coivi

[coivi]

Cyrus' gaze softened, though there was a look of ravenous hunger set deep in his eyes as he drank in the sight of Bolvirk unveiling himself. First with his shirt, then the underwear that could barely contain him. The slow drag of fabric, the way his lover bared himself without hesitation, sent a sharp thrill through his spine, made him grit his teeth so suppress his desire. His breath calmed, but he watched like a hungry wolf. Piece by piece, the man came to be fully exposed to him, laid out before him. His bestfriend. There was no uncertainty about this; it felt so right. It felt natural, like he belonged here, like seeing Bolvirk naked, properly, for the first time wasn't anything shocking, though the grin growing on Cyrus' lips made it be known how content he was with the entire ordeal. "Wow," was all he could say for now. When the man before him began to verbally admit his utmost need and desire, the warlock proceeded to huddle in, hands balling into fists to rest idly on the surface of the couch, right by Bolvirk's waist in order to keep his body elevated. As he spoke, his eyes scanning him like a predator appreciating his kill, glancing down to the way that hand stroked that impressive shaft, to the twitching and jiggling of breast muscle, to that sweet, innocent glint in those eyes. There was a prolonged silence after that. He enjoyed the stillness of the moment, the slight desperation in the slow, shallow strokes.

By the Gods. Look at him.

Bolvirk's words rang through his head like a prayer, each sound sinking into him like a warm weight, winding tighter around his arousal and his near twenty-four hour moment of glee. He wanted this. He wanted Bolvirk, the only man he could think about during their travels. Too coward of a rejection, fear of losing his friendship. But that unfiltered vocation in Bolvirk's voice, the way he touched himself without shame, only solidified what Cyrus had already known in his bones—this was his. Bolvirk wanted to be his. "All in good time," he leaned down, lips skimmering past its new lovers, soaking in the plump softness, the warmth and moisture in the kiss. "All in good time."

With a lasting deep kiss, he returned to sit back on the heel of his feet, arms cross over one another to grab at the hem of his shirt, pulling it to roll off and out of his muscular, broad frame. This was the first and only time he had ever exposed himself to his bestfriend. There was good reason: across the entirety of his torso, his skin was marred with white scarred flesh amongst his caramel-tan colored flesh, everything and anything from bite marks, claws, burns, stabbings, little nicks and cuts. The severity differed from one scar to the other. Cyrus had learnt to live with them, but in the back of his mind, he worried what others would think. But, as he tossed the cloth aside, he knew his friend wasn't so shallow as to be disgusted by them; he had complete faith that he wouldn't even acknowledge it.

Instead of removing his clothing entirely, he resumed the space like before, hovering over Bolvirk once again, Cyrus' gaze never once wavering from drinking in the visage laid before him, a sculpture of inhuman beauty. His breath was controlled, despite his racing heart and the excitement hardening his gut. Every part of Bolvirk—the strength in his thighs, the broadness of his chest, the way his cock stood heavy, huge and full in his grip—was exactly as Cyrus had imagined in all those nights of longing. But now, this was no longer a fantasy. This was the reality, and it was his to appreciate and touch.

He let his hands roam, starting at Bolvirk's thighs, kneading into thick muscle and the soft flesh that rested over it. His fingers spread wide, tracing the dip where his hips met his torso, feeling the heat of his skin. Bolvirk was solid beneath his hands when he pressed down, sturdy and warm, built to be held, to be adored and consumed. Cyrus let his thumbs sweep upward, dragging over his lover's soft stomach, feeling the flex and relaxation of muscle and fat beneath his palms. His touch was reverent but possessive, a silent claim in every sweep of his hand.

Lowering himself, he pressed a kiss to the center of Bolvirk's chest, lips parting just enough to graze him with his tongue. The taste of citrus-y soap and oils evident in his skin, activating his tastebuds, he exhaled slowly through his nostrils, savoring the warmth and the close proximity of the man. He moved deliberately, kissing lower, letting his tongue flick against skin, teasing with each slow descent. On his journey, the swell of Bolvirk's breast lead him towards that pert nub, which Cyrus drove his tongue to precisely lash and roll over the teat, over and over. When he reached Bolvirk's stomach, his planting of kisses were measured—that wide expanse needed its own moment. But even as he did so, he made sure there was plenty of room for Bolvirk to continue pumping of his cock.

"You sure you want me to fuck you?" Cyrus' voice came as a whisper, the entire home was silent but the breeze of wind making the trees creak and croak. His lips hovered just over his belly-button as he spoke. "Right here, right now?" The warlock didn't have any issues with it, though he had expected Bolvirk wanting a more intimate, romantic setting. Then again, Cyrus had pined for his love and attention for many, many years now. Cyrus knew him better than he knew his own brother at this point. He manoeuvred further down, so that he was laid out between his legs entirely, that immense shaft towering in front of his face like a behemoth. "And before you answer that... I have to say... fuck me, Bol! I mean... I had heard rumours you had a huge cock, but I didn't think you'd have something this big." Cyrus chuckled, speaking as he looked over it, inspecting every vein, every dip of muscle, that pink head, a grin plastered to his face. "Damn, I think it's almost as big as mine."

He arched slightly under the drag of Cyrus' hands over his front, and already wanted to tear the borrowed shirt off for one less layer between them. Welcoming the kisses along his jaw and neck with a tilt of his head, Bolvirk let slip a quiet chuckle. "I might have some."

That first skim of teeth over his skin did indeed spark a long, low hum from his throat, drawn out further when it ended in working up a small reddened mark. Bolvirk had been contented with only kisses and touch - but the rolling grinds of Cyrus' hips shifted the atmosphere, in the best kind of way. Just enough friction to whet his desire, to have his hands curling against thick muscle and short-cropped hair, to pull a sigh of a moan past parted lips. He returned the lighter kisses where and when he could, though not wanting to interrupt such high praise either. This was the perfect, luckiest place for him to be.

Bent leg tipping aside just a bit further when wandering hands found the waist of his smallclothes, Bolvirk bit his lip to hold back any passing, unserious complaint when Cyrus' touch only teased at the edge of fabric. He let go of it just in time for their mouths to meet again, melting into the deeper kiss without any attempt to contain any soft sounds of pleasure. "I mean every word," he breathed. Gods, that teasing again, even closer to where their hips met...

When Cyrus' forehead pressed to his, Bolvirk took a deeper inhale, sharing the same air with the friend he'd adored for years. His eyes closed for a long moment, then opened at the whispered words - somewhere between a request, an order, and a plea. The answer leapt readily to the tip of Bolvirk's tongue. It was waylaid, however, by those borrowed smallclothes getting tugged down his hips, far enough to leave his ass bare. Bare, but not unattended, as a broad hand splayed over one cheek. That alone had his head spinning with all the ways to have those hands on his rear.

What also didn't help his promptness was the promises that followed. Arousal rushed hot through his veins. Oh, how he wanted to get wrecked by this man, with the knowledge that Cyrus would be just as thorough in the doting afterward. And maybe he wouldn't have to worry about going totally nude around the manor as much as he'd thought. Bolvirk couldn't deny a little reflexive hesitation at the part about taking what he wanted. Cyrus had said so, clearly wanted him to... yet decades of striving to be everything his father wasn't still made him balk at being that forward. Maybe it would get easier with time, with guided attempts or patient reassurances. He hoped so; he wanted it to, when his partner was so keen on the idea.

