Archive of Our Own

It’s safe to say that Clive never expects his first responsive boner in at least ten years to happen in Lostwing in the bloody dead of the night.

He’s just found the church the crying girl pointed out. Specifically, found the trap door that ostensibly leads to a safe house, wine cellar, or prison—or perhaps all three, in this night’s case. Grim, he lowers himself down via the ladder before aiding Torgal along with him. The hound chuffs quietly in thanks. Smart boy. Clive pauses to give him a rough yet loving scratch behind his ears before they continue on.

“How do I let you know if I find him?”

“Good question… shout?”

“... subtle.”

His annoyance with his newfound companion (or perhaps more accurately, the manipulative asshole who found a way to drag Clive along) is fresh in his mind when he hears the gritty, deep bellow.

“Cliiiiive!”

Rolling his eyes, Clive is about to head toward the voice when he realizes that… ah. Something is. Well. It’s. Awkward. And confusing, and makes him strangely flushed, and what the hell?

To put it simply, he’s hard.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, reaching under his chainmail to adjust himself. At the very least, the bulky imperial armor does a lot to hide the issue. Plus he’s certain it’ll go away quickly. It always does.

Still, the timing is… interesting.

Shaking his head, he hurries in the direction of the voice, slowing to a walk as the voices swell. Clive is unamused as he walks in, giving his companion a disdainful look. “I thought you were joking.”

The outlaw named Cid gives him a cheeky grin in reply. And that’s the end of that.

Or, so he thought.

***

Nearly two weeks after that incident, Clive is knee-deep in a swarm of imperials, fighting them off in order to protect the Bearers the Hideaway’s fearless leader sought to free. A noble concept, certainly, but Clive is quickly learning that Cid’s idea of planning ahead is both infinitely cunning and impressively sloppy. Or, at the very least, cunning while leaving leeway only to fight tooth and nail to get out of a situation.

The bloody bastard.

Worst of all, Clive’s lost sight of him in the fierce battle. He’s too busy trying to keep all his fingers and toes intact, attacking and parrying and working in tandem with Torgal to keep the bloodthirsty men at bay. Metal sings. The stench of blood permeates the air as more imperials fall. Clive bellows, plunges his sword into a man’s chest, and yanks it out in time to lop off another imperial’s head as he attempts to lunge for the Bearers.

Founder fuck it all, where is Ci—?

A crackle of lavender in the corner of his eye is all the warning he gets. Lightning strikes, flying across the field, kicking up dust and debris until they’re smothered in a veritable cloud. Screams and cries of falling soldiers litter the air. Inwardly, Clive curses the man for being so reckless with his aether, as per usual.

At the very least, however, the imperials appear to’ve fallen entirely. Clive keeps his sword aloft, recapturing his breath as he waits for the dust to settle. Behind him, Bearers whimper and pray.

He barely catches sight of Cid atop a small ledge. The older man appears to be scanning the area, frowning. Levin crackles along his arm. For a moment, Clive has the wild thought that the thunder suits him.

Then, facing thirty degrees away, Cid inhales and puts his back into the bellow.

“Cliiiiive!”

The absurdity of this man knows no bounds. Huffing, Clive sheathes his sword… and realizes his cock is stirring with interest in his leathers.

What the hell?

Shaking his head, he uses the rapidly fading dust cloud to hide adjusting himself before he calls out, “No need to yell. I’m right over here.”

Cid turns, his frown twitching into a grin. He leaps down from the ledge—winces, shaking out his knee—and strides over.

“There you are. All in one piece, I take it?” Cid doesn’t wait for an answer, clapping Clive on the shoulder and jostling his imperial armor. He grunts from the impact as Cid continues on past him. “And all the Bearers safe and sound. Right, then.”

Clive steps back, perplexed by the flush in his cheeks while Cid unspools his roguish charm before the Bearers. As he coaxes them to come with, Clive takes the opportunity to calm down and will his stupid erection away. Honestly. Twice now, he reacts like this? Is it the heat of battle, or the taste of freedom allowing his dick to feel free to express itself so suddenly and overtly.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. They have a job to do, and getting these people back to the Hideaway is his priority at this very moment.

“Clive, bring up the rear, eh?”

He rolls his eyes. Says, “Right.”

Cid grins. Winks.

Clive immediately spins on his heel, determined to ignore the way his dick pulses at such an inopportune moment.

***

He’s been here for a month now, assisting Cid whilst Gav gathers information about the elusive Dominant of Fire, and Clive realizes while in the baths one evening that he’s subconsciously starting to think of this place as… well, not home, exactly, but… safe. And in a way, that’s even more disconcerting.

Clive sighs and sinks down in the heated pool until the water laps at his chin. When the hell did this happen? Thirteen years in the imperial army as a Branded bastard was more than enough to teach him that nowhere is safe, and no one is to be trusted. The world is every man for himself. Bloody hell, his mother taught him that lesson when she ordered him Branded.

No. He told himself that he wouldn’t do this. Until Cid follows through on his word to help him find that bastard of a Dominant, he refuses to get attached. Even then, he won’t. Once he has sights on his man, Clive has every intention of hunting him down and showing him the same “mercy” he showed Joshua.

Scowling, Clive dunks down to wash his hair. The vigorous scrubbing is a harsh reminder to put his fanciful notions back in their rightful place. Besides, once he confirms that Jill is going to be safe, he’s got no ties here.

He rinses off, slowly rising to climb out. Barely has he set his foot upon the wet, slippery stone floor when:

“Cliiiiive!”

The bellow isn’t even in the bath, but it’s so sudden in the quiet that Clive stumbles and slips backward, splashing back in. He curses and picks himself back up.

“What?” he shouts back. Honestly, the gall of that man—

Belatedly, as he’s climbing back out, he realizes that he got hard. Fuck.

Clive hurries to grab the towel and cover himself just before the door to the baths opens. Cid strides in like he owns the damn place, puffing on a cigar as he scans the room until his eyes settle on Clive.

“Ah, there you are,” drawls Cid.

“Yes, Cid,” replies Clive tersely. “I was bathing. Is whatever you need so important that you had to scream for me for the whole of the Deadlands to hear?”

Cid chuckles, one hand resting on his swords as he ashes his cigar. “Trust me, were I to scream for you, the whole of Valisthea would know.”

A startled flush heats Clive’s cheeks… and his cock pulses. Founder damn this slut of a man! Could he not go five minutes without cracking some dirty joke or flirting with the people around him? It’s like he needs it to breathe.

Still keeping himself covered—he hopes discreetly, the towel held out at an angle to cloak the fact he has a hard-on—Clive says, “What do you need?”

“Me? Nothing.” Cid takes in another deep drag, eyes seeming to critically judge Clive’s stance before he exhales a plume of white and meets his eyes. “But Kenneth says you haven’t eaten yet.”

Clive blinks.

Cid cocks his head.

Slowly, Clive says, “I will get dinner. Can you let me get dressed?”

“Of course.”

When Cid doesn’t move, Clive snaps, “Alone?”

Raising an eyebrow, Cid looks like he wants to make a smartass remark. His gaze roams over Clive once more. Probably thinking he’s an awkward virginal soldier or some other foolish assumption, or spoiled royalty, but really, Clive just needs him to leave because, for some reason, his erection hasn’t waned—as, in fact, gotten worse the longer Cid stands there.

Finally, with a single-shoulder shrug, Cid turns on his heel. “Eat up, Lord Rosfield. Big day tomorrow, and I need the finest Shield in all of Rosaria in tip-top shape for this one.”

The door closes so damned slowly. When it finally falls shut, Clive nearly collapses, knees weak from keeping him steady for so long while his dick throbs. He glowers at the damn thing. Why? It’s not like he has time to do anything about it. Plus, as Cid so nearly proved, anyone can walk in at any moment. He refuses to be caught red-handed fisting his own dick.

He’s still hard when he has to tug himself back into his leathers, but at least he’s softened somewhat.

Cid better not call for me again.

***

Returning to Phoenix Gate with Jill has been more than a little enlightening. So much has happened in the past two weeks, from priming as Ifrit to embracing himself as such, and Clive can feel his perspective has shifted. That, perhaps, Cid has the right of it after all.

He is the Eikon of Fire, like it or not. May as well make himself useful and protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Fortunately, Jill is in agreement with him by the time they return to the Hideaway. Otto is surprised to see them, but welcomes them as warmly as he ever does. He also seems to study Jill intently.

