#midnightfiireworks / m. rohan

[noequals]

osiris laughs.

not because he thinks aarush is being funny, of course, only that the emotion that wells up inside at the compliment is too much to contain. he breathes out, more steady, blinking once or twice to try and regain some clarity after that shattering orgasm.

aarush's hands on him — in him — is an idle comfort now and he's not entirely sure if he has another in him. (though he'd be both impressed yet unsurprised if aarush drags another out anyways.)

his eyes soften as aarush thumbs at his dick over his own fingers and he moves them, choosing instead to settle his hand over the cloud strider's head once more. feels how the quicksilver keratin is beneath his touch. the subtlest of grains betraying the nanites' work.

osiris lets out a low, slow moan as his lover's mouth finds him once more. with desperation for completion no longer seizing his body, he allows himself to simply savor the feeling. he'll take the slower pace as easily as he took the passionate tempo earlier.

"you're one to talk," he mutters, voice raw, "seeing as you're the one with his head between my thighs."

and it is a scene he hopes to burn into his memory. he doesn't think he could ever tire of the sight. he never wants to tire of it. so he takes what he can of this. secures it in his heart for hard times to come.

he doesn't move his hips this time to guide nor to meet him. instead, he will allow aarush the selfishness of working him up all over again.

when osiris' orgasm hits, rohan takes the opportunity to drink it in.

the way he trembles, the moans that force themselves from his lips— it ignites a fire in his belly, settles molten warmth deep in his stomach. he wants to savor this moment. he wants to keep that feeling deep inside him, to warm and remind him through the lonely nights to come. rohan shifts, shudders.

“again?” he breathes. he teases. it is still so very genuine.

as the trembles subside, as osiris comes down from his third orgasm, rohan cannot help but just drink the moment in. his cheek against osiris' thigh, his fingers slowing their speed, their respective thumb lifting to trace the length of his dick (over osiris' own fingertips) before encircling the base. slow, idle, lazy.

“osiris,” hums the cloud strider, and he turns his head. he presses first a kiss to those tanned thighs, and then takes the chance to nip.

“do you know how good you look right now?”

perhaps it is not the cleverest thing to say. perhaps it is not the words rohan should say; there is no poetry to be woven, no honeyed words gently dripfed. but it is the truth. he is undone, and osiris is once again the culprit. but so, too, has rohan dragged him from the sky. wrapped him close, pulled him from the heavens, softened his descent as best he could—

he would do it again, too, if given the chance. because osiris has given him a taste of selfishness, and now he is almost desperate for it. and so he lowers his head, flicks his tongue once more along the length of osiris' dick.

[noequals]

it's his request and the rumble of his voice that does osiris in.

who is he to deny him? "yes, aarush, yes." rare obedience, what usually would be met with a biting make me is instead turned into simple adoration. he can't help what aarush does to him — how he draws out his pleasure, how he drinks of him as though a man in the desert. it makes his head spin and his stomach flutter more than it already is.

his third orgasm hits him hard, his head lolling to the side as he grinds his hips down against those wonderful and clever fingers. if he could, he would ride down on them forever. he feels high on how little friction there is now with how he drips around aarush's fingers.

he forgets what he was fretting over so much, caught up in how his body shakes in response to aarush. the pleasant way he fills him. his breath against his thighs. protective. safe. possessive. (known.) he pants, lifting his hand from the sheets, running down his body, ghosting over his dick, feeling the aftershocks of his lover's unrelenting thrusts.

after so long being disposed of it feels good to relearn the pleasures of the body. the carnality of this, especially so. and how lucky is he to receive these simple reminders from such handsome partners? (and though he might scoff at the idea of someone caring for him... there is something so human about wanting to be wanted.)

if aarush admires the way he's debauched the great osiris, then osiris is even more smug about the way he's made the hero rohan desperate for his moans. and maybe he likes that in general. pulling base desires from heroes, and easing their burdens if only for a night.

he doesn't know how many more orgasms he'll be able to take before he becomes oversensitive and exhausted, but he doesn't particularly want or care to stop now. even if he no longer has that endless well of energy. aarush said he would take until there's nothing left to take from him. (who is he to deny him?)

