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Summary: Giyuu's confused—why everyone is so shocked that you're his wife?
Warnings: fluff, emo Giyuu(kinda), who is also comfused as hell, wife!reader x husband!Giyuu and lots of fluff.
Characters: Giyuu Tomioka
A/N: I loooove this emotionally constipated boi :3.
Giyuu doesn’t understand why people think he’s strange.
He doesn’t talk much, yes—but he speaks when needed.
He doesn’t smile often, but what reason is there to smile when the world is still this full of blood and ash?
He does his work. He follows orders. He returns alive. That should be enough.
And yet—
Every time he walks into the mansion, the other Hashira go quiet.
Sanemi looks away. Shinobu’s lips curve like she’s holding back something. Mitsuri beams and waves like he’s a rare creature who wandered out of the woods.
He doesn’t mind. Not really. He’s used to being misunderstood.
But lately…things have gotten worse.
Because of you.
He first met you years ago.
A small Wisteria Crest house at the foot of a mountain—the air smelled faintly of herbs and tea leaves. You greeted every wounded slayer with the same soft tone, the same careful hands.
You didn’t treat him differently when he came in bleeding and silent.
You didn’t ask him why he never talked.
You just said, “Welcome home. Sit, please.”
He remembered those words more than he should have.
Now you’re his wife. Quietly. Secretly. A simple ceremony witnessed by Ubuyashiki-sama himself. No fanfare, no announcement.
Just you, smiling under the wisteria trees.
He still doesn’t understand why you agreed to it.
Sometimes, when he watches you brew tea, your sleeves brushing against the wooden counter, your face looking soo calm, kind—even pretty, he thinks maybe he doesn’t need to understand.
The first time it almost comes out is stupid.
You send him off with a small bento box—rice shaped like tiny fish, wrapped neatly in cloth.
He doesn’t notice Shinobu’s sharp gaze when he sets it beside him at the mansion during the meeting.
“Cute lunch, Tomioka-san,” she says, that poison-sweet smile of hers in place. “Did one of the Kakushi make that for you?”
“No,” he answers plainly.
“...Oh?”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Shinobu’s smile tightens. Mitsuri leans forward, curious. “Then who made it, Giyuu-san? It’s so cute!”
He looks down at the fish-shaped rice ball. He can still hear your voice that morning—‘Don’t skip meals again, alright?’ which forced his heart to flutter.
He simply says, “Someone.”
They don’t let him live it down for days.
Sometimes, after missions, Giyuu goes to the Wisteria House—your house, the one you choose to live in.
It’s quiet there—a peaceful one, not like the depressing one his estate is swallowed by. He leaves his blade by the door and sits where you tell him to.
You wrap his wounds with steady hands, humming softly. Sometimes he talks—only to you. Sometimes you tease him gently for his serious face, and he blinks at you, confused at how you can make something inside him unclench so easily.
When you smile, the corners of his mouth twitch upward before he even realizes it.
The next day, when Tanjiro spots him smiling faintly to himself, the boy looks alarmed.
“Giyuu-san, are you okay? Did something good happen?”
“...No,” he says.
He doesn’t understand why Tanjiro looks even more concerned.
One afternoon, you deliver some herbs to the Butterfly Estate. You greet the girls there with polite warmth—and when you pass Shinobu, you bow respectfully.
She almost doesn’t recognize you until you turn—and Giyuu is standing right behind you, carrying your basket without a word.
“He insisted on carrying it. I told him it’s fine.”
Shinobu stares between you both, her brow lifting, mouth curling into something dangerously amused.
“Oh? How gentlemanly of you, Tomioka-san.”
He doesn’t see what’s funny about it. He’s your husband. Of course he’d carry the basket.
Later that evening, Mitsuri corners him outside.
“Giyuu-san!” she gushes. “Who’s that lovely woman? The Wisteria one? You two looked so sweet together!”
He blinks at her. “…She’s my wife.”
Mitsuri freezes.
“…Your…what?”
“Wife,” he repeats.
Her scream echoes through the estate.
By the next day, everyone knows.
Sanemi storms into the training yard like a thundercloud. “You’re married? How the hell did that happen?”
“I asked,” Giyuu says.
“You—” Sanemi chokes on air. “And she said yes, TO YOU ?”
He nods.
Shinobu looks like she’s seconds away from fainting from suppressed laughter. “Tomioka-san, I must admit, this is rather...shocking news.”
Mitsuri’s the only one genuinely happy. She hugs you the next time she sees you and gushes about how cute the two of you are together.
Tanjiro, meanwhile, nearly bows himself into the ground when he realizes you’re his superior’s wife.
“Giyuu-san! I didn’t know! Congratulations!”
Giyuu just blinks. “It wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t say it.”
“...That’s the definition of a secret, Giyuu-san.”
He still doesn’t get it.
That night, back home, the world is quiet again.
You’re sitting outside beneath the wisteria vines, a book in your lap. The evening wind moves gently through your hair.
He joins you, sitting beside you with his sword laid down beside him. For a while, there’s only the sound of crickets and your soft humming.
Then you glance up at him.
“So…they know now?”
He nods once.
“And?”
“They were…loud.”
You laugh softly—a heart melting one, tilting your head toward him. “Did they tease you?”
He looks at you—at your calm, gentle eyes, the small smile tugging at your lips—and lets out a slow breath in weariness and to calm his raging heart.
“Yes.”
You reach over, brushing his sleeve lightly. “You’ll survive.”
He doesn’t say it, but when you rest your head on his shoulder and the wisteria petals fall around you both, he thinks this—this quiet, ordinary peace—is something he will fight to survive for.
He still doesn’t understand people very well.
But he understands the way your laughter feels like sunlight.
He understands how the scent of tea and wisteria means home.
And he understands that when everyone else talks too loudly, the quiet between your breaths is where he finds peace.
So maybe it doesn’t matter if no one understands him.
Because you do.
And that’s more than enough.
Mid-terms are pinning me down at my table, giving me backsho-. LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!
Don't steal,copy,edit or use my works in any form without my permission.
Summary: Giyuu's confused—why everyone is so shocked that you're his wife?
Warnings: fluff, emo Giyuu(kinda), who is also comfused as hell, wife!reader x husband!Giyuu and lots of fluff.
Characters: Giyuu Tomioka
A/N: I loooove this emotionally constipated boi :3.
Giyuu doesn’t understand why people think he’s strange.
He doesn’t talk much, yes—but he speaks when needed.
He doesn’t smile often, but what reason is there to smile when the world is still this full of blood and ash?
He does his work. He follows orders. He returns alive. That should be enough.
And yet—
Every time he walks into the mansion, the other Hashira go quiet.
Sanemi looks away. Shinobu’s lips curve like she’s holding back something. Mitsuri beams and waves like he’s a rare creature who wandered out of the woods.
He doesn’t mind. Not really. He’s used to being misunderstood.
But lately…things have gotten worse.
Because of you.
He first met you years ago.
A small Wisteria Crest house at the foot of a mountain—the air smelled faintly of herbs and tea leaves. You greeted every wounded slayer with the same soft tone, the same careful hands.
You didn’t treat him differently when he came in bleeding and silent.
You didn’t ask him why he never talked.
You just said, “Welcome home. Sit, please.”
He remembered those words more than he should have.
Now you’re his wife. Quietly. Secretly. A simple ceremony witnessed by Ubuyashiki-sama himself. No fanfare, no announcement.
Just you, smiling under the wisteria trees.
He still doesn’t understand why you agreed to it.
Sometimes, when he watches you brew tea, your sleeves brushing against the wooden counter, your face looking soo calm, kind—even pretty, he thinks maybe he doesn’t need to understand.
The first time it almost comes out is stupid.
You send him off with a small bento box—rice shaped like tiny fish, wrapped neatly in cloth.
He doesn’t notice Shinobu’s sharp gaze when he sets it beside him at the mansion during the meeting.
“Cute lunch, Tomioka-san,” she says, that poison-sweet smile of hers in place. “Did one of the Kakushi make that for you?”
“No,” he answers plainly.
“...Oh?”
He doesn’t elaborate.
Shinobu’s smile tightens. Mitsuri leans forward, curious. “Then who made it, Giyuu-san? It’s so cute!”
He looks down at the fish-shaped rice ball. He can still hear your voice that morning—‘Don’t skip meals again, alright?’ which forced his heart to flutter.
He simply says, “Someone.”
They don’t let him live it down for days.
Sometimes, after missions, Giyuu goes to the Wisteria House—your house, the one you choose to live in.
It’s quiet there—a peaceful one, not like the depressing one his estate is swallowed by. He leaves his blade by the door and sits where you tell him to.
You wrap his wounds with steady hands, humming softly. Sometimes he talks—only to you. Sometimes you tease him gently for his serious face, and he blinks at you, confused at how you can make something inside him unclench so easily.
When you smile, the corners of his mouth twitch upward before he even realizes it.
The next day, when Tanjiro spots him smiling faintly to himself, the boy looks alarmed.
“Giyuu-san, are you okay? Did something good happen?”
“...No,” he says.
He doesn’t understand why Tanjiro looks even more concerned.
One afternoon, you deliver some herbs to the Butterfly Estate. You greet the girls there with polite warmth—and when you pass Shinobu, you bow respectfully.
She almost doesn’t recognize you until you turn—and Giyuu is standing right behind you, carrying your basket without a word.
“He insisted on carrying it. I told him it’s fine.”
Shinobu stares between you both, her brow lifting, mouth curling into something dangerously amused.
“Oh? How gentlemanly of you, Tomioka-san.”
He doesn’t see what’s funny about it. He’s your husband. Of course he’d carry the basket.
Later that evening, Mitsuri corners him outside.
“Giyuu-san!” she gushes. “Who’s that lovely woman? The Wisteria one? You two looked so sweet together!”
He blinks at her. “…She’s my wife.”
Mitsuri freezes.
“…Your…what?”
“Wife,” he repeats.
Her scream echoes through the estate.
By the next day, everyone knows.
Sanemi storms into the training yard like a thundercloud. “You’re married? How the hell did that happen?”
“I asked,” Giyuu says.
