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In the balmy heat, the leather shackles around his wrists and ankles are already damp with sweat. There’s hardly any space to move, just one chain linking each wrist to the same sided ankle. Clive blinks up from his seated position, attempting to clear his eyes from tears. His heart races, a distinct tha-thump, ba-thump, thud-thud-thump. Even as he attempts his deep breathing exercises, a sharp, leathery snap grabs his attention and steals his breath.
Not for the first time, he looks at Cid, advancing upon him with thunder and storms in his eyes. Fully clothed, aside from the belt he’s unraveled from his hips and coiled about his palm. The promise of bloodshed in his eyes is that of a Lord Commander, not of a middle-aged man in the midst of a country-wide coupe.
Clive gulps, wondering how the flaming hells he got here in the first place.
***
“Stresses of the job gettin’ to ya, eh?”
Clive looks up from the stack of missives on his desk, frowning at the sly yet oddly warming grin on Gav’s face. Even one eye down, he maintains a solid rigor and an attitude Clive can’t help but deeply admire.
Rather than say any of this, he lowers his head. Mutters, “Nothing I can’t handle.”
It’s true, of course. Though Cid’s recovery from the disastrous ordeal at Oriflamme has long since passed, Clive has buried himself more and more in his workload. Prior to Drake’s Head, he hadn’t the faintest clue what it truly took for Cid to run an entire bloody Hideaway. Even moreso now that they’ve been forced to abandon the deadlands and reconstruct in Bennumere.
Gav hums softly, sauntering into the chambers. No matter how much has changed, Clive can’t quite bring himself to replicate the word solar near so much as taking on the mantle of Cid the Outlaw. Some things are too sacred to reconstruct. The solar is absolutely one of them.
His best scout comes to a halt before the desk, drumming it with leather-clad fingers. Initially, Clive attempts to ignore him, but ignoring Gav is like ignoring an itch.
He’ll get to you eventually, whether you ignore him or not.
Rough, yet somehow caring, Gav slips a folded and sealed paper onto his desk. “I know ya ain’t keen on takin’ time off, boss, but it’d do ya some good to clear yer head now an’ then.”
Though Clive’s every instinct tells him to bolt to the nearest, deadliest mark, he picks up the parchment and frowns at it. After a moment’s hesitation, he slits the seal open and unfolds it with delicacy. His eyes scan the words… and he frowns.
Sir Clive “Cid” Telamon-Rosfield,
All expenses pre-paid!
Please join us at the Dalimil Inn for refreshments, a hot bath, and a personal masseuse! Your blatant secret admirer is eager to see you luxuriate in the finest baths of Valisthea. Drinks, food, room and board are fully covered for your week-long stay!
We look forward to meeting you!
Warmest Regards,
The Dahlimil Inn (et all)
Clive stares at the paper, his mind torn in several directions with no clear instruction as to which to follow first.
“Gav,” he starts, even and hard, “why the bloody hell is this addressed to one Telamon-Rosfield as though I’m a kept man?”
Raising his hands in surrender, Gav says, “Search me! I’m just the delivery man.”
“Who the bloody hell—”
“Who d’ya think?”
Clive stares at him. He has no clue.
After the brief staring competition, Gav shakes his head. “Look, it’s already paid for. Maybe just go, give it a try?”
“For a week? I can’t afford to—”
“To what, unwind?” Gav cocks an eyebrow. “So. We at the Hideaway ain’t competent enough to run the show in your stead?”
Groaning, Clive leans back in his chair and rubs his face. The scar where his brand used to be has only recently, fully healed. He’s already been out of commission; just got back to business a month ago.
Gav leans over the table, fingers spread across the wood. “Listen. Ya can go without all this bellyachin’, or I can bring the cavalry. Your choice.”
Giving him a baleful stare, Clive finally assents. “Fine. On the condition that if anything, anything unexpected at all happens, you send me a stolas.”
A broad grin lights Gav’s face. “On my honor.”
Once Gav walks out, Clive grabs his gil pouch. If he’s going to do this, he’s starting it off with a hearty ale first.
***
The sun bears down on the Dalimil Inn, so high overhead there are hardly any shadows. Clive keeps his cloak hood up for protection, reluctant to leave Ambrosia. He could just leave, go back to Bennumere and claim the inn accidently gave his reservation to someone else. Shit happens.
His easy escape is literally snatched from his hands when the chocobo caretaker seizes the reins. “Ah, you must be Clive! Please, allow me to take care of your girl while you get settled inside!”
Ugh.
Mumbling thanks, Clive trots into the inn, allowing his hood to fall. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust from insistent sunlight to the gentle glow of indoor light crystals. Before the door even closes behind him, a young brunette grabs him by the arm.
“Sir Telamon-Rosfield, this way please!”
Clive frowns. “I’m not—”
“Don’t worry about a thing! Allow me to show you to your room, where you may change out of those clothes and into what we’ve prepared for you. Your benefactor is most generous, sir, and we’ve provided the finest of silk robes to begin your evening.” She chatters away, neither looking at him or allowing him the chance to breathe, much less talk. “Once you’ve changed, Padril will escort you to the salt baths for your floating session. You’ll want to wash the salt off right after, so the freshwater baths will be next. Your masseuse isn’t due until tomorrow, but rest assured that the warm rock massage is our pride and joy here at the Dalimil Inn!” She stops in front of a door, unlocks it, and all but pushes him in.
Clive turns, not particularly pleased about the manhandled. “But I’m not actually—”
“Oh! Before I forget, allow me to congratulate you on your nuptials!”
His jaw clacks shut, eyes bugging out of his head. “My wh—”
The door closes, the sound of rapid footsteps fading in the woman’s retreat.
Frustrated, Clive briefly considers leaving. But knowing so much has been paid for keeps him reluctantly in place. Whoever set this up for him was truly trying; the least he can do is stay a night or two. He doesn’t have to do the full week.