"fuck, aarush."

osiris begins to repeat his name, again and again, and there are no words to describe what it does to him.

heat rises to his cheeks, falls to the pit of his stomach with every aarush that escapes. his jaw clenches. his heart pounds in his ears. rohan has to turn his head, to bury his face in osiris' thigh in the hopes of muffling the noises it draws from him. he could find ecstasy in this alone.

he opens his mouth, and nips down again on that soft skin. it gives him enough courage to murmur, "you have no idea what you're doing to me."

osiris is so stretched around his fingers, so wet that he's practically dripping. rohan makes a mental note to clean him after they're done, and perhaps find a different spot on the bed to rest for the night. it's certainly big enough. even for a cloud strider, the bed is large enough to allow him to stretch, and change positions. they will be more than comfortable enough tonight.

(perhaps it isn't the time to be thinking about the after, but the after is what saves him from considering the desire pooling between his thighs. from acknowledging how his hips twitch and roll almost on their own, searching for relief. instinctual, human, and certainly not rohan's focus.)

"i can wait," he says, and leaves it at that.

what he wants to say is i am afraid i will break you. or perhaps even i will not stop your pleasure for my own. but there is no time to force those words out, nor the meanings behind them. all he is focused on, in this moment, is osiris. the way he writhes around his fingers, the way he has to force himself to finish even half a thought.

to know that he can strike such a man down with two fingers and his tongue sets his nerves alight. hearing the way osiris babbles his name causes blood to pound beneath dark skin. it is a different sort of pleasure, to see his lover in such a state, and to know that he is the one who took the great osiris there. it does not matter to rohan if he satisfies his needs now, or later when he is alone and showering. none of that matters.

this is the sight that will carry him to completion, either way. he will lie in the dark for nights to come with 'aarush, aarush, aarush' echoing in the back of his mind. he hopes, when the time comes, his name upon those lips is that last thing he hears. it would be a cruelty to depart otherwise.

"come again for me," whispers aarush, "and know that i won't stop until there is little left of you."

[noequals]

the intensity in aarush's eyes captivates him.

the careful way aarush handles him, slowly placing him back on the sheets if only to reposition himself. osiris is enamored by the way he moves. he is enamored by how aarush holds on tight to his thigh, fingers digging divots into his skin. he knows by the end of tonight they'll blossom into bruises and he will be glad of it. there is no coherent thought that comes to mind, only those of aarush.

aarush's biolights. aarush's skin. aarush's teeth. aarush's augments. aarush's beard. aarush's eyes.

aarush aarush aarush.

(he does not recognize how he babbles out loud. so caught in the moment.)

osiris savors the way his name and form takes shape. his eyes chase lines of tight muscles and popping veins and the fat at his core to keep everything safe. a cloud strider may be a marvel but the human body is even more so.

osiris whines at the second intrusion, it's not as much of a burn as he initially thought it would be. from both orgasms to the way aarush so lovingly spread him open, it's but a pleasant stretch. but even he must acknowledge that just two fingers is... well it's a lot. aarush is much much larger than him, and osiris isn't a tall man himself either. which only means they'll have to get creative with it.

he doesn't mind the thought. he likes to believe he's creative.

"yes," he hisses out, pleased by the way his lover speeds the tempo back up to what it was. it occurs to him now as a third orgasm quickly approaches that he hasn't returned in kind and how much he wishes to. but he doesn't know how to put it to words when he's busy being fucked open by two of aarush's fingers.

and oh he seems insistent on preventing him any thought. still he pushes his mind through the haze. stubborn in his own way. searching eyes meet those of silver, a question of his own. yet to be asked and yet to be answered.