“You look pale, lass. Might want to give Tarja a visit.”

Jill casts a look at Clive, and he nods. “I’ll let Cid know we’ve returned. Promise we won’t make any big plans without your input.”

“All right. Come get me if I’m needed.” She nods at Otto, her hand grazing Clive’s arm as she walks past and heads for the infirmary with lighter steps than he’s seen in a while. He hopes that she’s gotten closer to Tarja prior to their journey. Jill could use more good people in her life.

With a buoyancy he hasn’t felt in years, Clive pauses to greet Gav, then Charon, restocking on supplies before he finally makes for the stairs leading to the infirmary and Cid’s solar. Somehow, his heart quickens a bit. Strange. Perhaps he needs to get looked at as well? It can’t be good if climbing a short flight of stairs makes his heart begin to race.

The door to the infirmary is firmly closed. He can hear Tarja and Jill speaking in quiet voices, their words inaudible. He forgoes bothering them to head for the solar instead. Tarja can give him a lookover later.

At the entrance to the solar, he finds the door firmly closed as well, albeit no voices filter through. He begins to push it open, barely getting a sliver of a crack, when a sound stills him:

“Cliiiiive.”

Just like that, his brain goes blank. His face is numb. Clive licks his dry lips, heart thumping against his ribcage like a prisoner in the gaols. Unsure he even heard anything, he pushes the door open a bit more—and freezes when he hears an unmistakable mixture of sounds. Of stuttering breaths, of grunts, of slick wetness and the rustle of clothing.

He… can’t be…

Clive swallows. Okay. So. That’s nothing crazy. Not like he hasn’t walked in on men in the army; sometimes, you just rub one out when and where you can. And he probably misheard the name. Could be anyone. Maybe Cid has a fondness for someone named Blythe or Hive or… Five?

Either way, it’s clear Cid is preoccupied. Clive tries to figure out how best to close the door without startling the man inside, settling for moving back with painstaking slowness—

“Clive!”

Gasping, Clive bolts down the hall and into the infirmary, slamming the door shut and leaning heavily against it. His heart thrums in his chest, something deep inside howling, and his face is flushed and… and…

Fuck, did Cid see him? He had to’ve heard the door heave closed—the running footsteps. But no. He doesn’t know Clive and Jill are back yet. Right?

Sweat beads at his forehead. His cock is raging hard in his leathers. And when he looks up, Tarja and Jill are staring right at him.

Clive didn’t think he could get any redder. This moment proved him wrong.

Dryly, Tarja says, “Is your cock the medical emergency?”

Groaning, Clive slumps to the floor and buries his face in his hands. “N-no. Sorry.”

With thinly veiled amusement, Jill manages to say kindly, “Everything all right? Did Cid say anything?”

Cliiiiive.

Flames explode in his face all over again. Clive huddles into a ball, shaken, aroused, and nowhere near a place he can even begin to process what he’s just heard and learned and…

Fuck.

Is he… attracted to Cidolfus Telamon?

***

It takes nearly an hour plus a long walk through the deadlands to calm himself down, but Clive is eventually able to return to the solar—this time with Jill at his side for back-up. Fortunately, Cid’s proposal about the Mothercrystals is wild and intriguing enough to temporarily put the incident out of his mind. They agree to help him.

But destroying a Mothercrystal is not something to be taken lightly. In the interim, there are still more Bearers and Branded to aid. Clive throws himself into the task wholeheartedly, now more at ease calling the Hideaway his home.

A few days after returning, Cid takes him on a “little jaunt” over to Martha’s Rest to help retrieve some imprisoned Bearers passing through. It goes rather well, though the fight takes longer than either of them like, so they opt for staying overnight. Clive pays for some ale and food, taking a seat in the tavern, while Cid wanders off to do Founder only knows what.

He really is minding his own business, not even thinking about Cid, when his ears perk up at a conversation at a nearby table.

“Bloody hell, did you see the caravan passing through? That bloke’s wife has the fattest tits I’ve ever seen.” Clive catches sight of a man making a crude gesture at his own chest. “Got me sprung to attention, that’s for sure.”

Another man scoffs. “Please. You get hard from looking at a cliffside vaguely shaped as breasts.”

“Oh yeah? Far as I know, the blacksmith is your type,” snaps the first man.

“Aye, and? So bloody what?” The second takes a healthy swig of ale. “You go on and on about tits but never take time to appreciate a good ass. That’s your problem.”

“En’t a problem for me. An ass is an ass.”

Clive finds himself frowning at his stew, idly stirring with his spoon. An ass is an ass pretty much sums up how he sees it—but he feels the same about breasts and cocks as well. They’re just… there. Nothing so special about them. Everyone has a body, and he’s never had a wank while envisioning a single part of the body. Hell, that’s never even occurred to him.

It’s strange to think that many, if not most, people are like this. And with that, what does it make him? Broken? Maybe. Confused, absolutely.

“... like you don't even discriminate,” says the second man, jerking Clive’s attention back unwillingly. “Near so far as I can tell, if she’s got a cunt, you’re all in.”

The first shrugs. “Cunt is cunt.”

“Bloody hell, the way you talk, it’s like ambrosia from the gods themselves! I’m telling you, you’re missing out on a good old-fashioned romp up the rear, my friend.”

What the fuck does that mean?

Clive is so lost in his own confusion that he doesn’t hear the creak of a floorboard before a wide, heavy hand settles on his shoulder. Sheer instinct is what keeps him from reacting violently. He glances up and over to see Cid.

“Clive,” the older man drawls, removing his hand to light a cigar. “Looked lost in thought there. Everything all right?”

He opens his mouth to say, Yes, of course, but finds all the words tangle in his throat at the sight before him.

Cid brings a fire crystal close to the cigar, covering it seemingly more out of habit than concern for wind as he lights up and takes a couple drags to get the tobacco burning. From the angle he’s at, Clive can see the way his lips tighten around the smoke; how deft and wide his fingers are under his leather gloves as he handles the crystal; the way the skin and stubble stretch along his jawline as he turns to exhale away from Clive. How he turns back to him, that lax, annoying smirk on his lips as he languidly takes a seat as though invited to the table. The older man’s body moves with a lithe grace Clive has only ever seen in seasoned, hardened fighters.

His cock firms in his leathers. He swallows.

“Clive?”

He starts, knocking the table with his knee. Clive’s mouth opens and closes with zero poise, until he realizes what he must look like and snaps his mouth closed.

Knowing Cid is waiting for an answer, he scrambles for one. Manages to get out, “Just… thinking over the mission.” Yeah. That sounds plausible.

“The one we just finished?”

Fuck.

Clive coughs and stirs his stew, shoveling a spoonful of the now-cold food in his mouth. After a thick swallow, he says, “I wasn’t happy with my performance. Slipped more than a couple times and nearly got a Bearer hurt for it.”

Cid hums thoughtfully. Before Clive can even blink, he grabs Clive’s ale and downs the dregs before setting the mug back on the table. Smacking his lips, then calling, “Aye, Martha, a round, would you?” before he turns back to Clive with furrowed brows. His lips are damp from his tongue as he speaks. “Certainly, we can always do better, but you’re a fine warrior, lad. Ultimately, no Bearers were harmed, and that’s more than we can ask for on most of these extractions. I say you did just fine.”

It’s a compliment, and he knows it, but Clive can’t stop staring at the way Cid’s lips move.

Fuck.

“Now for some honesty.” Cid leans forward, one arm on the table. His narrow eyes are piercing, studying Clive, lit with some sort of spark he can’t bring himself to put a name to. “Is that all that’s on your mind?”

No. Because I might find you attractive. Because you are. Because I get hard when you call my name, and it’s real bloody fucking annoying.

Out loud, Clive says, curt, “Yes.”

Cid’s eyes narrow that much more, lips pressing into an unreadable line. Then he shrugs, leans back, and digs into his gil pouch. “If you say so. Ah, thank you, Martha.”

No longer hungry, and flooded with butterflies in his stomach, Clive takes his drink quickly and retreats to his room. He blames his need to touch himself that night on the alcohol, and if he is thinking about a particular person, well… he can deal with that in the morning.

***

Clive does not, in fact, deal with it in the morning. Or the afternoon. Or the evening, or the next day, or the next entire godsbedamned week.

