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“Oh, do be quiet,” Nero says affably as he slides a second slick finger into Cid’s arse with the ease of someone used to this, “anyone would think you’ve never done this before.”
Cid Garlond (not nan, as he so often reminds the room at large when Nero’s around) lays prone upon the hard bed with his legs spread wide enough that everything is comfortably on display, his face hidden in the crook of an elbow. What Nero can see of him—one ear, a half-ilm of cheek—is as red as if he’s caught the sun, the same colour as the one stretched almost-taut around the fingers keeping him open. Who would ever have thought that Cid nan Garlond—oops—could look so embarrassed?
From the safety of his arm (coward) he grits out a, “Shut up,” as though such words are enough to keep Nero from yapping on. Such things are said for show rather than for any serious consideration that he might listen, just another step in the complicated dance they perform each and every day, though no doubt he’d not complain if they worked every once in a while. Nero smiles, gentle as if he’s coaxing an animal and not watching with his cock red and wet and interested where it rests against the firm line of Cid’s thigh, and spreads his fingers apart. Cid groans.
“You,” he says, and then loses the thread of whatever he was going to say as Nero forces the muscle wider again. They’ve been running circles around each other the whole day long—metaphorically, of course, Nero doesn’t run unless it’s across the Carteneau Flats avoiding the three Grand Companies’ attempts at stealing flags or whatever it is they’re playing at these days—much to the chagrin of the rest of the Ironworks, getting underfoot and moving tools when the other wasn’t looking. Lunch had been a pleasant respite where they’d sat opposite and totally ignored one another except to ask for the salt, and then it had been right back to it again: stealing schematics right out of Garlond’s hands to correct some tiny measurement that didn’t really need changing; sticking a leg out as Nero had sidled by with a cup of hot coffee. “You,” Cid repeats, apparently having regained his thoughts, “are a menace, and an impatient one at that. I hope to the high heavens the—shit—the Twelve are real, so when I die I can tell them what a gentleman you profess to be, and what a fucking lie that is.”
Nero considers those strange foreign gods as he fucks Cid slowly with his fingers. The Twelve, if they exist, might well be watching from their aetherial perch with vested interest. The Lover—he’s forgotten Her name—would be jealous, he decides, of the arse before him now, firm and pale and very, very real. “I’m using oil, aren’t I?” he says, wrenching his mind away from the divine. “I’m not sure what more you want from me.”
Cid says, “You could kiss me,” and, well, that doesn’t sound like such a terrible idea after all. Nero pulls his fingers free so he can turn to meet him, and his cock dribbles up from his thigh to his hip where it ends up being pressed as they meet, trapped between Nero’s own weight and the familiar warmth of Cid’s lean body. He smells, as always, like the tang of metal and a day’s worth of dried sweat, neither pleasant nor unpleasant; the rough of his beard scratches Nero’s lips and chin.
They kiss until Nero can bear it no longer, cock struggling to make its desires known between them, the feel of him too much to bear, and pulls back with a gasp to push Cid back down into the mattress, face-first, and look at his handwork. Cid’s own prick is fat and neglected, the slit shining, and his hole—half hidden beneath a mess of thick white hair slick with oil—is red but not yet swollen. There’s a pimple on his ass.
“There’s a pimple on your ass,” says Nero helpfully, though when he reaches for it Cid slaps his hands away. And then—
“Fuck,” Cid groans with a great deal of feeling as Nero runs his fingers down the seam of his balls, following the trail a few escaped drops of oil have made, “you,” when he feels not one, not two, but three sure fingers back at his hole again. His balls pull up tight and Nero pauses, captivated, to watch for a moment before he breaks through his weak defense to the first knuckle. His own cock feels three sizes too small. Cid takes wonderfully when he bothers to take at all, and the novelty of watching him writhe and curse and cry is greatly offset by just how good he looks with his arse stretched wider than it’s meant to be.
