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Coming (Home) Early

Summary:

“Maybe you should take your clothes off,” he suggests breathlessly.

In a flash, like lightning, Cid is shucking his jacket, unstrapping his boots and kicking them off into whatever direction. When the laces of his trousers loosen, his cock practically falls out.

Still feeling bold in his fantasy, Clive adds, “Kneel for me.”

**

Or, Clive gets a little too brave for his own good.

Notes:

Nights mentioned a concept of Clive having Cid crawl to him and thus... this fic has been written.

idek anymore yay

UPDATE: Fanart linked below!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

If there’s one aspect of life Clive truly misses from his Rosarian days, people and loved ones aside, it’s having privacy. Sometimes, all one needs is an hour or so alone to appreciate his own uninterrupted thoughts.

He doesn’t say a word about it, of course. The last thing he wants to be is ungrateful for all that Cid and the Hideaway have provided for him, Torgal, and Jill. But Founder, it would be nice to have a space to think without having to sleep in the woods and look over his shoulder for wild beasts.

The only person he dares mention this to is Jill. Of course he tells her. She knows him; she understands.

So when Cid approaches him and makes an offer, Clive can’t help feeling slightly betrayed by his childhood friend.

“Clive,” drawls the older man. He stands casually in front of him in the baths while Clive is drying off. It’s not as mortifying as it used to be, though Clive can’t quite get used to the casual way Cid will speak to him while Clive is barely covered by a towel, left arm resting on his swords. “I hear you’re in need of some private quarters.”

Clive’s lower eyelid twitches. Jill… how could you?

Quickly turning to grab his clothes, Clive says aloud, “No need. I know we’re tight for space.”

“Indeed,” agrees Cid in a way that heightens Clive’s suspicions. He quickly pulls on his smallclothes and pants while the older Dominant keeps talking. “Still, it’s not as though I’m here all that often. What say you feel free to use the solar as your own space while I’m out now and then?”

Clive pauses with his shirt halfway over his head. It’s… not a terrible idea, actually. Though it’s also not great. “I can’t impose—”

“Lad.” Cid’s hand falls on his shoulder and Clive is glad for the shirt hiding his goosebumps as the hand gives him a light squeeze. Fuck, fuck, fuck, now is not the time for— “It’s not an imposition if I’m offering. Just consider it an open offer, eh?”

Clive coughs and steps away, grabbing his boots. “Right.”

Two days later, Cid heads out with Gav to free some Bearers being transported for the Black Market. Despite his hesitation, Clive slips in that night, sits on Cid’s couch, and tries to get used to being in the solar without any other purpose than to simply… be.

He falls asleep on the couch that night. It’s strangely invigorating.

Cid returns a day later than originally planned, but that’s reasonably normal. Hand Cid a plan and it’s likely to go wrong at some point. If not for his charisma and good heart, Clive wonders if he’d be able to lead the Hideaway at all.

For the next couple months, he takes Cid up on the offer. The solar is a nice place to be, especially late in the evening, when most folks are winding down to retire. The couch isn’t too uncomfortable, either.

Clive can’t help but notice that before he leaves, Cid starts making the bed. It’s… he’s not sure what to make of that, really. But he stays away from the man’s room.

Some lines shouldn’t be crossed.

But here’s the thing.

Here’s the bloody godsbedamned thing.

Clive is still a man. A relatively young man, whose life has been upended but has found strange moments of peace. Days of calm, even. And the longer these times become, the more he can’t help but notice that there are some… frustrations… he’s been neglecting. In large part because privacy is an issue.

Then Cid announces a trip to the Veil. Clive ignores the weird sting in his chest. He ignores the way his lungs tighten. Merely nods at Cid when the older man heads out, receiving a casual wave of the hand in return.

He very determinedly does not go to the solar that night. Or the next. In fact, the first four days of Cid’s scheduled eight-day trip, Clive avoids the solar at all costs.

But then he walks toward the infirmary—checking on a new Bearer who came in with severe whiplashes—and catches a familiar whiff. It’s not fresh. Just ever-present. Tobacco and sweat and ozone. Clive stalls outside the infirmary door for a solid few minutes, trying to calm the flush to his face and the way his cock twitches in his pants, reminding him that he’s not taken care of himself in quite some time.

That night, he stops by his barrack to grab a few things.

And he makes for the solar.

***

Breaching the threshold of Cid’s bedroom feels like he’s intruding upon sacred territory. Like he’s a sinner tainting holy ground with his filth. Like he’s a nonbeliever here to spit on the ground and declare it obsolete.

Something about that is getting him hard, and Clive tells himself not to question it.

He’s come here without his armor, in simple plainclothes. Not even his doublet, since sleeping in that is difficult, and anyone seeing him might’ve raised eyebrows. He does not need unusual word getting back to Cid.

Clive takes a moment to close his eyes. The room, much like the solar, is permeated with Cid’s scent—albeit muskier. Which makes sense, given the man sleeps here. Part of him feels that jolt of guilt, but when he looks at the neatly made bed—something Cid rarely bothers to do as-is—Clive is determined.

He strips out of his boots, pants, and shirt, laying them carefully beside the bed within arm’s reach. Then he lays the items he brought on Cid’s bedside table, carefully nudging the stained ashtray out of the way. After another brief hesitation, he eases onto the bed, hands first, then ass, and then sliding back until he’s able to comfortably prop himself against the wall where a headboard might normally be.

Everything smells like Cid. Clive’s own scent is more palpable in the moment, making him even more conscious of what he’s doing. There’s a strange, alluring wickedness to the entire thing.

(He’s also silently assuring himself that there’s time to clean and put everything right after. Cid won’t be back for at least another three days.)

Taking deep breaths, Clive allows himself to sink into the moment. The cool stone against his bare back. The well-worn blanket under his bare feet, soothing to rub against. How, despite the stone ruins, the room is warm. He takes a moment to light the candles with his aether—why not? Perks and all—and his eyes lapse closed.

Slowly, Clive rubs his hands together until the last remnants of coolness leave his fingertips. He grazes a light touch over his own sternum, not quite shivering, but feeling the warning tingles that come before. Stroking up to his throat, then down to his navel, taking time to feel the slight dips between muscle. Worthy or not, he’s suffered for this build, and he takes a sort of pride in that.

Plus, there are other benefits.

He takes his time, though. No need for this to be over so soon, when he has the entire night ahead of him, and opportunities like this appear so rarely. Gliding his fingers along his torso, over the cut of his hips, toward his knees. As he draws the pads of his callused fingers back up over his inner thighs, the shiver deep within finally lets loose, overtaking him in chilling trembles. Clive breathes out slow and deep.