That brief, inner hesitation didn't stop Bolvirk from sighing again at the skim of lips, nor from leaning in before Cyrus to meet the kiss. Even with only two pieces of linen clothing, already halfway rucked off, he felt too overdressed. The absence of their close press was soothed by another request from Cyrus. Bolvirk obeyed immediately, pulling the shirt off over his head first. While he let it drop to the rug, and reached to unfasten his smalls, he had the chance to give his earlier answer. "I want this so badly, Cy. I want you to fuck me til I see stars, til I have to wait for my knees to work." Bolvirk dropped the smallclothes aside as well, rubbing an open palm over his hardening cock with a tantalizing slowness. "I want to feel your mouth anywhere I can get it. I want to watch you finish, I know you'll look so beautiful..."

He trailed off into another low moan, gaze fixed on Cyrus' face all the while.

[coivi]

Finally got a theme after a year-ish of remaking this blog. It's still a wip, I need to edit bio, rules, verses, etc still, but alas. Still not happy with it, there's something off/missing, but it'll do for now.

[coivi]

Cyrus grunted in response, his smirk widening slightly as Tommy clapped his shoulder, the younger man's easygoing nature was a welcome shift from the wary glances and outright avoidance he was used to in times like these; this wasn't the first-time he had appeared entirely nude to a stranger, and it probably would not be the last. His handshake had been firm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he finally let go. The overalls, however, were another problem entirely. Even as he shifted, trying to distribute his weight in a way that might alleviate the pressure, the fabric clung relentlessly to his body, the tight fit straining against the sheer mass of his thighs and groin. The material bunched uncomfortably, forcing him to bring his hand down to adjust with an ease that suggested this was far from the first time he’d dealt with the issue of ill-fitting clothing. His large, free hand smoothed down the front of the overalls, fingers briefly hooking beneath the fabric to make another attempt at repositioning himself, but it was a futile effort—the thick, straining shape was still plainly evident, the overalls doing very little to conceal the sheer heft of him. The tension across his groin remained, the fit bordering on unbearable, but Cyrus merely huffed out a quiet, resigned sound, not quite a laugh but close. "Damn thing's tight," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, though he didn't miss the way Tommy's gaze flickered downward before snapping back up. The man was trying not to look, trying to keep it polite, but Cyrus wasn't blind to the subtle glances. He had been on the receiving end of plenty over the years—some appreciative, some horrified, some downright envious. Amused, he let it slide, instead focusing on the offer Tommy had laid out before him. A shower and a place to crash sounded a hell of a lot better than wandering the streets looking like some half-dressed barbarian who'd just crawled out of the underworld. Even if the shower barely fit him, it would be better than nothing.

"Thanks, again," Cyrus rumbled, voice gravelly with exhaustion, though the easy confidence never fully left his tone. "Been a hell of a night. A shower sounds damn near religious right about now." Cyrus followed, his heavy steps echoing in the space. The tightness of his overalls didn't go unnoticed as he walked, each stride making it abundantly clear that the fabric was struggling to keep up with him, but he ignored it, focusing instead on the destination ahead. When they reached a door that led into a dimly lit hallway, he was gestured inside, quickly looking over it once the light had been switched on, noting its pretty sizable living space, with its own en-suite shower. That was a welcome surprise; a rare luxury, considering his current circumstances. Without hesitation, Cyrus stepped further inside, surveying the space with quiet approval before finally exhaling, allowing the tension in his body to ease, if only slightly. "Looks great." Cyrus said, already beginning his attempt at removing the overalls with immense difficulty, to strip himself off so he could scrub the layers upon layers of ash and grime on his skin. "Hey, wouldn't happen to have a towel, would you?" As soon as those overalls were off, he had every intention of sleeping naked. First thing in the morning, he would dare to find himself an empty laundromat and try to find something wearable in the lost and found box. Cyrus shed the clothing off, already moving it down to his hips to leave them bunched up there, stepping into the bathroom to rid of it completely.

While Tommy couldn't immediately remember when an entirely naked man had walked into the workshop, but he had seen quite a bit of strange stuff. Being a member of a biker club tended to do that to you. He wasn't sure what the other man had done to turn up like this, but it might have been something from a rival club. No reason not to help him in Tommy's book.

As he searched for Opie's overall and handed it over to the stranger, he made sure to keep busy while the other man dressed. He stole glances now and again but remained polite. The man was huge... Opie wasn't a small guy at all and this one was still a bit broader in the shoulders. At least he was better covered up now. He wondered if he should have offered him a shower too but didn't think the man would fit at the workshop shower.

"Your accent isn't from around here... and it's a small town. We would have known." Tommy explained with a smile why he had asked more. He was amused by how the man moved in the overall, and had noticed the small box clutched in his hand, but he wouldn't ask about it. It wasn't his business. "Well... The motel might not be a good bet." He muttered before glancing over his shoulder. "The club here has a room or two. You could stay for a night if you want."

When the man named himself Cyrus, Tommy took his hand and shook it. "We're all about helping people." He smiled. "Couldn't just let you running around and getting yourself arrested." Clapping Cyrus on the shoulder he nodded him to come along.

"Come on, there's a shower in here too. Might not fit you completely but at least you can get youself cleaned up. A shower and some sleep will get you back on your feet in no time."

[coivi]

Cyrus revelled this moment—the heat, the anticipation, the way Raphael looked at him with something between reverence and hunger, there was so much innocence and lust in those eyes. He wanted to lose himself in that gaze, to watch as his bestfriend took full advantage of seeing Cyrus for the first time, fully exposed, not a single article of clothing to hide his burly, yet slender physique. His only wish was that Raphael had joined him, in being just as willingly bare to their intimate surroundings. A smile crept up on his lips when he felt those soft lips kissing his hand, as if he were a kindred, prized Princess. His own breath hitched as Raphael finally touched him, those thick fingers seemed to be nervous at first from the way they ghosted along his flesh, but in due course, they grew bolder, teasing along his length. He felt the warmth of Raphael's palm, the slight tremor in his touch, and fuck, that was beyond intoxicating. "I can understand why you're nervous, man... but try your best to relax. I don't expect you to gulp down my entire dick. Just... the only thing I need from you, Raphael, is for you to enjoy yourself." Cyrus cooed, his hand collecting itself on the side of the man's face, the pad of his thumb swiping along his bearded cheek. "Take your time. Don't worry about trying to pleasure me, and especially, don't worry about trying to stuff more than you can handle." Cyrus didn't just want to be wanted; he wanted to be used, he needed to see his friend take his time savouring every inch he could get to, to taste the slick delectable pre-cum beading at the slit, to feel the warmth and weight of it against his face. And he was so sure that Raphael—so eager, so hungry and aroused, and willing—was going to give him what he needed.

His smile grew wider as Raphael's plump lips parted to accept that flaccid heft into the wet warmth of his mouth. That first wet slide of heat around him sent a deep groan vibrating up from his chest, forcing his eyelids to close for a brief moment, his hand instinctively moving to thread through Raphael's damp curls, not forcing, but guiding, a possessive weight against his scalp. Not to rush him, but accepting him into his act. His gaze returned, his features softening as he looked down with a watchful eye, humming in pleasure and moaning in delight as the inches disappeared and appeared to him, which forward bob of his head letting his length dive deeper until that wide cockhead was hitting the back of Raphael's throat, requesting entry.