“You—” Sanemi chokes on air. “And she said yes, TO YOU ?”
He nods.
Shinobu looks like she’s seconds away from fainting from suppressed laughter. “Tomioka-san, I must admit, this is rather...shocking news.”
Mitsuri’s the only one genuinely happy. She hugs you the next time she sees you and gushes about how cute the two of you are together.
Tanjiro, meanwhile, nearly bows himself into the ground when he realizes you’re his superior’s wife.
“Giyuu-san! I didn’t know! Congratulations!”
Giyuu just blinks. “It wasn’t a secret. I just didn’t say it.”
“...That’s the definition of a secret, Giyuu-san.”
He still doesn’t get it.
That night, back home, the world is quiet again.
You’re sitting outside beneath the wisteria vines, a book in your lap. The evening wind moves gently through your hair.
He joins you, sitting beside you with his sword laid down beside him. For a while, there’s only the sound of crickets and your soft humming.
Then you glance up at him.
“So…they know now?”
He nods once.
“And?”
“They were…loud.”
You laugh softly—a heart melting one, tilting your head toward him. “Did they tease you?”
He looks at you—at your calm, gentle eyes, the small smile tugging at your lips—and lets out a slow breath in weariness and to calm his raging heart.
“Yes.”
You reach over, brushing his sleeve lightly. “You’ll survive.”
He doesn’t say it, but when you rest your head on his shoulder and the wisteria petals fall around you both, he thinks this—this quiet, ordinary peace—is something he will fight to survive for.
He still doesn’t understand people very well.
But he understands the way your laughter feels like sunlight.
He understands how the scent of tea and wisteria means home.
And he understands that when everyone else talks too loudly, the quiet between your breaths is where he finds peace.
So maybe it doesn’t matter if no one understands him.
Because you do.
And that’s more than enough.
Mid-terms are pinning me down at my table, giving me backsho-. LIKES AND REBLOGS ARE APPRECIATED!
Don't steal,copy,edit or use my works in any form without my permission.
Summary: Clive tries to keep his strength at bay. You admonish him for it. Warnings: explicit content / NSFW, rough sex, female reader anatomy, use of the word ‘minx’, dirty talk. A/N: My first time writing for Clive! This was a journey. I want to keep writing for him — reblog’s / comments are always appreciated! :)
You discover quickly that Clive fucks you like he fights.
It starts with the gentlest of kisses, searing hot like a burn from the sun itself. Shy, but he doesn’t mean for it to be. He remedies that by driving you against him till there is no space to give, only his chest that beats with some gratifying noise when you’re bare and naked for him to witness every inch of it.
You don’t tell him, but you like it when you holds you close and fucks you rough. His fingers, calloused with the fatal semblance of war, prove your excitement as they prod and grope at your skin experimentally. He’d fucked you rough once before and refrained from it again — a fear of breaking you, he thinks. He plays it soft now.
When you moan, shudder against the splay of his fingers against the share of your muscle, the pebbled crest of your nipples, he leads his fingers further. Deeper. He tries to ignore the burning heat curdling at his hip, for you, but the intrusion against your thigh is so hard to miss.
Clive — please, touch me, comes your plea.
The madness in your voice makes the blood rush to his cock. It ruins him, makes him want to consume you whole right here, from the heat of his lap. He fights it, though, still, and his jaw bulges from the effort of it.
He begins again, tries to create and follow a slower acclivity. Maybe he could finger you, eat you out, pleasure you delicately beneath the weight of his hot, heavy fingers.
There — there you go, my love.
He splits you open deliciously slow and his remaining fingers swim against the wetness collecting on your clit. There’s a familiar rhythm amped by the joint effort of his fingers on and in your cunt but you want more of something different. A fuck thoroughly rough that you know he can manage.
It’s you who wrenches his hand from your cunt with a disappointing pop — he thinks he’s upset you in some shape or form, that he’s pleasured you too dully or too hard, but soon comes to learn that you’re acting like brat.
Come, now, my love — don’t be like that, he warns. His voice is addictively firm and set, which in turn fuels your need for more. You attempt to wiggle out his grip, piss him off further, but the flux presses against his throbbing, oozing cock, which has already spilt some of its seed against his stomach with the wait.
Don’t — his resolves works no more. His voice is more shout than reason, as he delivers your arms with a bruising feeling from the steely grip they have on them. He’s lost his patience, and his mind, pushing you into the ground with none of the prior promise of tenuity. You’ve angered him, gotten what you want finally.
Is this what you wanted, you minx? Are you happy?
He drives your ass into the floor, kneads it within the roughness of his palm like dough. On regular days, he would work you open till you were gushing and open to a guaranteed degree. Now, he primes his intrusion of your cunt with an animalistic growl, his cock pushing in till you’ve had your fill.
Rough enough?
He mocks you. Gives you no room to recover. Batters your cunt again and again with the rough slap of his hips. He grins wickedly when you cry hot, fat tears and goes to mock you once more.
Why are you crying? Isn’t this what you wanted? Could’ve sat still while I worked you open but you wanted it rough — I’m giving you rough.
You’d never thought it would be this good, this illusive. He flips you till your back faces him, and ploughs into you like none before, delivers messy and violent shocks across your body. There’s barely any touch to his ministrations, just push, as he drives your head against the floor — in the name of take it, take it, I know you can take it.
He suffocates your senses — you clamp harshly against his cock with a loud cry, unsure of your bearings. Your body spasms underneath the weight of his and when he finished with his business, taken his fill as he shatters inside you, he’s quick to smother the quickness of this violence.
I’m — I’m sorry — are you hurt? I got ahead of myself — I’m sorry, my love.
You hush him with shaking hands, and as much as your fingers reject motion, you cradle his cheeks in your palm. The reflective heat from them comforts Clive, leaves him with the blatant truth that this is what you had wanted — and now that you had it, you weren’t in it to stop.
There’s a strange curl to his lips, with the knowledge that comes to him softly in the after-burn.
FANDOM: final fantasy xvi
PAIRING: clive rosfield x reader ( gender neutral, afab )
RATING: explicit / 18+. minors dni.
SUMMARY: After an exhausting week of running around Valisthea, you return home with your heart full and missing a certain outlaw. What you find upon your return is different... but not unwelcomed.
WARNINGS: slightly rough sex, dirty talking, breeding kink, implied heat cycle.
WORD COUNT: 7.7k
A/N: yeah i'm fairly down bad for this man. i normally don't write reader fics but i'm trying to expand my horizons so. here we are. gotta feed myself in this economy right?? expect more ffxvi stuff, whether its reader insert or other shit because the brainworms are very bad.
read on ao3!
It’s a silent ride back to Hideaway, as it always is on these solo missions of yours.
It’s not a common thing, but every so often you find yourself having to run around all of Valisthea with the job of making payments and collecting orders from the many kind souls that have been helping the cause that even keeps your personal home afloat. In fact, you could even say as Cid’s personal advisor, this was your main job; Otto was busy running the Hideaway and keeping it in check, so the job fell to you when you weren’t tailing after the man you worked under.
You also didn’t mind it, because it meant you had some time to yourself. You had the wind at your back, the smell of sea water to keep you company, and you could be in your thoughts alone.
Usually you didn’t mind it, at the very least.
It’s not a long task to do or even a hard one, in fact you’d argue that most of your time spent there is arguing with the likes of Martha and Isabelle and even L’ubor to accept the gil that Cid himself has offered to give them, but this month’s mission of yours was different. It seemed like a certain boss of yours had racked up a few requests and the people he graciously helped either wanted to give him a reward or send a letter to ask for more help. And since you were unfortunately playing messenger, it meant that you were basically running around and doing his job… in the sense of gathering the requests and gifts, of course.
So, you were being a little delayed in returning. You made sure to send a Stolas, to let everyone know you weren’t dead - just incredibly busy.
But now you finally found yourself on the ferry back home and you were impatient to get back. Excited to get back to everyone, excited to finally be returning after about a week of having to travel by Chocobo to get to everywhere.
Excited to return back to him.
“Hey, Obolus, are we almost there yet?” You peer over to the ferryman, the wind wilding through your hair.
Obolus didn’t even look back at you, as he ‘tsks’ in response. “We’ll get there when we get there. Asking every five seconds won’t make the boat go any faster.”
You scrunch your nose at him, but he did unfortunately have a point. The trip usually never feels so long, but after being away for what seems like months, you were just anxious to get back and rest your feet. The silence of the ride passes, with only the sound of waves pressing against the exterior of the boat.
You lean against the side and take the chance to reflect on all that’s happened. All that you’ve experienced.
All that you’ve done.
You don’t really remember when you became Cid’s advisor. It’s had to have been years at this point, you remember only barely being what one would call an adult. You were a bearer without a brand, hiding your magic behind crystals. It’s what your father had taught you, to protect you from the cruel world you were born in. You were cursed, your mother refused to even acknowledge your existence - even more so after the death of your father. You only lived the way that you did because your mother loved your father more than she loved you, and made your father take care of you.
Your father never gave up on you. An idealist in a world of realists, he really thought you could be the one to change the world.
He set himself up for failure, you bitterly had thought when news of his death arrived at your doorstep. He died for a cause he believed in, sure, but now he expected you to carry on that torch for him. And maybe there was a part of you that wanted to fight for a better world than the one you were handed, for those like you. You weren’t really sure what your true feelings were at that time.
There was one thing you did know, however; you knew you weren’t safe in your mother’s care, so you ran the day after your father’s passing and never looked back. You’re not even sure if your mother is even still alive or if she even misses you. Did she start anew, start all over with someone else and have a child she could be proud of?
As the years went on, you found that you didn’t even care. You can’t remember her face anymore.
You were crafty, a trickster, because that’s what kept you alive. Somehow, your paths with Cidolfus Telamon crossed. Not just once or twice, but five times. Four times, you rejected his appraisal and invitation to join him.
On the fifth path crossed, and the day he saved you from death, you finally joined him. You didn’t really expect to stay long in Hideaway, only thinking you would spend a few weeks or even a month before you jumped ship. You never stayed in one place for long, because it was always too dangerous for you to attach yourself to people. But everyone was so kind, so nice to you, and welcomed you with open arms.
