He remembers what it is to burn for Draža; he’s done nothing but burn for him from the first touch, that unextinguished fire in his blood.
He remembers the intervening months, as well. Every hand that met him without giving relief: unequal exchanges that grew increasingly hateful. Gideon lapsed detached and self-loathing, Draža-loathing, loathing of every man who came to his bed with a handful of coin and a promise. He remembers the accidental climaxes, his only hope for relief, and even those were only momentary flickers of pleasure in the dark. Pinnacles marred by the absence of feathers and a voice melting warm in his ear. Pointless.
It’s as though all the bound agony of those months vanishes with one touch of Orev’s hand. Gideon whines a jarred note, hips bucking towards Daddy’s hand, then falls still when his own is guided along Orev’s ache.
Orev clearly doesn’t remember, but Gideon does. It wasn’t a conversation they’d had - how could they in the beginning, and how could they as Draža became more erratic later? - but he gleaned something about Draža’s relationship to his arousal. He didn’t always meet Gideon desire-for-desire; it was more subdued for him, more a state of mind than body. When it did impact him physically, It seemed to take him by surprise at times, or be a source of embarrassment to feel how desire could drive him. Make him weak, perhaps, or - vulnerable?
(Yes. Vulnerable.)
(Does Orev remember that now? Does he feel the same as he once did?)
He’d been teasing towards violence. Part of him had been hoping for a claiming like he remembers from the days when he resisted Draža; he wants to feel wrung through, used, brutalized -
(But this changes things.)
(He has to - He has to be careful. He knows he has to be careful with Daddy when he’s excited, not because his excitement can be volatile - think of the scars on Gideon’s hips - but because of the aftermath. Because he needs to feel safe and know there’s no shame in it.
Yes, Gideon remembers how to burn. He remembers, as well, how to help Draža burn without feeling scorched and laid to waste.) Though he shifts clothing aside to meet skin to skin, he lets Orev guide him, his hand easing in slow, worshipful strokes. It’s like falling into an old rhythm: touching this way with murmured words of thanks and praise. Recognition of this gift, this miracle bestowed on him. (He knows what Daddy needs, just like Daddy always knew what Puppy needed.)
<.>
An arch of his back, drift of his thigh and a pitch of his hips. Into and along the grace of Gideon’s hand, as shivering strikes through him, bright renewal.
(He wouldn’t have thought he’d want this, or take pleasure in it. This: A hand at his cock. This: A hand upon him, anywhere. Orev doesn’t what the man he was before knew of contact shared with others, but he knows now a preference for remaining removed, for letting no one step near him. He knows how he flinched from the fuck-forsaken mayor’s clasp to his shoulder, and how he prefers keeping distance between himself and every being he’s encountered. How the thought of touch seems in abstraction like anathema. Like asking for an open wound.
This, though—
This feels like care. Attentiveness. And if, yes, he feels his nerves lighting, rising tumultuous, there is no sense of wounding, no fear in knowing, in relishing Gideon’s touch.)
(How closely this man watches him.
How well his Puppy must have (never mind what the boy had said about never knowing, about never having met) known him.)
A sigh drawn from his chest. An exhale that crawls up from his lungs into something sonorous, nearly a moan. And he speaks, compelled—
“Yes, that’s right.”
And. “Yes, good Puppy.”
And. “Perfect, oh, that’s perfect.”
(Meaning, yes, ’You are perfect.’)
He hears Gideon’s own murmurs twining, shimmering harmonic with Orev’s voice, with the rush of his own heart, his Puppy’s heart, and if he sets a palm to Puppy’s chest, yes, yes he finds a quickening beat to match his own.
(Bliss, that’s a word for it.) (Transcendence; what’s beyond earthly, beyond the realms of any mortal being.)
His eyes find Gideon’s (and again, a sense of sudden strickeness) (he could lose himself in eyes like this; in these eyes only, only, always), and his hand drifts light along his Puppy’s (his Puppy’s, yes, yes, always) ache. Teasing; promising (ah, it won’t do, it wouldn’t do to leave this man wanting).
Then, voice low, a dusky velvet purr: “Follow me, my Gideon, my Puppy.
“Burn with Daddy, won’t you?”
And there’s another kiss given, and claimed.
<.>
Gideon moans into the press of Orev’s mouth; again he bucks his hips into the touch offered him (too little, teasing and frustrating, but familiar -
Perfectly, wonderfully familiar, all of this, like coming home.)
What he could never understand about Draža is how he could take desire in stride, seeming thoroughly at ease with the sweep of it. No, it wasn’t every time, because there were occasions of wildness and violence. But there was this, too: this control. This welcome, this slow and steady burn. It wasn’t singular of Draža: there were other men who weren’t driven to frenzy, who let waves of pleasure pass through them without losing control, without feeling chaotic and shattered.
Gideon always has lost control. Always. Climax has always crashed on him like a wave, left him panting and messy and undone. (It never occurred to him to think that the reason was Draža’s teasing. That his loss of control was by Daddy’s design, even when Daddy was beyond reach or contact.)
He would watch Orev in wonder now, in admiration of his soft-blooming rise towards release, chain in one hand and Gideon’s hardness in the other, god-like, if not for the building madness in himself.
It’s not enough. He needs more than the drift of fingers and the kiss and the thrumming words. (It’s been so long.)
But there’s nothing he can do to bring Daddy to the same frenzy: he’ll ride his pleasure through to a glorying, beautiful end, and soon.
There’s nothing he can do to make the hand grip him tighter and drag him burning to release. There’s nothing he can do to make this last until they both come snarling for one another -
…Well, that’s not entirely true.
His free hand slips from the back of Daddy’s neck to the column of his throat. The other hand rings the base of Orev’s cock and squeezes, each hand mirroring denial: no breath, no climax.
Against Orev’s mouth, he moans, “More, Daddy. Please.”
<.>
Oh.
Really.
(And— Oh. A gasp, an inhale that can draw no air, meets only the press of a hand, beautiful constriction as his lungs begin slowly, slowly to burn.)
He laughs into the kiss, a near-silent sound that draws the burn of his lungs deeper. He inhales again to feel the failure of his breath, the presence of his Puppy’s demanding hand.
Puppy wants more, does he? Does his Puppy dare to demand anything?
Ah, he did ask so nicely!
And it is his right.
And no, Orev doesn’t resent, doesn’t regret the grip at his throat, or this interruption (that is and isn’t an interruption; that only sparks further collision of white-hot nerves through his body) of his own pursuit. Yes, yes, he might draw out his Puppy’s pleasure endlessly, yes he might tease on and on, but for now - here, when Gideon’s been left without respite for months on end ((without hope for culmination, but no, no, Orev can’t think about that now, the abyss Puppy was left with) (the abyss into which Orev had cast his Dearest)) - it might, it must be only fair, to draw this man to shared ecstasy.
So.
There’s a withdrawal from the kiss, slow, and drawing Orev’s teeth to Puppy’s lower lip. With a tug; with a bite that nearly, very nearly draws blood. With the thrum of a purring growl in his chest.
He tugs at the chain, twists to constrict his Puppy further. Pressure for pressure; it’s only equitable.
He thrusts against Gideon’s hand, perhaps seeking relief or perhaps only wanting reassurance of that grip, that claim (rightful; he belongs to this man just as firmly as Gideon belongs to him).
And he finds Gideon’s eyes - beautiful in haze, in a calculation (ah, the brat!) near-overwhelmed by want, by promises of rapture - with the keen-cutting focus of his own, with a smirk, sharp and knowing.
For a moment, his hand’s drifted off from the jut of Gideon’s cock. For a moment, it’s lingered near, and without touching. As if perhaps it might not return to its application. As if perhaps he’s decided to rescind his touch for a Puppy who dares make demands.
The distance doesn’t last long. Quickly, quickly Orev’s hand drifts beneath fabric, the better to grasp hold of Puppy’s ache. Careful with his talons, his grip unyielding but light, testing the shape of Puppy’s longing, drawn up, then down along the shaft.
A lift of his eyebrows, an arcing of his neck against Gideon’s grip. As if to say, This, Puppy, is this what you need? With a gentle brushing of claws to accompany the pressure of his palm. With a drift of his thumb upward, then along the peak of Puppy’s ache.
Another shift of his hips, demanding Puppy’s caress at his own ache. Another subtle twisting of the chain, and another silent laugh from Orev, as one foot draws along his Puppy’s thigh. As he looks down on this man in adoration; this, the gaze of a man who finds nothing in the sight before him. Who sees all the world in honeyed eyes.
<.>
The chain tightens around his torso, constricting his lungs. Gideon laughs breathlessly, hips rising to meet Orev’s caress and then jerking with the sweep of a thumb at sensitive nerve endings, too-tight skin, evidence of overwrought need. The laugh becomes a yelp at the threat of talons, a sob at painful, euphoric pleasure burning bright beneath his skin.
His grip resumes its stroking as though in satisfying Daddy, he can somehow satisfy himself.
His eyes seek desperately for Daddy’s and when he meets gaze-to-gaze, he falters. He falls into the (love?) adoration he sees: the eyes of a god looking down on a beloved penitent. (Or.
A lover.
He’s missed Draža so much. Is he truly seeing what he thinks he sees?)
(What if.
What if he just kept this?
What if he kept Orev, and never let Draža be remembered?
The look in his eyes is everything Gideon ever wanted. The embraces, the kisses, the tightness of the chair, the control, the clear signs of adoration, all of it is exactly how he wished they could be - but with Draža never gone. Never turning away from him. (Never lost in his spiral of madness.)
Orev is perfect.
If he kept Orev just this way, he could have everything he ever wanted. They could be together, a yield less grasp on one another -)
Oh, he ought to. Let Daddy breathe.
His hand relaxes enough to allow Orev to draw in a full breath, though his thumb caresses the other man’s windpipe in slow, worshipful admiration. Gideon couldn’t hide his own love if he tried; it’s there in his eyes, in the smile that lingers behind wicked smirks on beestung, bitten lips. It hues his pleading, celebratory moans of Daddy, again and again. It’s behind the force of his touch and the sting of his teeth when he lunges upward to capture another kiss and nips at Daddy’s lip in kind.
He stops thinking of the what ifs. His mind sinks into a hazy spill, singularly driven towards one shared goal. He paces his own touch to Orev’s strokes of his cock and whines at the too-slow, too-steady, not-enough. Slowly, his grip tightens once more at Daddy’s throat.
<.>
Beautiful, beautiful, and burning.
The man beneath him, the man wrapped around him holding him, giving and rescinding oxygen, eyes luminous with something (a feeling; a rightness; a truth) Orev can’t bring himself to name but recognizes, feels his soul melt and bloom upon. This man who speaks ‘Daddy’ like holy-unholy symphony, whose form moves in fluent tandem with his own, as if attuned to Orev’s every instinct, as if their beings shared one mind, one desire.
Beautiful and burning, his own body, his own impulse. It’s simple to pursue this man’s pulse and chase it upward, drive his flame toward incineration. Simple to keep chain in-hand with deft applications of twist and pressure even as he strokes this man toward fulfillment, even as his own body responds - with voltaic shudders, with moans, with ‘Puppy’ and ‘My Puppy’ spoken again, again, in adoration - to the touch at his cock, the hand at his throat.
(He thinks his Puppy has always known how to hold him, reach for and incite him.) (And how fortunate, how blessed he is to know his Puppy’s care here, again and as if for the first time.)
(Perhaps. Perhaps this time - whatever happened before; whatever led him from his Dearest last time - he can keep this man forever.) (Perhaps it’s what Orev had wanted all along.) (It— Doesn’t feel amiss, that thought. It’s incomplete, there are complications of his past self missing, but he thinks he understands and yes he deeply feels that there is nothing more important than this man, this perfect being.
Gideon, Gideon, Gideon.)
Teeth at his lip draw starlight to his eyes, and he laughs, voice ragged with the fresh swell of air. As he dips to take another kiss, to hum a pleased sounds against Puppy’s mouth. As he shifts his ache - ah, slowly, slowly, savoring the culminating build; keeping Puppy’s pace in-kind with his own - along the surety of Puppy’s hand.
A whisper, a crooning, “What a wonder you are.”
And, “What ecstasy you draw me toward.”
And, “Puppy, my Puppy, come with me.”
The hand at his neck tightens once more, and once more grey creeps along the edges of his knowing, both soothing and exhilarating. As thought falls further and further off from grasping. As a strangled sound - a whimper, a reverent sigh - climbs up his throat. As again he laughs, and now, yes, now he does quicken the pace of his strokes, steadily, steadily. Now he bends further, to wrap the hand grasping Puppy’s chain around his Puppy’s neck, to draw Gideon nearer, to better to more fully hold his Puppy. The edges of awareness fuzz further even as he knows a rising brightness, a glow that gathers itself in the form of his Dearest, his Puppy, his Gideon, and Orev pursues, calls his Puppy along.
Before the crest, before shatter, there’s a moment where he finds his voice - shaken, yes, and heady - and, cheek brushing Gideon’s temple before eyes find his Puppy again, he speaks—
no subject
He remembers the intervening months, as well. Every hand that met him without giving relief: unequal exchanges that grew increasingly hateful. Gideon lapsed detached and self-loathing, Draža-loathing, loathing of every man who came to his bed with a handful of coin and a promise. He remembers the accidental climaxes, his only hope for relief, and even those were only momentary flickers of pleasure in the dark. Pinnacles marred by the absence of feathers and a voice melting warm in his ear. Pointless.
It’s as though all the bound agony of those months vanishes with one touch of Orev’s hand. Gideon whines a jarred note, hips bucking towards Daddy’s hand, then falls still when his own is guided along Orev’s ache.
Orev clearly doesn’t remember, but Gideon does. It wasn’t a conversation they’d had - how could they in the beginning, and how could they as Draža became more erratic later? - but he gleaned something about Draža’s relationship to his arousal. He didn’t always meet Gideon desire-for-desire; it was more subdued for him, more a state of mind than body. When it did impact him physically, It seemed to take him by surprise at times, or be a source of embarrassment to feel how desire could drive him. Make him weak, perhaps, or - vulnerable?
(Yes. Vulnerable.)
(Does Orev remember that now? Does he feel the same as he once did?)
He’d been teasing towards violence. Part of him had been hoping for a claiming like he remembers from the days when he resisted Draža; he wants to feel wrung through, used, brutalized -
(But this changes things.)
(He has to - He has to be careful. He knows he has to be careful with Daddy when he’s excited, not because his excitement can be volatile - think of the scars on Gideon’s hips - but because of the aftermath. Because he needs to feel safe and know there’s no shame in it.
Yes, Gideon remembers how to burn. He remembers, as well, how to help Draža burn without feeling scorched and laid to waste.) Though he shifts clothing aside to meet skin to skin, he lets Orev guide him, his hand easing in slow, worshipful strokes. It’s like falling into an old rhythm: touching this way with murmured words of thanks and praise. Recognition of this gift, this miracle bestowed on him. (He knows what Daddy needs, just like Daddy always knew what Puppy needed.)
<.>
An arch of his back, drift of his thigh and a pitch of his hips. Into and along the grace of Gideon’s hand, as shivering strikes through him, bright renewal.
(He wouldn’t have thought he’d want this, or take pleasure in it. This: A hand at his cock. This: A hand upon him, anywhere. Orev doesn’t what the man he was before knew of contact shared with others, but he knows now a preference for remaining removed, for letting no one step near him. He knows how he flinched from the fuck-forsaken mayor’s clasp to his shoulder, and how he prefers keeping distance between himself and every being he’s encountered. How the thought of touch seems in abstraction like anathema. Like asking for an open wound.
This, though—
This feels like care. Attentiveness. And if, yes, he feels his nerves lighting, rising tumultuous, there is no sense of wounding, no fear in knowing, in relishing Gideon’s touch.)
(How closely this man watches him.
How well his Puppy must have (never mind what the boy had said about never knowing, about never having met) known him.)
A sigh drawn from his chest. An exhale that crawls up from his lungs into something sonorous, nearly a moan. And he speaks, compelled—
“Yes, that’s right.”
And. “Yes, good Puppy.”
And. “Perfect, oh, that’s perfect.”
(Meaning, yes, ’You are perfect.’)
He hears Gideon’s own murmurs twining, shimmering harmonic with Orev’s voice, with the rush of his own heart, his Puppy’s heart, and if he sets a palm to Puppy’s chest, yes, yes he finds a quickening beat to match his own.
(Bliss, that’s a word for it.) (Transcendence; what’s beyond earthly, beyond the realms of any mortal being.)
His eyes find Gideon’s (and again, a sense of sudden strickeness) (he could lose himself in eyes like this; in these eyes only, only, always), and his hand drifts light along his Puppy’s (his Puppy’s, yes, yes, always) ache. Teasing; promising (ah, it won’t do, it wouldn’t do to leave this man wanting).
Then, voice low, a dusky velvet purr: “Follow me, my Gideon, my Puppy.
“Burn with Daddy, won’t you?”
And there’s another kiss given, and claimed.
<.>
Gideon moans into the press of Orev’s mouth; again he bucks his hips into the touch offered him (too little, teasing and frustrating, but familiar -
Perfectly, wonderfully familiar, all of this, like coming home.)
What he could never understand about Draža is how he could take desire in stride, seeming thoroughly at ease with the sweep of it. No, it wasn’t every time, because there were occasions of wildness and violence. But there was this, too: this control. This welcome, this slow and steady burn. It wasn’t singular of Draža: there were other men who weren’t driven to frenzy, who let waves of pleasure pass through them without losing control, without feeling chaotic and shattered.
Gideon always has lost control. Always. Climax has always crashed on him like a wave, left him panting and messy and undone. (It never occurred to him to think that the reason was Draža’s teasing. That his loss of control was by Daddy’s design, even when Daddy was beyond reach or contact.)
He would watch Orev in wonder now, in admiration of his soft-blooming rise towards release, chain in one hand and Gideon’s hardness in the other, god-like, if not for the building madness in himself.
It’s not enough. He needs more than the drift of fingers and the kiss and the thrumming words. (It’s been so long.)
But there’s nothing he can do to bring Daddy to the same frenzy: he’ll ride his pleasure through to a glorying, beautiful end, and soon.
There’s nothing he can do to make the hand grip him tighter and drag him burning to release. There’s nothing he can do to make this last until they both come snarling for one another -
…Well, that’s not entirely true.
His free hand slips from the back of Daddy’s neck to the column of his throat. The other hand rings the base of Orev’s cock and squeezes, each hand mirroring denial: no breath, no climax.
Against Orev’s mouth, he moans, “More, Daddy. Please.”
<.>
Oh.
Really.
(And— Oh. A gasp, an inhale that can draw no air, meets only the press of a hand, beautiful constriction as his lungs begin slowly, slowly to burn.)
He laughs into the kiss, a near-silent sound that draws the burn of his lungs deeper. He inhales again to feel the failure of his breath, the presence of his Puppy’s demanding hand.
Puppy wants more, does he? Does his Puppy dare to demand anything?
Ah, he did ask so nicely!
And it is his right.
And no, Orev doesn’t resent, doesn’t regret the grip at his throat, or this interruption (that is and isn’t an interruption; that only sparks further collision of white-hot nerves through his body) of his own pursuit. Yes, yes, he might draw out his Puppy’s pleasure endlessly, yes he might tease on and on, but for now - here, when Gideon’s been left without respite for months on end ((without hope for culmination, but no, no, Orev can’t think about that now, the abyss Puppy was left with) (the abyss into which Orev had cast his Dearest)) - it might, it must be only fair, to draw this man to shared ecstasy.
So.
There’s a withdrawal from the kiss, slow, and drawing Orev’s teeth to Puppy’s lower lip. With a tug; with a bite that nearly, very nearly draws blood. With the thrum of a purring growl in his chest.
He tugs at the chain, twists to constrict his Puppy further. Pressure for pressure; it’s only equitable.
He thrusts against Gideon’s hand, perhaps seeking relief or perhaps only wanting reassurance of that grip, that claim (rightful; he belongs to this man just as firmly as Gideon belongs to him).
And he finds Gideon’s eyes - beautiful in haze, in a calculation (ah, the brat!) near-overwhelmed by want, by promises of rapture - with the keen-cutting focus of his own, with a smirk, sharp and knowing.
For a moment, his hand’s drifted off from the jut of Gideon’s cock. For a moment, it’s lingered near, and without touching. As if perhaps it might not return to its application. As if perhaps he’s decided to rescind his touch for a Puppy who dares make demands.
The distance doesn’t last long. Quickly, quickly Orev’s hand drifts beneath fabric, the better to grasp hold of Puppy’s ache. Careful with his talons, his grip unyielding but light, testing the shape of Puppy’s longing, drawn up, then down along the shaft.
A lift of his eyebrows, an arcing of his neck against Gideon’s grip. As if to say, This, Puppy, is this what you need? With a gentle brushing of claws to accompany the pressure of his palm. With a drift of his thumb upward, then along the peak of Puppy’s ache.
Another shift of his hips, demanding Puppy’s caress at his own ache. Another subtle twisting of the chain, and another silent laugh from Orev, as one foot draws along his Puppy’s thigh. As he looks down on this man in adoration; this, the gaze of a man who finds nothing in the sight before him. Who sees all the world in honeyed eyes.
<.>
The chain tightens around his torso, constricting his lungs. Gideon laughs breathlessly, hips rising to meet Orev’s caress and then jerking with the sweep of a thumb at sensitive nerve endings, too-tight skin, evidence of overwrought need. The laugh becomes a yelp at the threat of talons, a sob at painful, euphoric pleasure burning bright beneath his skin.
His grip resumes its stroking as though in satisfying Daddy, he can somehow satisfy himself.
His eyes seek desperately for Daddy’s and when he meets gaze-to-gaze, he falters. He falls into the (love?) adoration he sees: the eyes of a god looking down on a beloved penitent. (Or.
A lover.
He’s missed Draža so much. Is he truly seeing what he thinks he sees?)
(What if.
What if he just kept this?
What if he kept Orev, and never let Draža be remembered?
The look in his eyes is everything Gideon ever wanted. The embraces, the kisses, the tightness of the chair, the control, the clear signs of adoration, all of it is exactly how he wished they could be - but with Draža never gone. Never turning away from him. (Never lost in his spiral of madness.)
Orev is perfect.
If he kept Orev just this way, he could have everything he ever wanted. They could be together, a yield less grasp on one another -)
Oh, he ought to. Let Daddy breathe.
His hand relaxes enough to allow Orev to draw in a full breath, though his thumb caresses the other man’s windpipe in slow, worshipful admiration. Gideon couldn’t hide his own love if he tried; it’s there in his eyes, in the smile that lingers behind wicked smirks on beestung, bitten lips. It hues his pleading, celebratory moans of Daddy, again and again. It’s behind the force of his touch and the sting of his teeth when he lunges upward to capture another kiss and nips at Daddy’s lip in kind.
He stops thinking of the what ifs. His mind sinks into a hazy spill, singularly driven towards one shared goal. He paces his own touch to Orev’s strokes of his cock and whines at the too-slow, too-steady, not-enough. Slowly, his grip tightens once more at Daddy’s throat.
<.>
Beautiful, beautiful, and burning.
The man beneath him, the man wrapped around him holding him, giving and rescinding oxygen, eyes luminous with something (a feeling; a rightness; a truth) Orev can’t bring himself to name but recognizes, feels his soul melt and bloom upon. This man who speaks ‘Daddy’ like holy-unholy symphony, whose form moves in fluent tandem with his own, as if attuned to Orev’s every instinct, as if their beings shared one mind, one desire.
Beautiful and burning, his own body, his own impulse. It’s simple to pursue this man’s pulse and chase it upward, drive his flame toward incineration. Simple to keep chain in-hand with deft applications of twist and pressure even as he strokes this man toward fulfillment, even as his own body responds - with voltaic shudders, with moans, with ‘Puppy’ and ‘My Puppy’ spoken again, again, in adoration - to the touch at his cock, the hand at his throat.
(He thinks his Puppy has always known how to hold him, reach for and incite him.) (And how fortunate, how blessed he is to know his Puppy’s care here, again and as if for the first time.)
(Perhaps. Perhaps this time - whatever happened before; whatever led him from his Dearest last time - he can keep this man forever.) (Perhaps it’s what Orev had wanted all along.) (It— Doesn’t feel amiss, that thought. It’s incomplete, there are complications of his past self missing, but he thinks he understands and yes he deeply feels that there is nothing more important than this man, this perfect being.
Gideon, Gideon, Gideon.)
Teeth at his lip draw starlight to his eyes, and he laughs, voice ragged with the fresh swell of air. As he dips to take another kiss, to hum a pleased sounds against Puppy’s mouth. As he shifts his ache - ah, slowly, slowly, savoring the culminating build; keeping Puppy’s pace in-kind with his own - along the surety of Puppy’s hand.
A whisper, a crooning, “What a wonder you are.”
And, “What ecstasy you draw me toward.”
And, “Puppy, my Puppy, come with me.”
The hand at his neck tightens once more, and once more grey creeps along the edges of his knowing, both soothing and exhilarating. As thought falls further and further off from grasping. As a strangled sound - a whimper, a reverent sigh - climbs up his throat. As again he laughs, and now, yes, now he does quicken the pace of his strokes, steadily, steadily. Now he bends further, to wrap the hand grasping Puppy’s chain around his Puppy’s neck, to draw Gideon nearer, to better to more fully hold his Puppy. The edges of awareness fuzz further even as he knows a rising brightness, a glow that gathers itself in the form of his Dearest, his Puppy, his Gideon, and Orev pursues, calls his Puppy along.
Before the crest, before shatter, there’s a moment where he finds his voice - shaken, yes, and heady - and, cheek brushing Gideon’s temple before eyes find his Puppy again, he speaks—
“My perfect Puppy.”
And, before claiming one more vital kiss: “Now—
“Ah. Now.
“Burn with Daddy.”