Initially, it’s easy to focus on himself. On the small reactions of his body; the way he shakes and shudders when touching certain sensitive places. How his cock slowly begins to fill, taking on a richer, deeper color. How his chest compresses just a little as the pleasure slowly begins to mount within.

He begins with a gentle massage near his pelvis, not quite allowing himself to touch what’s already twitching with interest. Rather, he skirts around the base of his dick. Lightly raking his fingers over his sides, humming softly at the sensation. It’s not enough to hurt. More like scratching a vaguely unpleasant itch and feeling that sweet relief.

Clive unspools a careful, calming breath. Traces under his pecs with his thumbs, murmuring softly at the feeling. One of the benefits of touching himself is giving his body the gentle, exploring care that no partner ever really has. Usually it’s just someone’s cock in someone’s ass, and a few thrusts later, the gala is over.

Like this, though, he can take his time. Like this, he can revel in every little sensation, the creases of his body, the way pleasant waves pulse calmly toward his center.

Inch by inch, he massages his way toward his nipples, circling them with his middle and ring fingers. Clive bites his lower lip as they stiffen under the adjacent touches. He purposefully catches his nails along the nubs. The brief, sharp moment of pleasure-pain has him emitting a short mewl, unlike anything he’s ever done in front of another person. But then, another person can’t make him feel this way.

Even as he thinks it, a certain narrow, green gaze flashes through his mind. Clive mentally bats it away. As if Cid would ever be interested, for starters. Pretty as you are, you’re not my type. Beyond that, however… it was a fanciful indulgence. A crush at worst. It’ll fade. They always do.

Never mind that none have been this powerful before.

Clive opens his eyes, refocusing on himself. He pinches a nipple between thumb and forefinger, lightly massaging it, then tugging when that begins to swell a sweet, burgeoning feeling in his gut. It inspires a tight swirling heat in his core, flaring out before coiling back in. He does the same to his other nipple, albeit a bit harsher, and that has him uttering a low groan. Arching his back, sliding down the blankets a little in a semi-conscious move to expose himself more for the next step. Still he takes his time. Digging his fingers into the firm muscle and silken fat of his pecs, massaging deep and slow, flicking over his nipples in a semi-random pattern that, of course, he can still predict… but the lack of complete steadiness keeps him on the edge of something deeper, something he’s eager to dive into, but isn’t quite ready for.

Despite promising to give himself time, he looks down at his cock and bites his lip again. He’s at full hardness already, beginning to dribble pre-cum. Tempting as it is to take himself in hand, Clive forces his gaze back to the ceiling of the Fallen ruins. Inhales deep through his nose, only to catch that waft of old tobacco and musk.

Fuck.

Try as he might to talk himself out of what he wants, inevitably, it comes back to this. Clive goes lax. Tips his head back. Rubs his thumbs around and over his nipples, teasing at the areola, then brushing over the firm peaks. He groans softly. Hips squirming. Pulse throbbing in his throat and cock as he brings himself closer to that sweet edge of almost touching himself.

So close. Almost there. Just a little more teasing, a little more patience…

Clive leaves one hand to circle and tease one nipple, then the next, then back, whilst the other creeps down his stomach. His cock twitches harder the closer he gets. He even torments himself with a little brush of a fingertip over the head. A moan spills between his lips, quiet yet still more wanton than before.

He dives down, cupping his balls. Gentle strokes that feed into his desire, coalescing pleasure that reverberates between his chest and groin. His breaths begin to quicken, just a touch, and Clive bravely reaches down to brush a dry finger over his hole.

“Shi—!” He cuts himself off, startled at his own impressive response as need throbs deep inside. Lungs quivering, he fumbles for the bedside table and grasps the bottle of oil he brought with. Shaking hands pop the cork. He spills oil onto the blanket—briefly panics; reminds himself he has time to clean—and quickly returns to his aching entrance.

Desperate as he abruptly feels, Clive forces a deep inhale. He has time. Time. He can take this slow.

It’s that reminder to himself that keeps him from thrusting right in, despite knowing how ready he is. Instead, he grips one pec in his hand, pinching the flesh caught between his palm and fingers. The other, slick with oil, circles around the puckered bundle of nerves. Clive’s breath hitches. He rolls his hips, sliding further down onto the bed. This puts him in an uncomfortable position, though, so he pauses to quickly adjust Cid’s sad little pillow into something of a backrest, adding his folded shirt for a bit more to brace on.

Now comfortable enough, he returns to his own high. Tracing a slick finger around his hole, then tapping firmly against the ungiving muscle. Circling again, then more taps. Bit by bit, he melts into the mattress, soft whimpers fluttering out of his throat as he gets closer to readying for penetration.

A little more… a little more…

His ass throbs. Impatience ultimately wins over, though Clive manages to rein it in enough to ensure he just breaches his asshole with a single fingertip. It’s been so long that the intrusion has him hissing in discomfort. He breathes deep. Focuses on each muscle in his body, relaxing them one by one. Breathe in. Out.

Finally, he’s getting there. Clive goes back to massaging his chest with the one hand, teasing his hole with the other. Little jabs in and out, then a bit more, and a bit more. A second finger flicks at his entrance; a personal reminder of what’s to come.

(Himself, in due time.)

Gradually, the hand on his pec begins to trail down toward his stomach. He pets himself there for a moment, brushing the hairs near his groin with the grain. He can’t help wondering if his body hair is different; if he’s more blond or a darker brown, maybe something in between. Coarse or soft? Doesn’t matter, because he’d pet through it all the same, trailing his tongue down to tease—

Clive gasps and jerks. Grabs his cock to keep from coming. It’s so sudden and so needy that he can only spare half a thought as to why, of whom

but that’s foolish. He knows why. And whom.

He’s known for months now.

Another soft, defeated whimper bubbles past his lips, Clive eases his hold, lightly holding his dick, gently thrusting the length through the tunnel of his fingers.

Imagining it’s Cid.

The moment he admits it to himself, it’s as though the walls come crashing down. It’s Cid he wants down there, touching him, smirking up at him with that infallible confidence. It’s Cid he dreams of, wishing he’d touch him, embrace him, kiss him. It’s Cid he wants to be so enamored with his cock that he falls to his knees, shoves Clive’s thighs apart, and swallows him whole.

“Fuck,” he gasps, barely a whisper. Clive tightens his fist a little (too much) eases it again (just right) and begins to stroke himself. Fingers along his cock, a thumb sweeping over his head, taking that beading pre-cum and smearing it… and fuck if he doesn’t think about Cid between his legs, looking up at him with blazing evergreen eyes, silently demanding to touch him, to grind against him, to fuck him.

“Founder…” This comes out as a bit more of a whine. Clive remembers his other hand and goes back to his ass. He’s already relaxed plenty though, so he slowly adds a second finger. Sinking down to the next knuckle. Curling his fingers, unable to reach that sweet spot just yet.