"Fuck," he winced out, voice laced with arousal, muscles that adorned his body relaxing and contracting as Raphael lost himself in his work. Cyrus honed in on the feeling of Raphael's tongue flattening beneath the weight of his fat slab of meat, and Cyrus exhaled sharply, his hips resisting the urge to thrust inward, to fuck into that velvety heat. He would let Raphael set the pace. After all, this was all for his benefit, even if Cyrus was enjoying the attention just as much. As those plush lips stretched around him, taking more, Cyrus could feel the heat coil in his gut, that wave of pleasuring coursing down his pulsing length, pooling at the base, encouraging the large, full, smooth balls that perched beneath to become firmer under Raphael's ministrations. As the minutes passed on by, it was evident Cyrus' manhood was beginning to fill out to its infamous monstrosity. He was sure Raphael had heard rumours about it, but it was a whole other thing to experience it in real-time. As that effortless swipe of tongue and brushing of lips along his length continued, the girth started to expand. Slow and gradual, unlike the length, which seemed to be gaining inch after inch after every minute that passed by. Sure, it took a while for Cyrus to develop an erection, but once he did, he could maintain it for hours to come. He fell witness to watching his friends' lips begin to spread wider, until they were visibly stretching to their limit. The hand on Raphael's head came to rest against his raised leg that stood on the seat of the hot tub, his other coming to remain idle by his side.

For a brief moment as his length began to visible appear much bigger, he leaned down, hand collecting the back of his head, moving in to acquire his friends' mouth into a heated, passionate kiss. One where his tongue trickled out to seek the taste of himself, to gingerly toy and dance with Raphael's tongue. The kiss ended in due course, with Cyrus delivering gentle, affectionate pecks to those lips. Eye contact was maintained as he stood upright once more, the hand from the back of Raphael's head coming down to get a grip around his throbbing prick, now heavy and full, drooping down due to its incredible mass. He lifted it with a light grip and bucked his hips forward in order to lay the entirety of his cock over his face, draping it over rugged features. Balls nestled just beneath Raphael's bearded chin, the towering mast laid across to fully cover over one of their eyes, with the circumcised pink bulbous crown resting somewhere past his hairline, amidst the wet curls of his head. "Would you look at that, Raph? If I knew you looked this beautiful, I would've tried to get you to blow me years ago." Cyrus let out an amused chuckle, but it soon faded once his grip around the base returned and he then proceeded to tenderly smack that slab of meat over his face, eliciting a wet snapping sound as it struck against the man's face. Once he had his thrill, he released his hold, hips retreating to let his cock roll free and hang directly in front of his friend, for him to take hold and continue his attempt to enjoy it. But before that could happen, Cyrus proceeded to move, to sit on the edge of the hot tub, with one leg extended out beneath the bubbling water, and the other with its foot firmly on the plastic seat, with just enough equal spreadage for Raphael to work with, his hands curled into the edged rim of the structure behind him, leaning back slightly, allotting total and complete freedom to the man.

Cyrus seemed to be transforming as his hands explored Raphael's body. Between touching and grabbing, the changing was becoming more evident. It was the possessive grip and the tone of the voice too. This was better than expected and Raphael let himself be embraced into that, the words and the teasing swallowing him whole. It went on and suddenly the water felt too hot and the temperature outside of it was hardly enough to keep his body cool. By the time he was being moved, his own cock was completely hard.

Even though they were almost the same size, Cyrus carried him with ease, lifting him up and giving a couple of steps to the other edge, letting Raphael go and stepping back just so Raphael had a full view of what was going to happen. And Raphael devoured every detail of that small show.

He had to keep himself from reaching to his cock underwater. He wanted that experience to last and he did not want to rush himself towards the pleasure. His eyes moved constantly, he tried to get in all the details. He wanted to see the way the muscles bent or bulged, but the point of gravity was another. It grew in intensity the more the shorts slipped down. Cyrus wore nothing underneath and the more his fingers moved down, the more it revealed of him and then, Raphael's vision was focused. Nothing else could take his eyes away from it again. And this time he did not even need to pretend he was not looking. This time, he looked at it with intent and no shame.

Time changed. It slowed down. That short moved down to slow. The anticipation was a grip around his heart. He could barely remember he needed to breathe. And then, it was gone. Cyrus' cock was there again, this time in full display for him. Raphael let out the air in his lungs and his lips shaped into another smile. He could hardly take his eyes away from it. The veins that bulged slightly, the girth of it! Cyrus' question brought his attention away from it for a moment and Raphael nodded excitedly.

His eyes were already going back to that beautiful cock but Cyrus stopped him, lifting his head again. They were looking each other in the eyes and Cyrus' presence had grown infinitely. Sitting there, Raphael had the brief impression that Cyrus had gained in stature and volume, as if he had grown when Raphael had not been looking. But maybe it was just the way his friend was suddenly so imposing. Moving his head a little, he kissed the fingers that had held his chin and he nodded again.

"Anything you want of me. I'll be at your disposal. Anything for you and this cock of yours." Raphael finally reached for it. His movement was slow, careful. The tip of his fingers touched the cock first, the tip of his thumb rubbing against the tip. Raphael wanted to play with it, worship it for the rest of their night together. It felt warmer than the rest of his body. It felt alive, pulsating and growing between his fingers. He moved closer to Cyrus, sitting at the edge, legs spread with Cyrus in between them. He leaned his upper body forward and opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue out. He took the cock in between his lips and it hit him. He was doing it. He was finally doing it.

His hands moved to hold Cyrus' thighs and his mouth moved to take more of those inches. He let them slid in. He did not rush it. His tongue was under the shaft, making for the perfect hole in which that cock could grow into. The taste of it was subtle, they had been too long under water, so most of the natural part was hidden under it, but Raphael could still feel it over his tongue, taking over his senses. He moved more, until he felt the cock hitting the back of his throat, sliding down. He moved back again and started a small movement, bobbing his head and working with cheeks and tongue to make sure Cyrus would get hard in him.

[coivi]

Cyrus let the tension simmer, rolling over the moment like he had all the time in the world. Well, he did, he was an immortal. Seldom was he ever pressed for time. He didn't rush to answer the question that was proposed to him, he didn't even try to fill the silence with nervous chatter or misplaced bravado—he just let Zane watch. Cyrus had been around long enough to register the lustful hunger in their eyes, their stance. Cyrus stood there, wearing his weird sense of attire, letting Zane take in the raw, unfiltered look at his body, how it bulged, strained, curved and stacked in certain areas. The way his body still held the markings of what was clear to be a fiery brawl, the dirt streaked across his skin, the bruises hidden beneath soot and ash. He could feel Zane's gaze as if he were on a stage, that lingering stare, the small glances downward at his shorts that could barely contain him. At this point in time, he didn't much care, the man had seen pretty much everything Cyrus had to show. Even the cashier clerk had gotten an eyeful of the goods. The warlock shook off any thoughts of worry or sheer shock, for he knew it was most likely he would never see these people ever again.

"Trouble?" he echoed, his voice low, he stepped closer, closing the distance until the space between them was over a foot away. His height cast a shadow over Zane, shrouding him in his shadow from the sun sinking in the horizon behind Cyrus' tall musculature. But he didn't crowd his space—he just let the weight of his presence be known. "Oh, no-no. I don't particularly go running into trouble, sometimes it finds me," he murmured, voice light with a chuckle, something just to ease the tension of this odd interaction he had gotten himself into. "If I had to tell you what happened, you wouldn't believe me. Plus, it's quite... embarrassing, so I'll just leave it at that." Cyrus, ever the actor, with his Oscar-worthy performance of a perfect lie, purely to divert the attention away.

