Work Text:
While Cyrus enjoys their tender lovemaking, there are times when it is not quite enough to whet his appetite—certainly not when it's been weeks; no, he is starving. Not enough, not enough to sate his desire, this maddening itch threatening to consume him from within. Not enough to silence the discord of his thoughts—sometimes he just wants to forget how to think. Right now he needs to be crudely taken apart, piece by piece. Olberic can lovingly put him back together later if he so chooses.
Muffling himself, Cyrus buries his face in the pillow as Olberic fucks him slowly from behind, with the bed creaking ominously under him in protest. Oil leaks down his inner thigh, a byproduct of his knight's overzealous preparation, while his neglected cock drools out a long line of precum. His wrists are bound with silk ribbons at the small of his back, and while he could snap them if he truly wished to free himself, that's not the point of this. Stripped of control, and of concern beyond when Olberic might let him cum, it's perfect, in a way that is both indescribable and indefinable.
Well—almost perfect.
The pace Olberic has set is one the knight may well describe as reverent—Cyrus would sooner call it torturous. It allows him to savor every pull and push, each languorous roll of Olberic's hips. The sweet, sweet drag and ache as he retreats, the intense, overwhelming pleasure as he advances. Pent up and oversensitive as Cyrus is, every thrust makes his legs shake as his thick cock hits him just right, shoving the breath from his lungs again and again.
But it's not enough.
One hand holds fast at Cyrus's hip, perfectly slotting against him and pulling him backwards in time onto Olberic's throbbing cock. The other is tangled in his hair, gripping tightly, firm, but never cruel. It pulls, making the length of him twitch. Olberic coaxes his head to the side, moving his face away from the pillow, and Cyrus moans helplessly into the open air with every thrust, long and loud.
“That's it,” Olberic croons approvingly from behind and above him. “Sing for me.”
As though he has a choice in the matter; the sounds he makes are forced out of him. There's just no room for them, what with the way Olberic fills every inch of him.
“Ahh… Ol-... -beric,” he gasps out brokenly in between his cries, hardly recognising his own wrecked voice as he pleads. “Olberic… Fast- hhh, faster…!”
“Not yet. Be patient.”
Groaning in frustration, Cyrus strains against the hold in his hair to glare over his shoulder. Doubtless it makes for a pitiful sight, as he still moans like a whore.
Oh, be patient, he says! How many long, lonely weeks has he already endured this bone deep, unassuageable longing, waiting for Olberic's return? Countless desperate nights he's spent with his fingers curled deep inside himself, trying and failing to find any sort of satisfaction. Olberic is built like a godsdamned warhorse, and even four fingers is a poor substitute.
Gods, how he's missed him.
Behind him, he can feel the solid weight of all of Olberic's muscle, the immense raw strength coiled within his arms. Still dutifully restrained, holding back, even now.
Damn his consideration, he thinks as he thrusts backwards urgently, I've waited long enough. What good is all that strength if he's too timid to put it to good use? This glacial pace only makes him more tightly wound, when he just needs Olberic to grab him and fuck him properly, until he can't speak, or walk, or fucking think anymore. Cyrus wants him to shove him headlong over the edge of bliss, to reduce the ceaseless maelstrom of his thoughts to a mindless chant of more, more. To make him cum as he screams Olberic's name.
“Cyrus,” he growls, low and dangerous, tightening his grip and stilling both of them. “Behave yourself.”
“Enough of your f-foreplay, then!” he says through grit teeth. “Please, please-”
Olberic inhales sharply, faltering in his stern facade as he hears him shamelessly beg. Cyrus doubts he's the only one who needs this. It shouldn't prove too difficult to make him crumble.
The hand in his hair slides down the length of his back, coming to rest at his arse. His thumb probes at his entrance, where they're joined, feeling how taut he's stretched around Olberic's cock. He's slick there with a mixture of oil and saliva, and Cyrus whines, recalling how Olberic had bent him over and tongued him open without preamble earlier that night.
“You're- ah, too tight still,” Olberic says, sounding so very conflicted as he's torn between his concern and his desire. “I'll not hurt you.”
Normally he would find all of this endearing, his sweet knight's earnest and protective nature. Right now it makes him unleash a string of curses into the pillow; it's only serving to come between him and the good, hard fuck he craves. Cyrus rues the day he ever let this daft man introduce the vices of love and sex into his life.
He begs again, striking at his weakness. “Please, Sir Olberic.”
Sir Olberic breaks spectacularly, failing to clamp down on a desperate sounding whine. “Oh, Flame-” He draws in a huge, shuddering lungful of air. “Fine, fine.” He pauses, stroking up Cyrus's sides as he buys himself time, still hovering on the edge of uncertainty. “You will stop me if it becomes too much, yes?”
“Mm,” he hums noncommittally.
“I mean it, Cyrus.”
Then he breaks, too, spitting venom over his shoulder. “Would you just get on with it already?! I don't need to be coddled, Olberic! I need you to fuck me-”
His biting words trail off mid sentence into a deep, unabashed moan as Olberic seizes the headboard with both hands, thrusting into him once, hard—hard enough to rattle the bed frame. When he receives no reproach, he sets an absolutely furious pace, with every vigorous thrust nearly lifting Cyrus's knees off of the bed, making desperate noises spill from his lips.
Oh, finally, finally. It's been so fucking long, he could cry from relief—he very nearly does, as he rocks his hips back frantically to meet him, trying to keep pace with each rough movement. Every nerve in him is set alight with pleasure, and he's not afforded even a second to catch his breath as Olberic drives into him again and again.
“How’s-” Olberic snarls above him, sounding as wrecked as he feels. “How's that, then? Finally enough for you?”
“More,” he moans, and Olberic swears, but obeys him at last.
Gods, it's good, it's so, so good—Gods, it feels like all he's ever wanted in his damned life. The pleasure is inhuman—fuck, his fingers could never hope to compare to this, he was a fool to have even tried. Olberic has spoiled him, ruined him, and he would not have it any other way.
With his hands bound, Cyrus can't grasp at anything to counter the maddening pressure building in him, nor can he brace himself against the onslaught. Olberic fucks him up the mattress inch by glorious inch, until he seizes his hips and pulls him back flush against him. He uses the hold to drag him back onto his cock, while the bed under them feels like it's going to shake apart.
His heart is thundering. Though he wishes this could last an eternity, relief is finally within his grasp and—and—oh, sod all of that flowery nonsense—he needs to cum, before he sets their godsdamned bed on fire.
“Olberic,” he wails. “Olberic-!”
Sensing his need, his loyal knight reaches under him, firmly taking his cock in hand. The sword callouses on his fingers catch on his skin, rough as he works him, but it's just this side of right. It's just what he needs.
His eyes well with tears, and he shakes from head to toe, filled with utter, unspeakable relief as all the tension in him gives at once. He spills and spills into Olberic's waiting palm, sobbing his name like a desperate prayer as he's wrung out, drained of every ounce of his essence. Cyrus thinks he might die like this.
Then he thinks of nothing at all.
It could be five seconds, or five hundred years before he comes to, to find that Olberic has already finished inside him. Shame for him to have missed it—the knight always makes such delightful noises when he's goaded enough, but there will be plenty more opportunities, he hopes. There's ample time yet for them to become reacquainted.
Olberic leans over him and gently brushes the sweat dampened hair away from Cyrus’s half lidded, unfocused eyes.
“There you are,” he says, smiling fondly. “How are you faring?”
Cyrus does not answer immediately; as he lies there, exhausted, thoroughly debauched and leaking slick and spend, he can barely form a coherent thought, let alone string a complete sentence together.
Perfect.
“...can't,” he manages at last, his voice rough. “Can't move…”
“Ah, here, let me-” Olberic begins saying, sounding contrite. He hastily unties Cyrus's wrists, letting his arms flop uselessly at his sides, arse still in the air.
“S’ not what I meant…” he murmurs, and Olberic huffs out a laugh. He eases Cyrus down onto his side so that they face each other, and he rubs at his wrists where the bindings chafed at his pale skin.
Every part of him is going to be wretchedly sore in the morning, even with such strong hands artfully kneading the lean muscle in his arms and shoulders. Yet, he regrets nothing.
“Are you content?”
“Mmm. For now,” he says, stifling a yawn. “...pray, give me half an hour.”
He stares at him. “You jest.”
Cyrus only smiles cryptically.
“And you call me insatiable,” Olberic says, pinching him lightly.
“You are,” he says primly. "I'm just making up for lost time, as it were.” It comes out more bitter than intended.
With that, the easy, playful mood is instantly deflated. Fuck. Nothing ever good comes from him sharing his innermost thoughts. Ugly things, they are, that should never be brought to light. Why couldn't he have just said that he'd missed him?
“Come with me, next time,” Olberic says suddenly and imploringly, looking at him with such hope in his eyes. A fleetingly rare thing—it looks good on him, and it simultaneously lifts and breaks his heart. “I loathe the thought of you being here alone.”
That makes two of us, then, Cyrus thinks. There he goes, thinking again. Why, that lasted hardly any time at all. He'd only been half joking, but perhaps a second round truly is in order.
“I would see you surrounded with laughter, and love,” Olberic continues, cupping his face so sweetly, brushing a calloused thumb over his cheekbone. “I wish to share with you what I feel when I return there, and to share you with those important to me.”