Much, much closer, though.

He subconsciously spreads a bit wider, pulling his feet in closer to his ass, until he’s in a semi-butterfly pose. Tilts his hips up. Shivers and whimpers as he slowly fucks himself with his fingers. Cid’s hands are a bit larger than his, his fingers a touch wider… would he give more of a stretch? Forget one finger, what about three? Four? The idea pulls a keen from his throat, the steady, shallow thrusts of his hand accompanied by a lewd symphony of slick noises.

A soft sound almost pulls him from the moment, but it’s just as he works his way down to the last knuckle. Here, he can barely graze his prostate. It cramps his hand and puts his wrist at an awkward, uncomfortable angle, yet the pleasure that sizzles through him is enough for him not to care so much. Clive writhes on his fingers, vaguely aware of the sweat beading across his body.

He’s so wound up and lust-drunk that, for a moment, he thinks he catches a fresh waft of tobacco. As he breathes the scent in deep, Clive imagines Cid’s deep, gravelly voice in his ear, encouraging him.

“Go on, love. You’re doing so well.”

“Ah…” It’s a weak, pathetic mewl, but his own voice sends another gentle pulse to his cock. Clive finally gives in and begins stroking himself a bit more firmly, tightening his fingers closer to the head. It’s divine, feeling pre-cum seep free as he torments himself closer to that goal.

Faint tears gather in his eyes. His gaze wavers as though underwater for a brief moment. Clive smears the pre-cum over his cockhead. Uses the tips of his fingers to spread some of the extra oil dripping under his balls to ease the slide along his length.

A soft inhale—not his—makes him blink blearily to semi-awareness.

Not for the first time, really, Clive marvels at his lust-driven imagination. It almost looks like Cid is standing in the doorway of the bedroom, expression a mixture of stunned and hungry. He really is getting into this indulgent fantasy.

He brushes over his prostate and whimpers, head rolling back for a moment. Rasps out to feed the indulgence, “Close the damn door.”

Click. The swiftness of his order being followed adds a heady, giddy sensation in his chest. Clive pauses to release his dick, fumbling at the oil to pour more over the hand sunken into his ass.

Movement catches his attention. Cid steps closer, his handsome face lined with fervor, broad chest rising and falling quicker and quicker. It’s a rush, imagining the man so damn gone for him just by looking at him. Even better is how Cid looks torn between staring and looking away. He’ll go so far as to call it oddly endearing.

“Lad.” Cid’s voice is rough and velvet soft. “Would you like me to leave?”

Clive groans. Even in his mind, Cid’s so damn considerate. He tugs his balls in an effort to push back the desire to orgasm. “Didn’t say that…”

Cid’s head snaps to him then, staring openly. Clive shivers and slips a third finger in, careful to watch how Cid’s expression shifts from hungry to starving. The things this man does to him…

(A faint part of him is screaming, but Clive is so damn wrapped up in how his body is responding that he pays it no real heed.)

Clive tips his head back, exposing his throat. Husks, “Since you decided to come back so early… caught me like this… I don’t think you should touch me yet.”

The way Cid’s lips form the word yet, silent and wide-eyed, injects giddy want into his veins. Fire scalds through him, boiling his blood into raw pleasure. He licks his lips, gives himself a rough stroke up; moans and all but collapses back to the wall.

He shoves his fingers in deep, twisting, mumbling frustrated curses as he still can hardly brush against that beautiful little spot inside. Clive wants to catapult off the earth and into the stars. He wants to come so hard he meets Metia.

Cid is still watching him, cock obscenely hard in his trousers. Clive manages to say, “You want to fuck me?”

Green eyes spark with lavender levin. “You have no idea how much, love.”

Oh, his imagination (the screaming starts again, too distant) is so cruel. Clive moans and forces his stroking to slow. His cock aches, but this is so damn good.

“Maybe you should take your clothes off,” he suggests breathlessly.

In a flash, like lightning, Cid is shucking his jacket, unstrapping his boots and kicking them off into whatever direction. When the laces of his trousers loosen, his cock practically falls out—and Clive whines. It’s perfect. Thick, flushed bright red, hanging heavy yet twitching sinfully toward his navel.

Still feeling bold in his fantasy, Clive adds, “Kneel for me.”

The floor must be unforgiving, but Cid still collapses to his knees. Oil squelches as Clive fucks his hand in deeper. His groans and moans begin to grow louder, to lengthen. If someone hears him, hopefully it’s obvious enough what’s going on that they don’t interrupt them. The door’s still open, after all.

(The door is closed shut tight—locked, even!)

Cid’s hand creeps toward his own erection. Clive gasps. Snaps out, “Don’t you dare touch yourself—” A wave of pleasure overtakes him. He bites his tongue until it passes by without making him come. Finishes: “Don’t. Just… just watch me.”

The older man says nothing. Fuck, but it’s lovely looking at him. Clive’s imagination is rather vivid tonight. The aether curse spreads from Cid’s shoulder down toward his wrist in broadening patches, though he seems to still have near-full use of his arm as he flexes his muscles, his fingers. Thick, coarse hair covers his chest, flooding toward his navel, shades darkening as it spreads around his cock, making the full flush stand out even more.

Clive tugs on his cock. Forces that hand away, back to his chest. Pinching and tugging his nipples, slipping down to arch his hips for a better angle, adjusting his arm so his hand can reach just a centimeter or so deeper. Still not dead on, but so close.

“You like watching me?” he asks in a low voice.

A faint, rumbling growl shudders throughout the room. Cid’s voice is dangerously deep. “More than anything, sweetheart.”

(Sweetheart. Love. Fuck.)

Clive groans. Drives his fingers in deeper, spreading them. If only he had something else to put there… but it’s been ages since, and he hasn’t the time to care for such things, nor the luxury of space to keep them discreetly hidden…

“Fuck,” he pants. Fucking against his own fingers, curling them, working himself in his ass alone. He hasn’t come untouched in ages… he doubts he can now. But he can get close enough.

Lost as he is in his own haze, it startles him a little when he hears Cid speak in a low rumble. “You look incredible, sweetheart.”

Clive moans and arches into his own hand.

Cid’s voice continues: “You look like you’re getting closer… your own fingers feel that good?”

A desperate noise escapes Clive. “N-no… I mean… it’s close, but… not enough…”

“You need more, then?” Clive gasps at the way the Cid in his imagination says it; allows the low, rough gravel of the other man’s voice to flow through him, shaking him to his core. “How much more? What do you like? Tell me.”

