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Tonight, the solar is warm, the wine decent, and the food cooked to perfection – and still, still, Cid hungers for more. His tongue and his hands are wicked things. Always wandering and impossible to satisfy – and they devour Clive Rosfield whole.
Spread, soaked. Souls equally starved. Unsatisfied, and Cid will not let such a travesty remain. Clive is beautiful as a baseborn creature under a heady gaze. Stripped of all and goaded, and he wears a flush far more alluring than any armor or uniform. It sits highest upon his cheeks and pinkens as far as his taut balls.
Ripe for the taking and yet Cid lets his cock lie against his belly, wet with deepest need.
His hands are not yet quieted. His mouth is still wet with longing. Cid, bowing over Clive’s body, feeds as the leader of the pack would. No part of Clive goes unkissed. A perfect pink nipple ripens against his tongue, sucked swollen until Clive bleats. Cid gasps in turn as he pulls free but takes no reprieve – he savors the curve of Clive’s pec, teeth scraping, and sucks a large bruise where Clive’s pulse rabbits strongest. Sweat and life tempt Cid all the more.
His hands come to cradle Clive’s chest. His fingers thoughtlessly dig into older bruises ringed by teeth and Clive moans raggedly. The quaking cuts through them both as surely as steel.
And scrap of shame is suppressed by want. Cid’s curse is bone deep and cruel, his body softened by forty long summers, and Clive’s legs spread further, their blood racing. Liquid fire within and sparks on every inch that their flesh meets. Cid’s cock yearns to be kissed. His skin longs to sing with sharpness.
Instead, his scalp burns. Clive’s fingers claw and he seizes some fragment of control as he tugs Cid’s slack mouth within reach. A crushing kiss knocks the air out of him and savage teeth barely stifle a grunt. Clive is sloppy and dangerous, pulling out strands of hair and reason. Alcohol is sour on such a sweet tongue.
Beneath the tumult there is little left past desire. Exposing, bone breaking desire, and Cid licks deeper into Clive without restraint. There is smoke building in their overworked lungs. Whatever remains of him knows the inferno is deadly – a terrible scheme cooked up by a terrible man, twisting what the man beneath him could be. But ah – Clive’s cock is dripping and his body is the sweetest thing Cid has known in a decade or more, and Lostwing’s wines sully the mind. For the headache that will come with dawn Clive is worth it.
Cid kneads what he can reach of Clive’s beautiful chest and Clive’s nails threatened scars intercrossed along his back, kisses of welts. His swallowed moans spill over as headily as their cocks do. They rut purely by coincidence, swollen and desperate the longer their need goes ignored. And Cid is desperate – alone for too long, tempted for too long. Clive’s hot eyes and is he hot inside, is he soft, will he come beautifully on Cid’s fat cock –
The words spill over without sense as they are finally forced apart. Cid demands and pleads through wheezing breaths and Clive watches him closely. Dark lashes entrance him as their bodies rock and grapple. His hair is an untamable mess. Sanctified and yet sullied – Cid’s filthy lust reflected. Cid’s hand catches Clive’s cheek, thumb falling against his swollen lips, and Clive captures it in a heartbeat.
Greagor, but his mouth is good. His tongue drags across the pad and curls. His eyes hold a thousand complexities in the candlelight, and he sucks greedily as if Cid might have anything worthy of giving. Cid’s moan warbles, his hips catching. It is worse when one hand remains lazily draped over Cid’s shoulder and the other cradles his hand, flush against his sweaty brand.
Cid can no longer breathe. In lieu, he needs Clive, and his clumsy hand ambles between their bodies and finds his own cock. It’s sodden and scalding. Feverish, he thrusts without clear direction, finding only Clive’s strong thighs. Fuck, he manages, thick tongued, and somewhere in the madness is Clive’s name.
A bead of sweat leaves his spine tacky. The hairs upon his chest are saturated under pressure. He feels like a lad of Clive’s age again. He feels momentarily worthy amongst the haze and the head of his cock finds Clive’s softness, barely stretched open under playful hands daring to go further. Too hasty, too drunk and Cid rubs himself until he catches. The tiny circles leave him gasping, and Clive slurs a yes –
Cid feeds him an inch, another, and Clive’s thighs tremble. That beautiful face succumbs. His brows sink and his mouth loses focus upon Cid’s thumb, a little saliva in the corner of his mouth, in the webbing of Cid’s fingers. A broken little moan makes Cid’s chest ache. If he were weaker, he might have listened to the part of him insisting it was his name. Instead, he lumbered forward, seeking hasty little kisses.