His hand flexed at his side, restless and tired, like he was still coming down from the adrenaline high of the fight he'd left behind. He didn't care to explain to a stranger, one who was no doubt human—not yet, and probably never. Cyrus was beginning to enjoy this little play, but the day was getting away from him, and he needed to find some sustenance, shelter and figure out a way to get back to his vehicle, in order to retrieve his goods and perhaps dress on some finer, fitting clothes. He was just glad they were miles upon miles away from the nearest place of actual civilisation, and the road didn't seem to be all that well-travelled to gather too much attention to himself. The walk back would be a long, trivial one. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he needed to get a move on before night struck, or he would lose himself in the forest trails. The hand clutching the tin box came down to his front, his opposing hand wrapped around his wrist, closing the visual of his obscene cock bulging those neon shorts.

"The day is as good as any for a fresh start," he said, his smirk turning into a pearly-white, toothy grin, his dirt-ridden face turning almost endearing and tender. His eyes flicked up, catching the way Zane's fingers twitched where they rested, the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, he could read him like a damn book. "And hey—I needed something to wear. Figured I'd make a statement while I was at it. It's not like there's a good selection of clothes to get. It's not Versace," He gestured vaguely to the ridiculous shorts hanging low on his hips, then tipped his chin toward Zane. "but it'll do. I found a t-shirt at least. Or," he cleared his throat to regain the man's attention. "Are you trying to figure out if my dick's real or not? I can answer that for you; yes. Yes, it's very much real." The plastered grin never faded from his face, not until the moment had passed. "It was nice meeting you, Zane, but I have to start my trek back, hopefully I'll find my car before the day ends. That, or a motel." With that quick, short goodbye, he turned to begin walking away, gravel crunching beneath large, bare feet.

Zane stayed exactly where he was, leaning casually against his bike, arms crossed over his chest, though every muscle in his body was wound tight beneath the surface. He watched Cyrus emerge from the gas station, his eyes dragging over every inch of the man, cataloging each shift of muscle, each bead of water that clung to his skin before disappearing into the dirty fabric of his too-small shirt. The garish green Hawaiian shorts clung to him indecently, leaving little to the imagination—not that Zane minded. His lips curled into something caught between amusement and intrigue, but his eyes gave him away. Dark and focused, they tracked every step Cyrus took, hunger buried beneath the cool indifference of his expression.

"Public indecency?" Zane finally drawled, his voice low, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the streetlights. "Trust me, you’d need to try a lot harder to offend anyone around here. If anything, you’d end up with a fan club." His gaze dipped again, lingering on the way the shorts shifted over Cyrus’s body with every step. He didn’t even bother hiding it. He wanted Cyrus to know he was looking. Hell, he wanted him to feel it. "But I gotta admit," he added with a slow smirk, "those shorts? Bold choice."

Cyrus stood just inches away now, towering over him, his presence radiating heat and barely restrained power. Zane could feel the warmth rolling off his skin, the scent of sweat and smoke and whatever primal force seemed to cling to him like a second skin. When Cyrus held out his hand, Zane let the silence stretch for a beat too long, his eyes locked on the other man’s, a flicker of something dangerous sparking in the air between them. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and clasped Cyrus’s hand, his grip firm but lingering just a fraction longer than necessary, fingertips grazing across rough, calloused skin.

"Zane," he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate, but there was a sharp edge beneath it. He leaned in just slightly, enough that his words felt like a secret spoken into the space between them. "So, Cyrus... battle-worn god of questionable fashion choices, what exactly brings you to this fine establishment at—" he glanced at the sky, "midnight? You don’t exactly look like you’re here for a snack run."

Cyrus didn’t answer immediately, his eyes lingering on Zane in a way that felt heavy, purposeful. It was the kind of look that pinned you in place, made you feel like you’d been peeled open and laid bare without so much as a word. Zane arched a brow, refusing to flinch under the weight of it. He liked this game. He liked the tension, the push and pull, the unspoken challenge written in every charged second between them. It sent a rush of adrenaline through his veins, waking up parts of him he hadn’t let loose in far too long.

"You don’t talk much, do you?" Zane teased, his voice dropping lower, wrapping around the words like silk. "Or maybe you’re just waiting for the right moment to make your next dramatic entrance. I gotta say, though, walking out of a gas station in nothing but those shorts? That’s a hell of a statement." He let his hand trail back to his side, brushing the tips of his fingers over the rough leather seat of his bike, keeping his posture relaxed even as his heart thrummed in his chest.

The glow from the neon lights above flickered, casting shifting shadows over Cyrus’s face, illuminating the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his smirk. Zane’s eyes traced the path of a droplet of water as it slid down his throat, catching on the hollow between his collarbones before disappearing beneath the too-tight fabric. He caught himself licking his bottom lip absently, barely noticing the way his breath hitched for a split second.

"So," he said, breaking the silence again, his voice steady, but his eyes still burning. "Are you planning to tell me what kind of trouble you’re running from, or should I just assume it’s something spectacularly illegal?" He chuckled softly, leaning in just enough to blur the line between playful banter and something much more dangerous. "Not that I mind. I’ve always had a thing for trouble."

[coivi]

Cyrus took the glass of lemonade with a nod of gratitude, fingers brushing briefly against Ray's as he took it from him. As he settled into his seat across from the other man in the small table, he stretched his long, bulky legs out under the table, his boot nudging against Ray's foot in the process—casual, unhurried, but not entirely accidental. Plus, a man of Cyrus' size and stature, he took up a lot of space. And, given that, he had a big appetite, and an even bigger stomach, especially when the food was hot, delicious and home-made. There was something comforting about a home-cooked meal, making something out of a few ingredients. It often made him think of his own mother.

"Guess I should be grateful for those two reasons, then," he mused, stirring his spoon through the thick gumbo, watching the steam curl upward. "Not every day a guy like me gets saved from a bad takeout and worse lodging, by a man who knows his way around both an engine and a kitchen." He took a slow sip of his drink before flashing Ray a sly smirk and a playful wiggle of his brows. "Might start thinking you've got a soft spot for strays." Which, in actuality, Cyrus himself did; he was always housing shapeshifters, magic-users and other inhuman beings.

He took another bite, savoring the rich, deep flavors that spread over his tongue. A pleased sound rumbled low in his throat, and he gave an approving nod. "Damn. That's good," he exclaimed, tapping his spoon against the rim of the bowl before looking at Ray again. "And you're telling me you don't run some kind of side hustle cooking for people? Feels like a waste of a talent."

He let the conversation flow easy between them, exchanging small talk between bites, he could feel the atmosphere between them growing warmer, it was easy to talk to him, even if they were still hiding each others true selves behind a friendly conversation. Cyrus could feel the undercurrent of something else, though—the weight of Ray's gaze when he looked at him, the way the man's body language read open, relaxed, but maybe a little too still, like he was waiting for something, an invitation.

Finishing his meal, Cyrus set his spoon down with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Alright, I'm making good on that shower," he said, giving Ray a lingering once-over, not as subtle like before. This time, his intentions were obvious and clear. "Unless..." The challenge was there. Cyrus stood to his feet, tucking his chair into the table, his mass a towering figure of brawn and might, an imposing shadow cast over the mechanic. He continued, "Unless you'd like to join me?"

He'd spent far too many decades - probably near on a century - keeping his attraction and relationships secret. Sure, 'officially' coming out in the 1980s hadn't been a cakewalk by any stretch, but some things were just more important, in his mind. Besides, he already had to keep the whole werewolf thing under wraps, that was enough.

"Lemonade it is." Ray slowed slightly after doling out his own bowl, but in the next moment his grin returned. He might've just seen it as doing what anyone should, but if it meant that much to Cyrus he wasn't about to brush it off. "See, ya just named my top two reasons I didn't send you off t' the nearest motel." Setting his dish aside, Ray returned to the fridge to fetch the lemonade jug, then took down two tall glasses from a cabinet. "Ain't gonna speak too ill o' their services, but nothin' beats home cookin' and a good bed."