Clive feels like he can easily lose it like this. He swallows saliva pooling in his mouth. Chokes out, while still desperately reaching for his prostate, “I l-like… thicker… broader. Inside me.” Cid groans softly, making Clive shiver. He keeps grazing against that sweet spot, hips bucking when the flames are stoked so peripherally. “Want—want to feel full. I love the—” He gasps, keening, squeezing his own nipple harshly. Fuck, he’s close. “Th-the stretch…”

“Can you come like this?”

Sweat beads on his forehead. Clive tosses his head, not in a no, just to shake his foggy thoughts loose enough to answer this phantom Cid. “I… I don’t know…”

His stomach drops when that horribly deep voice answers:

“I know you can.”

Clive unleashes a desperate moan. Drives his fingers in deep, reaching frantically for that generous spot, craving the desire that inflames from it. He twitches violently, cock spurting pre-cum as he manages another vague brush against that area. “Ahh…

Cid’s voice coasts over him in harsh, frothing waves. “I want you to come, just like this. Want to see you fall apart. And when you do, I want to break you over my cock until you can’t leave come morning. I want to make you mine, love.”

It’s the love that does him in.

Clive wails, coming harder than he can remember in his life. Thick white ropes splatter across his abs, his chest, his dick reacting so strongly that a gob of cum sticks to the underside of his chin. Pleasure surges through his veins, over his skin, cresting and fading, cresting and fading again. He’s choking on it. Drowning in it. Awash in a deep haze of need and satisfaction equally.

If only that could be Cid…

Slowly, Clive manages to blink. Sweat stings his eyes. His chest heaves with deep, slowly calming breaths. Bit by bit, he pulls his fingers free, mewling at the oversensitive sensation. The intensity is passing, leaving him sated, loose-limbed, and content. Hells, if this is what masturbating in Cid’s bed does to him, making him come untouched, maybe he can do it again someti—

A low, intense rumble jolts him out of his thoughts. It’s persistent, deep, almost subvocal. Clive’s spine goes stiff. He struggles to push onto his elbows, paranoid, but it takes much longer than he likes, and

and

and when he does, he’s met with a sight that both freezes his blood and jumps his heart to pumping the liquid furiously through every single vein in his body.

“Fuck,” he gasps.

Cid remains on the floor, kneeling. Chest heaving. Eyes wild even as his posture remains restrained. Levin flickers across his face, his shoulders, down his naked torso. His hands are balled upon his thighs, teeth slightly bared as he stares at Clive. The rumbling is coming from him. Permeating the air, vibrating sound waves, shuddering through Clive at a bone-deep level that has him panting and mortified and getting hard again in equal measures.

For a terrifying moment, Clive expects to be struck with lightning. For being so brazen, for daring to touch himself—and come—on Cid’s bed, for being here at all.

“Cid,” he rasps, still not quite willing to believe what he’s seeing.

On the floor, Cid is all but trembling with restraint. Short huffs of breath blow through his nose; between his teeth. And—there’s no doubt about it. His cock is obscenely hard, protruding from his leathers in a way that has Clive feeling lightheaded and salivating.

Both men just breathe for a moment. Clive swallows, hard. Wracks his brain for any sort of witty response and comes up short. He finally, embarrassingly, utters,

“Did you mean… all that?”

Violet flickers across Cid’s face. He inhales deeply, emphasizing the strength of his chest. Exhales slowly, giving Clive more than enough time to stare. Cid’s words pass between them again, echoing in vibrations. You have no idea how much, love; More than anything; You look like you’re getting closer; What do you like? Tell me; Can you come like this? … I know you can. I want to make you mine, love. Then:

“Every bloody word, Clive.”

He’s heard his name from Cid’s lips a hundred times before. Somehow, this one is different. His name carries a weight; a certainty. A vow and a need. A curse and absolution.

“Did you mean it?”

Cid’s question blanks his mind. Clive is stock still, nothing moving but the rapid thunder of his pulse, which becomes louder and more insistent as Cid’s fingers tighten against his leathers, creasing the dense material under his bare hands. The rumble seems louder as well—and this time, Clive swears he sees the older man’s chest vibrate in tune.

It takes him far too long to remember that Cid asked him a question. And that he’s spread-eagle on his bed, fingers coated in oil and chest in streaks of cum. Clive flushes and starts to wipe his fingers on the blankets—remembers they’re Cid’s—and freezes. “I… ah… what?” he asks, quite intelligently.

Fortunately, Cid doesn’t seem to notice beyond a brief flicker of amusement. “Did you mean it,” he repeats slowly, “when you said you want to feel full?

A deep flush scours Clive’s face and neck. He sputters momentarily. Yet when Cid starts to shift, he feels something inside him snap to attention, and his voice comes out hard. “Yes—so don’t move.

Cid’s eyes are blazing. He settles back into his original position (though it must be killing his knees).

It’s that moment that Clive realizes… he is the one with the power here. The control.

Not Cid.

His voice is like sandpaper rubbing together. “Cid.”

“Aye?” Even that one syllable sounds breathless and heated.

“If you want me…” Clive spreads his legs further, somewhat humiliated, but also buzzing from the solid, strict attention Cid is giving him. “Then crawl for it. Slowly.”

He expects to watch an internal struggle take place. After all, he’s talking to Waloed’s former Lord Commander, giving orders like he’s the one in charge.

So it takes all his awareness to keep from dropping his jaw to see Cid heave forward onto to his hands and begin to—slowly—crawl toward him. One hand moves forward, followed by the knee; Then the opposite hand, the opposite knee. Each move deliberate. Despite his position, he exudes predator over subservient. A thrill winds its way up Clive’s spine, forcing him to sit up a bit straighter. His own breath hitches at Cid’s prowl; how his cock hangs hard and heavy between his thighs.

Hands shaking, Clive drizzles some oil onto his hand and strokes his balls. Oversensitivity leaves him gasping, bordering on the edge of too painful… and the way Cid literally fizzles and sparks at the sight makes him harder. The older man’s fierce, hungry snarls jump-start his pulse. Cid’s almost close enough to reach out and grab his ankle.

He doesn’t, though. Instead, he climbs onto the foot of the bed, one limb at a time. Clive’s breath quickens. Short keens burst out of him. Cid’s lips part, baring a sliver of teeth.

“Clive,” he growls.

Before Clive can think, Cid rises on his knees. This close, past the first wave of lust, Clive can see everything—his broad chest, sharp, straight lines comprising his solid build… and his cock, flushed deep red, freely leaking, thick enough for him to realize his own three fingers will not be enough prep. Under his enraptured gaze, Cid’s cock twitches.

Holy fuck.

“Clive,” says Cid again, so dark and guttural it’s downright sinister. “May I touch you?”

The fact he asks almost makes Clive give in. Just as he starts to nod, though, an idea seizes him. When Cid grasps his knees, Clive plants a foot against his hip, stilling him. Friction crackles between them like live lightning.

