Fox's Glade [M] my end and my beginning

that Luke :o This post is kind of messed up too, huehue >:)

Sheogorath's bi-toned eyes widened as it did not take long for him to receive what he was waiting for. He groaned with intense pleasure, a feral growl rolling from his throat as he was penetrated, however shortly. "Is that - all you - got?" he growled through gritted teeth in an attempt to provoke further, jaw clenched with a pleasure he could not hide. He had finally found what he was looking for -- relief -- though it was obvious from the intensity and speed that it would soon end.

But not before Sheogorath grew dizzy. He knew what was happening, knew that he fought a losing battle against Cicero, fervently shook his head while the blue nosed wolf continued to thrust, now nearly at culmination. But he stood no chance against his body's host. Especially now that his primal desires had been sated.

"Damien," Cicero purred with a note of confusion in his voice when he came back to consciousness, the conversation with Burke last on his memory. But the feelings were good, they were real, and his lover could only be one wolf. The wolf he loved more than life itself. The roughness was reminiscent of his brother, and even though this was too real to be a dream, Cicero did not question it. The pain put a grimace on his face, but such was a life alongside Damien, littered with roughness. This felt like only Damien could be. Tough love. "Cicero - loves you - Damien - brother," Cicero panted, and as his lover, presumably Damien, withdrew Cicero collapsed in a heap on the ground, feeling sated and happy despite the shortness of their love-making. His heart fluttered at the thought that Damien must've come to terms with their love, and that they had finally allowed their love to come to culmination, after waiting so long.

As he glanced to the side, his body aching, Cicero's heart froze as he watched a white wolf walk away. He opened his mouth to speak, but found only dusgust that clogged his ability to do anything at all at the absence of Damien's black coat. Cicero's lower lip trembled; he did not remember feeling this broken, ever. But the realisation that the wolf that had taken his virginity, however it had come to be, was not the man he loved, not Damien, was enough to crush Cicero deeper than even the death of his mother.

"Wait," Cicero hoarsely called after the wolf that had taken him moments prior -- that had, presumably, taken Sheogorath, rather -- and he hoped for something, at least a glance, a name, an identity, a conversation. Anything. Or perhaps he hoped that the white wolf would not look back at all, so that he could try and forget what had happened today altogether, his assailant forever a shadow without a name.