Especially Cidolfus.
You clung to him a lot, maybe because despite only meeting him five times he was the only person you really knew, and somehow you managed to become his advisor with your skills and your ability to pull him back to the ground. Otto was against it at first, not because he didn’t like you, but you were barely an adult. Yet, Cid had smiled and patted you on the shoulder, telling Otto that there was more to you than meets the eye.
It’s much more than what your mother gave you. Worthless, unneeded, dirty, sinful - that’s all that she had called you. Your own father would try and raise your spirits, but her words were sharp as a knife and they cut wounds in your wrists. Weeks turned into months, months turned into years, and you stayed. You stayed with the people who would become your family.
One day, Cid left with Goetz and the wolf he ( or rather, charon ) cared for, because of rumors of Shiva’s Dominant finally rising in a place where he can finally catch her, to give her the freedom she needed. He came back with Goetz carrying a girl on his back, and a branded man with the wolf practically attached to his hip.
Clive Rosfield.
You didn’t realize it at the time, but the man before you would change your life completely.
Cid introduced you to him, asking you to watch over him and help him adjust to the Hideaway. It’s almost funny to think about, because despite Clive’s grumblings about ‘not staying long’ ( words that echoed in your head as familiar, because you had said the same thing ), when you finally got track of him again, he was out helping the people of Hideaway.
You made a joke about that and he quickly looked away, some colour on his cheeks and the tips of his ears. It was a cute sight, unsightly for a rugged man like him. Despite his appearances, he was kind and soft, albeit a bit cynical from the hardships he faced in his life. Then you ended up helping him help people, because there wasn’t much to do at that time and you needed to stretch your legs, and that’s how Cid decided on his great idea to make Clive your personal assistant.
Clive then realized when Cid told him you ran him ragged, he meant it, because once Cid assigned Clive to you, it didn’t take you long to get him working because as long as someone could move, they could work. But of course, you joined Clive on his journey to help him out. Some days you had to stay at Hideaway but for the most part, you were at his side alongside Cid.
You and Clive bonded together. Quick whips with one another, long nights together trying to figure out your next course of action with the Mothercrystals and how to save Valisthea, and slowly he became someone you… well, liked, essentially. You don’t exactly make friends with people, because you’ve never really had the chance to do so, but somehow Clive stabbed his way into your life and heart.
He became softer with you, and you did too. You found it was easy to smile with him, to laugh with him, to love him. It scared you, because Clive was a Dominant - the second, mysterious Eikon of Fire, and yet something so much more than that. It was basically a target on your back, even more so than the relationship you had with Cid.
But you found that you couldn’t stop loving him, that you would endure the burning world for him. Maybe that scared you more.
He held you when you sobbed and broke down over Cid - the first time your mask of being strong ever cracked. You hated it, you hated being weak, because Cid didn’t need weak people helping him. Cid needed someone who could put themselves back together, but this time you couldn’t. The pieces of you were scattered all over the floor like glass and every time you picked one up, you cut your hand and let the blood drip from your wound.
Yet, Clive held you. He held you close, he didn’t judge you, because he was crying alongside you. Cid meant so much to everyone, including him. You sat in his arms, and he didn’t leave until he knew he could leave you alone without worrying over you. His gentleness contrasted his roughened up look, he looked at you so softly and filled with fondness towards you. He was not afraid to help pick up the pieces, even if it meant cutting his hands in the process.
He put you back together, and he didn’t complain about it. Not even once.
Your relationship with him bloomed. Your friendship with him became something new, something else. It was a dangerous love, because of who Clive Rosfield is - what he is. Yet, you never swayed. You never faltered.
No matter what, he’s Clive to you.
But in public, he is Cid and you are Cid’s advisor - like you always were. You two were professional on the outside, only sneaking away to shed those titles when you had enough time to. You didn’t get those chances a lot, but when you did he made sure to treat you like you were a deity. You’ve had lovers in the past, but they never made you feel like Clive made you feel. He made you feel loved, appreciated, cared for. You took care of him, but he always took care of you in return. He never simply just took, he always gave back.
No wonder you were anxious to get back to him; you’ve missed him dearly.
“We’re approaching the Hideaway!”
The ferryman’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. You open your eyes, quickly looking towards the horizons. Even in the blackest of nights, with the moon being your only light, you could see the shape of the broken down airship that you and everyone else called home. You could feel the smile creeping on your face.
“I’m home,” you whisper.
To who exactly? Not yourself, but to the man who was waiting for you.
You thank Obolus for the ride home as you step off of the boat, quickly rushing up the stairs. Most people had turned in for the night so there were only a few souls still haunting the Hideaway, and they offered their greetings to you and a cheery ‘welcome back, advisor!’, to which you returned with a smile.
You feel a little silly rushing through the halls, like an eager child, but you were happy to be home.
You were happy about seeing him again.
You skid to a stop when you reached your destination. The Tub and Crown was a bit of a ghost town around this time, but you knew there were still a few people aside from Maeve haunting the area.
And you weren’t wrong. There sat Gav and Jill, with Torgal laying at Jill’s side. The hound lifts his head up at the sound of your footsteps, and once he lays his eyes on you he quickly stands up and rushes over towards you with a happy sounding bark. Since becoming Clive’s partner, Torgal never really left your side either. If he wasn’t with his owner or Jill, he was shuffling at your hip and following you around.
“Torgal!” You greet happily, kneeling on the ground to pet him and spoil him with some treats you carried on hand once you got close enough to where the two sat.
The two break from their conversation to see what Torgal was barking at, both of them greeting you with a smile on their faces.
“Well, if it ain’t our favorite advisor!” Gav slams his drink down. He looks you over, peering at the basket of gifts and requests at your side - all for a certain someone. “Talk about bein’ fashionably late. You weren’t kiddin’ when you said almost everyone in Valisthea was keepin’ you away.”
Jill nods her head in agreement, cupping her own chin to look over the heavy basket. “It sounds like you’ve had quite the adventure yourself.”
“Oh, it was the same ol’ stuff I deal with everyday. Just this time everyone in Valisthea caught wind that Cid’s advisor was in town and decided to make it their problem.” You rub Torgal’s belly, to which the hound accepts with happy pants.
Speaking of the aforementioned man… You look to the side of Gav. No handsome brooding man there.
You look to the side of Jill. No handsome brooding man there, either.
“Where is Clive?” You stop petting Torgal for a moment. “I figured he would be hanging out with you.”
Gav rolls his eyes a little, both good naturedly but also in some slight annoyance. “Went right to his chambers to work on things when we got back. He’s been in a bloody mood all week.” The scout holds up a finger. “Scowlin’ more than usual, more antsy than usual, tappin’ his foot while he waits at the door.” Every reason is met with a finger going up. “Not like everyone is afraid of him here, but it felt like we had to walk on eggshells around him. Even Charon was tryin’ not to rib him so hard.”
You blink a little, a brow raised. “Has the missions been going poorly or something?”
“Fuck no,” Gav shakes his head in response. “Everything’s been going smoothly. He’s just been actin’ like a shite.”
“He hasn’t been that bad,” counters Jill. Though, there’s a slight pause of hesitation from her. “But Gav isn’t wrong, he has been in a bit of a mood. More than likely, he was just worried about you.”
Worried about you? It’s not like you can’t handle yourself, and you’ve definitely been on missions longer than a week without him. You can’t help but scrunch your nose in thought - as always, when you’re thinking hard. Something was up with him, clearly.
Jill reads you like a book, with a smile on her face. “He’s still up, last time I checked. He’s burying his nose in reports as to distract himself. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the visit from you.” She stands up from her seat, as Torgal also rolls over and trots back to her side. “I’ve got some work to do with Tarja, but it was nice seeing you tonight.”
You nod your head, standing up and dusting yourself off. “Tarja, huh? Try not to stay up too late with her, alright?” You laugh a little when Shiva’s dominant huffs softly at your teasing, giving you just a gentle nudge in return. The two of you have gotten quite close over the years, and she was supportive of you and Clive. You felt like you could sigh in relief at that, that you didn’t have to worry about Clive’s childhood friend coming after you.
Gav finishes his drink, standing up as well. “I’m turnin’ in for the night.” He pats your shoulder with a grin on his face. “Make sure you give our leader a nice, warm welcome!”
He only grins harder seeing your cheeks turn red like a tomato at the implication of his words, and Jill’s soft laughter only makes you turn ever redder. Ah, there was your punishment for teasing Jill. The three of them make their way out of the alehouse, your eyes following them as you think about your conversation.
He’s in a mood.
What could he be in a mood about? You’ll have to do some digging, which isn’t hard - if there’s one thing Clive is with you that not even a sour mood could change, it’s that he was honest with you. It’s one of his best traits, really, that he’s open with his feelings and doesn’t usually shy away from speaking his mind about certain things. It’s not always easy, because there are some things he keeps to his chest, but for the most part communication is always important between you two. You pick up the basket of gifts and quickly make it to the end of the hall, where Clive’s chambers were.
And well, they were technically your chambers too, you think with the heat growing at your cheeks once more.
Shifting the basket a little, you use your free hand to knock on his chamber doors - once, twice and thrice.
“The door’s unlocked.” Clive’s low voice fills your ears. He already has you sighing and letting out a quivering breath. Founder, you’ve missed him.
You open the door with a smile on your face. You take in the sights before you - his room is as you left it, with the man himself seated at the desk. He seems to be burying himself in his usual reports and paperwork, just as Jill said. He didn’t even lift his head upon you entering.
“Guess who.” You smile, as you close the door behind you.
The sound of your voice has Clive immediately lift his head from his work. Cerulean eyes widened, the quill he was using drops from between his fingers and clattering on the desk.
“You’re back.” He sounds almost breathless. His chest raises a little as he breathes in and out, those cerulean eyes of him looking a lot more puppy-dog than usual.
This was different, indeed.
You walk towards him, placing the basket on the edge of the desk not covered in scattered papers. “Just got back. Gifts for you by the way, I was hunted down by weary souls who wanted to give their thanks to the so-called Cid the Outlaw.” You peer at him with a gentle, loving smile on your face.
