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The chronometer on his wristcom reads 2234, too late for a normal visit. But Oliver is not waiting in nervous anticipation for any normal guest. Aral called fifteen minutes earlier, asking him if he was free. And there was only one possible answer to that.
The chime of the doorbell sends him leaping from the couch. He opens the door to find a Vorkosigan liveried man framed in the spill of light from the corridor. Aral stands a few paces behind his guard, face a mask of neutrality. He must have ditched the rest of his security team – a smaller force these days than when he was Prime Minister – somewhere between the Viceroy’s Palace and Oliver’s apartment here in senior bachelor officers’ housing.
“Good evening, Viceroy Vorkosigan,” Jole says, his professional tone belying the fact that his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest. He nods to Rykov. “Armsman.”
“Commodore Jole,” the Vor lord greets him in return, the slight deepening of crow’s feet the only hint of emotion underlying that surface blandness.
Rykov nods acknowledgement to Jole, who steps clear of the doorway. Then the hovering Armsman enters and performs a quick but efficient sweep of the few rooms that make up the commodore’s living quarters. Finding, as expected, no threats, he returns to the front door and steps back out into the corridor.
“Clear, m’lord,” he reports, standing aside to permit his charge to enter.
“Thank you, Rykov. I’ll call you when Commodore Jole and I have completed our business.”
“Very good, m’lord.” Though he knows very well what his liege lord’s “business” with Jole is, his tone remains as blank as his expression.
“Won’t you come in, sir?” Jole’s invitation to the Count is all proper politeness. Keeping up the little playlet on the off-chance there is some other officer lurking in the hallway.
With a minute quirk of his lips, Aral moves past him and into the apartment. Their forearms brush against each other and Oliver feels his stomach swoop.
The door has barely closed behind them when all pretense of professionalism is at an end. Aral pushes him against the wall and claims his mouth in a deep, long, and very filthy kiss that leaves them both winded when they part at last.
His lover takes a small step back to look him up and down with unconcealed desire and approval. An incandescent grin, the one that still makes Oliver ridiculously weak in the knees, blooms on his face.
“You changed,” Aral observes laconically.
“Naturally,” Oliver replies simply, tugging a little self-consciously at the side seam of his uniform trousers.
“Naturally,” Aral rumbles back, eyes lidded.
He crowds up against Oliver with more care than last time, deliberately grinding an unmistakable hardness against one thigh. Whatever blood remained in Oliver’s brain is now rushing swiftly to parts further south. And oh, he is so glad he took the time to change back into his dress greens after Aral’s comm call.
Aral's clothing, on the other hand, is far less formal; one of the flowery shirts he’s taken to wearing in his off hours since coming to Sergyar. Not that Oliver minds. Far easier to get him out of than even his count's garb. Aral allows him to get the first few buttons undone then drags him into another kiss, tongue probing and sliding against teeth and gums and soft palate and Oliver’s own tongue.
Then Aral has him by the shoulders, guiding him vigorously but without breaking their kiss toward the center of the living room. The back of Aral’s knees hit the seat of the leather-upholstered couch, and he collapses into it, pulling Oliver down with him. Oliver just has time to brace against the backrest to prevent himself falling full force onto his lover. He's in no danger of crushing his sturdy paramour, but knocking their heads together would be a bit of a mood killer.
“Where’s Cordelia?” he pants as Aral works on his collar.
“SWORD meeting.”
“Unionizing prostitutes.” Oliver shakes his head in disbelief. “What will that woman think of next?”
“Sex workers,” Aral corrects, leaning in to nibble on of Oliver’s earlobes.
"Hmmm," says Oliver noncommittally.
He resumes the task of undressing Aral while the other man begins to disarrange but not fully remove his uniform jacket and the dress shirt beneath it. If this evening goes to the usual script, Oliver will still be technically clothed by the end. Because for all the wide range of acts they have enjoyed together over the years, Aral’s hands-down favorite thing is to fuck Oliver in uniform.
And Oliver doesn’t hate it, either.
On one extremely rare evening alone with Cordelia, Oliver made the mistake of tipsily confiding to her just how often Aral coaxed him into his uniform for sex. Delighted with this tidbit – and with the blush his revelation caused him – she went on to regale him with a few other kinks their mutual lover possessed, to Oliver’s mix of horror and avid interest.
To be fair, Oliver has a growing collection of kinks of his own. Not the least of which is following Aral’s orders, in or out of bed. It comes as naturally as breathing. He’s not sure he could deny the man anything he asked. A fact attested to multiple times over the course of their relationship.
Admitting as much to Aral had taken a good deal of courage. He’d been terrified Aral would conclude that he had been coercing Oliver into an unwanted relationship, might even try to break things off.
