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robo-writing · 10 months ago

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Sweet Longing

Summary: Clive’s hopelessly in love with you, but you’re already in love with someone else.

Warnings: Voyeurism, afab reader, 18+, MDNI

Part 2 here!

Clive was raised to be a gentleman, from the moment he was born he was instilled with values that make him the man he is today—strong, noble, honorable. That sense of justice—of right and wrong—is what makes him who he is, even through years of servitude that is the one trait he made sure to hold tightly to his breast; his entire moral code is based around chivalry, to do the right thing at all times—so why is it that he had eyes for you, a woman already taken by another?

Racked by inner turmoil, the constant shame he feels as you rise to your toes and kiss your beloved on the cheek is enough to burn a hole through his chest, even more so when he sees it’s his own damn leader at the receiving end.

(Cid smiles when you whisper into his ear, kisses you back in response. Clive has to actively remind himself that he’s in public, and that staring is less than appropriate.)

Your adoration sets his nerves on fire, makes his heart heavy with grief—this is a familiar sight to him, and a familiar pain. There is nothing honorable about the way he imagines your touch, nothing noble about his longing for you, nothing strong about the way he forces his head to turn away as if a second more of this display could kill him. The way you hold Cid close, whisper at his side words of devotion before leaving the hideaway…

“Be safe, my love. Come back to me in one piece.”

Founder, he wishes it was him you were speaking to, wishes it was his face your warm hands slid over, tracing over his features with soft fingers tickling at his skin. Would they move as delicately as you do, or would they be incessant, greedily latching onto him and refusing to let go?

His conscience speaks to him, rips his focus away as it tells him—

You will never find out, you hopeless fool.

(And he knows; between his endless yearning, he knows.)

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, even more than the stars he would pray to every night; Pretty lips that separated to reveal an even prettier smile, brighter than even Metia itself. A shining beacon in this otherwise bleak endeavor.

You were a busybody—if it needed to be done, you were the woman for the job, no matter how difficult. If clothes needed to be repaired, you did it. If the scouts came back weary and hungry, you would run down to the kitchens and prepare them a meal.

Everyone in the Hideaway knew of your kindness, how you’d gladly give the clothes off your back to help others in need, but to witness it for the first time is a memory Clive would never forget.

The day he had told you his life story, of his home being destroyed and his brother killed, your eyes had displayed so much sympathy and care he hadn’t been shown in years since the disaster that took his freedom from him. You, sweet, caring you, had jumped into his arms swift as a coeurl, comforting him in your warmth, shocked at the sudden embrace.

“I couldn’t imagine what you’ve gone through, but it will be alright.” You said softly, rubbing his back soothingly. “You’re safe here.”

Close displays of affection were a luxury a bearer could never afford in captivity, he had nearly forgotten what it felt like to be embraced, to feel wanted.

A tear could have fallen from his eyes, and threatened to do so the longer you stayed in his arms. It had been so long since he had been hugged that he was almost scared to return the gesture, arms hovering at your sides before slowly accepting it in its entirety.

It’s no surprise that you had caught the eyes of one Cidolfus Telamon, who had set out to make you his long before he had met the former Rosarian shield. A jealous part of him dreams that it were him you had met before, that it was him your starlight eyes gazed at so lovingly.

It was not fated to be, alas, and every time he bore witness to those same eyes gazing at Cid he felt his chest tighten—tortuous, like a sword to the chest.

Stop that, the voice cries out to him. This is wrong.

It didn’t help that Cid was eager to speak of your good graces either. In the middle of the night when everyone was asleep, the two men would talk, and inevitably your name would be mentioned once or twice; how adorable you looked this morning waking up, a pout on your face as the light hit your figure, or how Cid felt his heart clench when you redressed a healing wound, kissing the fresh bandages softly.

It hurt, to say the least, but he also welcomed it. In some sick, twisted fantasy he would conjure up images of you doing the same, only it was Clive’s injuries you were tending to, that it was him who saw your form tangled in the blankets. Guilty as he felt, he couldn’t stop himself.

It was only made worse by how kind you were. He almost wishes he could find fault in your actions, wishes that you’d realize his affection and reject him outright. Maybe then he could finally let his aching heart heal, but he knows if you kicked him away he’d crawl right back.