In fact, by the time he does manage to even acknowledge it, it’s due to Jill all but slamming the issue into his face when she takes a seat across the table from him in the Fat Chocobo one evening. For a moment, Clive knows she’s there, but he doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Clive.”

Interestingly, he doesn’t get hard. Clive frowns in the general direction of his dick. Well, he can at least cross off the vague worry of a newly found narcissism at the sound of his own name.

“Clive,” she tries again.

“Hn,” he mumbles.

A loud sigh. Then: “Clive, you’ve been acting strange.” He grunts, and she raps against the table with her glove. “I spoke to Cid, and—”

“What’d he say?” The words catapult out of his mouth before he can stop them, and he’s taking in Jill’s bemused smile before he realizes it. Clive coughs. Looks away. Says, “I mean… okay.”

“Right,” she says, drawing the word out a little too far past its prime. “Well, he indicated that he’s worried about you.”

Butterflies erupt in Clive’s stomach. He ducks his head in hopes of hiding it. Mutters, “I’m fine.”

Jill drums her fingers against the table, contemplating. She tilts her head to the side. “Then, perhaps this is an issue Tarja can help with?”

“There’s no issue,” snaps Clive.

Her eyes crinkle, though there’s no real smile. “Mmhm. So why are you acting so strangely, then?”

“I’m not—”

She starts ticking off her fingers. “Staring at Cid. Getting lost in thought. The Infirmary Incident.”

His cheeks flare at the last one. If anything, she seems to pause to savor his reaction. Damn it all.

Unphased, she continues, “The general daze you’re in when Cid is in the roo—”

“I am not,” protests Clive.

She arches an eyebrow. “So you haven’t in the past week, thrice now, forgotten what I was talking about because he walked into the Fat Chocobo with those sinfully tight pants?”

Clive nearly rockets across the table. He hisses, “They’re not that tight, he just has a big—” Somehow, he manages to catch himself and freezes, staring wide-eyed and horrified as Jill grins at him.

“No, please, do go on,” she says pleasantly.

After an awkward moment of choking, Clive manages to say, “Personality,” which makes Jill bend over in an obvious effort to muffle her laughter. Covering his head with both hands, Clive hisses, “I hate you.”

Jill manages to look up with a straight face despite her steel-gray eyes sparkling with mirth. “So it goes.”

Opening his mouth to retort, Clive starts with—

“Cliiiiive!”

… not that. Though from the way everyone either looks to the main hall or him, he may as well have.

With utmost reluctance, and Jill’s eyes shivving holes into his skull, Clive lifts his head and raises his hand in a curt wave. Cid seems to catch sight and strides over. A cigar hangs half-smoked from his taut lips, his legs confident and sure and long as he makes his way to them.

“Good evening, Lord Rosfield. Lady Warrick.” Cid nods, and Clive doesn’t miss the appropriate lordship term for Jill, though they both technically lack the status. He also doesn’t miss the way Cid casually leans over him, squeezing his shoulders and making Clive lose his breath momentarily. “Might I borrow the most engaged Rosfield for a minute?”

“Of course,” says Jill in her smooth, strangely cold manner. “He is not mine to occupy.”

What—thinks Clive as Cid forcibly yanks his chair back, making his blood run cold—does that mean?

Whatever it means, it involves Cid squeezing his shoulders. Murmuring, “Charon’s got a new shipment coming in tomorrow. I’ll be out for a few days, though. Mind picking up a package for me and bringing it to my solar when it gets here?”

His heart thumps sideways in his chest. “Su—” His voice creaks. He coughs, takes a strong sip of ale, and tries again. “Sure.”

Another squeeze makes him hyper-aware of how large Cid’s hands are. Clive swears he can feel his pulse in his throat now.

“Thank you kindly, sweetheart.”

Cid says it so low, so quiet, and walks away so abruptly, that Clive can only stare at the table in stunned silence. He doesn’t even glare at Jill when she leans back in her seat with a knowing smile. He can’t. The throbbing of his cock is too much.

I’m so fucked.

***

The package ends up being a few vials of oil, nothing particularly special. Clive delivers it as asked and spends the rest of the time avoiding the solar as much as possible. Even thinking about it gets his mind wandering to where Cid was when Clive caught him (auditorily, at least) masturbating, and the idea that it could’ve been in that chair, under that very desk, gets his face hot and brain going fuzzy.

Instead, he throws himself into the necessary tasks around the Hideaway. By the time Cid returns, he’s managed to get himself into a state of calm where, at the very least, he can nod in a normal greeting to the man. He does note the crate Goetz lugs after him into the Fat Chocobo.

That evening, everyone finds out what’s in it.

The Fat Chocobo is crowded, per Cid’s request, and the man seems to take great pleasure in being in the spotlight. He pats the crate, set up on Kenneth’s counter, and raises his voice to be heard.

“Everyone’s been working so hard, I thought to bring back some of Quentin’s latest vintage,” he announces. “Drink up, you louts!”

Never has Clive seen practically the whole of the Hideaway fall into rowdy drinking so quickly. He’s not a fan of wine his own self, but it’d be rude to refuse when Cid has been so generous to everyone. So he accepts a chalice and finds a seat toward the back wall with Jill, Tarja, and Gav.

Soon enough, the wine is flowing quite well. Clive even accepts a second chalice a couple hours into the evening, as well as some of Kenneth’s stew. Jill and Gav are currently in a surprisingly heated debate when he returns with his drink and bowl.

“... out of yer bloody mind if ya think that,” says Gav, leaning on his knee with his elbow. “All due respect, of course.”

Jill quirks an eyebrow, a smile dancing on her lips. “With all due respect, Gav, I have to disagree.”

Gav glances up as Clive returns. “Ey, help us settle this, wouldja?”

“Settle what?” Clive spoons a healthy portion of stew into his mouth.

“Best Northern Territory dish,” says Gav. “I’m sayin’ it’s bighorn stew, Jill ‘ere says it’s bighorn and potato.”

Frowning, Clive takes his time chewing his next bite. “They’re the same thing.”

Both look at him like he’s an idiot. “No,” says Gav, slowly, as though talking to a child. “One has potatoes.”

Clive snorts. “Well, you’re both wrong. It’s ale-broiled raptor sausages.”

“I have to agree,” says a new, deep voice. Clive tries not to stiffen when Cid falls into an empty seat right beside him, a rosy flush to his cheeks as he drinks from his clay cup. The older man leans back, slinging his arm over the back of his chair with a broad grin. “The ale adds a magnificent flavor. Can’t beat it, really.”

Tarja eyes Cid skeptically. “You’re sloshed, old man.”

“Naaah,” drawls Cid. “I’m a good cup or so away from that.”

“Fucking Founder…” Tarja sighs. “Ease up, would you?”

“S’all right,” says Cid, clamping a hand on Clive’s shoulder. He feels drunk, Clive realizes, swaying slightly. “I’m sure the generous Lord Rosfield can get me back to my solar just fine.”

Clive shrugs him off with a terse, “I may drag you by your feet, if I’m feeling that generous.”

“Ey now, don’t do that,” protests Gav with a laugh. “Can’t give him more brain damage that he’s already got!”

Cid snaps at Gav playfully, diverting his attention. Clive is at once grateful for it and… fuck. Kind of misses it already.

Fortunately, despite Cid’s sudden apparent need for bodily proximity, Clive does not get hard as evening melts into night. The temptation to drink more wine rises, but once Cid’s speech begins to slur, he resigns himself to being the sober one of the two. Despite his threat, he knows damn well he’s going to help the bastard up the stairs if necessary.

“Clive,” says Cid—well. Says is a strong word. He practically seems to slide over his name, his wine-drenched breath hot as he grabs Clive’s shoulder for balance and leans heavily onto him. “Cliiiiive.”

“What,” he grumbles.

“Bloody hell,” mutters Cid, momentarily distracted when he almost misses the table when setting down his cup. Clive eyes him warily and attempts to ignore the siren call of Cid’s warmth (and the amused look Jill gives him in his periphery). “We should—fuck!”

Clive’s ears burn hot. He knows it’s because Cid almost knocked the chalice over, but the timing of the words is just—

“Aye, ya should,” cheers Gav, well into tipsy territory himself. “Hell, we’ve all got money on ow!” He yelps, cut off when Tarja smacks him upside the head.

Great. Apparently it’s been so obvious to everyone that there’s gil involved. Clive covers his face with one hand, the whole of his face and neck aflame.