Thankfully, nothing disastrous had occurred. Aral had understood, had taken the confession as the gift it was meant to be.
“Hey, where’d you go?” Aral asks, a little anxiously.
He smiles down at his partner with unconcealed love. “Sorry. I’m right here.”
For proof, he rolls his hips, brushing his cock against Aral’s, winning a low moan for his efforts.
His lover begins industriously sucking little bruises into the skin of Oliver’s partially exposed chest in retaliation. Oliver turns his full attention back to the task of parting Aral from his clothing.
He’s just gotten Aral out of the shirt when the older man says: “Switch.” Half command, half question.
Oliver grins and nods. He’s at the point where undressing Aral is being hampered by their relative positions, so it’s good timing.
Naturally.
As they carefully swap positions, Aral’s clever hands get Oliver’s trousers undone, sliding them down his legs. Oliver is still wearing his boots; they can drop no further than his ankles. Fully erect now, his prick strains against the front of his boxers, a small wet impression darkening the cloth. Aral grins wickedly and circles one finger around the head. The pressure is too light and Oliver’s hips jerk involuntarily, chasing more contact.
“Tease!” Jole complains.
“Oh, am I?” his lover murmurs back.
One hand presses Oliver's body into the cushions, the other cups him far too gently. He hisses out a breath. The fabric of the regulation underwear is thin, and his skin hypersensitive; he can feel the calluses on the palm and fingers holding him. Aral squeezes more firmly, the pressure just on the right side of painful.
“Is that better?”
Jole nods a vehement yes, momentarily robbed of speech. But a bereft noises escapes him when the pressure is abruptly removed.
“Patience,” Aral whispers sternly.
Oliver groans and closes his eyes to gather said patience.
The pop of a cap and the liquid sound of lubrication reach his ears and his eyes fly open again. Where did the slick come from?
He must have said this aloud because the older man chuckles and says: “Hidden between the cushions. Always be prepared!”
Uncowed by his young lover’s unconvincing glare, Aral just shrugs.
“If your other lover happens across it, you can say the same thing,” he says in a teasing voice.
That gets a laugh out of Oliver. It’s an old running joke between them, though the first time Aral had made it was… not exactly funny. It led to one of the very few serious arguments they ever had, requiring intervention from Cordelia, who usually tried to give them the space to sort themselves out.
A hand slips into his boxers, derailing this train of thought. Thick fingers encircle his cock and glide achingly slowly along his shaft. He gives himself over to enjoying the slick slide of flesh on flesh, rough skin against smooth, the steadily increasing pace of pleasure.
Not for the first time, he marvels that he is so fortunate as to be wanted by the likes of Aral Vorkosigan. He thanks the gods of his ancestors that this Great Man stooped to collect him.
Oliver lifts his chin seeking Aral’s lips for another lustful kiss.
Quite suddenly the hand stops in mid-stroke. Fingers remain wrapped around the base of his cock, but the thumb works its way up to caress the underside of the head so lightly that it damn near tickles.
“Fuck!” Oliver exclaims, fighting the instinct to jerk away.
“Eventually,” is Aral’s chuckled response. “But first I’m gonna get you all worked up.” The timbre of his voice drops. “Play with you for a while.” He leans in and nibbles at Oliver’s earlobe again. “Make you beg for it.”
“Aral!” But he cannot form a more coherent protest because the thumb once again passes over his frenulum.
“Don’t whine, Oliver!” Aral orders on a laugh. Then adds more persuasively: “I promise it will be worth your while.”
Oliver growls in feigned frustration but excitement is building in his belly. Yes, edging is a game they both like to play.
Aral gets to his feet.
“Elbows and knees,” he commands.
Oliver scrambles to comply, though it is an awkward affair with the woolen pants impeding his movements. Eventually he succeeds in maneuvering his body into a kneeling position, knees apart, elbows on top of the backrest. He interlocks his fingers and drops his head into his hands, waiting patiently for what is coming next.
Or not, as the case may be.
There is the jingle of a belt buckle, the soft thump of trousers hitting the floor, followed by the lighter rustle of what Oliver assumes is Aral’s boxer-briefs. Fingers hook into the waistband of his own underwear sliding them down to his knees, further restraining his range of motion.
Another pop of the cap and squelch of lube being poured out and applied liberally. Oliver is tempted to turn and watch but he knows what’s expected. He keeps his head down, eyes closed.
He indulges himself in envisioning what he cannot see – even at seventy-something, to him, Aral is still a magnificent sight, naked and aroused – and vents a little pleasant sigh.