“I don't… I'm not sure,” he says, shying away, suddenly feeling awkward and uncertain. He doesn't have the strength to deny him outright, not in the face of such earnestness, with his pure, unadulterated affection. The idea does hold appeal, but even still he finds himself reflexively fumbling for an excuse. “My schedule may not permit-”
“Think on it. That is all I ask.”
Fie. Does he do aught else but think? It is so very tiresome. In particular, he tends to think on if this will be the time Olberic doesn't return to him. He thinks well and hard on the fact that, when he's finally had enough of Cyrus and his eccentricities, when he decides that he is better off in Cobbleston after all, Cyrus will be left in this house he hates with nothing, least of all love, or laughter.
While it may be true that he still has his friends, they are far flung into the corners of Orsterra and visit seldom, busy with their own lives and families now.
One day, Olberic will be counted among their number, and that terrible longing he'd felt in his absence will become just another part of his life. He'll adjust, as he always does—he’s endured much, for life goes on, as they say! But… he lives in fear of that day all the same. It may well prove to be the thing that finally breaks him.
No, he thinks he's better off remaining here, lest he forget what it is to be alone. He'll be forcibly reminded when that day comes, to his unbearable sorrow.
But all Cyrus says is, “...I will.”
Elated, and unaware of his inner turmoil, Olberic moves in to kiss him. Cyrus swiftly intercepts, clapping a hand over his lips as he recoils and shoves his face back.
“I think not!—not with where your mouth has been. Filthy man.”
“Hmph. You were enthusiastic enough at the time,” he says, raising a brow at him suggestively. Cyrus grins bashfully—no arguing there. “I suppose a bath is in order, then?”
Sighing, he glances at the clock in the corner of their bedroom. “T'is late…”
“Ah. What happened to all that, about making up for lost time?”
Cyrus heaves out a long suffering sigh. “Oh, very well, then,” he says, doing his best to sound put upon. In truth, he should very much like to selfishly bask in his knight's attention, and a bath would ease the soreness in his muscles. He winces as he tries to sit, rising only onto his elbows before giving up. “You'll, ah, you'll need to carry me, though, I think.”
“Yet you insisted on not being coddled, but a moment ago.”
“O, ye callous Twelve, cursing me to love such a cruel and vexing man!” he laments, letting out an enormously exaggerated sigh as he flops back against the sheets.
“Dramatic,” he huffs as he lifts him from the bed with ease. Cyrus nestles against him, looping his arms about his neck. “Are you considering running off with Therion's troupe?”
“Hehe, I certainly could. Wouldn't that be something? But-” Cyrus hesitates, and is silent for a long moment as he's carried. “I would not leave your side for anything,” he finally says, lacking any of the previous levity. I only pray that you feel the same.
Olberic pauses mid stride, looking at him intensely. “Nor would I.”
In his arms, naked and replete, with the knight looking at him like he's the most rare and valuable treasure in all the world, Cyrus can almost believe it. Oh, how he wants to, though—and he supposes that's all there is to it, really.
Their mouths drift together into a chaste kiss that lasts for exactly as long as it takes for him to notice Olberic's sly, self-satisfied smile.
“Oh, you- wretched man!” he growls, punching him hard on the shoulder. Olberic howls with laughter at his indignation.
Cyrus will never forgive him, and he says as much, often and vehemently during the rest of the night while Olberic scrubs his back. Even if he does love his handsome knight more than anything on this earth—he struggles to say that part, though he does his best to convey it.
They pass a cup of wine between them as they bathe, with Cyrus lounging against Olberic's chest. This is the satisfaction he'd truly craved, the warmth of Olberic, his touch, his voice as he regales him with stories from his latest journey away from home. His lips as they smile, as they lazily kiss—only after Cyrus had forced him to brush his teeth and wash his mouth out twice, of course.
Even so, he gets his second round, in the end, undoing their bath. If he wasn't going to be miserably sore before, he certainly will be now. Olberic doesn't hold back this time, folding him nearly in half and truly letting him have it. It's—perfect. He cums so hard that he rakes bloody furrows down Olberic's back, and when he regains the wherewithal to heal them afterwards, Olberic stops him.
“Leave it. Let them scar,” he all but purrs into his ear. “I would be proud to bear your mark for the rest of my days.”
Without a doubt, it is one of the most ridiculous, sappy, saccharine things he's ever heard, and his heart soars for having heard it from his knight. He feels he might burst at the seams, so full of love he is. Thank the Gods for granting him this foolish man, who still chooses to return to him time after time, defying his cynical expectations.
But all Cyrus says is, “Now who's being dramatic…”
He chuckles, kissing his forehead. “Sleep. I'll be here when you wake.”
Perfect. Finally, in Olberic's arms, exhausted and satisfied beyond belief, in body and heart and soul, finally, Cyrus thinks no more.