“Speak for yourself, you wanker,” snaps Tarja. “Stop talking nonsense. You need water.”

“Awwwww…”

As Tarja drags Gav away by his shirt collar, Jill sips her wine and glances at Clive with a little tilt to her mouth. He looks away, blaming the flush in his cheeks on the alcohol more than how Cid’s hand has somehow found its way over Clive’s other shoulder and onto his pec, massaging obscenely. Clive is determined not to call attention to it and make the situation any weirder.

Roughly, into Clive’s ear, Cid says, “Anyone ever tell you that you have incredible tits, sweetheart?”

Clive chokes on his sip of wine. Desperately looks to Jill for help. She feigns interest in something past them and wanders off.

Fuck.

“You’re drunk,” hisses Clive.

“You’re drunk,” counters Cid. Poorly, in Clive’s opinion.

Looking around, Clive realizes the whole of the Fat Chocobo seems to, apparently, be content with pretending their little table doesn’t exist. Almost like Gav wasn’t joking.

Fucking hell.

Either way, no matter how he feels about him, Clive isn’t going to take advantage of a man who is absolutely sloshed. Curtly, he says, “Come on, Cid. You need to sleep this off.”

Cid chuckles in his ear, and Clive’s body betrays him with a shiver. “Want to sleep with me?”

Fucking. Hell.

Decided, Clive stands, nearly allowing Cid to topple over. He changes his mind quickly, helping the older Dominant right himself and stagger to his feet. Slinging one of Cid’s arms over his shoulders, Clive says, “To bed, Cid. I mean it.”

“Aye, aye,” grumbles Cid. Rather than go along with Clive’s urging, however, he fumbles a hand onto Clive’s chest, over his undershirt, and squeezes.

“Cid,” hisses Clive.

“Wha?” he mumbles, rubbing his middle finger over Clive’s traitorously firming nipple.

“Stop that.” Clive glances up, but to his relief, people are still pretending they don’t exist. He lowers his voice. “They stick out when you do that.”

Cid blinks blearily. Then: “Ahhhh. I see.”

“Do you really?”

If attempting to plant his open mouth over Clive’s left nipple is an answer, Cid’s the most eloquent bastard on this side of the belt. Clive barely stifles a shriek, cheeks flaming as he somehow manages to detach Cid from his shirt and chest and start dragging him toward the stairs. A wet spot on the shirt reminds him the entire way of what just happened, to say nothing of the rapidly swelling conundrum between his legs.

Bastard decides to make a move and he’s drunk as hell. Founder damn you, Cid…

Getting Cid up the stairs is a feat in itself. Aside from the older man laughing and swaying, he keeps muttering things like, Best tits in Valisthea, and, all cocked up, and, one two three don’t piss on me. Clive does his best to focus on one foot in front of the other and keeping Cid balanced.

What he doesn’t account for is Cid’s penchant for ensuring no plan plays out as intended. The older man trips on the last stair, sending them staggering into the railing. Clive grunts as he lands so the wood hits across his back. He doesn’t even have the chance to orient himself before Cid falls heavily on him, his hot, wine-sour breaths wafting over Clive’s neck before he nuzzles into him, breathing deep and sighing in pure contentment.

Clive’s entire thought process comes skidding to a halt.

For a moment stranded in time, it’s just the two of them. Clive pinned to the railing under Cid’s weight, Cid nosing over the column of his throat, the rough scratch of his beard sending shivers through Clive’s entire body. He feels dizzy. Lightheaded from all the blood rushing to his cock. Like he’s in a dream.

“Clive.”

He swallows. Rasps, “Yeah?”

“M’gonna be sick.”

… fuck.

Clive heaves forward, all but dragging Cid by his belt to the solar. Once there, he manages to find an empty basin and get Cid to it. Nothing happens aside from Cid kneeling and clutching the edge and mumbling, three four five get that ass on Clive. Of which Clive pointedly ignores despite the now-permanent flush on his cheeks as he attempts to get Cid’s bed settled for a drunk, grown-ass man to sleep in. He manages to find a bowl, usually filled with water for wiping down, though it appears to be empty at the moment. Sets it at the bedside so Cid doesn't get sick all over himself in the middle of the night. Frowns at the chaotic mess of a bed and straightens it out before he steps down into the main solar to check on him.

Cid’s still slumped over the basin. Muttering, “Two tits plus one ass equals a Rosarian…”

Shaking his head, Clive returns to the room. Apparently Cid isn’t actually going to be sick, or kneeling is helping him. Either way. At least he’s calmed down.

Clive has barely begun pulling out sleep clothes for Cid when:

“Cliiiiiiiiiiiive!”

He stifles a groan, almost banging his head against the open clothes chest as the guttural call threatens to do him in. His cock is raging hard at this point—as if it hasn’t already been stirring with Cid groping him!

After a couple deep breaths, he forces himself to his feet. Cid’s so bloody sloshed anyway; he won’t notice if Clive happens to have an erection, as long as he keeps it out of the man’s face. He awkwardly descends the short flight of stairs. “You don’t have to shout, you know. I’m right he—oomph!”

Cid fairly tackles him, wrapping his arms around Clive’s waist and nuzzling against his stomach. A short, raw gasp escapes him. He trembles, caught in the loop of Cid’s hold, trying very, very hard not to think about how his erection throbs against Cid’s sternum. Fuck fuck fuck. He has to know now—

“Clive.”

The husky, sinfully deep way Cid says his name threatens to stop Clive’s heart. He gulps, looking heavenward for help he knows he won’t find. Then down to where Cid is peering up at him.

The haze over those narrow eyes vanishes; sharpens; focuses. Violet flickers in the green like sparks in the night, hungry to find something to feed on, to become flame. The grip on his waist almost imperceptibly tightens, and the jut of Clive’s hip firmly pushes against Cid’s chest.

Clive’s breath whooshes out of his lungs in a faint, “Cid,”

and then the other man all but crawls up him, all traces of drunkenness but the color in his cheeks gone as he fists Clive’s shirt in one hand, his lips brushing against his in whisper of a vow.

“Clive.”

A bare breath of his name. A heat, a friction, a need.

“I want you.”

Three words shatter any residual doubt or fear, tiny dark pieces falling into a void. He doesn’t have a name for this feeling, but he knows… he knows that he wants Cid, too.

Clive stammers for a moment. “C-Cid… you’re drunk…”

“Am I?” Though his breath reeks of wine, there’s a sharpness to his gaze that wasn’t there before, hungry and wanting as he purposefully slides a hand up Clive’s side and grips just below his ribcage. A stuttering gasp scrapes down Clive’s throat. Low, thirsty, Cid rumbles, “Or perhaps, Lord Rosfield, I simply tire of this dance.”

This man, Clive realizes, was never near as drunk as he made himself out to be. Has been teasing Clive the whole evening. Why he played at being drunk, Clive isn’t entirely certain. Knowing Cid, it was for some overly complex, asinine reason that gave him a few chuckles.

He finds himself shaking, gripping the lower hem of Cid’s shirt in one hand, his shoulder in the other. Cid’s mouth ghosts over his cheek, across his brand, until he’s nosing Clive’s hair aside to nip the shell of his ear. Clive chokes on a whimper. Huffing a shallow laugh, Cid nips a bit higher, the scruff of his jaw a tease against Clive’s cheek.

“That aside, you seemed to enjoy yourself in the hall. Which part did it for you, sweetheart?” His breath is warm and tickles Clive’s ear, sending a fresh wave of arousal to his dick. It’s just an ear, how the hell—?

“Please tell me,” purrs Cid. “How long as it been for you?” Unsure what he means, Clive’s questions stick to the back of his tongue while Cid runs his along his ear, hot and wet, his voice dropping impossibly deeper. “For me, it was when you put that sword to my throat.”

Clive whimpers, his lungs drawing shaky breaths. Does he mean… fuck, the day they met…?

“Call me a madman, but there’s something I find irresistible about a man who knows his way around a sword…” Cid draws back, lowering his gaze pointedly. Clive has to bite the inside of his lip to keep his noises in check, still feeling too perilously fragile to let them out yet. “... and who will put it all on the line for those he loves.”

“Cid…”

“Well?” Cid smirks, the hairs falling from their styled poise brushing against Clive’s forehead. “Am I one of those people now?”

