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Cid took a greedy gulp of water, squeezing his bottle for all it was worth. He was sweating profusely; his practice shirt clung wetly to his chest. He’d taken a few nasty hits today; his ribs were smarting. But a quick check revealed no bruises–no new ones, anyway.
It was a nice enough day. The rugby pitch was wet after an early rainstorm, but not so wet as to be muddy. The sun was out for now, gleaming across a set of well-manicured fields. Shiny new equipment was perched here and there, lending things a far more official air than his school days.
Cid took another long swig from his bottle–an attempt to replenish his fluids. All around, the pitch was alight with activity. One of the new assistant coaches was busy rounding up loose balls. He still had enough energy to jog around, lucky bastard. Behind him, the second row was still doing drills; they’d bet on who could go the longest without spewing. Meanwhile, the head coach was deep in conversation with the fly-half; they were probably having another argument about their lackluster defence.
He didn’t much care about that, because his offence was doing swimmingly this season.
With a smile, Cid threw his water bottle aside. Then he paused and wiped the sweat off his forehead. He needed a shower and a kebab, and then he was going to pass out in front of the telly–
“Oi! We on for tonight?”
He looked up at his most reliable prop, trying and failing to hide his puzzled expression.
“You forgot?” Otto groused.
“No,” Cid answered quickly–too quickly.
“But you remember that posh bar in Mayfair,” Otto’s eyes narrowed.
“Can’t say I do.”
“Interesting. It was only last week.”
“Last week? Couldn’t’ve been me. You must’ve gone out with Gav.”
“Really? Because you skipped out on the tab. I had to pay the whole damn thing. Do you know how much you owe me–”
“Ah,” Cid interrupted. “That.”
He grabbed his shirt, tugging on it to cool himself.
“You know what, fuck the usual,” Otto’s expression was deadly calm. “We’ll go someplace else.”
“That’s a shame, I left my wallet–”
“Figure it out,” Otto walked past him.
Cid cursed under his breath. He glanced around, his eyes alighting on the edge of the field…
“And don’t even think about trying to hop the fence,” Otto called.
With a silent stream of obscenities, Cid finished his business on the field. The team gathered to cool down and receive some gruff encouragement from the coaching staff–which was to say, not much encouragement at all. Cid didn’t care, though. He was busy thinking about how to weasel out of paying for top-shelf rum. Otto had expensive tastes when he was cross.
“Don’t let the groundskeeper find you pulling at his grass,” Gav said in his direction.
“Fuck off,” Cid shot back, but there wasn’t any heat in it.
“Be seeing you,” Gav chuckled, though he muttered something suspiciously like “old man” afterwards.
For his part, Cid was last into the locker room, his feet dragging against the ground. But suddenly, he perked up. Of course he couldn’t go out with Otto. He usually jogged from his flat over to practice; it was a nice warmup. And he couldn’t go out drinking in trainers and a pair of shorts. It wouldn’t be proper.
He headed for the showers with a little spring in his step, chatting amiably with anyone who crossed his path. His team picked up on his good humor, and soon the whole locker room was in high spirits. Cid, meanwhile, snagged a clean towel from the stack, throwing it on his shoulder. He was further buoyed when the washroom was completely empty, giving him an unexpected moment of privacy.
He tossed his towel on a hook, then began the tedious process of stripping off his sweaty clothes. His shirt stuck to his shoulders, clinging for dear life. And his shorts were no better, bunching up against the planes of his arse. He ended up throwing everything aside; he’d get it to the laundry later.
The hot shower was heavenly on his fatigued muscles. He stood under the spray for a few long minutes, soaking in the heat like a lizard on a rock. His left arm had been bothering him lately, but in the torrent, he couldn’t feel a thing. It was an old injury, but it had a tendency to act up when it rained.
He used the soap dispenser on the wall, sudsing until his hands were covered with foam. Prefunctorily, he scrubbed down his chest and his arms. Steam had started to thicken in the corners of the room, renewed heat seeping into the air. With a sigh, he ran a soapy hand down the side of his leg, his thoughts wandering.
Between practice and endorsements, he hadn’t had much time for himself lately. Every day felt busier than the last. It was an endless stream of brand representatives and contracts and faceless, nameless nothing. The combined weight of it was enough to make him crave a reprieve. A connection. What he wouldn’t give for a man with thick thighs and a dulcet voice to come and murmur in his ear…
His hand found his groin, slowly playing over the swell of his cock and balls. He closed his eyes, the mental image growing stronger.
The man would have dark hair fit to grab and pull and yank. He’d wrap those muscular legs around Cid’s back and squeeze the two of them together, his eyes glazed and his hole hot and tight–
Cid jumped in the shower, quickly pulling his hand away. For a moment, he battled with himself, temptation swelling in his traitorous groin. Then he leaned against the wall and sighed, the cool tile a balm on his overwarmed skin.