“Mmmm, hope that’s about me,” flesh-and-blood-Aral murmurs, gripping Oliver’s hip with one slicked up hand.
“No, my other high-born lover who helps run a galactic empire,” Oliver retorts, fighting to keep the hitch out of his breath as a thick digit traces down the small of his back and slips between his cheeks.
“Oh, that guy,” Aral replies as if he is not deliberately leaving a trail of heat from Oliver’s coccyx to his cock. “I hear he’s kinda an asshole.”
Oliver barks a laugh. God but he loves this man! Aral changed everything for him, and not just his career and sex life, but the entire trajectory of his life. Where that has taken him is so radically different from what he expected.
He rarely thinks very hard about what he sacrificed to be here; marriage and children of his own body are no longer an option. But on balance he would choose this path again if he were given the chance.
“Yes, but he’s my asshole,” he gasps out.
The finger that was teasing his rim, circling over that sensitive pucker, suddenly pushes in.
“I think that sentence was missing a preposition, Oliver,” Aral observes, voice still entirely too composed for the way he is touching Oliver.
Oliver calls him several vulgar names in Russian.
The older man’s only response is an amused hum. He presses the finger further in, slowly and steadily, finds and then caresses that most responsive internal spot. Oliver jumps with the accompanying shock of pleasure.
The hand that is not busy teasing him from behind grasps his prick once again. Both hands begin to move, their speed varying, sometimes in sync and most of the time not. Giving Oliver no discernible pattern to follow, no time to catch his breath, no quarter.
He’s being worked up, just as Aral promised – or threatened. Glorious sensations wash over him. He can feel the peak approaching, but he knows that relief is not in sight. Not yet. Not for a while. Aral won’t want to end the game too soon.
Tempted as he is not to say anything, to let matters take their natural course and damn the consequences, he stammers: “I-I’m close!”
All touch is abruptly withdrawn, and he sags against the sofa, panting, unfulfilled. Aral’s clean hand comes up to rub circles in the small of his back while Oliver struggles back from the edge of orgasm.
When Oliver is finally able to force his body into position, his lover bends to place a series of firm kisses along the base of his spine. Oliver's skin shivers and he wimpers with the need for Aral's hands on him, in him. After a few excruciating moments, Aral pours out more lube before finally slipping two fingers into Oliver’s hole, simultaneously reaching for his cock. He begins to stroke and thrust once more.
Oliver closes his eyes, concentrating on the feel of the slicked up fist and fingers moving in intimate ways. On the first round, he tried to muffle his reflexive grunts and moans – this is not, after all, Vorkosigan House with its sound-proofed rooms, or even the Viceroy’s Palace where anyone who might overhear is already in the know. But control is impossible to maintain when his lover is actively trying to break it.
The peak is once again fast approaching.
“Aral!” he yells by way of warning.
The hands release him again. It is almost painful, that cessation.
“I hate you so much right now,” he groans.
“No, you don’t.” Calm and certain. And not wrong.
Aral refreshes the slick on his hands again and the whole thing starts over.
This go-round, Oliver reaches the edge much faster. He barely calls a halt in time, and his head snaps up involuntarily when Aral releases him.
He lets himself turn to scowl at his amorous tormentor, who of course is standing there with that fucking boyish grin, his attention clearly unflagged. And Oliver can’t help but be a little bit in awe of his patience and stamina, even if it is beyond frustrating.
“You don’t appear to be ready to beg me yet, Oliver. Turn back around.”
With a grumbling whine, Oliver complies.
And Aral begins again. And again.
By the time he is nearing the edge of climax for a fifth time, Oliver is thoroughly desperate. Sweat and tears streaming, arms and thighs quivering, his skin on fire. Every breath seems to expel on a sob. And he cannot work up even a small amount of embarrassment or pique at any of his reactions.
“Merde! Please, Aral, please!”
The movements cease, but the contact remains, skin slippery with sweat as well as lube now.
“’Please’ what, Oliver?” The words spoken so low they are more felt than heard.
“Please, I need to come!”
“Hmmm…. Are you sure that’s what you want?”
Oliver groans but forces a vigorous nod. “Please!”
“But I haven’t even gotten inside you yet.”
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!
Aral’s fingers tighten around the base of Oliver’s cock, then begin to stroke up his length with excruciating slowness. The action drags out more plaintive, wordless noises. Yep, he’s about to start begging. He’s not entirely sure for what. Probably whatever Aral wants him to beg for.
“Please!” he whines again.
A third finger joins the other two in his hole, stretching the muscles and slicking his insides further. A fingertip strokes firmly against his prostate and he shouts: “Please!”
“’Please’ what, Oliver?” Aral repeats first the question, then the motion. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No!”