He can’t breathe. Every inch of his skin buzzes, conductive, reacting to the palpable energy pulsating from Cid.

“Or am I reading this all wrong, Clive?”

The way Cid says his name this time, so husky and deliberate, snaps something inside him.

Clive grasps the back of Cid’s neck, yanking him in for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. No warming up, just tongue and spit and teeth. The rumble of Cid’s groan vibrates through his chest, the other man returning the gesture with equal fervor, tasting of wine and tobacco and some vague leftover spice from whatever he ate today. He goes from fisting Clive’s shirt to his hair, squeezing his waist with the other broad hand. Clive gasps into his mouth. Jerks his hips, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head when their clothed erections rub together, friction like sparks rolling from his cock and up his spine.

A soft fuck is uttered against his mouth before Cid turns them, shoving Clive against the nearest Fallen ruin wall. Both men grunt from the effort. Clive drags him back down, burning hot and needy, hungry to taste more of this equal parts brilliant and aggravating man, and Cid pins him with his hips, greedily grinding against him. Heavy grunts and moans trade between them. Clive feels like he’s on fire, and he wants more of it. He hooks a leg behind Cid’s thigh, urging him closer, if it’s even possible.

Cid breaks the kiss noisily, groaning when Clive tries to go right back in. Large hands grip Clive’s hips in a bid to keep him still. “Greagor’s tits… give me a moment, lad.”

A short growl bursts from Clive’s mouth. He tightens his hold, keeping Cid close, feeling the humidity of each breath he takes.

“You started this,” he accuses. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Cid’s eyes spark. He lunges forward, claiming Clive’s mouth for himself. Short, quick, brutal kisses to start, gradually growing longer; deeper.

“Fuck me, eh?” Cid rasps between kisses, stealing bits of Clive’s breath and sanity with each one. A firm tug at the laces over his pants jostles Clive’s cock, making him whimper. “And why shouldn’t I fuck you instead?”

“Why does it have to be instead? You can fuck me when I’m done,” retorts Clive, heat stealing over his face.

Cid stares at him in a mixture of awe and disbelief. He utters a deep groan, looking heavenward for a moment. “The death of me,” he mutters. Then his head snaps back down, lavender sparking in the green of his eyes as he uses his grip to yank on Clive, both of them moaning when it lights more friction between their dicks.

Cid’s teeth bare for a moment. “Fuck—come on, love. Bed.”

Scoffing, Clive has little choice but to walk backward as Cid guides him. “I just made the damn thing.”

“And I will love making a mess of it with you,” growls Cid, all but pushing him up the short steps. Clive curses, glancing down and back to make sure he’s not about to trip over anything—

Only for Cid to take advantage of the distraction to shove him, yanking Clive’s shirt over his head when the back of his knees hit the bed. He topples, landing safely on his back, and Cid kneels on the floor. Yanks him closer to the edge by his hips, twisting the shirt to keep Clive’s hands trapped together. It’s a loose hold, he can easily slip out, but Clive is pleasantly surprised that he likes the fairly helpless position.

“Aren’t you gorgeous, all wrapped up for me,” breathes Cid. Clive huffs into the kiss that follows, melting into a whine as Cid tugs at his pants, peeling them down. His eyes flare as Clive’s cock springs free, a low, almost subvocal growl shaking the air between them. It’s a startling rush of pleasure for Clive to watch those eyes darken with desire.

“Gorgeous.” Cid repeats the word with a sigh, curling his hand around the length almost reverently. Even that light touch makes Clive shudder and throb. “I know you want to be inside me, and I’m more than amenable, but let me enjoy unwrapping you first, pet.”

“Fuck,” groans Clive, his chest heaving as Cid’s words—especially pet—threaten to unravel him. That voice, that timbre, that damnably clever tongue…

As though reading his mind, Cid pauses when Clive’s pants are halfway down to his knees. His tongue pokes between his teeth. Eyes sparking.

Then, with a wicked grin as warning, Cid licks a fat, long swipe over his cockhead.

Clive gasps, his bones threatening to liquefy at the sudden wet warmth. It feels so good.

And so frustratingly brief, as Cid steals the moment to pin Clive’s thighs under his arms, elbows on the bed, his upper body weight used to his advantage. Cradles Clive’s cock, flushed and heavy, faintly shiny from the single lick. He squirms, trying to get Cid to keep going, but Cid just bites the tender skin at the inner joint of his thigh and pelvis.

“Beautiful,” murmurs Cid. “Just stunning, sweetheart.”

Impatient, Clive says, “Cid, if you don’t do something, I’m more than willing to take o—”

Cid cuts him off by swallowing his cock. Wet, drooling, so hot that Clive wildly believes for a moment that Cid is the Dominant of Fire instead. He stutters through his nose, body wracked with pointed pleasure spreading from his cock to drape along every inch of skin.

“Oh,” is all he gets out.

Cid chuckles, his mouth still full, and the vibrations from it have Clive mewling almost pathetically. He draws up, lips wrapped taut yet somehow lazily drawing them over, leaving his cock shiny with spit. Then back down, his hand flattening on Clive’s lower stomach to keep him there.

What follows is the slowest, potentially most torturous blowjob Clive has ever received. Trying to buck deeper into Cid’s mouth only earns him the gift of Cid adjusting himself to pin him more firmly. All Clive can do is suffer the pleasure.

All the more startling when Cid’s finger prods his entrance—slick. Very slick.

“Cid?” he wheezes.

“Mmmm.” Cid’s hum damn near yanks Clive over the edge. He manages to stop it, just barely, though he’s breathless from the attempt. A terrible whine escapes his throat when Cid pulls off, licking his lips and flashing a wicked smile. “Don’t worry, pet. I'm not going to fuck you just yet. Just…” He slides the finger in, slow. Clive begins to shake, gasping for breath. “... giving you a little present first.”

“P-present?” Clive lifts his head weakly, blinking overwhelmed tears from his eyes.

“If you want it.” Cid leans up, shifting to crawl over him, even with one finger still inside, rubbing, smearing oil. Within an inch of his mouth, Cid rasps, “It came with the oil. Did you not look?”

Clive rolls his hips, trying to get more. The question is confusing. “It was for you, why would I…” He trails off, eyes widening. His head snaps back to glare at Cid, a blush coloring his face even redder. “Did you plan this?”

Cid grins. Then pushes a second finger in, cutting off any of Clive’s curses, melting his protests into moans and writhing to get more; more of the stretch, deeper, just, just more.

His voice dropping, Cid all but growls in his ear. “Next time, I’ll leave instructions to look, pet.” His fingers twist and widen, scissoring, searching. Dewy sweat begins to coat Clive’s skin as he pants through it, fighting not to close his eyes so he doesn’t miss a single twitch of Cid’s expression. The way the older man leers at him is as endearing as it is salacious. “But if you’re open to both of us fucking each other tonight, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

Open to? Clive is the one who suggested it. This fucking—

“It’s a plug,” whispers Cid, hoarse and sinful. “To keep you nice and ready for me later.”

Clive’s eyes widen, arousal flooding him so quickly he imagines it, imagines fucking Cid with a plug in his own ass, adding stimulation, keeping him stretched for Cid to have after Clive fills him—and the fingers inside find that spot, that beautiful spark of white-hot pleasure that has Clive crying out and arching damn near off the bed. A soft, heavy curse into his ear. Cid nips at him, at his cheek, and Clive turns his head to lick into his mouth with a moan.

“Yes,” he gasps. “Yes, please, Cid, I want it…”

Cid captures his mouth in a filthy kiss, rubbing his prostate with the pads of his fingers. Any attempt to cry out is swallowed into Cid’s throat. Then his fingers withdraw, and Clive utters a wordless protest that Cid seems insistent on kissing away.

“Let me get it for you, sweetheart,” he purrs, dropping a surprisingly cute, chaste kiss on the tip of his nose.

The reprieve allows Clive some time to catch his breath and calm down, at least. He should’ve known better. Someone like Cid would, of course, be both experienced and ruthless in the matters of physical pleasures. Idly, Clive tugs on his bound wrists. He can slip out if he wants to, but…

Something clicks not too far away. When Cid returns, Clive can’t help but hungrily stare at the obscene bulge in his trousers. He wants to touch, to put his mouth on it, to feel it inside him…

He can’t believe these are things he craves now.