How long had it been since he’d had some proper fun? Too damn long, apparently.
He finished the rest of his shower, keeping focused on cleaning. No dark-haired, smooth-voiced men in here today. Nope. As to the matter of finding one…
No. He was already committed to a kebab. What would Kenneth say if he didn’t stop by the shop? It would be devastating to his business, most assuredly.
Cid toweled off on his way back to the locker room, nodding at anyone leaving. He wandered in front of his locker, labeled as such by “Telamon” in large wooden letters. The new Sports Centre was really something; it looked and felt expensive. He knew the team would deliver on the investment, they were nothing if not hard-working.
He reached for his trainers, only to have his fingers alight on something entirely smooth and polished instead. Confused, he turned. Where his casual clothes should’ve been, there was nothing. Instead, his cubby was occupied by a pressed button-down, trousers, and a pair of dress shoes. For a split-second, he figured he was imagining things.
Suddenly, reality crashed into focus: this morning’s early deluge, his utter distaste for wet shoes, and a split-second choice to take the tube in. Today, of all days, he’d made the idiotic decision to dress smart.
“Quit dawdling,” Otto said from across the room.
Cid made a rude gesture, but his eyes were still fixed on his outfit. Oh, and there was his wallet, sitting innocently on the side.
Perfect.
He took his time about getting dressed. Then he took his time about styling his hair. It had to be just so–striking the right balance between unbothered and alluring. Satisfied, he winked at himself in the mirror. He cut a nice picture when he wanted to, and today he found himself wanting to. His trousers were navy, and they hugged his legs in all the right places. His shirt was plain white, but it was tailored to fit his trim waist. The combination was simple, but effective.
Unfortunately, by the time he walked out the locker room, Otto’s glare was downright nasty.
“Where’s this place again?” Cid asked innocently.
“You know that chippy you can’t stand?”
“Not that damn truffle mayonnaise–”
“That’s the one.”
“Hmph,” Cid tucked his hands into his pockets.
“The bar’s just around the corner from there.”
Suddenly, Otto’s phone chirped. He fished it out of his pocket, his expression softening ever so slightly.
“The Missus?” Cid mouthed.
Otto waved him away.
“Meet you–” he told Cid. “No, not you, dear, sorry. Just dealing with the lads.”
Cid left Otto to his family business, already plotting an escape. He hurried down the hallway, settling into a brisk pace. But it still took a while to wind his way out of the Sports Centre–a downside of its sprawl. By the time he put his foot on the pavement, the sky was overcast again. A grey curtain had fallen over the sun, cooling things as the day slid into evening.
There were quite a few people out and about, hurrying home towards the station. Cid folded in with the crowd for a block, then cut left across the street. There was a small path around a nearby car park, hidden behind a wall. It wasn’t more than a ribbon of cement, but it was a substantial shortcut. Cid squeezed through, humming to himself. Unconsciously, he rummaged through his trouser pocket, producing a single cigarette and beat-up silver lighter.
Technically, he’d quit. Technically, he’d thrown out this lighter.
But he’d also picked it up again afterwards.
Cid thumbed the wheel, igniting the flame. He paused for a beat, lighting up and taking a long, slow drag. He allowed himself one cigarette on the weekend… Friday counted, right?
Slowly, he exhaled a line of smoke, settling into himself in a way he couldn’t even on the rugby pitch. On one hand, he could go straight home from here. On the other…
He told himself it was just to pay Otto back. He could have a few drinks, then he could turn in. But deep down, he knew he was craving something considerably… different.
Something with a pert arse and dark hair.
Cid put out his cigarette against the wall. He tucked the stub into his trousers, then strode forwards with renewed purpose. But when he popped out of his shortcut, the air felt heavy. The clouds were darkening by the second, threatening rain. People crushed around him, drawn towards the bowls of the city. They spiraled down to the station together–they even exchanged the same tired glances, watching several teens sprint by.
Ignoring the unruly youth, not to mention the occasional drunkard, Cid filed onto his train. He even muttered a quick sorry, having to squeeze to get a nice spot. It was crowded, but no more so than usual.
His stop came up fast–at least the stop with the dreadful chippie did. Mind firmly made up, Cid pushed to the exit with a few more apologies. He melded with the herd of people leaving the tracks, climbing the stairs one at a time. Given he knew where he was headed, and given how much Otto’s wife liked to chat, he wasn’t in any particular hurry.
It was spitting outside the station, delicate raindrops settling on his hair. A nearby pub buzzed with life, noise and light leaking onto the street. Cid took the long way around despite himself, ducking under some scaffolding to keep his shirt dry. While he walked, the crowd thinned, returning him to an acceptable state of personal space.