“Finish you off?”
A stroke. A yell.
“Or fuck you?”
Another stroke. Another yell.
“Fuck me!” Oliver pleads. “I don’t care how! Just let me come!”
All touch withdraws, even Aral’s weight along his back and Oliver collapses again, keening into the cushions.
“All you had to do was ask.”
Oliver curses him in a mix of Barrayaran Russian, French, and Standard English. Aral’s laugh drops an octave, and Oliver quivers as the sound transforms to heat in his groin, prick twitching with anticipation.
Aral manhandles him over the arm of the couch, pushing his legs as far apart as the unforgiving fabric of the uniform pants will allow. Then he applies more lube before climbing up behind Oliver. His hands roam over Oliver’s ass for long lingering moments before parting his cheeks again. Aral’s cock, thick and blunt like his fingers, presses at his entrance, not breaching him yet.
Pleading words well up in Oliver’s throat, emerging as a jumble of vowels.
“Can you come on my cock alone, Oliver, or do you need to touch yourself?”
“Yes!” Oliver cries, not sure at all which option he’s agreeing to. It’s so unfair of Aral to keep asking him to make choices at a time like this.
Fortunately, Aral takes pity on him.
“That’s alright, love,” he says, and Oliver can hear the fond smile in his voice. “I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll make you feel so good.”
And he pushes into Oliver, bottoming out in one quick and unyielding stroke.
Oliver slaps a hand over his mouth to keep from screaming, pain and pleasure in equal portions ripping through him. Aral waits to let his lover calm and adjust. Then, trusting his weight to the willing body beneath him, he bends to take Oliver’s erection in hand again.
He immediately sets up a fast pace, fist and hips moving in tandem, knowing Oliver isn’t going to last.
Oliver grips the leather and holds on for dear life. And indeed it isn’t long before he can feel his release starting to overtake him once more.
“Aral, Aral, Aral!” he cries in time to his lover’s thrusts.
“Yes, yes!”
The orgasm crashes into him, whiting out the world around him, seeming to go on forever. Aral strokes him through it, seminal fluid joining the mess of lube and sweat on the skin of his groin and lower abs, staining his undershirt and pooling under him. Well, at least the leather is treated; it should clean up easily. And the shirt will wash. But those are problems for later.
Currently his attention is riveted by the building over-stimulation of Aral’s cock still moving inside him. Both strong blunt hands grip on Oliver’s hips now, pulling him back to meet each thrust with loud slapping noises. Though by the change in rhythm, his lover is not far from his own climax.
At last, Aral shouts out and a familiar liquid warmth fills Oliver. Aral’s movements stutter to a halt and Oliver braces as the older man collapses on top of him, panting.
The muscles in his arms and thighs are just starting to protest about the exertion when Aral takes a deep breath.
“Thank you for indulging me, love,” he murmurs. As if it was all some sort of imposition on Oliver.
“Happy to be of service!” he says mildly. He shifts slightly, adjusting the limbs supporting their combined weight. “I am going to need you to move soon.”
“Wimp!” Aral mutters into the fabric of Oliver’s jacket.
“Yeah, next time I’ll edge you for ages, then collapse on you, see how you like it,” he retorts, a smile in his voice.
“Threatening me with a good time again?”
But he withdraws from Oliver’s body, if a bit gingerly, and stands with a minimum of groaning.
“Stay right there. I’ll go grab a washcloth,” he says and disappears into the spartan bathroom.
Oliver allows his head to fall gently onto his arms, the sound of running water making him smile. Moments later, his lover emerges with a warm cloth in hand. They’ve both long since gotten over any shyness or embarrassment about the necessary actions for cleaning up after sex and Oliver is quickly in a state conducive to crossing to the bathroom on his own.
Once inside, he throws the washcloth and his whole uniform in the laundry basket and changes back into the navy ship knits he had been wearing before Aral’s call. He grabs another cloth, moistens it under the tap and returns to the living room. Aral smiles and accepts the warm rag, cleaning himself and then the couch.
He redresses, too, his own clothing wrinkled but otherwise clean, Oliver notes with a smirk.
They curl up on the other end of the sofa, Aral practically on top of his sturdy young lover.
"Can you stay a while?" Oliver asks.
The other man hums an affirmative. "Cordelia suggested I not keep you up too late on a work night but I don't have to rush back, no."
Oliver hugs him tighter, kisses his hair. It is almost all grey now. A stab of fear - belated or anticipatory or both - sears through Oliver with this observation. It's not new, this feeling but it has no place here and now; he shoves it aside.
"I love you," he whispers.
"I love you, too," the Great Man whispers back.
Oliver sighs with contentment.