Cid rakes his eyes over him, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He resumes his earlier position, on his knees beside the bed, one arm pinning Clive’s left thigh while the other holds up a plug.

It is, to Clive’s surprise, rather exquisitely crafted. Made of glass, swirling with three different shades of deep blue, decently thick at the widest part before it tapers and flares out again at the base. The upper tip is slightly curved at the end, glossy smooth and blunt. The idea of having it in him while fucking Cid pools his mouth with saliva.

The older man peers down at him beneath half-lidded eyes. “Acceptable?” Clive nods eagerly. Cid grins, easing back down. “Give me a moment to warm it for you, and we’ll get you nice and full, darling.”

Clive bites his lip, head tilting back as a whole new flush clusters in his cheeks. These pet names are going to kill him…!

Since he’s trying to calm himself down, he doesn’t see how Cid warms it, but when he feels the smooth, slick nudge at his entrance, it takes everything he has to breathe deep and exhale slow; controlled; not to flinch away in surprise or try to push down in eager want.

“That’s it,” whispers Cid. “So good for me.”

“C-Cid,” he moans.

“Shhh. You’re doing well, pet. Just a little more, eh?”

Just as Clive thinks he can’t take more, a soft, wet pop sounds and the plug nestles in. He groans, shoulders going lax as he gets used to the glass intrusion. Between his legs, Cid looks focused. Clive feels the plug shifting a bit and pushes up on his elbows.

“What are you do—ah, ah, AH.” Clive falls back again, clutching the sheets, twisting them as he gets a strong hit of pleasure when the curved tip grazes against his prostate.

“There it is.” Cid sounds, and looks, immensely satisfied with himself. Smug bastard. “How’s that?”

Much as Clive doesn’t want to give him the gratification of an answer, his muffled keens are already betraying him. He gulps down air. Stutters. “G-good…”

“Just good?” Cid presses against the base of the plug and Clive sees stars. He can’t help the senseless wail that catapults out of his chest. “Should I get a different one?”

“No!” Clive shudders, cresting along with a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to rip his feet out from under him. “No, this is p-perfect.”

Cid grins up at him. Leans up on his knees, husking, “Good,” before licking over the plug once, twice.

Much as Clive knows he can’t act, nor lie to save his life, he also knows that one thing everyone, absolutely everyone underestimates him for is his ability to recover… and recover quickly.

Ergo, he’s got the upper hand right now.

While Cid is busy being pleased with himself, Clive’s been taking stock of their positions; trying to lean up a little more each time, getting closer to his target. His cock twitches, and he’s not surprised when Cid licks a hot stripe up it, eyes closing for a moment.

Clive grabs his collar, yanking the other man up with brute strength. Before Cid has a chance to react, he grasps his belt and hauls him onto the bed. Swings his leg over, pinning one of Cid’s wrists awkwardly at his opposite hip so he has to twist. (Clive is very, very careful to ensure it’s his good arm.) He swiftly unbuckles Cid’s belt and yanks it free with a leathery slither. Tosses it away from the bed.

Breathes, “My turn.”

Cid groans, going limp, eyes dark and wanting as he peers up at him. His hips roll in a sinuous motion.

“At your leisure, pet.”

Clive is not nearly so patient removing Cid’s clothes. He pulls at them like they’ve caused him personal offense, throwing Cid’s shirt haphazardly and yanking his pants down to his ankles. His cock is swollen beneath his smallclothes. Clive rips them off, too, not even bothering with both legs before he starts mouthing at the deliciously red cock bobbing under him.

A sharp hiss sounds as Cid’s hips buck. Clive grabs him, curling his fingers to dig into his flank and shove him back down. Licks his way to the fat, swollen head and suckle.

“Fucking Greagor,” swears Cid. He attempts to grab Clive’s hair, but Clive slaps his hand away and sinks further down, wrenching a deep moan out of the older man. “Fuck, fuck!”

Clive pops off for a moment to catch his breath. Sweat dampens his hairline, tickling at his scalp. He doesn’t wait for Cid to relax before going back down, swallowing around him, deep, deeper… and then Clive takes the opportunity to brush his fingers against Cid's hole.

He freezes. What…?

Cid barks out a laugh, eyes crinkling when Clive looks up at him. “All right there?”

“You… this is…” Clive looks down, fingers encountering slick oil and firmness.

His voice crackling with lust, Cid admits, “Wasn’t sure how this would go tonight… so I made sure to be prepared.”

Founder. He even planned to get fucked? Was it just for Clive? Or—

Cid reaches out, brushing his fingers across Clive’s lips and startling him before he can spiral into toxic anxiety. The older man’s expression softens a bit.

“I’ve been eyeing you, Clive.” The use of his name and not a pet name suffused warmth through his taut chest. “But I’ll not pretend like I wouldn’t have had a good pitying wank if you weren’t interested.”

Clive’s gaze flicks down, tongue passing nervously across his lips. He is, in fact, very interested. The fact Cid enjoys playing with his own ass… it’s not something he would’ve thought of, but now that he’s looking at a very similar plug to the one in him, albeit whorling with green colors… it makes sense.

“Well?” Cid purrs. “Are you going to have at me, pet? Because daddy would like his plug out first.”

If being called pet stirred Clive up, Cid referring to himself as daddy spikes his arousal beyond measure. Clive’s fingers shake as he traces over the plug.

“Turn over.” His voice sounds ragged to his own ears.

Cid does so without complaint, arching his back beautifully. Like this, the plug is readily apparent, swirling green glass coated in slick. He can’t quite get a grip on it—

Ah. The oil needs to be wiped off, first.

The other man glances over his shoulder, visibly amused. “All right back there?”

“Never better,” mutters Clive. He strokes his own cock, pumping it to ensure full hardness, and leans forward. Cid starts under him, but Clive isn’t deterred, slotting his cock along Cid’s ass, sliding over the plug as he grinds in a mockery of fucking. The oil provides a beautiful slip.

“Too wet,” he mutters again, cheeks flaring as he rubs his dick between Cid’s cheeks. “Just… gimme a moment…”

To his surprise and delight, Cid only replies with a bitten moan before bowing his forehead into the mattress. When Clive thrusts forward, his own ass clenches around the plug, his insides pulsing around it in heat and need. If it's doing that to him, Cid must be feeling it, too…

Like Cid can read his mind, he releases a pitiful groan, his shoulder blades sharpening as he curls in. “Fu-fuck, love… that's it, just, just like th-that…”

It’s utterly lewd, the way his cock looks here. Inspired, Clive hikes Cid back and up by the hips, acknowledging his startled gasp with a grunt of his own. Like this, he’s spread even wider, and Clive has more leeway to grasp his asscheeks and squeeze them around his cock.

Both men loose filthy moans, Clive’s stuttering as he gives in for a minute to rabbit against Cid like this. The oil helps him slide so damn well. Each time he fucks forward, Cid shudders and twitches under him, pressing back to get more stimulation.

“Yes, yes, fuck lad, just like that, yes…!”

Erotic as it is, Clive forces his hips to a halt. He keeps Cid in a death grip, panting as a bead of sweat trickles down his cheek.

“Clive.”

Cid sounds needy, and damn near wrecked. Clive reluctantly eases off, wipes his damp hands on the blanket, and this time he manages to get a solid hold of the plug’s base.

“Breathe.” He tries to sound comforting, but his voice trembles.

A soft, pleased hum. Then: “Go on, pet.”

Clive is cautious at first, watching and listening intently for any sign of discontent. But Cid reacts like he’s done this a million times, rolling his hips and moaning as the plug slowly widens his slick, gripping hole. When it pops free, the rest practically shoots out. Clive fumbles it, sets it aside quickly, and shifts into an easier position. Licks his lips. Notices the oil from earlier and grabs it, dousing his own cock, ignoring the cold. A few quick pumps warms it up anyway.

“I-I’m going to put it in,” he says. Then wishes he could die on the spot. Going to put “it” in? Fucking Founder, why?

Cid rocks back in answer. Clive gasps, the tip of his throbbing cock catching on the wet rim. He steadies himself. Grabs the base. Lines himself up, and…

“Greagor’s tits.” Cid’s curse almost makes him jump. Clive tries to check in, but he’s barely got the head in and Cid is so tight. “Bloody hell, sweetheart—keep going. Please.”