Throatily, Clive says, “Hands behind your back.”

Cid arches an eyebrow but complies without hesitation. Founder, the power he so freely hands over…

Lowering his foot to rest beside Cid’s calf, Clive grasps himself. Red-faced, breathing almost as hard as Cid from anticipation, he angles his dick forward, thumb behind the head. Cid’s eyes drop. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, causing Clive to lose his breath.

“Get me wet,” he rasps.

Cid’s eyes darken. His pupils blow wide open, the green almost entirely eclipsed. Eyes trained all Clive all the while, he leans forward, allowing Clive to see his hand clasping the opposite wrist at his tailbone. Lips parted. The visual is almost too much.

The first lick is more spiritual than physical; a ghost of tantalizing wet and warmth. On the second sweep, Cid laps up freely beading pre-cum. It’s so brief that Clive is on the verge of whining for more. He barely refrains… and is rewarded by another hard breath over the delicate skin of his cock before Cid envelopes him in suction and heat.

“Sh—!” Clive bucks a little, choking when the head strikes the back of Cid’s throat. Despite a momentary gag, Cid just swallows him down more, hands secured behind his back. It has to be hell on his spine, but the older Dominant doesn’t complain. If anything, he shows more enthusiasm, drooling obscenely up Clive’s dick and lowering back down with a sloppy suck. Sensitive as he is, Clive can’t help but whimper and dig his fingers into Cid’s hair, shoving him down further. A deep, horrible groan vibrates down his dick.

Cid bobs up and down, resonating with growls. Clive is enamored with him: how his lashes flutter on the downstroke, how he looks up every third bob to meet Clive’s gaze, how the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense every other second as though he’s barely, barely holding back.

Though he should probably stop him, Clive can’t. The way Cid looks at him is intoxicating beyond his wildest fantasies. As though Clive is a god; as though he’s worth worshiping. It leaves him spinning and crying out against the sensations. Just a little more, just a little—

Cid pops off despite Clive’s tight grip on his hair. His breaths are fucked-out and ragged. “Darling. Please.

Torn between moaning from need and frustration, Clive tugs on his hair. “Cid.

Please, let me fuck you,” breathes Cid, so genuine and emotional that Clive has to bite his lip to stifle a response. As though catching the scent of his prey, Cid rocks up onto his knees, chest heaving, eyes wild yet focused. “I can’t take it… knowing you’re so soft and wet and ready…”

Bloody Founder.

Cid keeps going, seemingly oblivious to Clive’s stunned silence. “I won’t even fuck you. Just let me sit inside you. You can use me for your pleasure and I won’t come. I’ll let you ride me, sit here and keep my cock hard, just for you, sweetheart.” His hips rock in short, aborted motions that have Clive whimpering. “Make me your toy. Use me. Please, love. Just let me feel you tight around me for a few minutes and I can die a fulfilled man.”

This man is mad. And yet…

In a choked whisper, Clive says, “You can’t.” At Cid’s puzzled gaze, he adds, “Without coming. There’s no way you can do it.”

There it is—the spark of challenge. Cid’s eyes hood dangerously. “Oh?”

Rocking his hips (in part to tease, in part to keep himself in the moment), Clive says, “You’ve been desperate since you saw me in your bed.”

Cid’s jaw tenses. For a moment, Clive fears he’s gone too far—and then Cid leans down, arms still locked behind his back, and licks his cock in a thick, slow stripe. Clive moans. Everything is hot and brilliant, sparks zigzagging through his veins.

“Let me try.” To his shock, Cid’s voice is still a plea—more desperate, even. It throbs unexpected arousal through his dick. “One chance, love, that’s all I’ll ask.”

Clive almost laughs in delirious disbelief. There is no way it will be one time; not if he has anything to say about it.

Somehow, he manages to rein in his urges. He sucks in a shaky breath and shifts, rolling up onto his knees. Cid’s eyes flare with twin flames.

“Right,” croaks Clive. He clears his throat. “Lean back so I can sit on it.”

The way Cid looks at him then is pure gratitude. Desire twitches deep in Clive’s core.

Hands still behind his back, Cid eases up and grunts at the effort. Clive fumbles for the oil—there’s barely any left—and dumps the last of the contents into his hands. He doesn’t wait for Cid to get comfortable, warming the oil with the barest bit of aether before rubbing it over Cid’s cock.

A violent curse sputters out of the man. “Fucking Greagor…

The high of Cid’s continued arousal is worth everything that’s happened so far. Panting softly, Clive gets him nice and coated, stroking firmly. His thumb and middle finger don’t quite meet around the other man’s girth, the pulse of him making Clive groan with eager.

“Clive…” He mumbles a vague affirmative, almost missing when Cid husks, “May I kiss you?”

Clive stiffens, flushing deeply. He raises his head to look at Cid—arms still behind his back, great Founder—and is met with intense want.

“Yeah,” he rasps. “But keep your hands there.”

Cid groans and leans forward, capturing his lips. It’s rough, his face scratchy with stubble, and his tongue is forceful in prying Clive’s mouth open. He moans into the kiss, licking back, brushing the tip of his tongue along Cid’s teeth.

He yanks away, leaving Cid biting after him in need. Heat explodes in Clive’s veins.

“Hand,” he orders shakily.

Cid offers up one hand, and Clive grasps his wrist, sucking three of his fingers in. He laves his tongue over each one, feeling how those thick digits flood his mouth. Clive pants and writhes and sucks him down deeper, until the tips of Cid’s nails are at his throat. The older Dominant groans. Curls his fingers down against Clive’s tongue.

One by one, Clive gives each finger enough attention to leave them dripping. He slides Cid’s hand out of his mouth, leaving a trail of spit from the corner of his lips down his chin, skimming over his torso, past his aching balls and against his hole. Cid applies pressure immediately, making Clive jolt.

“Need more,” he says.

Cid rubs the pads of his fingers against his already slick hole. Two slide in easy; Clive’s body sucks them in greedily. Cursing, Cid quickly adds a third, along with a mild yet notable stretch.

At this point, Clive is positioning himself over the other man’s lap, rising up to give him more leverage to stretch him open. Spit is eased by remnant oil, allowing Cid to twist and curl his fingers until he grazes Clive’s prostate.

“Oh,” gasps Clive, rocking against his exploring fingers. One hand tightens in Cid’s short hair, the other balancing on his shoulders.

Cid’s eyes sharpen. Focus. He’s practically snarling each breath, tapping fiercely against Clive’s prostate. Clive whines and mewls, yanking on his hair to make Cid’s hand stutter.

“S-slower,” hisses Clive. “I need to warm you.”

Terrible curses tumble past Cid’s frantic lips. He mercifully does slow, though not before latching on to one of Clive’s sore nipples and sucking. It pierces his body with electricity, connecting his nipple to the base of his cock. Clive judders and all but falls onto Cid’s hand. Someone’s ligament pops.