He’d ended up on an unfamiliar street, drifting from one awning to another. There was a closed patisserie tucked next to a locksmith, then a surge of overpriced restaurants. He wrinkled his nose at a tanning salon–tacky, that. Then a sleek BMW nearly clipped him at a zebra crossing, and he scowled at the driver as they sped out of sight.
Deciding he might as well drink on a full stomach, he abandoned the rain and went into the first door he saw. It ended up being a fabulous little Lebanese place; which admittedly was packed to the gills, but given he was dining solo, he managed to sneak a seat.
With a silent apology to Kenneth, of course.
Unfortunately, the rain was not driven off by fresh tabbouleh and a steaming cuppa. Cid kept going, intending to circle back around to the bar. It was getting dark; evening bleeding into night. He felt a little chilly, but not to the point of wanting a coat. Even since his rugby career–and therefore excessive exercise regime–he’d always run hot.
A bus halted beside him a few traffic lights down, leaving him to avoid eye contact while simultaneously trying to people-watch. Most passengers were on their phones, but a couple were chatting loudly, their arms waving like coils of seaweed.
Eventually, he found himself back in familiar territory. He passed that chippie, resisting the urge to spit on the pavement. And around the corner should’ve been Otto’s proposed bar, but Cid didn’t see a sign. In fact, he didn’t see much of anything. There was a lavish hotel, and then a whole lot of nothing.
He scratched his head. Maybe the concierge would know?
The hotel had a doorman, who gave him a rather cold once-over before opening the door. Cid smiled amiably, more than confident to act like he belonged.
The lobby was done in dark wood and plush fabrics. The staff were just on the right side of haughty, acting deferential when it suited them. A bellhop waited patiently for him to pass, maneuvering a luggage cart with white gloves.
“The bar is right this way, sir,” someone said over Cid’s shoulder.
He turned, catching sight of grey hair and an incongruously young face. Not one to question another’s fashion choices, his eyes followed the man’s arm. In fact, there was a bar on the other side of the lobby. Its entrance was hidden behind a heavy oak door, but having seen it, he couldn’t unsee it.
So he was in the right place, how relieving.
“Thank you,” Cid checked the manager’s name tag, “Harbard.”
“You are most welcome.”
Harbard didn’t so much walk as floated away, his movements as graceful as a dancer. Cid was left to trudge over to the bar, spotting the embossed words on the door that denoted its existence. Maybe he was later than he thought, if Otto had gone to all the trouble of alerting the staff.
He pushed open the door, expecting to see a friendly glower and a hundred quid worth of rum. What he saw instead made his feet stutter-step over the floor.
There was only one person at the bar, but he commanded the entire room regardless. His hair was in artful disarray, dark shaggy locks that almost obscured his eyes. His shoulders were broad and solidly built. His shirt wasn’t fighting with his biceps, as it had thoroughly lost, leaving two broad forearms exposed. However, Cid had an inkling that the garment was bespoke, because it was unbuttoned just enough to show the swell of a very muscular chest.
You couldn’t get that kind of fit off the rack; he was well aware.
The man’s trousers were as dark as his shirt, outlining an arse fit to eat. Cid had to forcefully yank his eyes upwards, lest he blunder straight into the thing. He might’ve had an inkling of playing it cool, striding up to the bar and calmly ordering a drink. But by the time he made it there, he’d noticed the man’s piercing grey eyes, and his stomach did a flip-turn straight into his throat.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he leaned against the hardwood, completely ignoring the fine craftsmanship and large mirror that would’ve normally captured his attention.
The man was about halfway through a dirty martini. He looked up, a smirk playing across the corner of his mouth.
“What an utterly insipid excuse for a line.”
His voice was like silk, wrapping around Cid’s ears and settling over his shoulders.
“Two martinis,” Cid said to the bartender. He wasn’t sure what came over him. He didn’t even like gin.
When the stranger didn’t move away, Cid took the opportunity to move in. Up close, the man smelled divine. There were strong notes of pine in his cologne, but they left a lingering feeling of sea and stone afterwards. Cid barely restrained himself from inhaling deeply. Instead, he settled for leering at the man’s barred throat. It was tastefully exposed, all smooth skin and clean lines.
The stranger’s eyes fell to half-mast, and he shifted just a hair, turning to face Cid more fully. Cid took the opportunity for what it was, letting his hand fall on the small of a well-sculpted back.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” he remarked, his hand moving a hair lower.
“You haven’t seen past the door before,” the words were a challenge, but the tone was light. And Cid couldn’t quite place his accent–Norwegian, maybe.
“Oh rubbish. I’ve been to…” he paused.
“Stonhyrr,” the stranger supplied.
“Stonhyrr plenty of times,” Cid finished.
Apparently, this was the wrong bar. Not that he was complaining.