"aarush," he starts with a keen, "aarush are you... do you want...?" he asks as though the words were punched out of him. half-formed yet entirely insistent. he hopes his message is clear: he wants aarush's pleasure as much as aarush wants his.

slowly, rohan removes his hand from osiris’ back.

he lowers the other back onto silken sheets with such care and reverence, as though the man in his arms is something holy. and perhaps he is. not holy in the same way a deity would be, but buried in the sanctified mundane. the soothing chill in neomuna’s winds, the warmth in his chest after sharing a good meal; evidence of the divine scattered in the everyday.

rohan has never been a religious man, but he could find divinity buried between osiris’ legs. the divine, justified in over ninety-thousand nerve endings; in soft moans, whispered gasps; in the warmth and wet so intoxicating rohan himself could lose himself in it. he hooks an arm around osiris’ thigh. calloused fingers and metal augments dig into loose skin as he grips osiris with a sort of possessiveness unbecoming of the cloud strider.

“if you’re sure,” rumbles rohan, against osiris’ thigh. he allows himself the indulgence of a small taste, of a nip of skin. the augments beneath his lip brush across where his teeth scraped. “who am i to deny you this?”

he pulls his hand back, just enough to allow himself to slip a second finger along with the first. rohan has to turn his head, bury his mouth into soft skin, to muffle the moaned hymn that tears itself from his lips. the sensation, the ghost of a promise it brings, the noises pouring from osiris— how easily they unravel him. how they take as greedily as he gives.

(and he wants, he wants, he wants—)

it is not a moment later that he resumes his previously slowed speed. the biolights along his forearms, his throat, his thighs dance an indiscernible pattern. he rests his cheek against osiris’ thigh. silver eyes comb over osiris’ form as he, too, slowly unravels. the sight is a high unto itself.

he knows, when the night comes where osiris has returned to earth and he is alone, it is this sight he will think about. it is this moment he will replay, again and again, as it fulfills a need in him only osiris could unlock.

[noequals]

aarush shakes him to his core.

osiris bites back a cry as he begins to fingerfuck him in earnest. aarush's lone finger isn't as big as saint is, but he's not about to complain. he doesn't exactly feel keen on walking a little funny tomorrow, especially when they'll be needed elsewhere. so he savors it once he sets an even rhythm, pushing ever insistently upon his inner walls.

the sweet noises his lover makes against him could probably bring him to peak alone. but with that clever tongue pushing against his cock and his calloused finger brushing against every nerve that sets him alight, osiris feels like he's doing everything he can to pull pleasure from him. well who is he to deny him? he'll gladly let him draw every ounce of pleasure from him.

"aarush i'm—" he cuts himself off with another groan, fingers tighten against his skull and into the sheets below. there is no shame in the way aarush so carefully handles him. and there certainly is no shame in how close he is. he grinds against him, hips rolling a bit sloppily, chasing climax.

he inhales with a shaky breath as he feels that coil tighten, tighten, tighten, then— the coil snaps and with a cry of aarush's name he's brought to orgasm. mouth hangs open panting with need and he can't help but squeeze his eyes shut. his thighs shake as he clenches around the finger inside of him, as he rolls his hips against him wanting only to extend it.

"don't stop," he begs through it all. tonight he surrenders to aarush.

his hips shift again, unbidden and instinctual.

it is maddening, how far osiris' noises can drive him. how every little gasp and moan cause his body to react as though they were his very hands. they alone stoke the fire in his veins, cause his brain to lose itself to fog. there is nothing outside of this moment. there is nothing outside of osiris. he could die for want of him. he would live for just another whisper of aarush.

the praise, the plea, is almost too much for him. he tilts his finger, to press against that upper wall, and withdraws just enough to push back in. it is clunky at first, uneven, but soon rohan finds a comfortable rhythm. he does not add a second finger; he won't, until either he's sure osiris can handle it, or he is asked.