Fondly, Nero says, “That’s not very nice of you,” and then his fingers sink deeper into that little hole, deep enough that his thumb can trace tenderly around the ring hugging the intrusion desperately, swirling wet hairs this way and that. Cid groans, the sound low and long and close to pained—the difference is subtle, and Nero knows it well—and does his best to go tight. “And I’m being so good, too.”
As expected, Cid opens his mouth to bite back some scathing response about Nero’s brand of goodness—but he is ready for it, and presses deep into the fat bulb of his prostate, lying in wait just where he knew it would be—and Garlond all but howls instead. Nero’s cock twitches. When he prods again Cid grabs at the pillow madly, arse going tight and then slack and all but pulling Nero’s fingers deeper in. What a greedy arse it is: what a greedy, magnificent arse.
“There,” Cid mutters, back in the safety of his elbow once more so Nero must strain to listen, “There, do that again, gods take you, right there—” and Nero, ever the contrarian, wiggles his fingers pleasantly before pulling them out. When he looks the hole is loose but not yet slack the way he wants it to be, though he knows from experience it’ll take most anything at this point with only token resistance. Cid might complain, but this is what he was made for, truly: not the way he handles machinery (admittedly brilliant), not his sharp mind, no—but the Academy didn’t hand out certificates for how good their students were at getting fucked. More’s the pity.
The sight of him becomes too much in a sudden, bright flash roaring to life somewhere below Nero’s gut. His prick, already awake and curious, now surges to life, straining up to his belly and leaving a long strand of fluid behind, having been dripping steadily for what feels like lifetimes now. “Oh,” says Nero, and then the dam breaks and he can’t stay quiet, “Oh, please, Cid, let me fuck you, please, please,” but he does not wait for a yes or a no, merely swings his legs over Cid’s and presses the blunt head of his cock against the patient hole.
O cruel world: Cid goes tight with surprise, and wet though it is, Nero’s cock isn’t slick enough to slip in, though he does try. He catches against the red rim and then slides away, following the motion so his hips come to meet the bottom of Cid’s arse, cock resting comfortably against his crack and dribbling into the curve of his spine. “Fuck,” he curses, and does not hear Cid asking, “what the hell are you doing, Scaeva,” because there is the oil, free of its bottle at last, cool and wet on his prick, and then he is pulling back and pushing in before anyone can make an argument as to why he oughtn’t. This time he gets in. Cid goes stiff. His arse swallows the head without complaint and then, wetly, the shaft, and before Nero knows it he’s bent almost double and panting with the feeling of being lodged almost as deep as he can go in Cid nan fucking Garlond.
“Nero,” Cid chokes out, all the muscles in his back and arms tight with the effort of—of what? ‘Tis hardly the first time he’s been speared, nor will it be the last—sounding for all the world like he might cry. “Nero, Nero.” All Nero can do is put his shaking hands firmly on the meat of his arse, the better to pull his cheeks apart and watch the hairs glisten, and pull back slowly until his cock falls free again. The little hole closes up, and that just won’t do—once again he presses back against him, into him, and this time gets deeper, all the way ‘til the dark blond hair he keeps neatly trimmed prickles against Cid’s bare flesh. Cid makes a noise like all the air’s been punched from him.
And then there really isn’t anything to do but fuck him the way Nero was born to do. Already the muscles in his thighs are trembling, a tight feeling blooming in his knees of all places before his balls get the message. Beneath his thumb he can feel the pimple from earlier. The rim of Cid’s arse pulls out just a little with every thrust as though it’s trying to cling to Nero’s cock desperately, not wanting to let him go, and his blood rages louder than war as he presses home and throws his head back, and if he moans as he shoots into Cid’s tight arse he doesn't hear over the beat of his own pulse violent in his ears.
High above, or all around them, or wherever the Twelve are said to be, the Lover is probably watching jealously as Nero lets orgasm bear him along for the seconds or hours or days it lasts for. He’s breathing hard as he comes back to himself, still holding Cid’s arse open and lodged deep, and thinks he could sit there until the end of days like that. Annoyed, Cid mutters inside, Nero, really? and tries to wriggle free: Nero has not the power to stop him, and his cock slips free, and this time Cid’s hole stays loose, red and dark and beautiful.
“You,” Cid grumbles, “Are a son of a bitch.”
Nero can’t exactly argue with that—mother dearest had always been free with her lashings, after all—and instead of apologising, bends to kiss the open hole as gently as he can manage. It tastes like sweat and oil—mostly oil—and makes a good attempt at going tight again, so he kisses it again before starting his pilgrimage south. First are his balls, hanging low and covered in hair that tickles his chin, and he kisses each one in turn, takes the wrinkled skin into his mouth and tugs lightly so they rise in protest or anticipation. As he travels further he presses his nose against them and takes the moment to pull an errant hair from his mouth.
Cid’s cock is, for lack of a better word, pretty: shorter than Nero’s but wider, the head shiny and half-hidden by a foreskin not pulled back, with two fat veins wriggling up either side. Nero pops it into his mouth without hesitation, the taste sharp and sudden, and can’t help the little moan that escapes him. He’s answered by a grunt, and then, “let me turn around,” and Nero must deprive himself for a moment longer—but then there Cid lies watching him comfortably, one arm behind his head, neither smiling nor frowning.
“Go on,” he urges with a hoarse voice, “put it in your mouth.”
No world exists in which Nero would not do such a thing. It lifts to meet his lips, and Cid’s leg rises also to drape across his shoulders, and Nero does not think of complaining as he closes his head and bobs his way carefully halfway down the shaft: if this is how he is to go then he’ll go gladly, and those wretched Twelve can turn him from Their halls in the afterlife or whatever it is that jealous gods do.
Down he goes, deliberately slow, until Cid’s cockhead nudges a little too deep, and he makes to rise—but then Cid’s leg tightens and his hips twitch, not wanting Nero to rise again. One hand, rough from the workshop, comes to rest in his hair, falling free of its carefully coiffed position, keeping him there. “That’s it,” he whispers, “just like that—” He’s never been good at talking dirty but for when he calls Nero a good boy, which he does as often in the shop as in bed, but the tone is honest and Nero finds himself trying to take more. His throat works furiously against the intrusion and he glances up as though pleading for mercy.
It’s granted for all of a moment. Cid wrenches his head back one-handed and waits for him to suck in a raggedy breath before pulling him down again. Nero finds himself gagging with his eyes suddenly wet and tries to pull back, but Cid says, “not after that display, Scaeva,” and all he can do is blink and swallow, blink and swallow and pray. He can feel hair tickling at his nose with every breath he tries to take, can taste the bitter dribble leaking into his throat—and just as he thinks it’s too much he’s pulled back again. His cheeks are wet now, as is his chin, and Cid tells him, “you’re so fucking pretty, you know that?” before getting his other leg around Nero’s shoulders and tugs him back into place. This time he lets go, holding him there with his thighs alone, two great meaty things either side of Nero’s head, as powerful as the rest of him, and jerks his hips like he does when he fucks Nero proper.
It’s too much. Nero’s making wet noises with every thrust he makes, eyes streaming and his lungs starting to burn, but Cid doesn’t seem like to come from this alone—not yet, at least, but how much more of this can Nero take?—and desperately he slides his fingers against Cid’s used hole and pushes in, all three fingers at once and then a fourth for good measure and spreads them as best he can in this position and Cid sobs aloud, just once, as he pours himself down Nero’s throat. He does choke then, but can’t pull back, can only gulp noisily as he spends—and then it is over, Cid’s thighs losing their strength, and he can draw back and finally wipe his face.
“Cocksucker,” he says, not at all happy, and Cid treats him to a rare honest smile.
“Takes one to know one.”