It’s his tone, the way his words are jagged and honest at the edges. Clive whines softly, head bowed as he presses in more. Muscle ripples under his hands, supple skin littered with hair and scars. He rocks into Cid, cautious, needy, until his hips meet Cid’s ass with a soft slap.

Both go still, panting, adjusting to the newness of it all. Clive whimpers, folding over Cid, hugging him close and pressing his forehead against his back. All the while Cid shudders, pulses, clenches, heat and slick and fuck. He feels so good.

“Cid,” grits Clive, mouthing over his back, tasting the salt of his skin. “Can I…?”

“Aye, don’t hold back,” says Cid.

Fuck.

Despite the permission, he’s still a bit overwhelmed and doesn’t want to come too soon. So Clive starts with short, tender thrusts, the tight heat and friction so delicious on his cock that each little thrust punches a groan from him. Apparently unwilling to wait, Cid shifts forward, slamming back just when Clive starts to thrust. The force makes him cry out and bury the sound in Cid’s skin.

“Fuck, Founder, Cid,” he wheezes. Each pull out is a bit longer, and every fuck in is a little harder, faster.

But Cid doesn’t seem content to let him build up to it. With a growl, he jostles back, winding Clive with the force. Unknowing, he clenches around the plug, and it rubs wonderfully against that spot that whitens his vision for a moment. “Cid!”

“Come on, pet. Daddy needs your cock, so do it. Fuck your daddy.”

Like a thread snapping, Clive’s caution breaks. He digs his fingers into the older man’s sides and does as bid: he fucks him.

It’s rough and hot and horribly obscene. Cid’s moans are whoreish, deep and rattling, the wet sounds of oil and skin flooding the room like a bawdy song. He’s so tight, pulsing. Clive feels like he’s slipping, skidding toward the edge. Sweat drips from his hair, down his neck, tickling his back. The plug aids him along, that beautiful curve rubbing against his prostate with every fuck in.

Under him, Cid starts chanting fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Clive is driven wild by it, by him, and his bloody sinful voice.

He can feel it; he’s close. So close.

“A-ah, fuck, Cid, daddy, daddy daddy please, please talk,” he gasps. So. Fucking. Close.

Cid rumbles. Rolls his head back, his brow furrowed, eyes blinking away sweat and revealing enormous pupils with thin rings of green and faint violet sparks.

“Go on,” he growls, and how he keeps his voice so damn steady when Clive is fucking him with the effort of a man driven mad is naught but a mystery. “Come inside me, Clive.”

Like a trigger pulled, Clive erupts. Shouting, grinding in deep, trying to stuff Cid with his cum with every stuttering roll of his hips.

Fuck, Greagor, that’s good, pet, so warm, filling me up, yes, yes, mmmm.

Clive finds himself basking in the warm tones, the deep praise and loving words. He hardly realizes that he’s practically slumped over Cid, arms wrapped tight around him, shaking from the force of his orgasm. The high allows him to drift a while longer. It’s… lovely. Gratifying.

Slowly, he unwinds from the tension, the haze of his post-orgasm leaving him almost sagging his full weight against Cid.

Much as he wants to stay here, however, he doesn’t want to crush Cid, either. Clive whimpers softly as he regathers his strength, pulling out with a lewd slip. Beneath him, Cid rumbles his pleasure, turning over and pulling Clive to half-kneel over, half-lie on him.

“Mmm, there you are,” the older Dominant purrs. Callused hands pet the sides of Clive’s face, thumbing over his scruff, tracing the Brand on his left cheek. Clive sighs and leans into it. Distantly, he feels his soft cock brush against Cid’s, and he is still hard and hot. But aside from some oversensitive shivers, he just feels warm and loose and cared for.

When Cid brings him in for a kiss, it’s the first tender one of the evening—hopefully, the first of many after tonight. Even as Cid licks into his mouth, it’s sweet, thick and long, like a pour of syrup. Clive’s breath stutters through his nose. He goes lax against the other man.

“Gorgeous,” murmurs Cid. He noses at Clive’s cheek, ignoring his huff. “And incredible. You’ve a good cock, love.”

“Just good?”

Cid laughs at the words thrown back in his face. “Wonderful,” he amends with another kiss. “Lovely. Stupendous. Heavenly.” He says each word between kisses, which Clive is more than happy to return. He shifts atop Cid and whimpers when the motion drags their cocks together… and his is beginning to fill out again already.

This man will be the death of him. He can feel it.

“Cid.” It comes out breathy, almost a plea.

Cid’s eyes crinkle at the edges, a playful gleam sparking. “Aye?”

Clive looks down at him, swallowing. He’s still a bit shaky, still highly sensitive, but… when he clenches experimentally, the plug squeezes against his prostate, making him keen. He does it a few more times, watching as Cid’s amusement melts into lust.

He says, hoarsely, “Let me ride you. Please.”

A punched-out noise escapes Cid’s chest. He runs his hands possessively down Clive’s sides, squeezes his hips. Runs them back up, and Clive rises at his subtle urging, until he’s high on his knees and Cid’s fingers are kneading his chest, teasing his nipples.

Eyes narrow and heated, Cid growls, “If you want to ride daddy’s cock, darling, you’ll have to ride my face first.”

Face burning, but eager, Clive awkwardly shuffles until he’s almost in place. Cid looks up. Groans deep.

“Fuck, Clive.”

He doesn’t get a chance to adjust any further. Cid grasps his ass in both hands, growling and kneading the thick cheeks. Startled, Clive still has the sense to try reaching back to pull out the plug… only for Cid to snarl and slap his hand away before he yanks Clive forward and then down onto his mouth.

Clive yelps, then yells as Cid’s tongue presses up hard against the plug. It forces the toy to grind against his prostate, and while it feels amazing, it’s too thin; only makes him crave the thick, blunt pressure of something more substantial. He squirms atop the other man, panting. Cid utters a dark, filthy sound through his nose and starts noisily licking around the plug, the back, and then over his balls.

Desperate for purchase, Clive tries to lean forward, to put his hands on the wall. Cid jerks him back. Forcing him to balance like this.

“Cid,” he cries, then shrieks when the other man lays a fat, wide lick up his cock, simultaneously gripping the plug’s base with three fingers and pulling. “Ah, ah, fuck. Cid!”

The plug comes free with a lewd pop and is discarded. Clive has no idea where, because Cid is already back to his hole, greedily eating him out like tomorrow isn’t coming. Sloppy sucks, loud slurps, vulgar, muffled curses and moans, like he’s the one being pleasured. The scratch of his rough beard against delicate skin is borderline painful in Clive’s sensitized state. He almost sobs from the mixture of pain/pleasure.

Just as quick and dirty as he started, Cid pulls him off. Clive all but falls onto his chest, gasping for air, watching Cid through bleary eyes as the man takes him in, gaze starved, mouth wet with oil and spit.

“Go on, pet,” he rasps, licking his lips. Clive whines. “Sit on my cock.”

Clive scrambles back, barely realizing he’s almost fully hard again. He grabs for the oil, dumping a generous amount into his hand and rubbing it over Cid’s hot length. Cid strains a groan between his teeth, steadying Clive with a hold on his hips as Clive adjusts, fumbles for Cid’s cock. Guides it to where he needs it, then, with a heavy breath, begins to sink down.

Even with the plug to help him adjust to an intrusion, it’s not the same as Cid’s cock. Clive grits his teeth, bearing down, tears beading in the corner of his eyes from the stretch; the burn.

“Easy, love,” rasps Cid. His hold on Clive firms. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

Clive shakes his head frantically. Manages to get out, “I l-like this… the burn… just… fuck, trust me.”

For a moment, Cid’s expression softens. He reaches up, startling Clive with a gentle graze of knuckles across his cheek. Clive’s eyes widen for a split second.

“Following your lead, then, eh?”

The soft understanding threatens to burst Clive’s heart. He nods. Turns his head to kiss Cid's fingertips.

Then he focuses on his task. Inching down. Chewing on his lower lip, whimpers muffled behind his lips. Sweat beading along his forehead anew. All the while, Cid husks encouragement, rubs his thighs, his sides, thumbing over his nipples and jolting new pleasure down to his cock, which had begun to flag a little on his descent.

Then, suddenly, he can’t go any further, fully seated on Cid’s dick. Clive utters a grating moan, part relief and part need. It takes him a moment to recognize the second sound flooding his ears; Cid shuddering and grunting short, feral noises that spread warm tingles down Clive’s spine.