(the cloud strider is very aware of how large he is, and how much smaller osiris is. even here, even now, he worries about their difference. perhaps not at the forefront of his mind, as that is currently occupied with only thoughts of him, but on the peripheral. along the edges. he must be careful. he is too large to do anything thoughtless, lest it ruin what they have built.)

his hips buck. silken friction does little to cool the heat, the haze. he needs more. he has to give osiris more.

he presses the flat of his tongue once more against osiris' dick. the tip swirls around the base, searching for that aforementioned sensitive spot. he savors the salt, the tang. the taste of his lover above all else. all the while he continues to whimper, to mumble; making noise and causing his cheeks and throat to vibrate with it.

anything to give osiris another dose of pleasure. anything to earn even a ghost of favor.

[noequals]

osiris has never been a quiet man.

bouts of silence to contemplate cosmic balance and variables unseen and lost prophecies? certainly. but he has never once kept himself quiet, he was given vocal chords for a reason. now, especially, does he not allow himself to be silenced. he is a vocal lover, through and through. though his affections may be harder to draw upon, he allows aarush to know just what he does to him.

a gasp, a moan, a swear in old earth tongues. he doesn't know how long he'll last if he keeps this up. the tease of his tip before back down, then up again... he feels himself at the edge of the precipice, unable to fall just quite yet and he doesn't particularly want to. he wants this to last forever. (logically he knows it won't.)

the finger at his folds only adds to the stimulation and osiris laments being unable to return in kind. he wants to know what he can draw from the cloud strider when he's not so busy focusing on him. what different moans will shake him to his bones. but now he focuses on how wet he is between his legs, a byproduct both of aarush's efforts and how deeply he wants.

and then he is pushing that broad finger into him and his own accompanying moan harmonizes with the man's above him. it's a peculiar texture, he's quick to note, of warm and wet flesh with smooth metal capping his nail. (perhaps replaced? do the nanites become keratin? is that how it burrows into their flesh and skin? start with the keratin, works its way out—) he loses the thread almost as soon as he finds it he he feels him brush up against a sensitive bundle of nerves.

"good, aarush-" another plead, suddenly unable to string coherent words together. he feels a coil in the pit of his stomach, moments from unwinding all at once. so he says again, "aarush," as though his name was a prayer, memorizing the way his name feels in his mouth and around his tongue. caught between affection and the haze of sex.

it's almost too much, feeling both his finger spreading him open so carefully and his tongue lapping at his dick. (it's not enough. not yet.)

he cannot deny what those noises are doing to him. 

every sound that comes from his lover only serves to fuel that fire in his gut. he matches osiris' whispered words with muffled whimpers and soft moans, with renewed vigor. his tongue slides along length, flicking briefly across the hood, before dipping back to where he has been directed. if possible, he could live forever off just want for those noises alone.

a large, calloused fingertip brushes along what does not fit into rohan's mouth. tracing that which his lips and tongue have not yet learned. gathering heat and moisture, teasing sensitive skin.

rohan shifts his hips, pressing himself into the mattress below. it isn’t so much desperation as it is instinct; his body reacting to that which he ignores. he’s so focused on osiris that he does not realize what it is doing to him. he doesn’t even notice how his hips roll, the dull satisfaction from the silken friction. his entire focus is osiris.

osiris’ little gasps; the way his hands find his hair; the shifting, the trembling of thighs against his ears, his shoulders. it is intoxicating. he could drink of it for days. rohan is hardly capable of noticing his own wants, when osiris is so wholly his world in this moment.

you have undone me, aarush.

when rohan moans this time, it is with his whole being. the thought of giving osiris just a fraction of what the lightbearer has offered him snaps what fragile control he might have claimed. his finger, now wet and warm, slips beneath his chin, between those folds. slow and careful; looking to work him open, and add to the pleasure osiris sings of.