And Cyrus' kind praise was further proof of his point. Ray simply shrugged to suggest 'I try', while generously filling the second bowl for the other man after pouring and putting away the lemonade.

It was apparently Cyrus' turn to pause, but for what — Ah. True, Ray had been smelling the soap the whole time, but knew why and hadn't figured it was that strong to fully-human noses. Either he'd been wrong, or Cyrus had a more sensitive one. Regardless, Ray assured, "Don't mind one bit. Yeah, that soap's really only good at gettin' the motor grease smell off yer hands. Prob'ly aint the best to scrub up with."

Once Cyrus had his bowl, Ray grabbed a spoon for each of them before settling in at the kitchen table. It wasn't that big, but it didn't need to be for just two people; besides, the chairs had cushions and were plenty sturdy.

[coivi]

[coivi]

did your boyfriend eat you out today, or do i have to?

[coivi]

Cyrus exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes hooded as he looked down at the god beneath him, legs spread evenly, obediently. His fingers flexed against the ridged planes of Thor's outer thigh where his hand clipped beneath it, feeling the muscle jump under his grasp, the twitching and trembling noticeable in his touch. A slow, wicked grin stretched across his lips, amusement curling into his features, a lustful gaze as he took in the beautiful, grand sight before him—Thor. The actual God of Thunder, golden and untouchable, worshipped and feared by millions, now laid out beneath him, naked and willing, baring himself for the warlock. As Cyrus looked down upon him, his attention went further south, noting the fact he was not even halfway full into the deity, and already his body was responding by constricting around him, massaging that stupidly thick shaft. Cyrus moaned from the way the tight heat gripped him, clenching and massaging his prick, milking out drop after drop of that delectable, glossy pre-cum, aiding in that sweet glide to pull him in deeper, despite the obvious resistance. Teeth bit down onto his lower lip, his attention diverting away to Thor's muscles, watching as they involuntarily contracted, relaxed and twitched, the body tensing and relaxing with every skillful roll of Cyrus' hips, though still careful in order to allow the man to adjust to the thick stretch pushing inside of him, claiming that sweet spot within, striking at every bundle of nerves at every forward thrust and pull of his heavy cock. His cock pulsed at the sight alone, at the reality of what was happening, of who he was buried inside. He never thought he would ever be here, in this moment, with him; a deity he had looked up to for centuries.

Just as Thor began to positively react to his work, his grip moved to the underside of his knees, helping to keep his legs elevated and spread out, grounding him in place (even if he could very well launch him across the room with a single push of a hand), but this was simply to take control, to allow this adonis to relax into the bed, to breathe through the discomfort and wallow in the pleasure, to keep him still as Cyrus dared to dig in another inch, gradually letting Thor feel the slow, agonizing drag of every ridge and vein splitting him open. "You flatter me, Thor," he murmured, his voice rough, thick with heat as he let his fingers slip from Thor's leg to trail up, fingertips grazing over warm, taut skin of his stomach, mapping the work of hard-won strength and grit. "But look at you, Sir. Fucking trembling under me." His hand slid higher, across the god's strong, powerful chest, pausing where his heart thundered beneath his palm. "Never in my dreams did I imagine being here, between your legs, fucking the God of Thunder himself." Cyrus beamed with pride, though there was a definite look of adoration in his eyes. "You're beautiful."

The little sparks licking at his skin were mesmerizing, teasing little jolts dancing along his fingers, making the hair on the back of his neck rise. The raw power in Thor's body, barely restrained, made Cyrus' stomach tighten, abs flaring out, his cock pulsing and twitching inside the gripping, desperate heat wrapped around him. For a couple of minutes, he remained still now, the pink head bearing down on that prostate as he spoke on, "You're the one lighting up the room, Thor," he mused, lips curling into a smirk, as he let his hand drift lower, fingers returning to ghost down over the ridges of abs already glistening with his own arousal, that laid out, impressive in its size, but neglected. For those few minutes he remained stationary, his hand explored the mighty physique, the way his moans spilled out, the crackling of electricity, the warmth of his body. It was beyond erotic.

His hips moved again, his pace slow and torturous, making sure Thor felt the emptiness when Cyrus drew away until the very tip of that swollen cockhead was perched on that perfect, pink little puckered entrance, to feeling full, stretched, hot and wet as he filled him again, unrushed, but precise.

Thor & Cyrus caught recreating: 20M/M For: @coivi

The God didn't get to experience this a lot. That's why he loves partying with mortals, especially those attracted to men because they see him, and they don't see a divine entity that's looking for someone to fuck senseless.

Not that Thor doesn't get that kind of mood, quite the opposite really, but sometimes he just wants to lay on his back and relax while someone else takes care of him.

"What an extraordinary man you are Cy," he said as the man fucking him finally found a pace, the God of Thunder feeling complete bliss as he relaxed against his arm, from his fingers, little sparks lightning the room, but they were not strong enough to be dangerous.

[coivi]

Cyrus let out a deep, long breath through his mouth as he stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders to ease the deep ache settled into hardened muscles. The day had been long, the kind that left him covered in a fine layer of dirt and sweat, but there was a certain satisfaction in it—the kind that came from working with his hands, feeling the strain in his body, knowing he'd left something better than he'd found it. He had spent hours tending to the vast grounds of his home, trimming overgrown hedges, hauling heavy bags of mulch, planting trees and plants, digging his hands into the earth to grow things anew now that Spring had arrived. The sun had been unrelenting, beating down on his back, and by the time he was done, his t-shirt clung to him, soaked through with sweat and streaked with dust.

With the last task finished up, he made his way to the outdoor shower, eager to wash away the day's labor away and cool off. He removed the baseball cap off first, then peeled his shirt of, the fabric sticking stubbornly to his bronze skin before he tossed it over the wooden railing. His boots followed, then his socks, leaving him in nothing but his dirt-smudged blue shorts. He could have stripped further—he doubted anyone would mind—but he wasn't in the habit of putting on a show unless there was someone, or a crowd, to enjoy it. The cold water rushed over him, shocking at first, but he welcomed it. He tipped his head back, running his fingers through his buzz-cut dark hair, letting the water trace its way over the ridges of his chest, down the taut plane of his stomach, carving paths through the grime. The relief was instant, washing away the heat, the sweat, the exhaustion. The effort of the day was clear in the way the contact of body-heat and cold water was enough to cause steam to billow from his frame.

By the time he stepped away from the shower, after several minutes of soaking and taking measured breaths, the sun was beginning its descent, casting long golden streaks over his grand estate. He ran a hand down his face, glancing toward the house, only to pause when his gaze caught on the shimmering blue of the infinity pool—and the man lounging within it.

Edward was draped against the ledge, his body half-submerged, his skin glistening in the fading light. The doctor was a sight to behold, lean muscle and fat beneath smooth skin, a sculpture of pure beef and brawn, with the perfect sprinkle of ruggedness. His speedo left little to the imagination, clinging to every dip and curve, which Cyrus appreciated seeing. He looked utterly unbothered, entirely at ease, the picture of indulgence, and for a brief moment, Cyrus found himself simply watching for a couple of minutes, hands set at his hips once he had walked over to the pools edge.