The bartender set down two martinis, each complete with a single olive. Cid tugged his closer, more for something to fidget with than anything else. The stemware was smooth under the pad of his thumb, solid and steady. And the gin was cool; it settled him.
Suddenly, the stranger reached over and plucked the olive from Cid’s drink. He curled his tongue around the toothpick, his plush lips folding closed. A second later, he pulled the thin wood free. But the motion was decidedly slow. Deliberate.
Cid swallowed.
“Thirsty?” his companion’s eyes caught his lips. Then he popped the olive between his teeth.
“Let’s get out of here,” Cid said before he could stop himself.
His hand circled lower on the small of the man’s back, teasing. But then his own trousers pulled tight over his crotch, threatening to spoil the game.
“That was…”
“Rather insipid, I know,” Cid risked a squeeze, finding a rounded, plump arse.
“Take a seat,” the man said after a beat, his fingertips running over Cid’s forearm. “Enjoy your drink.”
The words weren’t necessarily an order, but they were delivered like one. Cid slipped onto a heavy barstool, easing so he was half-seated, half-standing. Begrudgingly, he let go of his plush prize, grasping his martini more firmly at the same time.
“Savour it,” the man murmured.
Cid took a delicate sip, small enough that he didn’t even taste the gin. He could feel grey eyes on him, a gaze that bored past his carefully crafted defences.
“I’m Cid, by the way,” he introduced himself.
The man raised an eyebrow.
“Cidolfus Telamon,” he added.
There was a flicker of recognition on the stranger’s face, but it was smothered quickly. Perhaps the man knew his rugby team. Or perhaps he’d seen Cid’s name in the tabloids all those years ago–his personal life was hardly squeaky clean.
“And whose fine company am I sharing tonight?”
The man slowly pushed his martini aside. Then he leaned over and whispered in Cid’s ear, his voice barely audible even in the quiet bar.
Cid paused; it must be a nickname.
“Lovely you meet you,” he said.
The man pursed his lips, forming an expression between a smile and a snarl.
“Likewise,” he finally said.
Cid took another sip of his martini. The vermouth coated his taste buds, bitter and strong. But then it faded into something light and acidic, cleansing his palate. For a fleeting moment, he considered stealing the stranger’s olive in turn. But he took another drink instead, a proper one this time.
To his surprise, the stranger stood up. He was tall–though it was hard to tell just how tall from the barstool. Looking at him, Cid could’ve sworn he was even more muscular than he first appeared. The planes of his torso were thick, and his thighs pulled ever-so-slightly at his trousers.
A bit of saliva pooled in Cid’s mouth, and he swallowed heavily.
The stranger leaned forward, tucking something into Cid’s back pocket. He had just enough wherewithal to assume it was a room key, but he didn’t bother to check. At the moment, he was wholly preoccupied with the stranger’s large hand, which lingered on his arse. And the stranger’s gaze, which lingered higher.
“Room 847,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Cid chugged the rest of his martini. Then he chugged the stranger’s martini, leaving the olive abandoned in the glass.
It took approximately thirty more seconds to peel some notes out of his wallet and throw them down–enough to cover the drinks, probably.
The bartender didn’t comment.
He ran a hand over his hair, staring at himself in the mirror behind the bar. Impulsively, he popped a few more buttons open on his shirt, exposing his chest almost to the navel.
Otto was so going to kill him for this.
Cid swept forwards like a storm running across the sky. He didn’t see the man in the lobby, but he did see a brass elevator. Fumbling through his pockets, he produced the sleek room key. But there were no numbers on it, or any indication it was a key at all. Operating on blind faith, and repeating 847 in his head until it stuck, he ascended to the eighth floor.
The hallways were a maze–just how old was this place? Cid had a couple of false starts, but eventually he found what he was seeking. A single tap unlocked the door; the metallic sound was at odds with the hardwood and plush carpet.
It was a spacious suite. A single puddle of light illuminated the front room, spilling out from around a corner. Cid drew through the lounge area, orientating toward the glow. Furniture blocked his path, heavy objects with rich upholstery. But he ignored them, keeping his focus. And shortly, he rounded the corner to the bedroom.
The stranger was undoing the first button on his shirt, exposing more of his luscious pecs. In the lamplight, his pale skin was luminous. Cid’s eyes roved greedily before suddenly glancing off the edge of a puckered scar. It slashed across the stranger’s chest, opening like a slit to his heart.
Cid’s pulse thudded in his neck.
The stranger turned towards him, open and receptive even as his expression stayed cold. Lured in without so much as a word, Cid stepped forwards. He slid his hands across the stranger's shoulders, parting fabric. The shirt moved against his knuckles, exposing elegant collar bones and curved deltoids. The stranger swayed into the touch, his eyes nestled under thick brows.