He laughs a little in response, a rare smile forming on his own features. “No wonder you’re late. Sorry about that. I’ll be sure to pen my thanks to them soon.”
You shake your head at him. “Oh, don’t even start with the apologies. It’s my job to aid you, it’s kind of in the title.” A pause, shifting your feet a little as you hold your hands behind your back, shyly. “And… you know I’ll do anything for you, Clive.”
The words you whisper made him smile a little more. “You have perfect timing. I’m actually finishing up and I could use your advice.” He nudges his chair back a little, gently patting his thigh.
For a moment, you stare with a tilted head, until you realize the implications. Your cheeks turn red.
Oh, he’s inviting you to sit there.
Oh, this was different, indeed.
But you don’t hesitate or falter at all. You take a seat on his thigh, leaning against him. One of his strong arms wraps themselves around your waist, pulling your body flushed against his. The position is a little embarrassing, you have to admit to yourself, but it feels warm, comforting - loving. It doesn’t take long for you to fall back into place, flipping through the letters and offering your advice and help to him.
It also doesn’t take long for Clive to stop paying attention. He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent. His hot breath tickles your skin, a shiver running down your spine, as his fingers draw circles in your hip. His lips ghosts around your skin, pressing the gentlest of kisses to your neck as though he was whispering forbidden words in your skin. The quill from his fingers once again falls onto the desk, the reports forgotten about as his attention shifts to you. It’s hard to focus when he’s like this, so you decide to also forget about the many papers that littered his desktop.
“Jill and Gav told me you were in a mood.” You finally shift the conversation to what was really on your mind.
Clive only offers a grunt at first. “I’m not really in a mood.”
“Are you? You’re acting a little differently tonight.” Your fingers run through his hair, out of his eyes. “What’s on your mind, Clive? You know you can tell me.”
For a moment, he hesitates, but he knows he doesn’t like keeping secrets from you. You know he doesn’t like keeping secrets from you. He pulls you close to him, finally lifting his head to look you in the eye.
“I was fine when you left, but after a day, it felt like there was a pit in my stomach.” Clive runs his fingers up and down your hip. “Hunger, I suppose, is the best way to describe it.”
“Hunger?”
“I felt like I couldn’t focus with you gone. It was worse when I was here alone. Your scent was so much stronger than it usually was…” Clive recounts, averting his gaze for a moment from slight embarrassment, but he quickly focuses back on you. “The more days you were away, the more the hunger grew.”
“And the grouchier you got?” You tease him, though your tease was cut short and replaced with a slight yelp when he pinches your thigh with a huff.
“I wasn’t grouchy.” He counters, but his tone of voice sounds like he’s not exactly fighting the accusation.
You think about what he’s said, though. A hunger he felt for you. It started happening when you first left. He found that your scent was stronger than normal, even when you weren’t there. The symptoms sounded fairly familiar to you, and you hummed a little in thought as you ran your fingers through his hair. He groaned in delight at that, leaning into your touch and burying his face in the crook of your neck once more.
“Maybe you’re going through a rut?”
Clive lifts his head up. “A rut? I’m not a dog, love.”
“I mean, you travel with a dog, you constantly have a permanent puppy-dog eyes look on you and you turn into a dog-lizard thing. You’re kind of dog-adjacent.” You shrug cheekily, with an equally cheeky smile on your face. “But I’m serious about the last thing. We don’t know a whole lot about Ifrit. Maybe it’s going through some kind of rut or something and it’s affecting you. It is springtime, you know. Maybe nature is just setting course for Ifrit, too.”
It’s a pretty plausible theory. Clive stops to think about it for a brief moment, his breath tickling your neck once more as you sigh. Still, he says nothing at first and pauses his movements, until he looks right back up at you, his gaze meeting yours.
“You do realize the implications of your theory, right?” His pupils are blown out, more than usual. His strong, calloused hands grip your hips, shifting you a little so your lower half is flushed right against his.
Oh, there’s something pressing against you. Your body warms up, a heat and ache pooling right in your core.
You didn’t realize how much you miss his body pressing against yours in such a sinful manner, until he rolls his hips against yours in want and need.
“I meant what I said,” you begin to say, your hands gripping to his shoulders as you slowly grind against the bulge in his pants, meeting his hips’ movements. You couldn’t help but grin a little when he moaned lowly, a sound just for you. “You know I’ll do anything for you, Clive.”
That’s all you’re able to get out at that point, because once you give him permission to do what he needs to do, Clive’s lips press against yours. It was only a sweet, soft kiss for a for seconds at best, because it quickly turned into something fierce, hungry. His tongue prods against your lips, wanting access into your warm mouth, and you gladly part your lips for him, because you need him as much as he needs you. Your tongue presses and swirls against his - it’s a small battle for dominance you never win, but you know he likes a small challenge. His own tongue presses and pins yours, until you ease away to let him completely take the reins.
The kiss is hot, wet, truly sinful. His hands grope everywhere he could, mostly squeezing at your thighs and hips with his fingers digging into your soft, plump flesh until they found their way to your rear. Squeezing and grabbing, groping in such a way that would make you flustered had you not been needy with your own arousal, he lifts you up as though you’re made of nothing but feathers, and truly you’re a little limp in his grasp. Clive’s strength always managed to make you feel dizzy, in a good way, and that doesn’t change here. He pushes his chair back, leaving the desk and the many reports he still has to do in the dust and makes his way towards his bed - your shared bed.
He only breaks the kiss to place you down on the mattress, gentle pants leaving both of your lips as a string of saliva connects the two of you. It breaks as he pulls away a little more, only to dive back in and press fluttering, wet kisses to your neck. Just like the kiss from before, it turns into something a little more hot and brutal; his lips suck at your skin to give it a bruising mark, teeth sinking into your flesh to draw just a little bit of blood from you. You groan hotly, your fingers gripping at his dark locks as your hips jolt upwards. Clive licks and kisses at the bruise and bite mark he left, panting gently against your flesh.
“You still taste so, so good.” Clive whispers into your skin, as his hands tug right at your shirt. He tries his best not to rip it, but unbuttoning your shirt during these kinds of acts was never exactly a cleanful tact, because you can already see a few buttons pop off just from him ripping it open. You chuckle a little; some things really don’t change.
Your chest is bared to him, and Clive wastes no time in pressing gentle kisses on naked skin. Trailing down, he kisses, licks and sucks on any skin he could latch himself onto and sinks teeth into your sink that leaves behind a delicious sting of pain, until finally reaching your left breast. Your breath hitches a little as his tongue swirls around the nub of your nipple, the hitched breath morphing into a needy moan once his lips latch around it to give it a gentle suck. His fingers tease and play with the unattended one, his attacks on you relentless and cruel - cruel in the sense he never slowed down.
“Clive.” you whine with a high-pitched voice, trying your best to roll your hips against his. But he doesn’t let you, pinning you down with just his pelvis. He lifts his head up, a smirk on his face.
“Just lay there and let me make you feel good,” whispers Clive. The way his low voice sounded so commanding, you can’t help but obey him. He was always like this, though; he was always chasing for your pleasure and never his own. He loved you, he wanted to make you feel good. It was never really fair! But at the same time, it truly was nice. He was so different from lovers you had in the past, who only cared about their own needs.
He attends to your other breast, giving it the same treatment - a lick here, a suck there, leaving a trail of bruises and bite marks in his wake. Once he’s satisfied, his lips start to trail downwards. He worships you like this, with his lips and his tongue, making sure there’s a patch of skin with his mark on it. His hands make work of your bottoms, pulling off the offending fabric until you were just left in your undergarments. You expect to feel his fingers on your skin so he can pull them down, but instead when you look down, you see Clive is using his teeth to pull them down.
Oh, this is different. Normally he takes his time with you; press himself against you, kiss you all over. Even as someone who prefers to please his partners more than please himself, it seems like tonight he’s impatient.
“Seems like someone’s been wanting this,” chuckles Clive as he spreads your lower lips a little to inspect you. “You’re already so soaked. All I did was tease you a little. Founder, you’re as depraved as I am.” His hot breath hits your wetness as he speaks, never once pressing his lips against you. You jolt a little at the feeling, a soft huff escaping your lips.
“You started this mess,” You tell him, your fingers already gripping in his hair. “You finish it.”
Another chuckle leaves his lips. Clive is impatient, though, and he wastes no time in pressing his lips right against your dripping entrance. His tongue is relentless here just as it was on your skin; it wastes no time in slipping inside of you, as he starts to drink your essence and fuck you with his tongue alone. It’s almost unbearable to you, in a good way - he drinks like a man starved.
Clive is so good to you, but he knows how to be so cruel, because he knows you enjoy it. He knows how easily you melt on his tongue, and he enjoys every single moment of it.
His fingers slip in as well, two of them pumping in and out as he moves upwards a little, finding your clit. The tip of his tongue flicks at it and you feel the smirk against your entrance as soon as you squeak and moan from his actions. He licks, sucks, his movements becoming faster with each second that passes. You’re trying so hard to swallow back your moans, but the moment his lips wrap around your clit and give it a hard suck, you can’t control your volume anymore. It echoes off of the walls, embarrassingly so, but your mind is so fogged that you don’t seem to care like you usually would.
The knot in your lower stomach painfully tightens, you can feel yourself reaching your peak as Clive continues to tease your clit and thrust his fingers in and out of you. Just as you’re about to find your release, though, he abruptly stops. He pulls himself off of you, his fingers are coated with your essence.
“Clive–” You begin to whine, almost in pain. You stop yourself short when you watch him lick his fingers clean - slowly, like he’s putting on a show for you. Once they’re clean, he looks at you as though he’s a predator who has caught prey in his trap. The slight darkness of the room makes his cerulean eyes have a glow to them. The knot in your stomach returns.
He intends to devour you, his way. He’s going to drag this out, until you’re begging and crying for release.