Cyrus let out a low chuckle, moving to sit, the stone warm beneath his bottom, his legs dipping into the water, letting Edward take in the state of him—his damp skin, the lingering beads of water on scarred flesh, the way his shorts clung and bulged just a little too well over that hefty swell. "I apologise if I haven't given you the attention and love that you deserve. It's never, and will never, be my intention to avoid you, Doc." The warlock reached out, taking one of Edward's hands, raising it to his mouth in order to lay an adoring kiss to the knuckles. "I have missed you though, it feels like I haven't seen you in weeks."

As tempting as it was, Cyrus still felt a little hot, despite his attempt to cool off. Whilst the notion of sharing a bubble bath or slip into the hot tub did appear to be enticing and indulging, he required some stillness. This was the first time he had sat down all day since his earlier breakfast with Lucas and Marco. "Give me a couple of minutes, babe. I need to get some feeling back in my feet." Damn, where's Theodore when you need him most? He thought to himself. Cyrus released the hold he had of Edward's hand and proceeded to set both hands behind him, sinking his head into his shoulders as he leant back, legs wading in the cool water absentmindedly while he continued to look over his beau.

closed starter for @coivi Edward and Cyrus

It wasn't often that he got days off for himself; Edward liked to think that he was good at his job and that was why he had been called in so often. But for the physician, he did relish his free days. It meant that he could sit back and relax, something that he didn't realize he needed until both Theodore and Cyrus commented on how tight his muscles had been. So, the doctor opted to lounge in the infinity pool, propping himself up against the ledge to bask in the sunlight a bit longer before he went inside.

His blissful meditation was interruped by the sound of the backdoor opening. Sleepily blinking his eyes open, Edward smiled at the sight of the absolute stud of a man making his way towards him. He wasn't as forward as some of the other men in the mansion, but Edward was certainly grateful for any moments he did get with him. Cyrus was certainly a busy man having to entertain all of them, and the doctor was happy that he would even get this time alone.

"Have you come to join me in the water?" he asked sweetly, not really minding if Cyrus chose to do so or not. There were other things the two of them could get up to that didn't involve the pool, after all. "Or did you just miss seeing my handsome face for so long?" The doctor pushed himself upright, letting the water droplets slide down the front of his body. With his heavy, juicy pecs on display for the other man to appreciate, and his skin-tight speedo accentuating the curves of his backside, Edward knew coming out to swim today was the right idea.

"You know, I can't seem to remember when the last time you and I got to go on a proper date together. Are you sure you aren't just avoiding me? My feelings would be so terribly hurt," he teased once more as he gazed up at Cyrus with wonder in his eyes. And it certainly was a wonder to see such a handsome, sexy, beast of a man be so invested in every single one of them. Edward knew he should be jealous, but if he were honest, he was simply grateful Cyrus would even pay attention to someone like him. "Would you care to join me for a bath? Or in the hot tub? I could use the company. And the body heat."

[coivi]

THREAD CONTINUED ON HERE

❝ You look like an angel; it’s only right that I fuck you until you see heaven. ❞ (w/ cloud)

𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 & 𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐄 * - 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄 & 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 ❝ You look like an angel; it’s only right that I fuck you until you see heaven. ❞ - Cloud and Cyrus for @coivi

Cloud had always prided himself as being one of the more powerful spectres; his ability to posses and control people at his will made him all the more respected amongst his peers. The older and longer he existed, the easier it was for him control another being. At least, that was what he had thought until he came across Cyrus. It was the first time he had been pushed out and rejected by another man, the ghost seeing just how strong a mind the other man was. Even more so, Cyrus began speaking to him, as if he could see him in his spiritual form.

Re-possessing the man he often found himself in, Cloud began speaking to the other man out of curiosity. He had never encountered someone who he couldn't possess, and the spectre wanted to know why. However, it seemed like there were other plans in mind, and it soon devolved into the two of them stripped bare and sprawling out on one of the couches in the house. It had been a long time since Cloud had done anything remotely sexual, since very few people wanted to have sex with a ghost. But it didn't seem like this man minded in the slightest. If anything, the thick, massive pole that the spectre was trying to sit down on informed him just how much Cyrus was enjoying this.

"O-Oh fuck..." he groaned, his eyes squeezing tight as he straddled the other man's hips. With the other man sat comfortably on the couch, Cloud kept his hands on the other's broad, muscular shoulders to steady himself as he tried to sink down on that pipe. "Fuuuck meeee....!" he hissed, the ghost's eyes bulging at the stretched feeling of his host's body. Even as a spirit, he could practically feel the warmth of the rod he was trying to slide down on. "I-I think I'm already... i-in heaven..." he gasped, Cloud doing his best to steady himself before pushing more in.

[coivi]

Cyrus had never considered himself a particularly spiritual man, but when a damn ghost started speaking to him—one that had actively tried and failed to possess him, probably due to the demonic entity already being housed within—he figured he had two options: lose his mind, or roll with it. He chose the latter. It wasn't every day you met a spectre who was as persistent as Cloud, after all. At first, their conversations had been laced with curiosity, Cloud poking and prodding at the strange fact that he couldn't control him. Cyrus, ever the immovable force, had taken it in stride, entertained by the entity that seemed just as fascinated by him. But somehow, the back-and-forth, the talking, the undeniable tension had led to this.

Now, with Cloud straddling his lap, Cyrus found himself in a predicament he hadn't quite anticipated. The ghost—his ghost, at this point—was trying to take him in, fingers digging into his broad shoulders as he worked himself down onto something that Cyrus wasn't entirely sure he could handle. Not that he doubted his own ability—he was more concerned about Cloud. Cyrus was a big man, in every sense of the word, too big in some circles. And despite the fact that Cloud had no true physical body of his own, he was still occupying one. And that body was trembling, struggling to take him in inch by inch, all while Cloud let out the most sinfully broken moans, pleas and curses. Alas, he couldn't fathom the true beauty here. The vessel the spectre decided to house was by far one of the most beautiful men he had seen. The watery glint in their eyes from the strain, the visible pre-cum seeping from the tip of Cloud's cock, the muscles of his body that inevitably flexed; all of it had the warlock throbbing, his mast a hardened piece of fat meat, pre-cum flowing steadily from the slit, coating into the man's constricting walls.

Cyrus exhaled, a slow, measured breath as his large hands rested on the ghost's hips, holding him steady. "You sure about this?" His voice was lower than usual, rough with restraint. He wasn't trying to stop him—not exactly—but the sheer size difference between them was making him hesitate. It wasn't like he could just ghost through the ghost if things went south. He didn't want to hurt him, the vessel. He could feel the way Cloud's body shook, trembled against him, could see the strain in his pretty, otherworldly face as he tried to take more.

His grip tightened, not to pull him down but to keep him from sinking too fast. "Breathe," Cyrus rumbled, his thumbs rubbing slow, steady circles against the smooth skin, a hand coming to the front to rest against Cloud's navel, ignoring the rigid length between their bodies, his palm laid flat, offering it warmth and control, to create a sense of sweet tenderness and unionship between the two of them. "You don’t have to force it." His patience was endless, but the sight of Cloud trying so damn hard to take him—his flushed expression, the way he whimpered and gasped, the way his body clenched as he fought to accommodate Cyrus' pillar of cock-meat—was making it difficult to keep his composure. Still, he wasn't about to let his own need overtake the fact that Cloud wasn't built like him. He was smaller, and Cyrus had enough self-awareness to know what he was capable of doing if he wasn't careful.