He turns to take in his room with a frown. The bed is quite large, as though meant for four people, with silk sheets and plush pillows, enough to cover a grown man’s body, which seems a bit excessive to Clive. A gold-framed mirror nearly covers the entire wall behind the mattress, and there is a strangely distinct lack of a headboard. On the bedside table, an iron bowl of water ripples next to one neatly folded hand towel.
After looking about to be sure if no hidden assassins—in case this is an elaborate hoax, though the gil spent would indicate it’s likely not—Clive’s gaze settles upon the robe laid out upon the bed. It’s a grayish violet color, muted in comparison to the deep, sultry colors adorning the rest of the room. He fingers the cloth for a moment, unable to deny the sweet slide between his fingers. It takes little more than a moment’s consideration before he’s unlacing his jerkin and pants, peeling them off his sweat-laden body. He’s less sure about putting on such a fine robe after travel, but figures he should trust the process.
He uses the bowl and hand towel provided to wipe down before donning the robe. It feels wonderful against his skin, reminding him of his upbringing. Good and sour memories flood him at the nostalgia. He shoos them away.
Once clad in nothing more than the robe, a knock grabs his attention. He answers the door, at first wary but less so when he’s met by a lad with a cherubic, smiling face.
“Shall we?” asks the one he presumes is Padril.
Clive merely nods.
“That color is good on you,” says Padril in what is, in Clive’s opinion, an obvious ploy at light conversation. “Though I think the red might’ve suited you best.”
Puzzled, Clive asks, “What red?”
Padril hesitates, eyes widening like he realizes he said something wrong, then hurries to open a nearby door. “Oh, just one of many we offer. Anyway, good sir, you look stunning! Please proceed to the salt baths.” Clive attempts to interrupt, but Padril—who must’ve taken lessons from the woman earlier—speaks over his feeble attempts. “You’ll strip down, hang your robe on the provided hook, and lie down in the bath. The salt allows you to float. We don’t require the cork earplugs, though we do highly recommend them.”
“I—” tries Clive.
“Please enjoy your float!” Padril slams the door in his face. Clive doesn’t even remember crossing the threshold.
This is supposed to be relaxing? Clive rubs his forehead, sighs, and looks over to the small, inlaid bath. The room isn’t very large, just enough to fit him, a bath, and a small table with a towel.
He strips out of the robe and hangs it on the single provided hook. Stepping into the water, he’s only a little surprised at how warm it is. The water smells faintly of brine. When he lies down, he finds that his body does float with minimal effort, if any at all.
How long he spends in there, trapped with his own increasingly irritated thoughts, Clive can’t be certain. The experience feels a little closer to torture than relaxation. Once he decides that he’s had enough, he climbs out of the water and towels off. His ears itch. He rubs at them and comes away with a grainy, white substance.
The salt. Right. That’s why Padril recommended earplugs.
He towels off and slips back into the robe, disliking the faint itch that comes with the aftermath of salt water. There’s a second door opposite the one Padril led him through. Stepping into the next room, he finds another small, steaming bath, along with soap scented with lavender and mint.
The experience of bathing is practical to him, so he gets through that, taking extra care to rub lavender oil into his hair to get the salt out. He does feel better after that… but then, the float bath is what made him itchy in the first place.
This inn is strange.
Clive is just about done with the twists and turns of this place when he enters the next room and is greeted by a beaming woman with enormous breasts. Which he can’t help but notice because she’s naked.
“I am not interested,” he says.
She laughs, much to his perplexion. “I should hope not! Your spouse would be quite sore with both of us.”
“I don’t have a—”
“My nudity is for my benefit during your body scrub,” she continues, as though he hasn’t spoken. “It can get messy and become troublesome to wash out of clothes.”
Clive stares blankly at her. “My what now?”
The woman smiles even wider somehow. “The body scrub is part of your treatment.”
He puts his hands up. “Now hold on a bloody second. First of all, I’m not married.” She arches her eyebrow but doesn’t comment. “Second of all, I don’t understand any of this. The salt bath was hardly relaxing, and I don't see how the hot bath was supposed to help. Therefore, thirdly, I am not letting you put anything on my body without full understanding of what the hell it’s made of.”
Still with her placating smile, she says, “Of course, Mr. Telamon-Rosfield.”
Fucking fire and flames.
“I apologize that the salt float wasn’t relaxing for you. Admittedly, it is not for everyone. But I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have, starting with the body scrub.” She gestures to a leather-padded wooden table behind her, which he failed to notice due to trying not to stare at her breasts. “What happens is, you lie on the table and I apply a scrub all over your skin. Our scrub is homemade from sugar, coffee grounds, and daffodil oil. I rub it all over your body—”
“Everywhere?” Clive flushes at how his voice pitches.
“Everywhere but your cock and face,” she says easily.
Clive groans and covers his face with one hand. What the hell is this place?
The woman hardly even pauses for breath. “I rub it over your body and remove the dead skin, leaving you with a fresh, dewy bodily complexion. The scrub and dead skin are rinsed off with our mugwort tea water, warmed for your comfort.”
That sounds like a waste of tea. Clive keeps his mouth shut, though. Not like anyone here listens to him anyway.
“After that, you’ll head to the private herbal hotspring that comes with your room,” she continues. “That, at least, should be much more relaxing for you, I hope?”
He shrugs helplessly. What can he do, leave? The worker has been reasonably forthcoming, at least.
“All right,” he says.
“Wonderful! Please strip and lie on your stomach.”
Clive almost asks her to turn around, but she’s going to see him either way. It’s not sexual anyway, and even if she tried to make it as such, he just… doesn’t find women attractive. Very few men are attractive, even. The only one who’s sparked his interest beyond scratching an itch is—
Shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts, Clive shrugs off the robe and hands it to the woman. Then he climbs on the table, stretching out and being cautious of his genitals.
The woman begins without anymore fanfare. To his surprise, it does feel pleasant, even the mugwort tea water. He manages to close his eyes and lose track of time for a bit until she instructs him to turn over. By then, he’s grown comfortable enough to comply without anything more than a quiet, Okay. She scrubs his front, expression cool and professional. It’s a bit strange how the skin she rubs off looks like wild rice, but once she rinses him, he’s lost interest in anything but the soothing feel of warm mugwort water.