“Up,” growls Cid. By now, he’s using his unoccupied hand to keep himself propped up—not touching, just as ordered. “You need another finger if you’re gonna feel full.”

Clive huffs—how dare Cid think to take charge?—but uses his straining thighs to lift his body up. Hot, sharp breaths snap against his throat as Cid pushes a fourth finger in and Founder. Clive’s mouth falls open. He cries out like a well-paid courtesan, savoring the sting of stretch and the blessed, wicked feeling of being so damn full.

“Bloody Greagor,” mutters Cid. He sounds close to gone. “Taking me so well… makes me want to shove my whole hand in.”

Clive whines. He feels himself clench taut around Cid’s fingers, eliciting another swear from the older man. Then, needing more, Clive places both hands on his shoulders and shoves Cid down to the mattress. A punted grunt rattles between them. Clive slides off Cid’s fingers with a squelch.

“Fuck, hold still,” grumbles Clive, flushed from want and impatience. He reaches back, stroking the girth of Cid’s cock and bathing in the fierce snaps and growls beneath him. Clive shuffles down. Sways his hips, seeking that blunt head. Once he finds it, he pulls Cid to the right angle, digs his nails into his chest, and lowers himself onto his cock.

Cid curses, but Clive can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears. He whines; the stretch is incredible, like having all four of Cid’s fingers, but full. He keeps easing down. So slick and slippery that it’s a little terrifying how easily he could just slam all the way home if he stops trying to go slow.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. He angles his body, hands on his thighs as he shakes and lowers. “Fuck, Cid, you feel so—fuck.

Beneath him, Cid is coated in a thin sheen of sweat. Eyes enormous. Chest heaving and hands fisted into the sheets beside his head in an effort to keep them to himself. Teeth clenched and bared.

He looks gorgeous.

With a thrust of his hips, Clive slides home. Both men groan as Cid bottoms out deep. His cock pulses in Clive’s ass, thick and hot and throbbing with veins. He’s so deep Clive can almost feel him in his diaphragm, clipping each breath short.

Wheezing, Clive allows himself to adjust. He blinks down at Cid through a haze of tears and sweat.

“Clive…” Cid already sounds fucked-out. It’s intoxicating.

Taking a deep breath, Clive squeezes around him. He moans, eyes rolling back. The deep, pulsing sensation is so damn good. Cid’s cockhead grazed past his prostate, but clenching presses it against the firm length. He shivers and whimpers and moans again.

“So good,” he rasps. He rocks a little, just enough to earn a hiss between Cid’s teeth. He gasps over a chuckle and tightens his muscles again, until Cid lets slip a low, rumbling keen. This sense of power leaves him light-headed and giddy.

He can’t help taunting him a little.

“What’s wrong?” he teases breathlessly. He meets Cid’s gaze, grinning at the flickering lust-anger and desperation. “You gonna come?”

Cid snarls in reply, white-knuckling the sheets.

Humming, Clive clenches around him again. Watches as Cid’s muscles flex and tense. “Better not… you promised, didn’t you?”

“Great bloody Greagor,” groans Cid. Still, he doesn’t move, simply sitting deep inside of Clive. Clive wonders, if he lies down will he be able to see the bulge of Cid’s dick above his pelvis?

Clive doesn’t move either, aside from clenching down and shifting from time to time. Not once does Cid go soft, or seem to lose interest—he stares at Clive with barely contained fervor. As much as Clive wants to ride him, he’d much rather test (and perhaps break) Cid’s control.

So he rolls his neck, letting out a luxurious yawn (as Cid’s eyes spark with warning). Then raises his hands above his head, knots his fingers together, and stretches up, out, backward.

Bloody hell.” Cid’s voice is barely a gasp. The tendons in his neck tense, his head thrown back as he growls his frustration. Clive moans as the older man’s thighs flex rapidly in an attempt to stave off orgasm.

“What’s wrong?” whispers Clive. He comes back down from the stretch, resting one hand on Cid’s good shoulder, the other fingertips tracing lightly over his nipple, following the goosebumps. “Trying not to come again?” When Cid snarls in answer, Clive grins. He feels a little cocky and fuck-drunk, but hell if it isn’t a joy. “Hope you can hold out a while longer. I can do this for hours.

When Cid crackles in response, Clive shifts to rest on his ass again; on Cid’s cock. Both make strangled noises, but Clive responds by tracing both hands up his sides, over his stomach, his pecs. He deliberately doesn’t touch his own nipples. With each teasing stroke against himself, Cid follows his hands like a man lost finally seeing a beacon.

Then, tweaking his own nipple, Clive moans long and loud. He feels Cid react; the way his cock seems to somehow swell even thicker. Clive draws his nails along his body next. Savoring his own touch, just as before. His sensitivity is beginning to fade, which means he can be rougher with himself. Pinch his nipples harder. Leave light welts along his skin.

At one point, he looks directly at Cid and slaps his own ass.

Whatever curses Cid spits out, they’re not in a language Clive is familiar with. The man’s baritone makes him groan all the same.

The more he caresses himself, the prettier Clive feels. Each small touch draws Cid’s attention in a snap. Breathily, he says, “S’okay if you break, you know.” Cid glowers at him, and it serves to make Clive feel even more wanted. He lightly grabs his own dick, rubbing his thumb over the leaking head, still damp from Cid wetting him down. Clive groans, eyes closing. “I don’t mind winning this one.”

Through his teeth, Cid says, “Implying if I throw you down and fuck you, I lose.”

It’s a statement, not a question.

“Uh huh.” Clive shivers, nodding. Preening under the weight of Cid’s staring as the man draws unsteady breaths. He strokes up. Moans. It feels so wonderful. Cid stretching him, pressing in deep; his own hand being gentle, lighting up his nerves; the way Cid shivers and sweats and struggles to breathe whilst pinned inside Clive’s ass.

He’s enjoying it so much that he misses the determined glint in Cid’s gaze.

His only warning is Cid finally shifting. It’s enough for Clive’s eyes to snap open, but by then, it’s too late. One powerful leg swings up, proving Cid’s flexibility as he hooks that knee over Clive’s shoulder. He grasps Clive’s wrist and pins it to his sternum. Hips rolling. Clive yelps as he falls back. Lands on the mattress with a disjointed creak. To his disappointment, Cid’s cock slips out and leaves him desperately empty. He tries to catch the other man’s hip with his foot again, but Cid’s already moving to prevent that, grasping his knee and all but slamming it to the bed.

Cid looms over him, chest heaving. Static pops and cracks along his skin, down his shoulders. One hand grips Clive’s hip with bruising strength, the other keeping him spread as he shifts into position, cock slipping along Clive’s entrance.