Clive crawls back onto the bed, his hands moving to undo all of the leathers and fabric of his clothing, until he’s as bare as you are. His cloak and shirt go first, dropping onto the ground until his chest is revealed to you. Greagor, you could probably write several missives about Clive’s chest and muscles, but despite what your lover may say, you’re not that depraved. You keep all of those thoughts to yourself, like a good advisor should. Your eyes drift down with his hands, watching as they fumble a little with his belt, stifling a laugh from how needy and excited he is.
You stop laughing once he finally does undo his belt and pull his pants down, revealing his hard cock to you. You’ve seen it before, it’s been inside of you multiple times now, but you still hitch your breath when you see it. The gods certainly graced Clive with something to brag about, for certain.
If you ever do meet Ultima maybe you should thank him for giving his vessel something that would make you cross your eyes and forget your own name, but something tells you a narcissistic god obsessed with the purity of his vessel may not appreciate the sonnets a mere mortal would write about said vessel’s cock.
Pre-cum dribbles at the tip, his fingers coated in a mix of his saliva and your juices as he uses it to his advantage to stroke himself a little, to really give you a show now. You hear yourself panting, your chest heaving up and down as you watch the sinful sight before you.
“Enjoying yourself?” Clive smirks, smugness in his voice.
You huff a little in response. “I’ll only enjoy myself when you actually fuck me instead of showing off, Rosfield.”
He laughs a little, leaning down to kiss your forehead sweetly. “As my faithful advisor commands.”
You have no time to respond, as he quickly flips you so you’re on your stomach, face slightly pressed against the pillow beneath you. He presses his front against your back, the tip of his cock pressing against your wet folds teasingly. Your needy whine and rear thrusting back to try and get him inside of you earns a laugh from him, but thankfully he’s not intensely cruel tonight. He presses inside of you, though it’s not as slow as he normally is. Normally he takes his time with you, but in just seconds he’s got his entire length inside of you. You feel the way his body shudders against your back, your soaked walls clenching around him. A sigh passes your lips, morphing into a moan.
You’ve missed this. You’ve missed him.
His thrusts are slow at first, but it doesn’t take him long for him to pick up his speed. His hips meet your backside, a wonderful symphony of skin slapping against each other fills the room, loud enough to make your ears burn with embarrassment. You bury your face in the pillow to muffle your moans. A hand wraps itself around the back of your neck, though, to pull you up towards its owner. Clive’s heavy breath is in your ear now, worsening your arousal.
“Don’t hide your voice from me,” pants Clive, sharp teeth nibbling at your earlobe. “I want to hear you.”
And you find that you can’t deny him. Your moans are loud, needy, your knuckles turning white from how roughly you’re gripping the sheets to the point where they might tear. His other hand snakes down your stomach, reaching your lower half, and his fingers make work on your clit. It’s a slow rub, his thrusts contrasting the gentleness of his fingers. You can feel yourself reaching your peak, you can feel the knot in your stomach tightening and tightening until–
Until he pulls right out of you.
You whine, loudly, at the loss. Your walls clench at nothing, and you try to thrust yourself back towards him, but Clive doesn’t let you do that. Instead, he flips you both again - him on his back and you sitting on his lap. He looks up at you with a smile, his hand running up and down your stomach once more.
“I know exactly what you like.” The outlaw says, pulling you forward so his cock rests right against your stomach. You feel how hot it is, how hard it is, and how it throbs and pulsates against your skin. “Show me how much you want to cum.”
Oh, he’s definitely dragging this out as long as he can. You can’t exactly blame him, you don’t want this to end either.
But you also really need to reach your peak, otherwise you may burn the whole Hideaway down.
Your wobbly legs manage to hold yourself up, slowly moving down on him. Your whole body shudders as his cock fills you up again, the tip pressing against the deepest parts of your inside. You move up and down on his length, moans and pants spilling from your lips as you decide to not hide your voice any longer - because he wants to hear you. And you can’t deny him, because you don’t want to deny him.
“Founder, your voice alone drives me mad.” Clive growls, his hand squeezing your thigh as he thrusts upwards to meet your own movements. “Tried to focus on my work, tried to put you out of my head for days, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I needed you blissed out on my cock–”
He’s rambling, his voice low and rough, and you love every second of it. Clive’s not much of a talker, but when he is, he makes you feel so depraved for him. Your legs were starting to shake and feel weak already, but you push yourself - you push yourself because you want this. Because you need this from him, just as much as he needed this from you.
“Clive,” you chant his name like a prayer, over and over again. You must sound delirious.
But Clive clearly doesn’t seem to mind, the way his back arches a little just from the sound of your sweet voice. It’s a powerful feeling, you realize, having such a powerful man like him weak at you - a mere mortal, a bearer but not a Dominant. Yet, it’s a good reminder that beneath everything, Clive is a mortal man as well.
“Can you feel me, sweetheart?” He places his hand on your lower stomach, feeling the way it bulges a little from the sheer size of him. You look down, shuddering at the sight as he continues to thrust upwards, your eyes following how the bulge disappears then reappears. “You take me so fucking well. It’s like you were made for me, the way you shake your hips like a woman at the Veil.”
You can’t respond, any time you try to all that fumbles from your lips are moans and whines of pure pleasure.
“I can get so deep into you like this,” groans Clive, his other hand grasping at your hip. “All the way into you. Fuck, I could breed you right here. I could make you swell with my child.”
Oh, that’s different.
And it’s clearly a good different, the way your body responds. Your walls clench around him, as if your body had a mind of its own, as if your body was begging for the man to breed you. He notices too, and he licks his lips and smirks once he realizes you may enjoy the idea as he did.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Another thrust upwards. His thrusts are getting sloppier and rougher, but Greagor does it feel so good. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself, seeing you like that. I’d fuck you every single day–”
You moan, so lecherously. “Clive, fuck, I’m going to cum!”
Both hands grab at your hips, fingers digging and sinking into your skin so hard you know there’s going to be some bruising there in the morning. But you don’t care. All you care about is the man underneath you, and chasing after your own release. Clive makes you move faster onto him, a growl rumbling from his throat.
“Go on, let yourself go.”
You were already so overstimulated from the foreplay from before, and the way his cock brushes against your sweet spots and bashes against the entrance to your womb, you can’t help it. Your walls tighten around him, and you let yourself go.
Another growl rumbles from his throat, this time he pulls you right down onto him, hard. It doesn’t take him long to follow you into a blissful climax, his hot seed pouring into you and flooding your insides. It’s a lot, more than usual, to the point where it floods out from your entrance and onto him.
You collapse onto him, and he instantly takes you in his arms. Slowly, he flips your positions again, just so he can press himself deeper into you. Thank the Founder, because your legs were about to give out.
A moment passes, until he finally pulls himself out from you. His blown out pupils watch as his seed overflows from you, dripping onto the sheets beneath you. He shudders at the sight, and you can’t help but shudder as well.
You’re fading in and out of existence, but when you mostly come to, Clive has wiped you and him down, cleaning you up and gently pressing kisses against any marks he’s left on you. The sheets will unfortunately have to wait until tomorrow. Frankly, you could give less of a shit about that.
The outlaw slumps himself against you, pulling you into his arms. You both lay there in a comfortable silence, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.
“Thank you.” His voice trembles, a little embarrassed - that’s the Clive you know. “I’ll, uh, make sure Tarja prepares a herbal tea for you tomorrow, so that you don’t…” He trails off, hiding his face against your neck even more now.
You chuckle, feeling the hotness of his cheeks against your skin. “Feeling better?”
“Yes,” answers the male as he lifts his head up with a smile. “Much better. You always seem to know how to cure my worries and needs.”
“What can I say? I know my boss pretty well.”
He laughs, and your heart feels so warm, so in love with the man before you. Clive leans in, pressing his lips against yours to share a sweet, innocent kiss that contrasts the sinful act you both just partook in. And you kiss him back, wrapping your arms around him. You only stop when you feel something hard rub against your thigh, pulling back to see he was still pretty aroused. He’s a little sheepish at that, but he looks at you in want, in need - and love, as always.
“I don’t think one time is going to be enough for you, big guy.”
A sheepish laugh falls from his lips. “I don’t think so either. I might need a few more rounds. That is, if my faithful advisor is up to it.”
He’s challenging you, clearly. The smirk on his face tells you all you need to know. You smirk back, bucking your hips against his to accept.
“Only if you do most of the work.” You tell him, a leg going in to wrap itself around his waist. “You made me weak in my knees, Lord Rosfield. A gentleman should take some responsibility for his actions.”
His low chuckle reaches your ears, as he leans in to press his forehead against yours. It’s a tender action, one that definitely makes you feel weak in the knees - if you hadn’t already. It doesn’t take him long to reenter you, and you can’t hide the shudder of your slightly overstimulated body.
But you want everything he has to offer, the good and the bad of Clive Rosfield, and he’ll give it to you.
Because he wants everything you have to offer, the good and the bad of his faithful advisor, in return.
“As you wish, my love.”
He claims your lips. The night goes on.
“Somethin’ seems to be on your mind.”
Jill looks towards the source of the voice. Gav stands next to her, arms crossed as he meets her gaze with a raised brow. The Dominant says nothing to him, only slowly returning her gaze to where she once was looking. Gav’s line of sight follows hers, landing right on the scene that was unfolding before them.
“Clive, I’m trying to do work!”
Hideaway’s poor advisor was currently trying to shake an overgrown Cid the Outlaw off of them, who has currently draped himself over you. It had been a single day since you had returned from your trip and needless to say, Clive was acting as though you had been gone for years. Arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your body flush against yours.
“Nothing is stopping you from doing your work,” is all Clive remarks with, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Except for a fucking overgrown dog!”
Gav whistles at the sight before him. “Someone seems to be in a good mood.”
“Indeed,” nods Jill, her gaze never leaving the both of you. Right now you were trying to walk away, which resulted in you basically having to drag the second Eikon of fire around because he refused to let himself off of you. “But, I can’t help but wonder if this is worse than the mood he was in before.”
The scout shrugs his shoulders. “Our advisor has dealt with worse from him. And we don’t have to deal with him slobberin’ all over us, so I’d say a good mood is better than nothin’.”