"Fuck…" His voice was rougher now, the strain bleeding into his words as he leaned in, resting his forehead against Cloud's shoulder for just a moment. And after that short interval, the hand at the man's hips tightened, aiding in lifting him off his length entirely, which collapsed with a wet snap against his thigh. "Wait a second..." With relative ease, he moved the man to sit beside him, while Cyrus himself rose to his feet, still wearing his hooded sweatshirt, his jogging bottoms and underwear bunched down to his ankles, forcing him to shuffle across the room due to lack of movement, the causing his cock to bob and spring, the thickness of his buttocks to jiggle from every short step that he took towards his desk. His fingers rummaged through the drawers, gripping hold a tube of KY jelly and returning, a toothy grin appearing on his face when he waddled back. Cyrus resumed his seat on the armchair sofa, squeezed a generous dollop of the contents to his palm, and slicking it across the entirety of his monstrous heft. Even if Cloud was unable to tame it, at the very least, it would create a nice, easy glide. The tube was thrown to the small side-table. While his hand stroked his aching length from root to tip, his free arm curled beneath the spectre once again, lifting him back onto his lap, where he now would belong for the remainder of the night. Now, in the heat of things, he allowed himself to look at the figure, the scruff of his face, the athletic build, ripe nipples that urged to be suckled. In the midst of the wet strokes filling the room, he asked wearily, "Can I kiss you?" He wanted this—wanted him—Cyrus wasn't going to break this... stranger, just to get what he wanted. He could be patient. He had to be.

CONTINUED FROM HERE

[coivi]

Cyrus let out a deep, rolling chuckle at Christopher's words, shaking his head as he carried the platter over to the table. His towering frame moved with ease to settle into the little breakfast nook. "You? Sleep on the couch? Absolutely not." His voice was firm and commanding, left no room for argument as he set the food down, the scent of cinnamon and caramelized sugar filling the air around them. His brawny arms flexed slightly as he leaned in, his imposing presence making the dining space feel smaller, more intimate. "I’m the host. My house, my rules. Besides, that sofa's big enough for a man my size. Comfortable, even." He smirked, nudging Christopher's shoulder just enough to make the smaller man shift in his seat once he had sat down. There was something deeply satisfying about riling him up, a game he never tired of playing, even if his body ached for something a little more intense, and intimate.

Picking up a fork, Cyrus cut into the golden, crispy toast, the crunch echoing through the quiet morning. He took a bite, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving Christopher. It was a habit of his, to observe, to drink in the sight of the other man as though committing him to memory, he had only seen the man naked a handful of times, easily countable in just one hand, so often times, he had to tend to his imagination and memory of what hid beneath those clothes. The way his lips curled when he spoke, the way he leaned just slightly toward him, as if drawn in without realizing it. And, of course, the way Christopher teased, knowing full well what he did to Cyrus. That was the worst part, it formed a twisted knot in his gut.

Because if there was one thing Cyrus had always wanted—achingly, desperately—it was to sink into his friend. To taste, to feel, to listen to aching whimpers and lewd moans. He had made it clear, not just once, not just in passing. It wasn't like he had hidden it, not when he looked at him like that, touched him like that, kissed him like they had been lovers. That threshold had never been crossed, but every time he tried to take it further, every time his hands drifted lower or his mouth lingered too long, Christopher seemed to stop him. Softly, teasingly, but firmly. And Cyrus, for all his strength, for all his hunger, had never been the type to push past a boundary. So he backed off. Again. And again. And again. But fuck, did he want him. And Christopher knew it, that smug little grin of his giving away just how much he enjoyed the control he had over him.

Cyrus swallowed his bite of food, his smirk widening to hide the frustration bubbling beneath the surface. "And as for doing anything more to your ass," he paused, dragging out the words, watching for the reaction he knew was coming, "let's not pretend you wouldn't be begging for more if I did. You have yet to experience how good my tongue would feel on that tight, little virgin hole of yours." His voice was low, teasing, edged with something heavier, something unspoken. He knew exactly how to get under Christopher's skin, how to make him flustered just enough before pulling back—even if it left him aching, restless, and so hard he had to take care of himself more times than he could count after Christopher left.

Despite the playful banter, there was a shift when Christopher mentioned staying longer. Cyrus wanted to say yes—God, he wanted to—but he also knew how much his friend valued his work. As much as he enjoyed having Christopher here, stealing these quiet, intimate mornings, he wouldn't be the reason he slacked off. So instead, he reached over, large fingers ruffling through the already-messy short strands of his companion's hair, messing them up further. "You know I'd love that," he admitted, his voice quieter this time, less teasing, more honest. His eyes softened, just a fraction, though the grin never left his lips. "But I also know you'd be pissed at yourself if you didn't show up." He leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his broad chest, his expression turning smug once again. "Unless, of course, you suddenly decided I was more important than your career?" The words were playful, but there was an underlying truth to them.

Cyrus wouldn't stop him from leaving, but that didn't mean he wouldn't miss him the second he was gone. And later, when Christopher was out that door, back to work, back to his life, Cyrus would be left exactly where he always was—alone, hard, and wondering just how long he could keep playing this game before it finally broke him, before he found another man to instill all his passion and lust into. "School holidays are coming up. Perhaps, if you don't have any plans, you could come here?"

It was hard to say when was the first time he met Cyrus. Part of it was simply because it felt like he knew that man for a century. The way they connected made the chef feel at ease in a way he rarely found with anyone else in his industry. Of course, it led to him asking to spend more time with the other man, and thus their friendship blossomed over time.

Emerging from the bedroom with only his blue pajamas on, albeit hanging a bit low on his waistline, Christopher awoke to the smell of french toast. The delicious smell awoke a growing hunger in his stomach, and he soon climbed out of bed and stumbled down to the glorious sight of Cyrus cooking away in the kitchen. The view he was seeing was spectacular; it was no secret that his friend was an absolute hunk. His height, his muscles, the way he carried himself, and his domineering aura (and domineering bulge) all made Christopher practically weak in his knees every time he saw him.

Stepping into the kitchen and sneaking around so the other man didn't see him, Christopher snuck up to spank his friend's right buttcheek. It was his chance to cop a feel of his friend's perfectly sculpted ass, knowing how adamant Cyrus was about letting anyone back there. He grinned as his friend turned to address him, a shit-eating smile on his lips. "What? I could't help myself. When you dress like that, you're just asking for someone to squeeze back there. Why shouldn't it be me?" the chef chuckled. "At least you know these hands, and you know where they've been."

His rambling words were cut off by a sweet kiss on the lips, the smaller man letting out a soft sigh of satisfaction. He chased after the thumb on his lips with his tongue, only finishing with a sly lick of the lips. "Well, does it really have to end today?" he said with a small whine. It was always hard to say goodbye to Cyrus whenever he had to leave for work, but that only made Christopher crave it more. "I could always get someone else to cover..."

The smaller man grinned as he followed after his friend once he stepped away from the stove. "Then would you want to do anything more to my ass?" he purred, only leaning up to kiss Cyrus' cheek before taking a seat at one of the seat by the dining table. "It looks absolutely delicious. Thank you for making this! You should have woken me up though; I would have helped. And next time, I should be the one sleeping on the couch, not you. Why didn't you sleep in your bed and I sleep elsewhere?" Christopher remarked, both grateful and embarrased at how much of a poor guest he must have been for his friend.