[noequals]

osiris knows how selfish he will be.

the way aarush's thumb shifts, pressing into the small of his back, supporting him... the metaphor is not lost to him. aarush is a solid, comforting presence quieting his ever-busy mind with simple indulgences. before: chaste kisses stolen away. a touch here and here. careful crossing any thresholds. now: moans and whimpers in response to the act of bringing him pleasure.

osiris is selfish because he knows how much he wants from aarush. how much he craves his touch and how grateful he is to receive it. in time he'll return the favor, because he is just as selfish for his lover's pleasure as he is his own. he craves, ever-wanting, the vulnerability and simplicity this brings.

a quiet ah escapes his lips as he picks up what he's requested, followed shortly by a terse, " yes— there. " and though he may lead he's not so impatient to disallow the way he explores him. it won't stop him from squirming slightly so, however. gasps and hitched breaths and steady hands in quicksilver hair. grasping and shaking in tandem with the way his tongue unravels him.

another sharp inhale at the way the callouses upon his lover's hand distill a different sort of vigor in the pit of his stomach. such a tease— he should have expected it from aarush but it pleases osiris to learn all he can about him.

as he watches, the thought of how good the cloud strider looks between his thighs with all his stretch marks and tattoos hits him at once. skin against skin-and-metal. he wants to sear this into his brain. and so, unbecoming of the phoenix, he pleads: " please. light yes. you have undone me, aarush. " a simple statement and demand. debauch me he says without saying.

osiris says his name— his name— and rohan moans.

there is something so intoxicating about the way osiris says his name. it is not a secret, like with nimbus. it is not something to be hidden, shared only in silent, hidden moments. to osiris, aarush is just his name. it is who he is. and that... that is something so precious.

he has not been aarush in so long. he has been a status, a symbol, an ideal. he has been a thing to observe, a spokesman behind a screen. a hero. he is everything to the neomuni he protects, except for aarush kapoor, a boy from the northwest quadrant. but with osiris... with osiris, he can be. he is. he's just human.

rohan shifts his hand, thumb pressing against the small of osiris' back, lifting him for ease of access. he closes his eyes. he savors this moment. (he does not see how osiris forces himself to look, how osiris takes the time to memorize. perhaps if he did, heat would rise to his cheekbones, his ears. his stomach would twist.)

it does, anyways, when that weathered hand finds his hair. he presses the flat of his tongue against those folds in response, tilts his head up. an attempt to press himself further, both into osiris' hand, and osiris himself. as though he could consume, as though he could meld.

a muffled whimper slips past those occupied lips.

the hero of neomuna allows himself to be directed. he shifts the other's hips in his hand, swirls his tongue so the tip can trace along the edge of osiris' dick. exploring, learning— while also trying to draw out another delicious hiss.

his free hand lifts, elbow pressing into the mattress for support, as a finger ghosts over what little of osiris is not in his mouth. this time, to tease. a promise of what will come, if he only asks.

[noequals]

if his hand around his hips wasn't enough, this is.

he's not new to being eaten out. of course he isn't. but there is something to be said about feeling rohan's warm lips around his dick, the cool metal surrounding his lower lip from augmentation a stark contrast as it meets his skin. osiris inhales sharply, and it takes every modicum of strength to not throw his head back, eyes shutting tight, at the feeling. aarush's tongue, prodding into every crevasse so as to draw pleasure from him. no. he wants to watch.

he needs to watch.

and then aarush moans against him, a deep rumble vibrating up into his belly and "yes," osiris breathes long and drawn out. "aarush." he speaks, his voice near-desperate. he white-knuckles the sheets below him, his thighs trembling, as he takes in the sight of his lover's face buried between his legs. nevermind the feeling of a wet suckle against his dick, a tongue between his folds, he could find his ecstasy through the picture before him.

deep brown eyes lock onto the image, staring hard and heavy. one hand unclenches, raising instead to stroke the top of aarush's head. tender and careful, as though he were touching precious gems. (and isn't he?) he's suddenly found himself deeply moved by the profoundness of this moment — to think neomuna's untouchable hero melts so easily for him. and how lucky he is to experience this.

he's drawn from his brief introspection with a gasping moan. impatient as always, the warlock cants his hips, guides him towards his most sensitive areas, slightly to the side, just at the edge of his bottom growth. "here." insistent even now. especially now.

all of it is new once more.