The woman says nothing. She knows it’s going to be a few days before Clive will return to his normal self, if your theory about why he’s been moody all week rings true. Such things don’t end with a simple, pleasurable night. You’ll be fine, she knows that, so she’s not too worried that you won’t be able to handle Clive Rosfield.
It’s in your job description, after all.
( she’ll still pray to metia for you, at the very least, and hope you come out unscathed. )
"Are you blushing, Clive? Awww, how cute~" You've been teasing him all day and now, he cannot hold himself back any longer. mating press + breeding please 🙏🏼
"I'd say the blush currently on your face is much cuter."
While there was pure mirth in Clive's voice, there was unbridled ferocity in the way his cock sank deep into your core over and over, his hands keeping your thighs parted and legs anchored back to accommodate his thick physique. A groan soon escaped him, both with the imminent rise of yet another orgasm and as a thought came to mind.
"Though, I think a motherly glow will also suite you nicely, my love."
✩ inspo: yk that one note by tarja in the infirmary? yeah.
✩ in which: tarja had requested you bring rope to the infirmary. you wonder why.
✧ a/n: THIS HAS BEEN ON MY MIND FOREVER ITS SO FUNNY TO ME IMAGINE TARJA TYING THIS FREAK DOWN. PLEASE.
✦ taglist: @shinysora
🗒 cw: gn reader, kicked puppy clive, not proofread
✎ wc: 2.0k
Well, Tarja was good on her word. You were used to little runs to the infirmary, deliveries of herbs and what not. But when she asked for some rope, you couldn’t help but wonder what it was for. You do your best not to pry in on her patients and who needs what herbs, focusing on just what herbs she needed. But… rope? You were sure there was plenty in the infirmary. Still, you’d rather not get an earful, so you obliged.
And, well, you were treated to quite the scene. Clive, or Cid, genuinely tied down. It was rare of you to see Clive look so pathetic in a way, battered and bruised from god knows what. You’ve never seen him like this; granted, he tends to run off halfway through his treatment (i.e. the rest period). And with him tied down to the bed, he looked even more sorrowful, like a dog who was left out in the rain. If you hadn’t been poking around in Tarja’s journals when she was away, you would’ve thought this was some bizarre new treatment.
“Ah, good, you’re here,” Tarja immediately holds out her hand, beckoning you over. “I was starting to fear the beast would break his chains.”
Jill, next to Clive, lets out a chuckle, while Clive couldn’t be more displeased. You’d rather not end up like him, so you are quick to place the rope in Tarja’s hand.
“Tarja, please, this is embarrassing…” Clive protests weakly, his voice strained as if he had been struggling to break free for hours.
“Oh, really? Would you rather lose your head when you keel over in battle?” Tarja retorts, kneeled beside the bedside to tie more ropes around poor Clive. “You need to rest before throwing yourself into the fray again, you understand that, right? Ugh, you types are so aggravating!”
The room falls silent at that, save for Clive’s insistent grunts of struggle. Meanwhile, Tarja had just finished up with the second layer of rope. All you can do is really watch, too dumbstruck to speak, too astounded to laugh. You fear if you laugh or so much as giggle, you might earn Clive’s ire, as rare as it may be. At the same time, you simply can’t make fun of a patient, no matter how silly the occurrence is. If you told anyone, Tarja would have your head. Patient Confidentiality and all that. For now, this matter was one confined to the four people in the room.
As funny as you find this, poor Clive looked absolutely embarrassed, his cheeks flushed redder than you’ve ever seen him. Jill did her best to stifle her laughter, turning her head and covering her mouth. This seemed to make Clive deflate even more, turning his head away from her and towards you. The look he gives you is pitiful, one of a mangy, starving dog on the street. Yet it succeeds in heating up your cheeks, and taking pity on him. Have you ever seen such a hardened man turn into something so soft?
“Is this truly necessary…?” With a sigh, you turn to Tarja. “The man killed Kupka for Founder’s sake, we don’t need to punish him.”
“Are you not as sick as I am when he runs off without proper rest?” While her tone is harsh and she’s quite loud, you know she means none of this irritation towards you.
“Oh, I am, but…” You look back at Clive, who’s pride seems to mend. “He just avenged all of those we lost, must we really confine him like this?”
This seems to have talked some sense to Tarja, and she takes a moment to think about it. Wounded he may be, and stubborn at that, he did bring a sense of victory and cheer to the Hideaway that had been lost in recent days. In recent years, more of. It is nothing short of rude to tie the hero to a cot, even if he’s too damned stubborn to rest.
“Okay, okay, you’re right,” Tarja scoffs, before shaking her head. “But I am going to let him wallow like this for a minute longer. Perhaps he’ll think twice before he leaves the infirmary without resting.”
“Tarja!” Clive whines, struggling a little more with the look of a kicked puppy.
You turn your head, closing your eyes and willing yourself to shut up. You fear if you stare any longer you will enjoy the view. Not that you weren’t already, but it was starting to get to you! That, and you wanted to laugh so badly, but not at poor Clive’s condition. He was still a patient, as you keep repeating to yourself. Eventually, the awkward silence in the room feels like it’s too much to bear, and so you make your way out of the infirmary. You didn’t want to leave Clive alone, not without a voice of reason, but you had a feeling you’d done all you could. At the very least, Tarja would let him free sooner rather than in three days' time.
You’d hope you’d see him wandering around soon, to affirm that Tarja hadn’t kept him tied down. At the same time, you’d rather see him tied down than walking about, knowing he’d most likely be rushing off to another mission. And that’d earn him an indefinite spot in the Infirmary, strapped to the bed. If someone hauled him in. He’d most likely avoid it after this, not that you could blame him. But, just for extra measure, you’d make sure to drill it into him that he really should be resting after exerting himself so much. Just because you saved him doesn’t mean you aren’t of the same mind as Tarja, you’d just rather not involve ropes.
Now that you’ve (hopefully) saved the day, you feel like you’re going to burst if you don’t tell someone of the scene you just saw. You know you should be quiet and keep it to yourself, but it’s too damn much! If you don’t tell someone, anyone, you’ll die! You hurry back to the ale hall to at least find someone to chat with, and if not, you’ll drink your weight in ale and ‘accidentally’ let it slip.
Before you even reach the hall, Gav has a hand on your shoulder. He’s chipper as always, a grin on his face and the confidence you only wish you had.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost! What was goin’ on in the infirmary…?” He cocks his head to the side. He is just begging to be told. Seems you’ve found your victim. “Don’t tell me Tarja’s got you runnin’ ‘round for more herbs.”
“No, no, nothing like that. Lady Tarja… she’s kind. As long as you follow her instructions…” You shake your head, debating to just drop it on Gav.
“Well, then you should have no reason for lookin’ so afraid… right?”
Oh, Great Greagor. You don’t care about getting out of this. You need to tell him.
“No! No, uhm, well…” Your unsure tone turns into something more upbeat, something mirthful. “She’s got Clive tied up in there.”
“WHAT!?” Gav’s mouth drops, squeezing your shoulder, before he looks back to where you came from. “She’s got Ci–”
You slap a hand over his mouth before he can continue, looking around at the few people who had turned their heads towards you. You give Gav an angry look, one that’s on par with Tarja’s. He shuts up immediately, an almost fearful look in his eyes.
“You keep your mouth shut, okay? I’m not looking to end up like him,” You huff, taking your hand off his mouth. He nods vigorously. “Not. A. Word.”
“Yessir!” Gav states dramatically, giving you a proper salute like you were Clive himself, before darting off to the infirmary. You hope for your sake, he’s quiet about it, and that Clive has already been freed of such humiliation.
Sure enough, before Gav can even open the door, Clive is stepping out, as if he has completely ignored Tarja’s instruction for rest. Before he can spot you from far off, you duck your head and make for the ale hall, hoping now to hide away in a bowl of stew and a cup of… water. Yes, water. Something that won’t loosen your tongue. Maybe you’ll just crash in your quarters instead. Suddenly, you’re feeling very guilty over telling one soul. And the fact that Clive didn’t seem to learn his lesson doesn’t help.
You walk quicker, order your food even more hurriedly, and take a seat down at one of the tables. You settle once you're there, as if the air of tension has lifted. You fidget a little, like you had just stolen something, but no one can blame you, right? Suddenly what you’ve seen feels like an information hazard. Cid the Outlaw, who’s killed Hugo Kupka, and Benedikta Harman, shattered two mother crystals, and who has been carrying the plight of Bearers on his back, tied up and helpless. You still want to laugh. And you aren’t too prideful to admit that he’s a dashing man. Not that your relationship was any secret. But it felt wrong seeing that. Isn’t that a scene for the bedroom?
Bedroom or not, something was just so compromising about seeing him like that. And given the fact he was already up and walking around, you fear that his fate is sealed. Tarja will tie him to the cot once more, or forever more, and he will be forced to rest. What a horrible fate.
Just as you're mourning your boyfriend, he has the gall to show up. So smoothly, as if everything hadn’t happened, he sits down across from you with a warm smile.
“I have to thank you for saving me,” He chuckles, a warm blush dusting his cheeks. “I don’t know how long she would’ve kept me there.”
You want to say ‘you’re welcome’, but at the same time you also know he needs his rest. He can act as warm as he wants, but just because you saved him from that humiliation doesn’t mean you wanted him up. Especially after fighting Titan. So, you embody Tarja.
“No. No, you–” You point at him, “– are going to go back to the infirmary. Or your room. And you are going to rest. For a week.”
His demeanor changes, he wears the same expression Gav has. Are you truly that terrifying?
“No running off for a mission. No getting up to train.” You continue, pressing your finger into the table. “You will listen to Tarja and I’s instructions. If you try to run off, I won’t save you next time she decides you need three times the rope to be restrained.”
Clive deflates slightly, like rest is his greatest nightmare, and you are sentencing him an eternity to it. Or as if he believes he doesn’t deserve it, a thought process you are quite intimate with.
“... Okay…” He speaks, sounding as if he’s a child who’s just been grounded.
You can’t help but sigh and relax as he agrees, as pathetically as he does. You reach over and take his hand in yours, flipping it over and running your thumb against his palm.