“All done,” she chirps. “Please use the towel to dry off if you wish. The door to your right leads you back to the main hall. We highly recommend soaking in the herbal bath adjoined to your room. The water will be cleaned out in the morning, so please don’t worry about anything but your relaxation!”
She slips out the door, leaving him alone and unusually relaxed.
Clive takes his time drying, despite knowing he’s headed straight for the bath. The cling of wet silk isn't pleasant and water ruins the fabric anyway. He idly wonders if all guests are so cautious. Maybe not. Especially if they’re not used to the material.
Slipping the robe back on makes him shiver. It feels good. There apparently is something to that body scrub.
Wandering back to his room, his head humming with the gentleness of a midnight song, Clive hardly notices anyone else. He has to admit that Gav was right; he needed this. The relaxation seeps into his bones.
In the room, he shucks the robe and pads into the adjoined bath. Steam billows when he opens the door, momentarily fogging his vision. The scent of herbs is heavy without being overpowering; echinacea, yarrow, red clover, and chamomile. He follows the sound of water lapping at stone, like the bath is rippling, like there’s the softest of disturbances—
“Ah, Clive. You made it.”
Clive jolts out of his lovely haze so hard he actually trips. Water splashes as a familiar face comes into view, strong, wide hands catching him by the arm and chest before he tumbles into the bath. Through the steam, he makes out a cocky grin he knows far too well. Clive splutters.
“Wh-wha… you… Cid?”
Chuckling, Cid releases him when Clive regains his balance. Well. He releases his arm. One hand stays at his lower ribcage, fingers squeezing subtly. “Aye, me Cid,” he teases.
Clive stares at him, baffled. “What are you doing here?” Even as he asks, the pieces click into place… and the steam dissipates a little, giving him a full, glorious view of water dripping down Cid’s broad chest, over the planes of his stomach, and—
“My eyes are up here, lad.”
Cock. Er, fuck. Clive yanks his head up and blames the heat in his cheeks on the hot steam.
“Why are you here?” he demands.
Cid tilts his head. Smirks. “I imagine the same reason as you.”
“What, someone bullied you into it?”
Laughing, Cid squeezes his side. It’s a warning— and it’s putting a slew of filthy thoughts in Clive’s head. “To relax.”
“In my room?” asks Clive in disbelief.
Cid snorts. “Our room.”
Our room. Our room. OUR room. The words swirl in Clive’s head, bringing an additional flush to his face. “But when did you…?”
Tutting, Cid looks at him in mock disappointment. “Finest Shield in Rosaria, and you didn’t check under a strange bed? You would’ve found my swords there.”
Clive stampers intelligently as his brain scrambles for an answer. “That’s…”
“And I had a smoke before I came in here. You didn’t see the used ashtray?” Cid’s eyebrows wiggle suggestively. “Lass rub you down that good before sending you back to the honeymoon suite?”
“The…” Realization dawns on Clive in full then. His head snaps up and he turns the force of his glower on Cid… right before punching him in the shoulder. The older Dominant grunts, stumbling back with a splash.
“All right, maybe I deserve that,” he muses.
“You think?” Clive’s voice pitches to a near shriek. “Fucking flames, Cid! What insane plot did you cook up this time? And what makes you think I’d hyphenate my last name?!”
“Again with the priorities…”
Clive ignores him, still ranting. “I’ve been going mad trying to figure out why people think I’m married! Did you pay them off for this ridiculous joke?” The guilty grin on Cid’s face chokes him. “Cid, you… you complete and utter cock!”
The last word hangs in the air. Cid’s eyes flicker down. Clive follows his gaze to his own half-hard dick.
Fuck.
Clive hurriedly sits, flushed head to cock to toe. He hisses, “Don’t make it weird.”
Cid takes a seat as well. His feet bump Clive’s, making him squeak and jump. “Nothing weird about a cock, lad. We’re both men here.”
Clive pointedly ignores the flare of disappointment in his chest. He huffs, folding his arms and telling himself it doesn’t make him look like a petulant child. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, though he can very well believe Cid would pull off something this stupidly elaborate. He closes his eyes. “So much for relaxation.”
A heavy silence follows, strong enough to make him squirm with guilt. All right, that was a little rude—
“Not relaxed anymore, hmm?” Water splashes gently, and then a hot, wet hand is on his shoulder. Clive’s eyes snap open. Cid purrs in his ear. “Scoot over. I’ll help you fix that.”
Clive goes rigid. Everywhere.
“Th-that’s not necessary,” he stammers. Founder, the last thing he needs is for Cid to see him at full mast. He can explain away a semi better than a full-blown erection. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
The simple answer has Clive almost swallowing his tongue. The way Cid hovers nearby, the heat of his skin radiating even in the bath, erupts tingles all across his body. He’s so godsdamned close, smelling like pine and cigar smoke with faint hints of lavender and the herbs in the bathwater. Clive can only imagine that if he licked him, Cid would taste incredible.
I’m not going to survive the night. Metia, goddess of the heavenly messengers, guide my soul to the other world…
He’s proud of himself for collecting his nerves enough to say, roughly, “Fine. Knock yourself out.”
Cid squeezes his shoulder, and Clive can’t hide a shiver. “If you’d be so kind as to turn around?”
Turn. Yes. That’s perfect. If he leans against the side of the bath, Cid can’t see or feel his cock. Clive is quick to comply… only to hear a low rumble behind him. The hairs on his arms would stand if they weren’t waterlogged.
Wait. Like this, kneeling on the carved-out seat, this makes him look like he’s—
“Unbelievable,” growls Cid.
Clive starts to turn. “Uh, Ci-hiiiid?” The name warbles into a startled screech as broad hands clasp around his waist. His heart races in his chest, the sound of his pulse in his ears eclipsing even Cid’s growling for a split second.