[coivi]

Cyrus moved with a careful, reverent touch, every movement steeped with purpose, with silent devotion for the man he so dearly adored. The heat building between them was thick and heady, wrapping around them like a cocoon, every one of his senses had sharpened. His body numbed with the pleasure of it—the exquisite heat of Bolvirk's skin, parts of his body that were connected to him. The slick, near-unbearable tightness resisting against the thickness of his fat shaft, then yielding somewhat, pulling him in deeper to break apart his walls, brushing and striking into every and any bundle of nerves that his shallow thrusts could bear access to. It sent waves of sensation rolling through him, down his spine to pool at his lower back, pleasure coiled deep and low in his stomach, forcing his abdominal muscles to contract and relax. But even with his body urging him to sink fully into the haze of it, to lose himself in the sheer intensity of how good it felt to be inside of him, Cyrus held back, forcing himself to move slowly, to be mindful of every breath, every small reaction that rippled through Bolvirk beneath him.

He could feel every little tremor in Bolvirk's muscles, the way his fingers clenched at his back, gripping tight, nails pressing into his skin but not out of pain—out of need. That need was intoxicating, made his own breath shudder out of him, made it impossible to ignore the deep, visceral ache inside him to give more, to let go, to claim and take what was rightfully his. But he wouldn't—not yet. Instead, he pressed a lingering kiss to Bolvirk's jaw, letting his lips part just enough to brush the damp skin, tasting the salt of his sweat and soak in the warmth of him. His hand, broad and rough, smoothed over the dips and curves of Bolvirk's waist, moving down to pay close attention to those thickened thighs, full of delicious fat and muscle, feeling the way the muscle hardened beneath his palm at every forward roll of his hips. The feeling of the man beneath him had grounded him, kept him tethered in the moment, reminding him that this wasn't just about the burning pleasure rolling through him—most of all, it was about Bolvirk. About making sure he felt just as lost in this, just as consumed, to bring him unwavering amounts of pleasure and comfort, despite the overall strain Cyrus' heft had on that tight ring of muscle.

Cyrus exhaled with a moan, slow and measured, bringing his focused down onto the tight, pulsing walls that wrapped around him; the way Bolvirk took him in one slow, torturous inch at a time. He groaned low in his throat, barely able to suppress the winces and moans, the shiver that ran down his spine as Bolvirk eventually adjusted to the length Cyrus felt comfortable in providing him with. He gritted his teeth, pressing his forehead against Bolvirk's temple, breathing in. His scent—heady, warm, laced with the faintest trace of hay and earth from the barn around them—only added to the dizzying, consuming heat of it all.

"Damn," Cyrus muttered, his voice husky, barely more than a breath against Bolvirk's skin. He pressed his lips to his temple, a small, grounding gesture, a reminder of his control even as it teetered at the edge. "You feel... incredible." His voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the raw, aching pleasure winding its way through his veins. "You're incredible," Cyrus corrected himself, a grin growing on his face, hips never faltering from delivering.

Bolvirk's body was an art form; something to be adored, worshipped, looked at. Such beauty, brawn and ruggedness, with his gentle and kind heart, was the easiest and fastest way to Cyrus' heart, especially now, when Bolvirk looked so submissive, pliant and sensual. The hand securing itself around the base inches of his length dared to tug at his heartstrings. Such a move brought joy and clarity to the front of his mind, Bolvirk wanted to pleasure him, just as much Cyrus wanted to break and unravel his man. "Hng, fuck baby..." A hand found purchase beneath Bolvirk's knee, helping to hold his legs steady and apart, hips pulling back and pressing in again, and again, making sure to keep the roll of his hips slow and intentional, savouring the way those slick inches were enveloped in heat, pressure and wet environment that aided in an easy glide. He was quite glad he had taken the time to leech his mouth onto that pert hole and prepare him for this. That, and the sheer amount of lubricant and spit that had been used. Cyrus couldn't imagine it happening any other way.

Cyrus' stance changed; he unwrangled himself from his lovers warm, adoring embrace to shift his thighs in, his back straightening out and aligned upright. His free hand slipped beneath the other knee, helping to keep the man's legs spread and raised for him. Oh, what a beautiful sight it was; to see his beloved, bare and willing, throbbing cock laid out across his stomach like the behemoth it truly was. It wasn't just physical attraction that encouraged Cyrus' cock to continuously deliver a heavy dosage of pre-cum to soak into those constricting walls that surrounded him so deeply and snug—this connection, this slow and deliberate joining of their bodies together—it was something deeper. Something raw and unfiltered. Cyrus had been with others before, had shared heat and pleasure, but this… this was different. It wasn't just about his own desire, or even Bolvirk's—it was the way their bodies spoke to each other, the way every small movement, every sound, every shared breath created something more than just... pleasure. It was trust. It was understanding. Understanding that they were here for one another, comforting each other, loving one another. It was knowing exactly how much he could give, how much Bolvirk could take before unbearable pain settled in, knowing exactly where to touch, exactly when to pause and let Bolvirk adjust and regain his breath before continuing.

And still, beneath the careful control, beneath the patience, his cock throbbed and ached for more. His body begged him to move faster, to push deeper, to give in to his primal urges. But he wouldn't—not until he was certain Bolvirk could handle it. Not until he was sure that every sound leaving those kiss-bruised, plump lips was pleasured cries, whimpers and pleas of mercy. So he stayed true to himself, let his body speak in slow, rolling thrusts, his eyes turned downward to watch as that slab of meat disappeared into Bolvirk, inch after aching inch.

Cyrus had always been a patient man. But it was a whole new level of restraint when Bolvirk was involved. Though he would eternally be worried for causing discomfort or pain, not for a second did Cyrus cease to stop keeping a close eye on him; whether it were his words, the sounds he produced, the way his body responded to the quickening pace, or the expressions that washed over Bolvirk's face.

The reassurance and the request left fresh arousal melting into his groin, and Bolvirk bit his lower lip for half a moment while aligning Cyrus’ cock with his hole in a firm press. He took a long, slow breath, then nodded. This was far from the first time for them, but it so often felt like it. The strain, the focus on his breathing, the way the resistance lasted just long enough to make him wonder… before one more steadying exhale let in the fat, flushed tip. And every time, Bolvirk couldn’t help a breathy moan or two, hips squirming a little in place as his body vividly remembered what would come next, the weight and the fullness and the stretch to his limit.

Then, as always, Cyrus pulled back, and the absence of even that tease had him craving more. Still, Bolvirk strove to keep his breathing as steady as he could, to stay relaxed where it was needed most. The strain then showed more in his arms and chest, in the concentrating furrow of his brow and the slack part of his lips. After he’d guided the first good inch or so inside him again, Bolvirk paused to gather himself. Memory and desire clawed for more, to take as much of it as deep as he could, but he held fast to his patience. More would come, but for both their sakes it was always better to start slow and careful.

Even so, he did allow himself a small, shuffling adjustment atop the blanket. Though his eyes gleamed at how that alone was enough to have Cyrus biting those kissable lips, Bolvirk tried not to move around too much. And speaking of kissable…

The hand at the back of his neck brought out an inviting smile, before most of it faded into the passion of their kiss. His own palm mirrored the hold on Cyrus’ neck, while a small clipped noise escaped into his partner’s mouth. A more audible groan followed, almost in tandem with the other’s, as that inadvertent slide back led to another push inside. More noises came, first muffled and then spilling into open air, with Cyrus’ shallow rhythm - dragging out into a long, needy sigh as another beautiful inch sank in.

Bolvirk’s smile returned as he nodded in answer to his partner’s first question. His whisper-soft ‘yeah’ soon gave way to an immediate, more audible answer of the second. "Yeah, fuck yeah, you feel so good kjaere, please…!” His loosened hold at the base of Cyrus’ cock tightened for an encouraging squeeze and a single stroke back and forth along the rest of those several slicked inches.

[coivi]

Happy shirtless Saturday

[coivi]

Are you going to grab my cock while we make out or do I need to guide your hand there myself?