Embraced so intimately, he shivered. All stirred no matter how deep within it lie. A decade of loneliness – both self-imposed by necessity and the grade design of fate. Eight – nine Eikons, and two lost to him forever. A life of companionship had felt forever out of his reach.
But ah, how he dreamed. Like a maiden dreaming of a wedding bed whilst put on her back by a lover who would prove himself disloyal. All this for a kiss and warm blue eyes. Cid shook the fantasy away like cloying cobwebs. He swallowed a sigh of Clive’s name and guided himself deeper into bliss.
With his head bowed in such reverence their mouths fell into joining again and again. Softer, barely there at times. They parted only around gasps as Cid pressed closer, his cock welcomed. Clive’s thighs come to close around his waist and his own cock left his navel gleaming. Another soft sigh, the drag of a tongue against the other’s lip, and their bellies are flush. Cid rests perfectly between his legs and lies there for a long, perfect moment.
The hand within his hair falls to cup the nape of his neck. In turn Cid’s falls, too, his arms coming to brace themselves around Clive’s pillowed head. Wild black hair spills against his forearms. Clive kisses his chin, his jaw, his mouth. The heat remains but simmers, nurtured beneath their prickling surface. Though his mouth is no doubt as sore as Cid’s he is temptation itself – Cid will kiss him until he bleeds.
Unable to deny himself any longer Cid slides his arms beneath Clive’s back. A small noise of protest interrupts him for a single moment – Cid turns, kissing him pliant and slow before heaving him up. Most of the heavy lifting is done by Cid’s good arm around Clive’s waist, the palm of his curse-afflicted hand between his shoulder blades to prevent discomfort and shame. Clive comes to sits upon his thighs as a king would, taking Cid’s cock deeper, held at his most faithful’s whims.
It feels good in a way that Cid cannot fully describe. To have Clive pull him closer again, to kiss him and never stop is an overpowering shot of adrenaline and lust. Clive pants between each embrace, cheeks darkening. Cid simply waits for each, letting himself be used.
Such need swiftly becomes unbearable. Cid keens softly and his arms tighten, hips making a small, easy circle. Another becomes another too easily, and one more, and Clive purrs into mouth. Fingers begin to massage the fine hairs upon his nape and Cid cannot tell which is the greatest pleasure. They grind together until it is not enough and Cid chances a thrust. Just a suggestion, just a plea, and Clive draws tighter around him with a sigh of relief.
Assured, Cid gifts him another. The pleasure loosens the taut core of him and warms the very bottom of his spine. Clive strokes him and moans and Cid fucks into him helplessly, each thrust coming faster and harder. Pleasure drips along the entire length of his body, his fingers and his toes buzzing. Cid’s eyes turn heavy lidded and he mumbles nonsense against Clive’s throat. His hips work without his control, heady on instinct.
It’s a gentler union that Cid’s deep need and his path of bruises suggested. But the urgency grows and the intimacy sharpens and Cid bounces Clive in his lap to hear more of Clive’s happy sighs, his hiccupping. In turn Cid groans, tacky with pleasure and entirely unrestrained. It aches a little not to be kissed but Clive’s noises are a comfort of their own. Cid’s ears ring and his heart pounds, and the moment spirals for an eternity.
Clive’s head tilts into the strength of Cid’s shoulder. His hands stroke or grasp, unwilling to release him for even a second. Warm breath billows across his shoulder. “Oh,” he whispers, and Cid burns, oh, Cid, and Cid erupts.
When Clive is thrown back onto the mattress he bounces. The cool air against Cid’s cock is sobering but Clive’s laughter makes the solar that much brighter. His arms open to welcome Cid home and Cid flattens him without a second thought, chest to chest, belly to belly. Clumsily he seeks connection and Clive moans for the glide of his cock, smiling still. The briefest taste of his smile is addictive.
They waste no time. Cid picks up a steady rhythm of thrusts to see Clive squirming, and squirm he does, holding tight to Cid’s straining back. The mattress bows beneath them and the frame of the bed squeaks in protest. It is not used to this – Cid found the odd night of pleasure with someone who had taken his coin and did not care to question that his shirt remained. It had never truly satisfied and his bed never tested. It announces them to any who might remain awake at this witching hour.
Spread and laughing still, Clive seeks the lobe of Cid’s ear. The chuckles vibrate through him as he sucks the coloured glass stud. “Cid,” he slurs, and nips him hard.
The invitation is taken. Cid sits up and readjusts to frame his waist with both hands and enjoy a fevered pace. He huffs with exertion, grunting and moaning between, tugging Clive further up his lap and propping him with his thighs. Clive splays out, an image as perfect as an oil painting. The still wet bruises shine in the candlelight as he tilts his head up to cry out. His chest heaves with every breath.
Cid’s name fills the solar, cracked and wanting. His hands come to rest on Cid’s chest, teasing along his straining belly. Restless – greedy, as Cid has hoped to teach him to be. As he ought to be. His hands slide slowly to Cid’s own, up his forearms, paying no heed to flesh that hardens to stone. Cid’s biceps bulge and Clive is smothered by arousal, the endless wash of ecstasy.
Inside Cid’s patience grows thinnest. There is nowhere else to go. Beneath him Clive arches, keening as Cid finds him repeatedly, cockhead right up against the core of his pleasure. Those dark eyes flutter closed and his torso stretches; body bullied into sweetest submission. Strong hands curl against his biceps – please, they say with a squeeze, please.
There is no other choice but for Clive to come first. Cid’s arrogance demands it. Hastily he reaches for Clive’s cock, wet and wanting, and simply drags his thumb along the underside. Sloppy, clumsy work, and yet Clive seizes around his cock. His grasp tightens and he cries, “Cid!”
Delighted, it spurs him on. Fighting to maintain his pace inside despite how Clive grows tighter, tighter, he strokes his cock throughout. A hand clasps over his wrist and Clive shudders and shouts his pleasure through grit teeth. Fleetingly Cid wonders when the last time Clive was touched – if it all – and Cid burns to kiss him again.
There is no more time to act. One more stroke and Clive’s spine shakes and bows. A beautiful sight and Clive’s cock spills, hot over his own belly and Cid’s hand. Cid fucks him throughout, watching with greedy eyes as Clive’s mouth parts, his eyes squeezed shut. Pleasure soaks his chest and Clive comes harder under the devotion, peaking with a shout. He hangs there, stupefied, and Cid knows pure satisfaction.
When the crest begins to falter Cid releases his oversensitive cock. His messy hand smooths along Clive’s heaving pec and thumbs across his nipple. It won’t be long for himself and Clive pants, now watching him closely. His cock softens, almost sweet against his thigh.
It is the heavy gaze that brings Cid to the end. It pierces him through and Cid hangs his head, pace faltering as the tension snaps. “Clive,” he manages, run through, out of breath finally, and he comes harder than he can ever hope to remember. He spills himself deep, a glutton, always – rolling, pressing, his balls flush with Clive’s thighs. A terrible, shuddering groan, and whine of his own, and Cid loses himself entirely.
Perhaps an eternity passes.
Cid’s old aches are gone. There is his frantic heart and the sweat upon his skin, and Clive soft and warm. Beneath his palm Clive is frenetic, too, and he relishes this time – panting breaths, and not a word between them. It is tucked behind his heart, never to be forgotten.
When the eternity still crumbles, as Cid knows all too well that all things do, he finds himself lying flat across Clive. Surely he must be heavy and yet Clive does not complain. Instead his hand is in Cid’s hair, scratching through the strands and against his scalp. Another lies flat across his back. A silent encouragement to stay nestled, despite the mess, despite the sweat.
Clive’s nose nudges his cheek until Cid turns. There is the finest cut of lazy blue and a curious mouth – it catches the corner of his own and lays affection until Cid’s mouth parts. Clive’s tongue is lazy but sweet as their hearts slow.
No one makes to leave.
Within minutes not a word is said. Their bodies calm and cool and Clive turns for them to lie cheek to cheek, sighing his contentment. Their shed clothes are long forgotten, and they scarcely understand that dawn is coming.
Cid falls asleep, cradled and caressed, and wakes with kind company and without pain.