No. No way. He’s not trying to…
“Clive.” The way Cid says his name drags a strangled moan out of his throat; like he’s hungry, like he’s on the edge of snapping. “If you’re amenable, I would very much like to make you come.”
Oh
well
there’s nothing Clive can think of to take that in any way but one.
With all the intelligence Clive can muster, he croaks out, “... really?”
A low, guttural groan answers first. Clive whimpers, trying not to fidget, only for Cid to lean over him, his chest pressed to Clive’s back and his very much hard cock brushing against his ass. Gasping, Clive realizes that Cid is… fucking Founder, he’s waiting for permission.
It’s more arousing than it has any bloody right to be.
“Please.” Hot, needy breaths wash over his ear. Clive moans, arching back, and Cid responds by thrusting his hips once, giving that beautiful friction that gets Clive dripping with want. “Call me crazy, sweetheart, but I’ve thought that maybe you’ve been looking at me the same way I have you.”
Though Clive desperately wants to say yes, his traitorous mouth says, “You could’ve just said somethi-aah!” A hard thrust of Cid’s hips pins Clive to the side of the bath, one arm wrapping around Clive’s torso to grip at his pec and the other safely holding his cock as Cid simulates fucking him.
“When?” the older man breathes, huffing deep. “When could I have done that? Perhaps that time I invited myself to your chambers the other night and you said you weren’t tired? Or when I asked to kiss you and you said that I don’t need your permission to miss you?”
Clive keens, embarrassment mingling with horny. Okay, yes, he said that, but how was he supposed to know that he hadn’t misheard?
“Are you referring to the time if I asked if you wanted to fuck?” Cid pinches his nipple and Clive whines, cheeks flushing. “You said that, aye, you do have terrible luck. Or are you speaking of when I touched your face and stared deeply into your eyes, and you asked if you had something on your face? There is also when I grabbed your ass and you thought there was a godsbedamned bloodfly on you.”
Listening to Cid list all his alleged sins is making Clive burn in the worst possible way. He never wants it to stop.
Cid outright grinds against him now, his cock heavy between Clive’s asscheeks and grip damn near bruising. “Or are you implying I should have said something after I asked if you were interested, and you looked at me with those bloody wide eyes and asked, Interested in what? Or perhaps you mean the time I complimented your lovely tits”—he squeezes the one in his hand for emphasis. Clive whines, less in pleasure and more in anticipation—“and you told me they were pectorals.” Cid pauses briefly in speech, though not in movement. “Pedantic ass.”
“Cid, please!” Clive squirms under him, desperate for breath, Cid's hold on his cock maddeningly still and unhelpful except to feel him throb. “Just… please!”
“Oh, no, you don’t.” Cid shifts, Clive’s only warning before he’s yanked backward. He yelps as Cid takes a seat and pulls Clive into his lap, hot water rippling against Clive’s nipples while the older man continues the pseudo-fuck against his ass. “You’re using your words tonight, sweetheart.”
He punctuates the threat with a wide, hot lick over the back of Clive’s neck, down to where the thick cord of muscle begins toward his shoulder, and bites down.
Clive shrieks, one hand flying back to grab Cid by the hair and keep him there. Cid snarls, gnawing in place as pleasure-pain radiates from the bite and down Clive’s torso, right to his cock.
“Cid!” Clive attempts to fuck into his hand, but the older Dominant allows him no leeway, his grip so firm it borders on pain.
Finally releasing his shoulder, Cid draws his lips into a slow, closed kiss over the mark, then begins peppering kisses and nips up Clive’s neck, nuzzling at the damp hair at his nape. Clive feels more than hears him breathe in, deep, and the vibrating groan that purls along his shoulder.
“Beautiful,” he rasps. Clive moans, tilting his head to the side to give him better access. “Such soft, smooth skin. No one else has touched this, have they, sweetheart? All for me.”
Clive is drunk on the unexpected praise and fervor. All this time, and Cid reciprocated? When did that start? And how? They hardly got along at first, surely Cid even thought as much, so—
Another sharp bite makes him cry out, his thought process slicing in half. Clive tightens his hold in Cid’s hair, his other hand gripping the thick spread thigh under the water as he wheedles over feeling the engorged cock against his ass. If Cid would just move his hand…
“Clive,” pants Cid against his shoulder, his voice dropping into a deep, beseeching tone that makes arousal coil at the base of his cock. “Come on, love. Use your words. Tell me what you want.” Clive grunts, a new heat flushing his cheeks as the other man tightens his hold, rolling one of his nipples between two thick fingers. “Do you like this, just feeling how hard I am for you? Or would you like to be in my mouth?”
Flashes of Cid’s obvious oral fixation has Clive’s head spinning. Cid’s… mouth…
Suddenly, the grinding stops. Cid is entirely still, and it forces Clive to grit his teeth over an ungratifying pulse in his dick. “Or perhaps you want me to stop?”
The question snaps words together for him. Clive rolls his hips, shivering at the thunderous groan it pulls from Cid. “Don’t you dare stop,” he snaps.
“Fuck.” The fingers pinching his nipple vanish, leaving him feeling strangely cold, until Cid’s broad hand turns his head and their lips meet for the first time.
Clive twists in his hold, hunger overtaking sense as he opens quickly under the onslaught of Cid’s mouth. Sharp teeth nip at his lower lip, the rumble of Cid’s chest and the subvocal growls serving to turn him on even more. A sharp whine escapes; Cid has yet to let go of his cock, so it’s not like Clive has much wiggle room, his neck twisting awkwardly for the kiss that is both incredibly intense and nowhere near enough.
Panting into his mouth, Cid again attempts to encourage him. “Speak up. What do you want?” In protest, Clive tries to lunge deeper into the kiss. He grapples at Cid’s arm, stunned at how immovable he is, and pinches his thigh. His refusal and belligerence has Cid growling again. Though the older man may not have Ramuh anymore, he still flickers and pops with thunder, sparks dancing dangerously along his skin considering the proximity of the water. One wrong move, and…
Clive grits out another wordless noise. Tries to hump Cid’s hand, but gets a punishing squeeze in response. He cries out, head arching back and exposing the line of his throat.