“You don’t have to be so afraid of the infirmary. Or Tarja. Or me. Or rest,” You mutter, “It’ll do you good, I promise. You’ve earned it, yeah?”
He perks up a little at your praise, before nodding again.
“So you go on and start catching up on all of it that you’ve missed, and I’ll join you later tonight.”
He nods again, before grabbing your hand, and bringing it up to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Your heart skips a beat for a moment, wondering how long it’s been since he’s had the chance to be sweet on you. He’s spent the last couple months stressing over Hugo Kupka’s whereabouts, that most of his time was devoted to finding the man. Now that he’s killed the man, he finally has all the time to…
You can’t allow yourself to think like that. He’s buttering you up, for sure. Because you know by the time you reach his quarters he’ll be complaining about having nothing to do, begging you to let up on him so he can continue his work. You can’t let yourself grow soft!
✩ in which: you two (three) get caught in a rainstorm at your weariest.
✧ a/n: i really wanna write sooooo much for ffxvi but im like only halfway i think... so i shall stick to who i know. ALSO this is 100% NOT based off that one scene cause actually i didnt even know there was That One Scene UNTIL I WAS LOOKING FOR PICTURES FOR HEADERS. sigh. also the logic might not make sense bear with me guys i wrote this with a killer stress induced headache
✦ taglist: @shinysora
🗒 cw: gn reader, idk you guys get nakey for a bit, just fluff tho, not proofread
✎ wc: 2.7k
What a wonderful day it had been, the sun shining up high in its loft, smiling down at those of the Hideaway. You were sure it was, at least. You hadn’t seen a cloudy day plague the Hideaway, despite the many metaphorical ones. How you wished you were back there, lounging in your own room, huddled up under your nice and warm, dry, blankets. Instead, you were caught in a rainstorm in Rosaria, drops pelting you and your cloth, clinging to your body and making you all the more colder. It had started raining only after you had finished sloshing about in the swamps, putting a damper on your mood.
Ahead of you, Clive and Torgal were walking, seemingly unscathed by the rain, save for Clive blocking the rain from his eyes. You’re just a little jealous that he seems to be having it easier than you, undeterred by the circumstances. How foolish of you to believe it would be a nice little date between the two of you. When the storm started, he hadn’t even so much as looked your way to check if you were alright, no doubt too focused on the mission’s objective. He had a habit of that, getting too caught up in his work and ignoring the world around him. Aside from his dog.
Every so often, as you stumble several feet behind the two, shivering in your clothes, Clive reaches a hand out and pets Torgal, sparing the pup a few scratches behind the ears. You aren’t jealous of the dog, not at all. Surely you aren’t? You get it, the bond between the two. But there’s no way Clive had just up and forgotten about you, even with all your complaining. Maybe he got his best thinking done in the rain…? If you call out, perhaps he will spare you a quick glance at the very least.
As you open your mouth to yell, a lightning bolt strikes down particularly close to the two of you, causing you to yelp. You quite liked storms, in the comfort of your own bed, not when it was way too close. Clive finally spins around, casting a worried gaze towards you. You must look horrible right now, you realize. Your clothes soaked through, hair sticking to your face. Suddenly you find yourself shying away from his gaze, turning your head, you allow the rain to pelt your cheek.
“I think we should–” He calls out to you, but his voice is lost amidst the storm. Has Rosaria ever had such bad weather like this? Finally, finally, he has the right mind to backtrack and step towards you. “I think we should find some place to stay while the storm dies down.”
You two were too far from Martha’s Rest, and the next village over had already been reaped of all life. As well as it would be to stay there, it felt wrong to simply barge in. It was if you were defiling graves. Besides that, it was also too far. You weren’t familiar with Rosaria at all, so all you could do is look at Clive with a hopeless gaze.
The man feels as if he’d been pierced through the heart. You were akin to a soggy cat in his eyes, one he happily loved. With a sigh, he looks around. The winds had picked up, making the rain harder to see through. There were enough abandoned builds somewhere off the path that would at most stand tall for the next couple of hours. Ones that would hopefully not be struck by lightning. Well, it’s another little adventure, he supposes. With a huff, he nods towards the right of the path, and starts walking, Torgal eager to follow behind him.
The only problem with that is the fact he’s walking right back out to the swamp. Farbeit for you to feel so spoiled and posh, but you would rather stand still and weather the storm than walk back through the swamps with the ludicrous amount of water in your boots. You were cold as it is, might as well freeze to death then endure it any longer.
Clive looks back at you when he can’t hear your footsteps, and all you can do is pout. He doesn’t question it or call out, and instead makes his way back to you. Torgal looks back and waits patiently, as the man, without words, leans down and sweeps one arm underneath the back of your knees, the other holding you by your back. You aren’t unused to such things, he isn’t afraid to pamper you and shower you with the royalty treatment. Not that you were against this, either.
With a grunt of effort, he hauls you off and begins trekking through the swamp. Founder, he is warm. So very warm. Despite the rain that had showered his attire and soaked his hair, his warmth seeps through. You can’t help but nuzzle close, wrapping your arms around his neck. If you two were to sink into the swamp, at least you’d do so within your beloved Lord Rosfield’s arms, content in warming yourself with what you'd only assume is either the Phoenix’s or Ifrit’s blessing.
While you busied yourself with fantasies and the like, Clive had found suitable shelter. A rundown shack that had a few planks that weren’t rotting. It wasn’t as warm as Clive was, but it was dry enough. Gently, he sets you down on your feet with another grunt, and you wince as your boots squish the minute they hit the floor. It is almost painful to part with Clive, suddenly aware of the bite the rain had. You can’t help but shiver again, plucking at your soaked tunic and pulling it away from your skin. It allows you a moment of respite for a second, though the cold still lingers. When you let go, it sogs and sticks to your skin once more. Needless to say, it felt very unpleasant.
“Come here,” Clive urges gently, beckoning you over with his hand. Of course, you won’t deny him. A flicker of fire bursts from the palm of his hand, before calming into a small orb, producing a soft light, and an even gentler warmth. While it isn’t enough, it’s certainly better. “Does this work?”
You purse your lips, like this is something you need to ponder. It sure soothes the ache beneath your skin, and as much as you’d love to rid yourself of your clothes at any chance to feel warmer, suddenly you're so very shy. But taking them off would be for the best…
“Yes, but…” You look away from him for a second, before shuffling closer. “I still feel so cold…”
You bat your eyelashes up at him in an innocent and teasing way, and you watch his resolve waver so easily. Well, that was an over-exaggeration. Of course he’d give you what you wanted. You wouldn’t even need to ask. But all this rain has you acting a little dramatic, and it’s kind of fun, isn’t it?
“Well, that won’t do,” He smiles softly, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you in close. “All better?”
Certainly. Perhaps not all better, with that odd gnawing sense of embarrassment that lingers. You both know that it would be for the best to strip, but why not enjoy this oddly romantic moment for just another second?
Wordlessly, Clive leans in and presses a warm kiss to your temple. You feel your knees weaken for a moment, before you clear your throat. The time for theatrics is over, you surmise. Clive gets the hint, pulling away reluctantly and turning away to afford you what little privacy he could.
He starts a fire while you strip, the little firelight turning into a wonderful source of mending when treated with just enough kindling. You have seen Clive bare before, of course, and vice versa. Yet you can't help the embarrassment and fluster that follows when you turn to the man in your smallclothes. What a relief it was that they were dry enough. You huddle up near the fire while you give Clive the same courtesy he gave you, head down, mind occupied by the flames. When he joins you by the fire, he is left in his smallclothes too. You can't help but thank the Founder for the fact that you two can still be decent. In a way, at least.
As much as you had seen, for all that Clive had gone against, suddenly being in close proximity with your loved one was cause to fluster. While you two sat next to each other, you were quiet, the only sound breaking the silence was the crackling of fire and Torgal’s shifting as he found a comfortable position to lay, all four paws in the air. You can’t help but snicker softly, the way the wolf worms around in such a silly way, perfectly content with the conditions of the rundown shack.
While you and Clive wait for your clothes to dry, bashfully looking away from each other when you so much as brush against each other, shuffling only a centimeter away. You, inevitably, would come right back, too attached to the warmth he provided, and, well, too attached to your partner regardless.
You two sit there for hours, waiting as your clothes dried. The storm showed no sign of relenting, unfortunately for the two of you. Well, more unfortunate for Clive. You were happy to hoard the man to yourself, essentially. Even if you were drenched, or near naked sitting by the fire. The man had a habit of making himself too busy. And in doing so, the only time alone you got with him was when you were accompanying him somewhere. Otherwise, it was him meeting with a contact, or slicing his way through men, or monsters, or beasts. Of course, he put in so much effort when he came back to you, showering you with compliments, even sparing you a good night’s rest together. But by the morning, he was off making his plans again. Where he’d move next, this and that, it was all becoming a blur to you.
Even when your clothes had dried, finally affording you two some more decency. It had been however many excruciating hours as you two sat and prodded at your clothes over the fire. Furthermore, you were too exhausted, and it seemed like it would be another long while before the skies weren’t hurling down on you. You were warm enough, at least, and you could hold on for the rest of the night without the fire. Needless to say, there was no reason to stay up. In your eyes, at least.
Clive, however, was raring to go. He had the right mind not to leave while it was still raining, but that didn’t mean he sat still. While you cozied up next to Torgal, running your hand through his fur, Clive was pacing back and forth. Mumbling to himself about losing time, how he’s certain your targets have moved by now. It was important, of course, but you could see just how tired he truly was. In the dim light of the fire, his form was only slightly hunched, rather slack for how tense he usually was. His voice had a scratch to it, as if his throat was raw from using it. His feet dragged ever so slightly, and when he looked at you for a few seconds, his face just seemed oh so tired.
All of these were little details, of course. Ones you had never failed to notice, whether you were out on your excursions, or back at the Hideaway. He stressed himself out too much, bit off more than he could chew at once, and yet most of the time he didn’t even realize it. During or after the fact. Despite everyone else’s protests, Clive had always pushed past. Perhaps it was time to help Tarja tie the man down to his bed. Or do so when you two come back.