“Guess I lost this one,” snarls Cid.

He slams back inside with one unforgiving thrust. Clive shouts and shakes from the suddenness. Above him, Cid sounds like a wild animal, seething and grunting. Fucking him hard. His hips slap against Clive’s ass. The sound fucking echoes through Cid’s room, ricocheting along with Clive’s frantic moans.

“Fuck, fucking tease, bloody hell,” hisses Cid. He darts down, sucking a deep bruise on Clive’s throat. When he bites the tender flesh after, pleasure crashes through Clive, washing him ever closer to another precipice. He whines and clutches at Cid.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Cid yanks his wrist away and pins it over Clive’s head. Looms over him, forcing Clive’s ass off the bed as he folds him up. His breaths are hot and feral against Clive’s ear. “Fuck. So loose and ready. Should come home early more often.”

Clive gasps as tears overflow. Sheer pleasure rockets back and forth in his body. He’s soaring, rocking, awash with wonder—and then Cid slams directly into his prostate and Clive almost shatters.

“F-fu—oh, hells, bloody fucking… flames, I… fuck!” He can’t quite remember what words are. Or what his body is capable of. There’s just that thick, molten heat thrusting into him, stirring him up so prettily, making him wail. Even with all of that, his second orgasm remains hovering just out of reach, taunting him like he was taunting Cid earlier.

And Cid seems to have endless stamina. He rolls Clive half on his side and fucks him until he’s almost hitting the wall. Then drags his hips back, presses one leg up over his shoulder. Pounding away at him, intermittently striking his prostate to keep Clive on that edge. Both of them gasping and uttering ragged moans and tugging at the other. Clive manages to yank him down for a filthy kiss, and it doesn’t stop Cid for one second. If anything, he seems to feed off it. Plunging his tongue into Clive’s mouth at the same rate he fucks him. It’s such a rhythmic tease that Clive would scream, if everything wasn’t being swallowed by Cid’s greedy mouth.

His orgasm swells up in warning. Clive chokes and tries to smack Cid’s back, his neck, to get his attention. The other man tears his mouth away. Huffs. Pins that wrist beside Clive’s other and some fucking how picks up speed.

“A-ahh, fuck Cid wait—!

Cid does not wait. He drives in deep. Slips on and past and over Clive’s prostate in short, jerky motions, until Clive wails and every muscle locks up as he comes. His cock spasms. Warm cum splatters between them.

And Cid doesn’t stop even then.

He does, however, pause for a moment to manhandle Clive onto his quaking knees. Flattens his head to the blankets, drapes over him. Pins his hands down and curls their fingers together as he starts up again. Every slide of skin is sweaty and slippery. Clive sobs from the oversensitivity, clutching back on Cid’s hands as best he knows how.

“Come on, sweetheart.” Cid’s voice is raw and jagged. “One more. One more time for me, love.”

He is insane. “I c-can’t,” moans Clive. But he makes no indication for Cid to stop—even like this, it feels so damn good.

“Oh, you can,” swears Cid. He wraps one arm around Clive’s torso, squeezing him close and the air from his lungs. The lack of air sends another swell of pleasure. “I know you can. Just like you came untouched earlier. Fuck, Clive. That was incredible. Gonna come to that every night for the rest of my life.”

Clive is the one going mad now. He keens.

Cid pants against his ear, stubble scratching his shoulder and cheek. He husks, “Do you have the slightest idea how long I’ve wanted this?”

Cid…

Undeterred by his pathetic whimpers, Cid growls and kisses his ear. “Nngh. So loose and wet for me. S’what happens when you’re a tease, love. Clenching down on me like some brothel whore…”

Though Clive hears the words, the meaning is somewhat elusive in his cum-drunk mind. He tries to fuck himself back on Cid, but the other man bites his ear for the effort.

“You can sit on my cock for hours, eh?” Cid utters a deep rumble that Clive feels from his chest. His own exhausted dick pulses. “Well, I can fuck you for hours. Just. Like. This.”

He punctuates the end of his sentence by wrapping a hand around Clive’s dick. One firm stroke is all it takes. Clive comes, trembling and shrieking from the overstimulation. Every inch is alight. His balls throb.

Behind him, Cid groans deeply. “That’s it, love. Give it up for me. Come on, that’s it.”

Air scrapes down Clive’s throat. His lungs barely seem to expand. Blessedly, Cid isn’t thrusting anymore—but when Clive drifts back into his senses enough, he realizes

Cid hasn’t come.

He squirms under him, wailing as Cid growls and nips his shoulder. Sweating, Clive forces his head to the side. Tries to look at him but barely catches sight of his heaving shoulder.

He croaks out, “Why haven’t you…?”

Grinding his teeth, Cid hisses, “You haven’t told me to.”

The admission rattles in Clive’s skull, down his throat, into his chest. He whimpers. Clenches down, fuck, Cid is so big. He’s held out… and he’s pulsing. So hot and aching inside.

“Down,” gasps Clive. “P-push me down… tight…”

Cid does so without question. He’s still listening. Bloody godsbedamned Founder, but how did Clive get so lucky? Doing this makes Cid feel even bigger, and—Clive can tell by the way Cid wheezes out a groan—makes Clive tighter.

“Cid,” he says. His voice trembles, but fuck it. “Come inside me.”

For a moment, Cid goes stock still, hands on the small of Clive’s back. After what feels like eternity, the older man gives a short, experimental thrust that grinds right against Clive’s prostate. His sore, spent cock twitches under him, helplessly pinned. A thin whine spills over the sheets like verbal cum.

“Lad,” rasps Cid, his voice impossibly deep.

Clive has no chance to reply, to ask, because Cid begins rabbiting into him. Short, vicious thrusts as his grip slips on Clive’s hips, until he has to give up and flatten his hands against the blankets. Every short, brutal jerk threatens to bruise Clive’s prostate. Clive buries his face in the covers and bites them. Drooling, crying from a mixture of soreness and need. Agonizing pleasure ripples up Clive’s spine, across his back, down his hips. He keens into the cloth between his teeth.

“Greagor, that’s it,” pants Cid. The bones of his hips dig into Clive’s ass. When Cid grips his asscheeks and spreads them to drive in deeper, Clive almost spits the blankets out with a wail. “Fuck, love, Clive, shit.

Cid’s name stutters on his tongue, ends in a blubber of spit and sobs. How Cid is still going is a mystery to him. His cock chafes against the blankets. And, to Clive’s horror and arousal, he’s filling out again. Everything is fire and levin, overtaking him, sizzling against his nerve endings.