“Now, now, sweetheart, is that any way to behave?”
“Fuck you,” gasps Clive, still straining for friction on his aching cock. “Just… fucking flames, I need… Cid, come on!”
“All right.” The way Cid’s tone changes, dropping impossibly deeper and unnaturally calm, sends a wave of need through Clive, pointedly narrowing at his cock once more. A harsh nip at his earlobe almost melts his bones to magma. “All right, sweetheart. I hear you.”
Clive has no way to process the threatening tone before Cid abruptly starts stroking his cock. Hard, fast movements, ratcheting up his arousal to a needlepoint peak. A broken sob shatters on his tongue before he comes, thick and heady into the water. Cid doesn’t let up, milking every drop out until Clive’s desperate moans pitch into wails.
Then he’s released, and all but collapses back against Cid. His chest heaves, humid air doing little to make him feel like he’s catching his breath. He mewls softly, head leaned back against Cid’s broad shoulder as the other man trails damp kisses over his upper cheek, his temple, along his water-and-sweat soaked hair from a mixture of the heated edging and steam.
“Better?” asks Cid, so sweetly that a violent chill washes down Clive’s spine. Even before Cid moves, twisting to pin one of Clive’s arms at his lower back, he knows that whatever the older man has in mind is about to change everything. Moreso when Cid’s lips graze over the shell of his ear, his rough stubble scraping over the sensitive flesh on Clive’s throat as he proceeds to tease him into a squirming, panting, oversensitized mess. Clive tries to grab at him, but Cid pins that hand as well, a wicked grin curving the words he whispers.
“Now then, let’s see about keeping those hands out of the way, hmm?”
***
As Clive sits on the bed, snugly encompassed between Cid’s knees, he keeps his eyes closed while the older man carefully dries his hair. He’s already dried and dressed himself while letting Clive rest, seeming to have forgotten his threat as he cares for Clive in the aftermath of his sudden orgasm in the bath. Clive remains limp-muscled and relaxed, hands free to roam. And roam they do, now that the threat seems to’ve been forgotten in favor of this gentle care.
Cid lets out a soft noise when Clive pets down the man’s calf. He’s a bit miffed that he can’t feel the firm muscle, skin, and hair more directly, but it’s still nice and brings him a soothing calm.
“You’re an asshole,” mumbles Clive.
Huffing a quiet laugh, Cid disposes the damp cloth off the side of the bed, bringing Clive back against his chest. Clive sighs, turning his head to rest against the sharp bones of Cid’s collar. The linen remains parted and untied, allowing him to bask in the warmth radiating from Cid’s chest.
“I am,” says Cid without any hint of annoyance. Warm lips press to Clive’s temple, and Clive makes an indignant sound, though he doesn’t move to get away. “Though you seem to enjoy it.”
Clive makes a face, pinching Cid’s calf over the leathers. “Shush.”
For a moment, Cid doesn’t say or do anything, spiking his pulse. Then another kiss to his temple, then his ear, before Cid wraps his arms around his middle and squeezes.
“Like that, then, did you?”
Clive nods.
“Feeling good now?”
“Mm.” He closes his eyes, basking in the warmth and sweet attention. “Mmhm.”
Cid chuckles darkly. “Glad to hear that, love.”
Too late, Clive recognizes the tension thrumming through his new lover. He starts to sit up, but Cid holds him tight, his soft kisses turning sharp and biting as he hoists Clive up and goes for his neck.
“Cid, what the fu—ah!” Clive yelps when a rough hand pinches his yet untouched nipple, sending jolts to his softened cock. “W-what are you—”
“I thought,” growls Cid, his gravelly voice forcing Clive to choke on his own words, “that I warned you to keep your hands to yourself.”
Clive squirms, smacking at his thigh, his traitorous cock stirring with interest at the newly roughened attentions. “I—”
“And I know,” continues Cid, one hand gripping Clive’s hair as he pulls his head to the side, allowing Cid even more access to the delicate flesh along his neck and shoulder, “that I told you to use your words.”
His words are followed by a bite, right where he’d all but mauled Clive in the bath, renewing the throb in the deep tissue. A strangled gasp flies down Clive’s throat as Cid heaves him forward, forcing Clive to throw his knees out for balance, his elbows hitting the mattress before Cid quashes him down bodily. A soft wheeze bursts out of him. Every inch of leather and linen and Cid’s bloody belt seems twice as noticeable now, having come once and gone through the body scrub roughly an hour before. His swelling cock grazes over the silk sheets. Clive keens.
Cid’s fingers tangle in his, keeping him further pinned. Though he’s not hard, his hips start moving, rutting against Clive in a way that gets his blood flaming all over again. He clutches at Cid the best he can, turning his head just in time for Cid to kiss him again. Sloppy, uncoordinated, awkward—hot. A warm tongue traces from his mouth to the corner of his eye, and Clive realizes tears are welling up… and from the thickening hardness on his ass, it’s turning Cid on.
If Clive wasn’t fully hard yet, he is now, pulsing as levin and flame course between them in the form of arousal.
“Got a little punishment for your wandering hands,” husks Cid into his ear. Clive moans, writhing, unable to keep from pushing back against the other man’s interested dick. “And your treat will be to come on my cock. What say you, sweetheart?”
It’s a game, Clive realizes. Not one he’s participated in before—past couplings have usually been brief and perfunctory—but one he’s very curious about. And if he’s going to go in blind, there’s no one he trusts more than Cid. If he agrees, then…
He nods, swallows his suddenly dry throat, then manages to choke out, “Please.”
Cid’s breath stutters, like he’s stunned at the reply. Then he groans, long and low, before manhandling Clive onto his back and diving in for a deep, fierce kiss that’s more teeth than lips, more tongue than breath. Fingers re-entwining with his, held fast on either side of Clive’s head as Cid explores his mouth to his own satisfaction. Not that Clive’s complaining.
When they part, Cid rumbles, “Don’t move,” and vanishes, a storm passing as quickly as it came. Clive lies there, attempting to wrap his head around the past three minutes.
By the time he regains some semblance of bearings, Cid is already returning. His erection strains obscenely in his leathers, eyes sparking and teeth slightly bared as he crawls back into Clive’s space and kisses him. Chaste but hard, and then deeper, slurping in a vulgar way as he gives Clive a second chance to catch his breath.
The soft sensation of well-oiled leather wraps snug around Clive’s right wrist, and then his left. He bites his lip. Another strip of leather is attached to his left wrist, and then one to each of his ankles. All the while, Cid can’t seem to keep his hands off him, groping his pecs, squeezing, petting down his narrow waist and kissing and biting and licking and growling and it’s so much that Clive is a tremoring wreck by the time he realizes the position Cid has locked him into.
Cid finally eases back, hands on the sheets as he considers Clive. For his part, Clive feels almost painfully exposed with his wrists all but attached to his ankles, allowing Cid to spread his legs apart and show off his flushed cock, pre-cum pearling at the tip. A filthy lick of his lips, a roll of his tongue along his inner cheek, and Cid bears the expression and lax satisfaction of a man who has finally obtained his prize after a long and arduous search.
“Aren’t you just the prettiest thing.” Cid’s hand cups his jaw. He maddeningly keeps distance between their bodies as they kiss, and it’s not near enough contact to settle Clive before the other man pulls away. “Don’t worry, love, I’ll only be gone a moment. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”
Clive bites his tongue over the remark he wants to make. Namely, where the hell is he going to go when spread out like a godsbedamned buffet for one?
Apparently satisfied enough, Cid pats him on the thigh. Pauses. Glances down, where Clive is spread so lewdly, seated just so his balls mask his hole. The way Cid’s eyelids hood and his expression darkens makes Clive clench reflexively, his breaths coming short in anticipation. Green sparks with glimmers of levin. Despite the still air, Clive can almost feel the powerful wind backing up the incoming storm.
To his surprise (relief? disappointment?), Cid exhales and steps away. Pats him one more time, a bit distractedly. “Don’t run off, now.”
… fucking asshole.
Cid walks away, just out of sight to a corner of the room where Clive can’t see unless he twists his whole body around. At this point, however, he’s more worried about regaining his self-control. If he doesn’t, the next time Cid so much as breathes on him, he’ll probably come, and that is not the way he wants this to end.
When Cid re-enters his line of sight, Clive has managed to calm himself to the point he’s no longer throbbing like one enormous heartbeat. His cock remains heavy, hanging between his legs, having softened a little while Cid was doing whatever the hell he’d been doing. He notes the way the other man palms a couple things to the nightstand while keeping them obscured from Clive’s vision. Cid returns to the bed, the lines of his face etched into something soft and mischievous. Clive holds his breath, waiting.
“Absolutely stunning,” says Cid, running his hands along his inner thighs. Clive shivers, his cock twitching more upright. “This little getaway was a wonderful idea. I don’t think I could be happier.”
Heat crawls up Clive’s neck. He looks away, mumbling, “Says one of us.”
“Mm.” Cid shuffles further onto the bed, scooting Clive back—then grasping underneath his thighs and shoving him onto his back, leering at the new angle. Scandalized sounds choke out of Clive as he’s spread even wider, his cock resting hot on his belly and hole fully exposed and twitching like a desperate whore (and if that doesn’t sum up how Cid makes him feel—a desperate, somehow deeply appreciated and revered whore). “You know,” says Cid conversationally, his thumb coming to rest on the thick tendon between his leg and pelvis, “I half-considered buying a wax to go along with this. But this is better, don’t you think?” He drops down, breathing Clive in deep, and Clive can’t help but clench his eyes shut and whimper. His whimpers melt into a long whine when Cid adds, oh-so-casually, “Something about you utterly natural and in your element is very appealing, sweetheart.”
Fucking flames, is he trying to kill him?
The smile Cid offers from between his legs only makes more fire flare in his gut, the look somewhere between sweet and sinister, and it’s entirely making his balls ache.
“Thank you for the meal.”
Cid dives in with a long, wide, sloppy lick from Clive’s tailbone, over his hole, and ending with a slick wet noise just under his balls. Clive gasps, limbs shaking from the suddenness, the obvious eager spark in Cid’s eyes—Founder, there are licks of lavender lightning along his skin. It’s so unexpected (though he really should’ve) that he doesn’t fully realize exactly what’s happening until Cid returns to his hole with his tongue, licking and moaning and nipping.
“Fuck, Cid!” Clive thrashes, his flailing limited in his restraints, really only opening him even further for Cid’s fine dining experience. A rough groan muffles between his cheeks. Cid’s eyes flutter open for a bare second, mostly white as they’ve rolled toward the back of his head, so utterly blissful that Clive feels another insistent orgasm pull him dangerously close to the precipice.
A loud growl as Cid yanks back just before Clive tips over rolls over him like a frothing wave. He pants, chest heaving, and tries to reconcile the fact he almost came from a mixture of the pure filth the image provided and the fact Cid buried himself in his ass like he needed it to survive.
“Fucking perfect,” rasps Cid, and he returns with fervor. A broken cry spills out of Clive. He twists, yanking his hips away from the other man’s hungry mouth. With a snarl, Cid grasps his thighs and yanks him back, pulling Clive up and folding him over so Cid was kneeling on the bed, Clive’s ass in the air, his legs spread and wrists doing little more than ensuring it stays that way.
“Where are you going?” grates the older man, mouth red and spit-slick from eating him out. “I haven’t had my fill yet, sweetheart.”
He licks over Clive again, agonizingly slow this time. Clive squirms, pre-cum spurting from the tip of his cock and down his chest, dripping slowly toward his collar bones. A pleased hum reverberates between Cid’s throat and Clive’s ass, intensifying his arousal tenfold. When Cid starts working his tongue in, Clive can feel himself falling apart, the threads of his tenuous hold on sanity unraveling as Cid thrusts his tongue in deeper, slowly stretching him, until he seems to be as deep as he can go. It’s a bizarre yet heady feeling. Clive finds himself eagerly thinking about Cid’s cock, about sitting on it, about taking him in even deeper than his tongue with that wide stretch, the more profound depth, until it gets to that spot he so horribly craves to feel tormented in much the same way.
As the tell-tale fine tremors take hold, and Clive can feel the rush of heat flooding his core, Cid abruptly pulls away. Clive wails his frustration, limbs twitching uselessly as Cid gently lowers him back down to the bed. He doesn’t even wipe his mouth before kissing Clive, thrusting his tongue in just as he had moments ago. Clive sobs into it, needy and aching.
“Cid,” he begs through the tears. “P-please…”
In a show of tenderness that does not help his libido whatsoever, Cid nuzzles at his cheek and kisses him sweetly. “Please what, love?”
Clive snaps his teeth, tears spilling over from his near-had orgasm. “Cid!”
A mean laugh answers. Another kiss. Then the upsetting cold of Cid pulling away.
“Still not there yet? That’s all right.” Cid brushes a finger across Clive’s spit- and tear-soaked lips. In a fit of weakness, Clive tries to chase it with his tongue, but Cid denies him. “Daddy’s got more in store for you.”
Clive groans and slams his skull into the mattress to no effect other than getting hair in his eyes. What the fiery hell does that mean?
It means, as it turns out, that Cid actually leaves the room for a moment. Despite his position, Clive isn’t worried. He’s still hard, still teetering on the edge that continues to elude him, still attempting to catch his breath.
When the door creaks open, Clive turns his fiercest glare on the other man—only to falter when he gets a truly good look at him.
Cid closes the door with utmost calm, sliding the bolt into place with a soft click. The sound reverberates down Clive’s spine. The stormy essence around Cid aids the sensation. Clive feels as though he’s caught up in the eye of a whirlwind, lightning crashing safely around him but with the promise of a soothing rain on the way. He swallows as Cid slowly unbuckles and removes his belt. He winds it around his hand, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Clive’s the entire time.
Whether he has Ramuh or not, Cid contains the power of the Eikon of Thunder in his presence alone. The self-assuredness, the strength with which he holds himself, the calm manner in which he takes each step closer.
Snap!
Cid continues to advance, tossing the coiled belt on the bed beside Clive—as a threat? As an offer? Clive isn’t entirely sure, unable to read what’s going on behind those clever eyes. He’s immediately distracted by the way Cid untucks his shirt, stripping it over his head and off his arms, tossing it to the side. The breadth of his chest is exposed all over again. The hair covering him looks softer now that it’s dried from the bath, a broad expanse across his chest that fades to a trail down his abdomen, then widens again just before vanishing under the beltline. All that’s left between his cock and Clive is the shrinking inches of distance and the laces of his leathers.
And here Clive is, spread wide, wrists cuffed to his ankles, flushed and horny and trying not to break, even as at the same time he realizes that once he does, the reward will be all the sweeter.
Cid is close enough to loom over him now. Clive tries to pinpoint what’s different, what’s changed since he left, and it’s not until Cid starts unlacing his trousers that he figures it out.
He’s not as hard. He left to calm himself down.
He’s as worked up as I am.
The realization crystalizes in dizzying clarity. Clive sucks in a sharp breath. Releases it in a shuddering spool. Fire licks along his tongue, flaming in his cheeks and down to spread across his chest. He even adds a little shift, tilting himself backward so his spit-slick hole is right in Cid’s line of sight. Watching as those green eyes flick downward as the other man unties his laces, reaching in to pull out his cock.
Clive lowers his gaze, then glances up from under his lashes and softening his voice.
“Aren’t you going to lay claim on your new wife, Cidolfus?”
The swelling tension ceases where it is, thick and cloudy and pressing all air from the room. Clive’s breath catches and Cid’s pupils blow wide open, green nearly eclipsed entirely by black. A spark of lightning catches along his skin, sizzling from his temple and down across his shoulder.
Clive inhales, quick and sharp.
Cid pounces. Grasps one of his wrists, twisting to kiss his palm even as he fiddles with the binding to release him. BUt he doesn’t free him, no, Cid is swift and deliberate, attaching Clive’s wrists and ankles to their partners, allowing him to stretch outright but keeping him bound. Clive dives up, using the opening to hook his knocked wrists behind the other man’s neck and pull him into a crushing, open-mouthed kiss. Cid grunts and growls into his mouth, stripping free of his leathers. His cock is hot as a fresh brand against Clive’s thigh as he ruts furiously against him. Grasps hold of Clive’s jaw to pry his mouth open further, his other hand somewhere Clive can’t keep track of, too eager is he to get more of Cid, of his lips, his taste, his feral snarls.
When Cid rears back, it’s to grasp Clive’s legs and duck under and between. His knees hook on Cid’s shoulders, the older man heaving from his position, eyes wild yet searching as he brings a slick finger to Clive’s hole.
Clive reaches up and back. Twists the sheets in his hands, gripping for dear life. He nods, once, mouth open as he knows he’ll need every chance he’ll get to breathe.
Cid rubs the oil around, dripping it all over, until Clive can feel the slide and dribbling down toward his back. When the first finger goes in, Clive is so bloody ready for it that he doesn’t even feel a burn. His body greedily sucks Cid in, eliciting a violent curse from the former Dominant.
He’s already getting what he wants, but Clive can’t help needling a little more. Between pants, he says, “Come on, Cid. Your wife Telamon-Rosfield is waiting.”
The air pops and snaps. Cid does add another finger rather quickly, but he ensures that his hand is drenched in warm oil; that he’s stuffing it into Clive with efficiency. The moment his gloriously thick fingers fill and begin to spread him, Clive moans, widens his knees to give him more room. Cid swears, slides the third finger in with an accompanying burn that Clive has been craving.