Clive peers down at him, his cock twitching, thickening at how barely restrained Cid looks under him. Flushed entirely, neck muscles tense, a sliver of teeth bared as he stares at Clive’s cock, which twitches again under the display of wanton desire. Clive shifts, just to see Cid’s lip curl and his eyes narrow. Pinched, like it’s killing him to hold back.

Clive shivers. Licks his lips.

“Cid.” Green eyes flicker up at him, almost entirely swallowed by black. Darting his tongue over his lips again, Clive says, “Good daddies don’t come first.”

Cid’s eyes only have a split second to widen before Clive lifts himself. Both men’s moans mingle at the drag; the friction. The burn is beginning to fade to something more pleasurable. Clive raises a bit higher, pausing to squeeze on the head of Cid’s cock, still trapped inside—and then falls back down. Hard.

A short, aborted noise spits out between Cid’s clenched teeth. His head snaps back, fingers flexing on Clive’s hips, and then his thighs, trying to find something of purchase. “Great fucking Greag—”

Clive cuts him off by lifting again, shuddering, clenching, and Cid breaks into a string of curses. Then back down. Up again, and down, not giving either of them a chance to truly draw breath. As he works out a rhythm, Clive leans forward, running his hands through the damp hair on Cid’s chest, teasing them between his fingers, little tugs before he smooths them out again only to watch them attempt to coil back up. His hips wriggle, shift, trying to get that perfect angle, and then he finds it. Galaxies are borne behind his clenched eyelids, a bitten cry escaping him as he settles down, grinding himself onto the gloriously thick cock stuffing him full.

“Cid, fuck, yes,” he gasps, flexing his fingers against his chest.

Despite his shortened breaths, Cid sounds smug. “Need daddy to take over?”

Clive blinks down at him. Sucks his lower lip between his teeth as though considering.

Not that there’s anything to consider.

“Mmm…” He shifts again. A violent shudder wracks him as Cid fairly pulses inside, a brief jolt of his hips grinding his cock in deeper. Clive moans, long and loud. Flutters his lashes and peers down at Cid again.

“Clive.” His name is both a plea and a warning.

In response, Clive smooths his fingers across Cid’s torso again. Curls them to grip the thick hair at the center of the broadest part of his chest. Lifts up, then slams back down, gripping the hair and using the momentum of his weight and the hold to move.

“No,” he breathes. His cock is freely leaking now, dribbling onto Cid’s stomach as the other man’s needy inhales become a sweet tune. “No, I’ve got this.”

He leans forward, hard, and rides Cid even harder. Heat rapidly swells inside him, between them, the slide and friction of Cid’s cock lighting up his insides and jolting him with sheer pleasure every time he fucks down. Watching Cid fight to hold himself together under him is a sight indeed. His expression is taut, skin drenched in sweat, fingers unable to stop roaming and touching Clive. Pinching his nipples, squeezing his thighs, grasping one of his arms while Clive rides his cock with stamina that surprises even him. His legs shake from the effort soon enough, though, and he can hear the unsteady wheezing that shows Cid is barely holding on.

“Don’t come,” gasps Clive. “Don’t come daddy, not yet, fuck.”

“Bloody brat.” Cid tangles a hand in Clive’s hair, pulling, and something about the sting completely turns the tables. Clive jerks in his hold. His cock pulses, pre-cum spurting out as the stinging wonder of Cid yanking his hair is lightning from his scalp to his dick. Eyes sharpening, Cid’s mouth twists in a vicious grin that makes Clive’s heart thunder in his chest.

In a sultry purr, Cid says, “Daddy won’t come yet. But you…” He tugs Clive’s hair hard enough to pull his head to the side, exposing his throat. “You can come.”

Clive’s orgasm, while building, slams into him out of nowhere, as though simply waiting for the permission. He shrieks, trembling through it, wave after wave pulsing over him. Thick streams of cum shoot from his cock, painting Cid’s abdomen, his chest, getting on Clive’s hands where he’s grabbing him still and shaking from his climax.

Even as he’s riding the high, Cid pushes himself up with his other hand, pulling Clive back as well until he’s sitting up in Cid’s lap. Cid darts forward, biting down on the muscle connecting his neck to his shoulder, gnawing there as Clive wails as though hit by a second, smaller orgasm, though his cock has nothing left to give.

Slowly, Cid’s mouth leaves, closing in a kiss over the tender skin where he bit. He grasps Clive’s hip with a broad hand. Thunder swells in his deep, low voice.

“My turn.”

Just like that, he starts chasing his orgasm. Lifting Clive and pushing him down onto his cock, like he weighs damn near nothing. The muscles of his biceps flex, shiny with sweat and exertion. The tendons in his neck are taut, his ferocious, heavy breaths heaving his chest. Clive can barely hold tight to him as it is now, arms around his neck, burrowing into Cid’s throat as the other man uses him for his pleasure.

And, of course, Cid has to talk.

“Fuck, you bloody minx, you’re so tight, so warm, hell. Should’ve had you on my cock weeks ago.” Clive sobs into his throat, nuzzling weakly, still shivering from the hypersensitivity after his last orgasm. “Nngh, don’t cry, pet. Daddy’s gonna come in you, nice and deep.”

“Cid…” His voice is barely a whisper, cracked and hoarse. Fresh tears well in Clive’s eyes and spill over. His ass is sore, and his prostate swollen and bruised, yet he doesn’t want it to end… but he does want to feel Cid’s cum leaking out of him after. “I… I have to tell you…” He laves at his earlobe, almost delirious in his post-orgasm high, still stuffed so full. His voice is barely a whisper, cracking. “I f-fell for you… when you yelled for me in Lostwing…”

A short, snapping snarl. Cid is more grinding than fucking now, clutching Clive close. The slip of sweat and spit and oil have them sliding deliriously against each other, and while Clive adds tears to the mix from overwhelmed pleasure, Cid is finally showing signs of being close. Uneven gasps, nails scraping at Clive’s hips, his back, fumbling to hold on despite the increasing difficulty. Then he utters in a guttural moan,

“Cliiiiive.”

His voice alone almost makes Clive believe he’s experiencing a third orgasm. Cid stills but for little rotations of his hips, short judders, trying to fuck every bit he can into him. Sparks fizzle and expire on his skin, white and lavender. Clive has to clench his eyes against the blinding light. The air between them tastes like ozone and petrichor.

Clive isn’t sure when he blinks his eyes open again, but when he does, they’ve somehow separated and are lying on their sides. Their breaths mingle, damp, humid, belonging. Clive really, really wants to just fall asleep, but when Cid sits up with a groan, he knows that’s not happening right away.

Considering how much effort he put in with his hips and legs today, he is not going to complain if Cid wants to take care of clean-up. And take care of it he does, finding a cool towel to wipe them both down and getting a grumpy Clive up so he can toss off the bedding and throw on something clean. Then, as though Clive was even considering leaving, Cid wraps an arm around his waist and yanks him back to the bed with a grunt. Clive scoffs and sighs, turning into the man’s hold, content as Cid tugs a sheet over them.

Even as he settles, he inhales sharply, startled when Cid begins to rub his lower back in slow, warm circles. It… actually feels really good, after all that.

“Stamina from the gods themselves,” murmurs Cid, laughing softly into his hair.

“Shut up.”

“Mm, no, that’s not what got me here with such a gorgeous man.”

Embarrassed, pleased, and not wanting to show either, Clive hides his face in Cid’s chest. Breathes in the scent of musk, of Cid, and sighs.

A vague thought occurs to him. “I lied, you know.”

Cid pauses. “Eh?”

Yawning, Clive adds, “I didn’t fall for you, mmn, at Lostwing.” He snuggles closer. Adds, almost as an afterthought, “Was when you were all, ah, fired up about Bearers n’ us not being treated fairly.”

A soft, subtle inhale, and then Cid squeezes him. Clive squawks. Smacks his chest. “Too tight!”

“So was your ass, but you don’t see me complaining,” snarks Cid.

“Shut up, Cid.” Clive shoves at him, glaring when Cid just grins wolfishly back. “Like you were easy to fuck. Tighter than a bloody corset.”

“Ah, from the wearer of such himself?”

“Ugh.”

Cid laughs, pulling him in again. Clive only puts up a modicum of a fight, sulking against him and hiding a faint smile into his shoulder.

Now, he’s rather looking forward to the next time Cid calls for him.