It was like unwrapping a present, but the present was on the verge of insulting him. The stranger’s body was warm and solid, though. Enticing. Alcohol lingered faintly on his breath; Cid couldn’t help but inhale the fumes. He leaned forward, lips parting, only to feel broad palms pushing him back. He paused, staring at the stranger’s downturned mouth. But the stranger was firm–his refusal was clear.
A fire lit in Cid’s belly. He flexed his forearms, yanking the stranger’s shirt open. Buttons went flying, scattered like the remaining threads of his restraint. Fine. He could live without tasting that frown. But the rest of this man would not so easily escape his grasp.
The stranger yanked his belt, pulling him forwards. Cid responded by shoving him onto the bed, a rugby tackle in all but name. The stranger fell back, leaving Cid to undo his own buckle. He shed his shirt, shoes, and trousers, kicking them carelessly to the floor. The stranger shrugged off his clothes in turn, undoing his flies with easy dexterity.
Cid slipped between the man’s legs, pushing aside the threads of his shirt and exposing a chiseled torso. They were both down to their pants, cotton rubbing against silk.
He reached forwards, grabbing a palmful of muscle. The stranger relaxed, as falsely languid as a cat about to spring. So Cid kneaded his pec, moving rougher when he heard a faint intake of breath. The stranger’s nipple pebbled under his hand. It was darker than his lips, dusky red in the lamplight.
Cid trailed his fingernails up to the scar, catching the ridge of puckered flesh. The stranger flexed underneath him, his eyes flashing.
“Sorry, pet,” Cid ran his tongue over his teeth.
The stranger grabbed his arse and pulled, knocking their groins together.
“Greedy,” Cid chuckled, but it was more to stifle a moan than anything.
“I invited you here assuming a certain level of expertise,” the stranger’s fingers curled, pressing needle-sharp.
Cid rolled his hips, grinding down at the same time. He could feel the stranger’s cock growing under his, rising to meet him.
“Well?” the stranger said, seemingly unmoved by the sweet friction.
“Well, what?”
“Do you require some pointers?”
Cid snarled, he couldn’t help it. He shot upright, grabbing the stranger’s silk pants in his fist. He nearly tore them off before successfully tearing them down, exposing the stranger’s groin. Then, for a split-second, he froze. The stranger’s dick was obscene. He didn’t even know dicks could be elegant. Or regal. Or whatever he was looking at. It was gorgeous pink, a singular bead of precum oozing from the tip. Even his balls were perfectly proportioned, not so much there as sculpted to suit him.
He would’ve happily taken the whole package in his mouth, but given what the stranger had been mouthing off about…
Cid descended on the man’s chest. His hands found thick thighs at the same time, prizing them open. He mouthed over a collar bone, threatening to suck a bruise into the skin. The stranger arched towards his lips, eager for more. Cid rewarded him by sucking harder, planting a flurry of kisses that quickly turned savage.
The stranger’s legs parted wide, proving his flexibility. Cid dug his thumbs into bulging quads, holding them open with relish.
His tongue found the stranger’s peaked nipple, swirling around it hungrily. Then he bit down, pinning the bud between his teeth.
The stranger moaned. The noise echoed through his ribcage, reverberating through Cid’s jaw. He let off the pressure, soothing with a flick of his tongue. Then he moved, biting into the thick meat of the stranger’s pec instead.
“Cid,” the stranger groaned, grabbing at his hair. “Cidolfus.”
He squeezed the stranger’s legs, forcing them up by his stomach. Then he rolled his hips again, knocking the swell of their cocks together. At the same time, he released his bite in favor of lapping high on the other pec. It was unmarred, save for the scar, and thus in need of his teeth and tongue.
One of his palms slid down the stranger’s groin, nestling in the crease. His thumb played at the stranger’s perineum, teasing, taunting. First, he rubbed back and forth, finding a spot that made the stranger twitch. Then he pressed down hard, stimulating his prostate from the outside.
The stranger tried to lift his head, so Cid bit him just below the neck. The moan he got in return sounded nearly drunk, slurred and punched out. Cid paused to brace himself on one forearm, mauling the stranger’s upper chest with a series of nasty hickies. So what if the man didn’t want to kiss him?
So what.
He rose slightly, lifting his lips. The stranger was staring at him, grey eyes half-lidded. He looked like he wanted to ask for something, but the words were stuck in his throat. Cid pushed harder at his prostate, finding the answer in a smothered moan.
Abandoning the stranger’s groin for a moment, Cid palmed himself. There was a wet spot on his pants, a slowly spreading leak. More than ready to continue, he tugged at the elastic band. It pulled down, exposing his cock. He smiled to himself, feeling a little frisson of pride.
Cid’s cock wasn’t elegant, but he more than made up for that in other width-related areas.