“Bloody hell,” spits Cid between his teeth. He curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds his target, white stars erupt behind Clive’s clenched eyelids. “Fuck. Wasn’t even sure you’d show, could hear you grumping about the spouse thing, and you’re just going to say that now? Greagor be fucking good, Clive, you are something else.”
He drills into his prostate during the entire speech. Clive cries and sobs, writhing, fucking himself down on those fingers. It’s wonderful but still not enough.
“Cid,” he wails, his voice cracking at the end. “Please, I… I want…” Sparks light off in the fringes of his vision. He sucks in a deep inhale, and shouts, “I want your cock. Fuck me, please, Cid!”
A faint creak precedes a sharp snap, and suddenly Clive’s legs are free to move. He eagerly moves with Cid, wrapping his thighs on either side of his waist, ankles on his lower back while Cid fists a handful of Clive’s hair, blinking sweat from his eyes as he guides his cock to where his fingers had just been.
The press in is too slow, yet too much. Moaning, Clive tightens his legs, digs his heels in even deeper. “Cid.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Cid adjusts his angle and thrusts in, burying himself to the hilt, his swollen cock striking Clive’s prostate. The intensity explodes in waves of pleasure in Clive’s core, fizzing out to the tips of his fingers and toes in glimmering flashes of heat. Immediately addicted, Clive rolls his hips to get more of it. Both of them are glossy with sweat, humid groans and gasps thickening the friction between them.
As proof of his own composure slipping, Cid’s rhythm is just a bit off as he begins to move. Rough hands slipping over spilled oil and damp skin, unable to keep a firm hold as he searches for that spot again. Clive does his best to help, fisting a hand in the thick hair spread across Cid’s chest, hooking a leg with one of Cid’s elbows to open himself up more, and
“Fuck, there, there, there,” shouts Clive. His throat is scraped raw, but he voices his pleasure anyway. Words are difficult for him to keep a hold of when he’s this far gone, but he tries, knowing Cid wants to hear him. He has, after all, insisted on Clive using his words. “Cid, fucking flames, yes.”
Cid, in contrast, has devolved to little more than fierce snarls and short, clipped syllables. His abdomen ripples as he fucks him, sweat dripping from his hair, beading at the tip of his nose before falling. He looks completely destroyed, no green left to be seen in his gaze, lips parted and damp as he screws up the tempo to kiss Clive again and again.
It’s perfect. Absolutely fucking perfect.
Another deep fuck in, and Clive’s orgasm strikes him out of seemingly nowhere, in spite of the earlier edging. He lets out a shattered cry, tears of overwhelming pleasure blearing his sight as Cid fucks him through it. His face tingles from the force, his cock twitching as spurts of cum paint his chest and stomach. Cid is still hard, still pounding away at him when he mouths more than kisses Clive, then smears his wet lips over his chest to lap up his spend.
Oversensitivity has Clive clenching on his cock, but he doesn’t want it to end; not until Cid’s finished. So he clings on for dear life, moaning, whimpering, blinking the tears out of his eyelashes to streak down his face as Cid returns to his lips to give him a taste of himself.
Somehow, between the heightened sensitivity and the lovely warmth of a post-orgasm high, Clive manages to cobble together a thought. He brings his bound hands to Cid’s face, stroking the stubble on his cheeks, licking his lips. His voice creaks, barely audible, but from Cid’s reaction, he hears it just fine.
“Come on, Cid,” he says shakily. “Consummate our nuptials.”
Cid shouts, his thrusts growing erratic until, with one last push, he spills hot and heavy into him. His broad build folds over, shuddering. Clive clings to him, whispering something, he doesn’t even know what, he’s so fuck-drunk at this point, but it causes Cid to give a couple more weak thrusts as he empties himself entirely.
They collapse to the bed, still entwined, breathing heavily as they attempt to find purchase in the real world again. Only when Cid forces himself up on his good arm does Clive notice one of the leather ankle cuffs had snapped, the metal twisted and bent at the hinges. Cid fumbles at Clive’s wrists, and one of the leather straps slithers loose. Now free, if still somewhat cuffed, Clive pulls him in close. It’s too hot, too stuffy like this, but the feel of Cid’s rapid heart beating against his chest more than makes up for it.
Slowly, their sweat cools. Gradually, they part enough for Cid to swipe a few stray items off the bed and onto the rug beneath the bed. When he pulls out, both wince, but Clive is too tired and sore to even whine anymore. He allows himself to drift in a haze while Cid obtains a cool, damp cloth to wipe them down. Neither give a fuck about drying before they crawl into more comfortable positions, heads near the pillows, Clive with a leg over Cid’s and Cid with one arm secured behind his neck and onto his shoulder to keep him close.
Part of Clive wants to talk, but most of him is content. There’s a lot they need to address, of course, especially going forward. But this, the cuddling, the occasional sweet kiss to his damp brow, him lazily trailing his fingers along Cid’s solid torso… this is more than enough for him right now.
Ultimately, however, he does have one question he can’t fully relax without asking.
“If this is day one,” he mumbles, nosing at Cid’s neck, “what’re the next six gonna look like?”
Cid gives a startled snort into his hair. Ugh.
“Mm… didn’t think I’d get this far on night one of the Seduction of One Clive Rosfield,” admits Cid. His voice slurs a little with sleep. “So I’m open to suggestions.”
Of course. For all it looks like Cid planned out the entire week, he didn’t have a single backup plan on the books. Typical short-sighted bastard.
“Fine.” Clive nips at his chin, narrowing his eyes when he lifts his head. “Get me breakfast when we wake up.”
A bemused smile tugs Cid’s lips. “I can do that.”
“And a fresh bath.”
“Aye, sweetheart.”
Flushing, Clive quickly hides the reaction by pretending to bury his face in Cid’s shoulder for sleep. “Then… maybe we can see what’s next.”
One callused thumb brushes over the apple of his cheek. Slightly chapped lips kiss the same spot.
“Anything for you, lovely wife.”
Clive scowls and kicks him in the shin. Bastard.