“Founder,” he gasps—or tries to. With the blanket in his mouth, it’s muffled and more saliva than words. He unclenches his teeth, trying to call out to Cid, but the man doubles down and fucks him at an aggressively harder pace that has him screaming wordlessly instead. He scrabbles at the blankets. Fists and twists them. Arches back into Cid as best he can whilst pinned and speared over and over.

Dazed, he turns his head to look back and up at him. Cid is flushed down past his chest, teeth gnashing, snarls erupting out of him with each heavy thrust. Eyes wild. Staring. Like just looking at Clive ass-up taking his cock is enough to fuel him for days.

Clive emits a high-pitched whine. He tries to inch away, but Cid growls and roughly pulls him back. His cock aches deeply. One hand desperately attempts to protect it, but even that light touch has him yelling.

“Cid,” he chokes. “Please…”

A horrid gnarl answers. Cid slows just a little, just enough that Clive stops seizing and fearing he’s going to pass out from overstimulation. For a moment, he’s scared Cid will pull out, will stop (and that’s not what he wants, not even a little), but then—

“Anything.” Cid’s voice is the barest of breaths, airy, his hips grinding desperately down into Clive. “Anything you need.”

Clive is dizzy. He’s gulping air like it’s water and not slaking even a little thirst. He wants to burst outside and drink the assured moonlight until he’s full. Full, and…

“Love,” he gasps. Clive twists the blankets again. Sobs. “C-call me that… love… call me any of, a-ahh, I, I’m—Founder, Cid, please…!” He cuts off with a cry as Cid fucks in, shallow and pointed. “I-I need… I need—!”

Cid groans deep and loud, folding over him. Clasping just under his throat, a safe yet possessive move. It’s liable to drive Clive beyond the brink.

Clive whines and arches and twists under him. Breathlessly sobbing, “I t-told you to come, what… ah, ahhh, fuck—what else… what are you waiting for?!”

Those strong arms curl around him. Cid pants. His stubble leaves a burn behind. “If this is all—nngh, all I get from, from you, I…”

The fact he’s stammering has Clive in desperate tears.

“Then,” gasps Cid, clutching him closer, harder, tighter, “I can’t let you go.”

oh

Clive wails. Grasps at the blankets and twists halfway over to look at Cid. At the desperate, needy look writ in filth all over his face. Drawing the lines, highlighting the gleams.

“Don’t,” cries Clive. “Don’t just—oh, fuck; ah—” Cid hammers his prostate again. “D-don’t assume I, I…” He yelps, whimpers, whines, clenches down—and Cid hisses against his back, ferocious. “I-I—gods, any gods, please, just tell me you love me.

Cid stops. Goes perfectly, unnaturally still. Cock throbbing inside of Clive, driving him gradually yet rapidly toward shrieking.

“Clive.” His name is breathed with reverence; with affection. “Oh, bloody hell. Greagor. Clive.” He thrusts in, shallow yet rough, and Clive is about to fall into an abyss. “Fuck, sweetheart, of course I do.”

Of course

of course

of course

“Cid,” he pleads. “I need—”

“Aye.” Cid pins him with his entire body, and Clive is eclipsed. Rendered entirely immobile by the pressure alone, and he sobs as Cid thrusts in, shallow, yet fierce, and husks into his ear in that deep, sinful voice:

“I’ve loved you since we met.”

Despite the logical side of him scoffing, Clive’s emotional side capitulates. He comes, unable to spurt any semen, but wracked with pleasure as he gives into it. Moreover, he feels the deep shudder of Cid coming inside him. Clive is filled, hot, igneous, like magma and a geyser all at once. He whimpers. Fucks himself into the aborted motions Cid makes.

“Fuck,” gasps Cid. “Oh, fuck, Clive…”

Clive’s cheeks ache with tears. He rasps, “Love, need, just—Founder, I… I…”

A rough hand grasps his jaw. Wet, open lips meet his. Clive melts into the kiss. He whines as Cid slips out with a filthy squelch. It leaves him feeling empty, spiraling, until Cid kisses him again. Clive moans into his mouth. Moves easily with his encouragement. Rolls until he’s on his back, baring all the most exposed and sensitive parts of his, and all the while Cid crouches over him and kisses him and kisses him and kisses him.

If this is heaven, Clive is ready to buy his place.

Each movement of Cid’s lips makes him want to fold into himself. To bury deep and savor the feelings.

“Cid,” he whispers, flushed against his lips. “I…”

Cid sounds like all air has left him. “Aye?”’

Had Clive the energy left to blush more, he'd probably erupt. He instead buries his face in Cid's chest, rolling them onto their sides. After a long moment, he mutters, “Why are you back early?”

Cid stills, clearly not expecting that. But then he goes lax, gently picking out tangles in Clive's hair. “Mm… caught a stolas halfway. Isabelle lost need for assistance; seems the issue resolved on its own once the parties involved heard I was on my way.”

“But…” Clive bites his tongue. He doesn't want to sound petulant. “Aren’t you… a regular?”

Cid goes quiet again. His hand doesn’t stop, though, and Clive finds himself almost unwillingly lulled into relaxing against him. The hair on Cid’s chest feels pleasant against his cheek. He subconsciously nuzzles in.

Finally, Cid murmurs, “Haven’t been in a long time, love.” A gentle finger traces over the shell of his ear. “That why you were up here? Jealous?”

Huffing, Clive just burrows into his chest again. Says nothing.

He hears the wicked grin curving Cid’s words. “Certainly wasn’t my intent, but if it means I’ll find you playing with yourself in my bed again—”

“Shut up,” hisses Clive.

Cid, of course, does not shut up. “Must admit, sweetheart, I’ve never walked in on such a provocative scene before.”

Cid.

“Makes a man wonder what else would make you—”

Clive grabs a fistful of his chest hair, cutting Cid’s words off with a yelp and a growl. He tangles his fingers behind Cid’s neck. Yanks him down and kisses him, trying to ignore the heat flaring in his face. Cid grins against his mouth, and Clive bites his lower lip in reprimand.

“You’re such an ass,” Clive mumbles against his mouth.

“Mm.” Cid kisses the corner of his lips, sighs, and shifts to a more comfortable position, pulling him back in close. “Aye, aye, this we know.”

Exhaustion sweeps over him now that the teasing has settled. Clive closes his eyes. Makes no complaints as Cid rolls and shifts and pulls on the blankets until they’re both adequately covered. It’s warm and comfortable here. Clive yawns and slings an arm over the other man’s waist, content to stay here.

Just as he’s drifting off, that low voice whispers into his ear, “Looking forward to what else you can come on besides your fingers, little minx.”

… this asshole.

Notes:

You can find me on the FireStorm Discord, occasionally on Twitter, or occasionally screaming like a little bitch at horror jumpscares on Twitch.

UPDATE: NSFW Fanart by the lovely DD!

Series this work belongs to: