the rush of his release that follows makes Bryn bury his face in the prince's chest, and Ithyris wraps his arms around him and pulls him close and holds him against his chest, skin to skin, his heart hammering beneath Bryn's ear.
"Still think you're not enough?" he murmurs against Bryn's hair.
Bryn is too destroyed to form words. He presses his face harder into the prince's chest and shakes his head.
The prince's arms tighten. His lips press to the crown of Bryn's head, a kiss placed against his short hair with a gentleness that has no business existing in the same body that just fucked Bryn through two orgasms and into incoherence. His hand strokes down Bryn's spine, slow and warm, tracing the knobs of his vertebrae, and Bryn lies on top of the dragon prince, wrecked and leaking and shaking, and he feels the bond hummingbetween them, a low, steady pulse that is warmth and want and something dangerously close to safety.
They sleep.
Bryn doesn't dream. He doesn't wake. He lies in the wreckage of the sheets with the dragon prince's arms around him and the prince's scent on every inch of his skin and the evidence of what they did drying on his thighs and for once, just once, the voice in his head that says he is not enough is quiet.
Not silent. Not gone. The voice has been with him too long to be banished by one night and one prince and two orgasms, no matter how thorough. It will come back. It always comes back.