He lifted his hand, forcing his thumb between the stranger’s parted lips. The stranger sucked him in, swirling his tongue. Cid couldn’t help but groan quietly at the sight: those hollowed cheeks, that curving frown…
When he went to pull his thumb out, the stranger closed his jaw. Cid was forced to drag himself free, scraping skin on the man’s teeth. The provocation–and the sting–didn’t go unanswered. He bit the stranger’s shoulder, making sure the mark would last for days. And his wet thumb trailed downwards, finding the swell of a thick asscheeck.
The stranger’s hole was smooth. It parted for him easily, revealing nothing but velvety softness. Cid plunged as deep as he could, glancing off a few sensitive nodules with his thumbnail.
“Condom?” he asked, abandoning his bite.
The stranger stared up at the ceiling.
“No.”
Cid felt a gush of precum leak from his shaft. He removed his thumb, taking the opportunity to spit on his hand. He was just horny enough for this to work, and it seemed like the stranger was too.
He smeared saliva on the stranger’s hole, then spat again. While he busied himself, he had a passing thought of going to find the ice-maker. Nothing like a bit of sensation to make things memorable… But then the stranger flexed his thighs, and Cid found himself staring at a perfect cock once again.
No distractions tonight–his fingers plunged in, smearing his spit–perhaps another time. But he knew there wouldn’t be another time. There was a certain finality to meetings like this, the ones without sunlight. His middle finger found the stranger’s prostate, rubbing over the large node. The stranger clenched down, his lips parting in a silent O.
Cid pressed harder, turning silence into sound. He took a few beats to really grind in, watching expressions flit across the stranger’s handsome face. Some part of him wanted to stay there, just like that, until the sun came up and things weren’t so dim around the edges. He wanted to coax this man to orgasm after orgasm, stroking his prostate until it was raw and he shuddered from the abuse. Then maybe Cid would use his mouth, wrapping his lips around those perfect balls while the stranger moaned and tried to tug him higher.
He’d lap at the stranger’s glans once he begged for it, licking teasing stroke after teasing stroke. Surely he’d taste as good as he looked…
Cid pulled his hand free. He spat one last time, smearing saliva and precum over his cockhead. The stranger stilled beneath him, his chest rising and falling slowly. He looked a vision down there on the sheets, his hair spread like a halo. Cid’s teeth marks covered his chest and neck, heralding dark bruises. His lips were red, his tongue darting across them like an invitation.
Inhaling deeply, Cid shifted. He got one hand on the back of the stranger’s thigh, forcing it down and lifting his hips. With his other hand he lined up his cock, nosing at the barely-slick hole he’d so quickly prepared. There wasn’t any point in waiting, but he kept hearing the stranger’s voice in the back of his head.
Savour it.
Cid met a pair of inscrutable eyes. For a second, he felt like he was drowning, sucked into a sorrow he didn’t understand. But then the moment shifted, and everything was ripped away in the current.
He shoved himself forward, the blunt tip of him pushing at the stranger’s rim. The muscle grabbed him tight, then noticeably relaxed. He could tell the stranger was, well, no stranger to this. Cid rocked back and forth, dragging himself deeper with every minuscule stroke. The stranger looked like he was going to wince, but the expression bubbled into a breathy moan.
“Masochist,” Cid muttered under his breath.
The stranger had just enough wherewithal to glare at him.
“What? I didn’t say it wasn’t sexy.”
The stranger somehow managed to look bashful, offended, and entirely aroused all at once. Cid grabbed one of his nipples, giving it a rough tug. He got a moan for his troubles, and it painted a rather cheeky grin over his features.
“See?” he dug his nails in, pinching. “I don’t need any pointers. I bet I could record this and post it online, let the whole internet appreciate my work–”
The stranger suddenly kicked out his other hand, surprisingly–or perhaps unsurprisingly–strong. Then he squeezed his legs around Cid’s waist, knocking his length in deeper. It was Cid’s turn to moan, long and long. His cockhead was finally past the stranger’s rim, forced in unexpectedly. He could feel smooth muscle around his sensitive tip, the heat and warmth sucking him in.
With both hands free, Cid was left to brace on the bed. The stranger’s thighs curled tighter around him, hastening the pace of his descent. It wasn’t slick enough between them to really move, forcing him to resort to short, shallow thrusts. His pleasure built slowly, wrapped up in the reactions of the man below him.
On a whim, he carded his fingers through the stranger’s shaggy hair. A tug exposed his regal features, and another forced him to bear his throat. Cid leaned down, his teeth scraping over an exposed Adam’s apple. The stranger squeezed his thighs, threatening to crush and break. But his breath caught at the same time, betraying his desire.
Cid lifted his lips, only to find those grey eyes weren’t on him. He abandoned the stranger’s soft hair in favor of his strong jaw, forcing him to look up.
“That’s it, pet,” he kissed the crease of the stranger’s crow’s feet. “Let me see you.”
He felt wetness smear between them, the stranger’s cock oozing precum. He felt heat surrounding his shaft, dangerously tight. He felt his balls drawing up, a precipice approaching.
The stranger stared up at him, eyes glazed. Cid rabbited a short stroke, his cockhead knocking over a tender prostate.
“Cid,” the stranger breathed.
His thumb rubbed over the stranger's jaw, tracing the corner of his lips. He rabbited again, feeling thick walls close tight around him. The only thing easing the slide was his precum now–he wondered if he wasn’t gushing it. His breath was hot in his mouth; his face was flushed. His tongue flicked back and forth, fixated on something just out of reach.
Cid’s orgasm crept up in fits and starts. He didn’t realize it was upon him until suddenly he was riding the edge of it, pleasure surging through his veins instead of blood. Impulsively, he dropped his lips to the stranger’s neck, sealing his release with a brutal bite.
The stranger spasmed, bucking up against him with a feverish intensity. His hand was suddenly between them, crushing his cockhead between thick fingers. And he clamped down on Cid’s cock, halting him mid-stroke.
They came within heartbeats of each other, gasping through their mutual pleasure. Cid crumpled, only the stranger’s strong legs holding him up. He could hardly think–he could hardly breathe. The stranger felt heavenly, even as his hole constricted and choked the thoughts out of Cid’s head. It was sweaty. It was messy.
It was bloody perfect.
He didn’t move for a while, half-collapsed against a broad chest. His teeth continued to worry at the mark he’d left on the stranger’s neck. It was half an apology, half the idle motions of a long-time smoker.
Suddenly, he was reminded of his remaining cigarette. It was sitting innocently in his trousers, just waiting to be smoked. With a groan, he tugged himself free of wet heat. The stranger almost seemed loath to let him go, his walls clenching until the very last moment. Cid felt his seed leaking out with him, something warm and satisfied settling in his chest.
He found his trousers on the floor, and decided to kick off his boxers to join them. By the time he pulled out his cig, the stranger had relaxed on the bed–all long limbs and closed eyes.
“Do you mind if I?” Cid brandished his light.
The stranger motioned him on.
Cid retreated to the bathroom, smoking into the fan like the gentleman he was. All the while a smile played across his face, and his mind wandered towards a future where the stranger wasn’t a stranger at all.
But the next morning, he woke up completely and totally alone.
A month later, Cid opened the door to his flat with a heavy sigh. It was raining again; the sky was dreary and dark. He shifted his kebab into his left hand, tossing aside his keys and shrugging out of his jacket. The wax paper crinkled as he moved, reminding him that even if he was miserable, at least he had some hot food to enjoy.
He trudged into his kitchenette, plopping himself down on his single chair. He had a right-sized dining table, but he’d never bothered building the rest of the set.
What was the point?
He pulled his phone out of his pocket, instinctively opening Sky Sports. If he was alone with his thoughts for another second, they were going to wander to firm thighs and dark hair, and then he’d really be moping.
Scrolling through the usual football and rugby streams revealed nothing of interest. Frustrated, Cid continued his search. He quickly found himself deep in the app, browsing live footage of more obscure sports. He clicked on one at random, figuring if nothing else, it would be a change of pace. Idly, he bit down on his kebab, sauce already leaking over his fingers.
“Tharmr is looking incredibly clean today on the course,” crackled through his phone’s speakers.
“If he nails this, first prize is as good as his,” came another voice.
Cid glanced over, surprised to see a literal horse. What was this, dressage? Show jumping?
“He’s a newcomer here, but he’s already proving to be a serious competitor.”
Cid tuned out the announcers when they started talking serious jargon, leaning closer to his phone. The current jumper looked good in his equestrian gear, all the way down to his helmet. It was hard to tell on such a small screen, but something about him seemed vaguely familiar.
He carried himself tall and proud, seated high. His clothes looked to be a perfect fit, clinging to his muscular figure. Even his horse looked glamorous. Its tail was trimmed just so, and even through the phone, Cid could see its glossy coat. More entertained than he was expecting, he watched attentively as the horse circled and leapt through the tight obstacle course.
It was only a minute, but it passed by as if in slow motion. His stomach twisted watching a particularly tall jump, but horse and rider sailed over effortlessly. Sauce continued to leak down the side of his hand, but he failed to notice.
“He’s making the final approach,” one announcer remarked. “This jump’s given our riders a lot of trouble today.”
“That’s true, a stumble here could send Tharmr out of contention entirely…”
Cid shifted in his chair, angling his phone to see better. He watched, completely rapt, as the grey horse flew through the air.
“He’s done it! Tharmr’s done it!”
Letting out a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, Cid smiled into his empty flat. But then he remembered his empty flat, and his empty bed, and his face fell. He went back to the kebab, no longer enthralled by the video, but not ignoring it either. Tharmr–the rider–got a superb score, sending him straight to the top of the rankings. Then another horse went through the course, looking entirely less elegant and entirely more boring.
“We bring you an interview with Barnabas Tharmr, sure to be today’s winner…”
Barnabas… Tharmr?
Cid furrowed his brows. He remembered the stranger whispering in his ear. He remembered it clear as day. Surely–
“You saw some incredible success today on the field, what do you attribute…”
Everything stopped.
His stranger stared into the camera: eyes cold, expression stiff. He opened his mouth to speak, but Cid couldn’t hear the words over the roar of the blood in his ears. It was like the floor had opened up underneath him, and he was falling, falling, falling.
The kebab splatted into Cid’s lap, then onto his kitchen tile.
He stood up, more sure of anything than he’d ever been in his entire life.
Barnabas Tharmr was the most gorgeous man he’d ever met. And he wasn’t getting away again.
That weekend, it took Cid nearly three hours to leave London. He’d cursed traffic up and down, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. And by the time he found the stable he was looking for, it was already evening.
A voice in the back of his head whispered he was acting insane. After all, he’d basically bribed the man at the gate to get in here. And he’d nearly given Otto a conniption after bailing on practice. But he couldn’t stop himself–he didn’t want to stop himself. He wanted to see Barnabas again. He wanted to say Barnabas’ name and watch that taciturn expression flicker. He wanted to touch that perfect cock he’d so callously neglected–
He stopped, coming face to face with the stable door. The large wooden building blocked out the sunset, casting him into shadow. Behind him, a dirt track led towards a wide expanse of fields. There was a scattered expanse of buildings, each of them crawling with people in wellies and overalls who stared askance at him. He could smell animals; he could smell hay.
Palms suddenly sweaty, he reached for the door–
The door swung open, revealing a tall, dark-haired man. He was dressed in riding gear: a trim navy coat and a pair of black boots. His trousers were sinfully tight, and Cid was momentarily miffed not to get a rear view. He wasn’t wearing his helmet, but his hair clung to his forehead. He was slightly sweaty, but it only added an attractive sheen to his handsome face.
“Have dinner with me,” Cid blurted out.
Barnabas should’ve had the decency to look surprised. Instead, he simply looked thoughtful. But when he didn’t respond, Cid quickly spiraled into a series of self-recriminations. He really should’ve thought this through, for once in his life–
“Come back tomorrow,” Barnabas said.
Cid came back the next day, hair styled and shirt tastefully unbuttoned.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he had to look up to see Barnabas, who was regally perched on his horse. “I was a bit out of sorts.”
“I see,” Barnabas replied.
The horse threw his head back, whinnying loudly. Cid wisely took a step back, suddenly very aware rugby conditioning wouldn’t do shite against a well-placed kick.
“I’d like to take you on a proper date,” he added.
He hoped he sounded casual, even if internally he was anything but. The past few days, Barnabas had been the only thing on his mind. He was even dreaming again, memories of that single night stretching into saccharine fantasy.
Seconds passed, but Barnabas didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his horse away and trotted off, leaving the invitation to dangle like a fish on a hook.
Unable to help himself, Cid watched him ride off. He looked so comfortable up there, like the ground couldn’t touch him. He wouldn’t have been out of place commanding an army, his arms steady, his gaze fixed ahead. His horse was like an extension of his will, speeding up or slowing down at a mere brush of the reins. It was captivating, mesmerizing.
Cid returned the next week with flowers.
Barnabas’ horse ate the flowers.
The next week, Cid sat alone in his flat. He’d mucked everything up, hadn’t he? He should leave the poor guy alone; that was clear. No more battling through traffic in his old convertible just to smell like horse and defeat.
Something dark and heavy crept over his chest, and he couldn’t stand to be alone in his flat another second. He left without a jacket, letting his feet carry him forwards without a thought. On his way, he sent Otto a single text, only to receive a single reply: the kid’s sick again, sorry mate. Utterly isolated, he found himself riding the tube in circles.
But eventually, he found himself getting off at a familiar station. Then he found himself walking until he passed a horrid chippy and a hotel bar. And for a long moment, he stared up at the building.
Suddenly, he felt a hand between his shoulders. He felt someone’s breath tickling his ear.
“Very well, Cidolfus.”
Cid turned straight into Barnabas’ lips, surprised and frantic in equal parts. He tangled his hands into thick, black hair, tugging and yanking. Barnabas kissed like he fucked: aloof and desperate. But Cid was hungry for it. He was starving for it. And the longer they stood there, the more he felt like he was being swallowed. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care if Barnabas Tharmr devoured him until there was nothing left.