he is no blushing youth, sweet and virginal. he has known other men; knows of what he enjoys and remembers what they liked. but that was a lifetime ago, it feels like. moments of forgotten youth, from a time when life was simpler. when there was no rohan; when there was only aarush, boyish and charming.

osiris is splayed before him, naked and bare, and it is a sight near holy in its experience. the once-lightbearer is a man of armor. he wraps himself in linen and leather and iron. he covers his head in feather, hides his expression behind a scarf older than either of them. he is a wall behind a wall behind a wall.

and yet here he lays, and rohan is forever reverent.

he starts at the knee, and presses a kiss against the soft wrinkles of the joint. slowly, he moves his way. kiss after deliberate kiss, until he has reached the apex of osiris' legs. he feels the warlock hook his ankles behind his head, lift his hips. rohan slips a hand downward, beneath the other's lower back, to offer support.

"osiris..."

his name is whispered, breath ghosting across the other's core, before he finally— finally!— lowers his head, and buries himself in osiris' folds. his tongue flicks out, searching, exploring, tasting. a hint of salt, of tang, and of something else (something sweet? bitter? he can't place it.) fill his senses.

his mouth lifts, lips finding osiris' dick, and rohan moans. his hand tightens its grip around osiris' hips. he doesn't fret over the bruises he know will form. not yet. not while he traces the length of his bottom growth, lets his tongue dip beneath the hood. he has much to learn, and all the time in the world to do so.

[noequals]

it comes in waves.

his second orgasm isn't so much a second one as it is the some one spilling into another. this reverent sacrament between aarush and him... osiris is no god, he has never asked for worship — but this, he imagines, is as close as it gets to truly understanding the divine. the increased tempo makes him lament his restraint, and the rough brush of his lover's bristles followed by a soft kiss to his thigh makes him want more.

oh, he knows he'll be sore in the morning no matter which way. before he has never felt his age with the light still in his bones. now... now he understands the pleasant way his hips will ache and his thighs will strain as he stands and he wants nothing more than this.

in this private, wonderful moment it's just the two of them. osiris and aarush, not the exile and rohan. osiris and aarush. there is no world outside the warm comfort and ecstasy that his lover brings.

this won't last. but he will savor what he can.

he lets his mind scatter into oblivion, anxieties and worries and predictions and everything he has ever given though leaves him with a thrust of aarush's finger and another kiss to his thigh. he allows, instead, a cacauphany of sound to cascade from his lips. this is a mitzvah, after all, and he will gladly treat it as such.

osiris wants to touch himself. he also wants to touch aarush. he cannot do both at once, so he elects instead to make a request: "another—" he stammers out, "i'll tell you if it's- mn- if it's uncomfortable." even in the throes of pleasure, he's still acutely aware of how aarush might fret over him so.

rohan could drink forever of the man in his arms.

there is something to be said about pouring from an empty cup, and yet his never seems to be empty around osiris. perhaps it is because osiris, too, knows the crushing weight of idealization. perhaps it is that he expects nothing of the cloud strider except his company. perhaps it is simply because they pour into each other; a stream rather than pitcher and cup.

he gives more now, with renewed fervor. osiris gasps and wriggles in his hand, impatient for that which they both know quickly approaches. it is heavenly. it is holy. his eyes are closed, and rohan goes silent. he listens. he absorbs each moan and gasp, all the while mouthing along with that most holy hymn.

gasps shatter into a cry, and rohan moans yet again. osiris is moving now, rolling those hips, chasing that which has already passed. it would be remiss of rohan to leave him wanting. it would be cruel, to come so far, only to let his lover's cries fall on deaf ears. he has been called upon to serve.

his life's purpose, offered with trembling hands and reverent whispers.

he takes more now, this holy communion. kneeling at the altar offered forth, head bowed, bowl cupped in one hand. his fingers continue their rhythm. the pace increases slightly, though, when rohan is forced to free his mouth. not to speak, but to kiss. to continue this act of worship with soft, lingering kisses both of osiris' thighs.