“Clive,” You call out softly, tilting your head up. “Come sit down, at least?”
He only responds with a huff, shaking his head as he continues pacing, mapping out what his next strategy was, and several other plans if one didn’t work.
“I think we should sleep.” You state firmly, gazing up at him.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea–”
“We’ve been up for quite some time, and the storm shows no signs of dying down,” You give him a gentle tug, urging him back. “Besides, you seem tired. So, we should sleep.”
Worry flashes across his face for a minute, biting his lip slightly as he thinks of a way to worm out of a healthy habit. “And if someone finds us? If we were caught unawares, what do you think would happen?”
“Who in their right mind would go searching through a swamp first thing after it rained? Soldier or not?”
Silence stretches between you two as Clive tries to figure out another way to avoid something as simple as sleep. While he had a good point, you were ready to lie and bluff your way into forcing the man to sleep. He looked so ragged, and at the moment, you were traveling light. The only way you could care for him was to, at the very least, force him to sleep. Even an hour would be fine, as long as he got some rest.
Finally, with a sigh of defeat, his body untenses. Oh, how it must be so hard for him to look out for himself every once in a while. He snuffs out the fire, kicking at the wood, making sure there was no trace of the flames left. You two stand still for a moment, allowing your vision to get used to the dark. Quietly, as if he was embarrassed, he shuffles to the spot you were, sitting down with a huff and a grunt as his armor clinks. Torgal eagerly cuddles up to him, wagging his tail happily. It seems the wolf was just as glad as you were that Clive had finally relented.
The man waves you over, and you don’t even allow your brain to process before you hurry over the short distance. You take a seat in his lap near immediately, shuffling back so you could press your head against his shoulder, looking up at him. He chuckles softly, shaking his head before wrapping his arms around your waist. Turning his head, he presses a kiss against your temple, lingering for another moment and smiling. Beneath you, Torgal readjusts, laying down across your lap. He’s a lot heavier than you expected, and yet you welcome the pup with eager arms. Or hands, in this case.
What a heavenly existence. Wrapped up in an outlaw's arms, with a big ol’ puppy in your lap. For a moment, you catch yourself thanking the heavens for the storm. Annoyed as you were, suddenly you couldn’t care less. Even as the chill settled within the shack after the fire was snuffed out, you still had perhaps the warmest man in existence there, and a wolf to boot. Both were happy with a little impromptu cuddle session.
While you were dwelling on your own perfect world, it seems Clive had finally fallen asleep. His chest rises and falls against your back steadily, paired with light snoring. For all his stubbornness, it only took him a couple of minutes to fall asleep. It’s a little endearing in its own way. Perhaps he fell asleep quickly because he really was too tired? Or maybe it was because of you. You’d stick to believing the latter. As much as you wanted to reach up and pet him now, you’d rather not disturb his sleep. Even if he fell asleep fast, he was a rather light sleeper. So, you do your best to settle, fingers buried within Torgal’s warm fur.
Shutting your eyes, the sound of the wind howling and the rain beating down wasn’t so fierce now. It was kind of calming, in a way. Paired with Clive’s breathing and warmth, and Torgal’s soft grunts and groans as he settles, as well. You run your hand down from his head to his torso slowly, a soothing motion that allowed your mind to calm down. Somewhere along the fifth pet, you stopped, the weight of your exhaustion finally catching up to you.
✭ pairing(s): clive rosfield, cid(olfus) telamon, hugo kupka (seperate) x gn reader
✩ inspo: feel like shit need my head between someones boobs rn
✩ in which: he gets to find comfort in your chest, so why don't you give it a try?
✧ a/n: i wanted to add jill to this SOOO BAD but i fear it'd seem sleazy... sigh... also i kinda Want kupka... i dunno. i could make that man reevaluate his sexuality
✦ taglist: @shinysora
🗒 cw: gn reader cause everyone can have boobs, lots of boob talk. if it wasnt obvious, this ones kinda longwinded :P, not proofread
✎ wc: 1.4k
⎯ Clive Rosfield
CLIVE tends to be a bit awkward. It doesn’t matter how long you two have been together, if you point out that he’s so much as a centimeter close, he flusters. Part of it is stubbornness, that he doesn’t deserve such tenderness when his work isn’t nearly halfway done. He deprives himself of your touch simply because why would he deserve it? Those kinds of gentle acts and lingering touches are wasted on a man like him. The other part is because he’s… Clive. Thirty Three and he still blushes like a boy, even if you hold hands, or so much as look at him in a slightly flirtatious manner. Despite all this, however, there is one thing he allows himself. On the very rare occasion that he allows himself to rest, he quite enjoys laying on your chest. It’s the steady beat of your heart and the rise and fall of your chest that truly lulls him to sleep. He finds himself lost without it.
While his reasoning is quite adorable, when you start thinking about how… well endowed he is, yours isn’t quite as pure. Who can blame you though? An outlaw in your hands, body sculpted and refined over the years. You ought to give that rack attention or else all is for naught. So, of course you hatch your plan. You’d hate to catch Clive in one of his most vulnerable moments, what if he never let you get close again? You lay in wait, passing the time by pacing around his room. He had sent a Stolas earlier, with good tidings. He would be back soon, and that he would at least have one day of off time to spare. Such wonderful news, it practically made you skip around the room as you waited.
And when he finally opens the doors to his chamber, shucking off his sheath and blade from his shoulder, you’re all too eager to pounce. He barely has time to process the fact that you’re in the room before you practically jump at him, face landing in his chest. You wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze, letting out a sigh of contentment to finally have your head between these two majestic peaks. You stay like that for a minute or more, head in the clouds. Clive is horrifyingly still. When you finally look up at him to acknowledge him, a mix of horror, confusion, embarrassment, and levity flashes across his face. He doesn’t know if you meant to do that (oh, you full well did), or if it was a horrifying mistake. One that you took great enjoyment in. Slowly, he gives in, with your cheek pressed against his chest. He finally wrapped his arms around you with a sigh, muttering an ‘I missed you too, my love.’
⎯ Cidolfus Telamon
Oh, your sweet and charming CID. Gentle, yet rough in all the right ways, unabashed with how much he loves you and what he loves about you (everything). That being said, behind closed doors his touches grow more bolder. Aged as he is, he’s not one to curb his wants or needs. In between his little jaunts, he always spares you a kiss, a little touch here and there. And if he’s lucky, he enjoys just holding you. Allowing himself to just be. For all his jokes and remarks, he’s quite the soft man. Doesn’t mean he won’t get a kick out of teasing you, though. Kissing your cheek, down to your jaw, to your neck, past the collarbone– “Oh, do you mind if I go lower, love?”, yet he never does. He simply enjoys feeling your pulse jump, skip, and stutter against his lips.
Well, you aren’t afraid to go lower, that’s certain. The problem is how you’d find a way without him reading into your tricks. Any little scheme you were up to was quickly caught and snuffed out, and returned with mischief tenfold. Or, if he was in a no-nonsense mood, he’d set you out on errands. Fill up your schedule so you couldn’t scheme anymore. Even for a silly little kiss. What a pain in the ass, You’d be better off just asking him, but then again, where’s the fun in that? Might as well do it when you can, when he’s locked away in his quarters. It’s not like he minds when you’re there, anyways, so there would be nothing out of the ordinary. It was a matter of how you’d be able to slip into his lap and finally get him to trip over himself.
On a rainy evening, Cid had taken it upon himself to get busy. Not the fun kind, where he showers you in kisses, his hands wandering everywhere. No, the real kind of busy, where he could only give you nods and grunts as a form of acknowledgement. You didn’t want to interrupt his work, but you also had nothing else to do aside from sweep around the Hideaway– a never-ending task. And, to be honest, you were starting to get sick of the lack of attention. You stalk over with a cocky smirk on your face, your hands sliding over his shoulders. You give him no time to protest, kicking the leg of his chair and sweeping it away so you have just enough space to sit on his lap. All he can stammer out is a simple “love–”, before you pressed your cheek to his left breast. Ah, this life is worth living. You can hear his heart pick up for just a second, while you no doubt look a little blissed out, if not pervy. With a chuckle and a shake of his head, he places a large hand on your hip. For the next couple of hours, you sit in his lap, pampered like a cat with your head against his chest, too stubborn to move. Founder, if you left his bosom, it’d truly be the death of all things beautiful.
⎯ Hugo Kupka
You’ve really won the lottery with HUGO. A big strong man, tall and broad, and an excellent rack to match. His heart was about as big as his boobs, and Founder, how he doted upon you. He could berate an entire room of councilmen, and turn around and be just so sweet on you. Big and brutish he may be, but he’s as sweet as a babe in your arms. When he wants to be, at least. Most of the time he’s as fierce as a lion, needy and ready to get his fill. Yet there are some times where he’s as docile as a sheep, comfortable to lounge about with you. Play with your hair, maybe indulge in a little dance or two. Not that he’s any good at it. But it doesn’t matter, does it?
One of his favorite things seems to be pulling you in for an excessively long (and tight) hug when he’s sick of all the dribble he’s had to hear from the political figures. His mind is brighter when it comes to fighting, and sometimes it makes his head spin. Not that he can’t keep up, of course. Either way, you are just lucky enough to be tit-height, while he is blissfully unaware of your perversion. Who can blame you, though? He pulls you right in, and you aren’t going to push away. You do your best to make sure your mind doesn’t stray too far, worried that he may catch on and not afford you such kindness anymore. He wouldn’t, regardless, but… something about him knowing, you have no idea how he’d react.
Regardless, you find your way to enjoy such moments as much as you can. When you two lay down, you lay down on top of him, which he is all too happy about. Sitting in his lap, acting tired so you get a chance to rest your head against his chest, and much more silly things that would make you look like a spoiled royal to the guard, despite being a near opposite. Spoiled, yes. But not in the way you’re feigning fear or illness just to steal Hugo away from his guard and what not. He enables you, even if he doesn’t know it, and you just can’t get enough. His body hardened by his own ways, and yet his tits are just so soft. The world is a cruel mistress, not allowing you or anyone else a moment of proper rest, no matter how blessed they were. So why not enjoy the simple things?
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