Your kindness was a double edged sword, for every interaction only fed his delusion, made his guilt worsen when his thoughts of you slowly evolved from the innocent to the sinful. You would smile at him, and instead of focusing on your face he could only focus on how soft your lips looked, on how they would feel against his, on how they might feel pressed against his—

“Clive? Are you listening?” You ask, waving a hand in front of him. He comes to his senses soon enough, so lost in thought that he almost forgot why he was accompanying you in the first place.

The vibrant sun embraces your skin wonderfully. In your hand is a basket full of plants, medicinal in nature as you stand confused at Clive’s sudden far away look, waiting for an answer.

“Hello? Is something wrong?” You repeat, slightly concerned now.

“I apologize, my lady,” he says, focusing on you again. “It won’t happen again.”

His eyes wander over you, but can’t seem to meet your eyes. There’s a coyness to your tone when you reply, shoulder brushing against him.

“Now what were you thinking about that’s got you so distracted?”

He only feels more embarrassed, turning his head with a slight blush. “Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

You don’t look convinced, but you drop the subject either way, basket swaying in your arms as you walk ahead.

“Alright then Clive, keep your secrets, just don’t let yourself get lost in the clouds when you’re supposed to be protecting me, yeah?”

You tease him as you bend down to pluck some more herbs for Tarja, an array of plants already brimming your nearly full basket. He raises his eye at you, to your basket that’s nearly bursting with flora and back. At the sight of his judgemental stare you reply—

“There’s no such thing as too much medicine.”

He leaves you to your work, keeping watch for any signs of trouble, but also keeping a watchful eye of you.

This is a problem, a very serious problem. You plague his thoughts, his dreams, it’s almost too much.

Maybe it was foolish, but he had to tell Cid.

To lust after another’s beloved, especially if it was the love of his friend is a betrayal of trust he wasn’t equipped to deal with, and holding this secret inside was only making it worse. It was with this realization he lay awake at night, leaving his bed to make his way to Cid’s bedchambers. Consequences be damned, he needed to say something.

When he arrived at the door however, not a sound left his mouth. When he raised his fist to knock it was stopped mid-air by what was a high pitched whine, from what sounded like you.

Surely he was imagining things, but another noise of pleasure left your lips and he felt all logical thought leave him.

You were inches away from him, making the most beautiful sounds his ears had ever been graced with. A melody of not-so-hushed whispers, of pleading followed by the unmistakably gruff voice of one Lord Commander—

“Lay back and take it, just like that—“

Immediately followed was your voice, moaning with reckless abandon.

Clive could only imagine what was going on, and imagine he did. Maybe you were on your back, legs spread enticingly for your lover to see. Perhaps you sat atop his body, hips rising and falling in sweet desperation. Were your pretty thighs shaking? Maybe your hands would hold him as he brought you to climax, singing his name over and over as your eyes closed in bliss.

“Clivecliveclive—!”

He’s not sure when he undid the front of his pants, when his hands met his frighteningly hard erection or when he stuffed his hand against his mouth to keep silent. Hunched over, head against the door to listen closer, memorize every pitch and tone of your delicious noises, how delightful you sound when getting brought to pleasure. His hand moves faster and faster on his cock with every moan, sweat dripping from his brow.

Founder, he was in the hallway, if anyone should see him now it would be plain as day what he was doing, but his hand had a mind of its own. Squeezing at his shaft, thumbing ahead the head, violently shuddering when he feels his self-control waning.

I need to stop, I need to stop—

He repeats in his head, the tip of his length so sensitive, more than he’s ever felt before. Everything is so hot, it hurts to breathe, he damn near pierces his flesh with how hard his teeth clamp down on his palm and even then a noise threatens to slip out.

I have to stop, founder above—

But then he hears you cry to the heavens, your voice hoarse from overuse, and his hand moves faster on his cock, knees buckling and sending him to the ground.

I can’t stop, don’t want to stop, fuck you sound so good, moremoremore—

He’s lost himself to his lust, thighs shaking as he slumps against the wall on his haunches. Knelt before the door, praying you don’t hear him, that you don’t hear the slick sounds of skin against skin.

His mind runs a mile a minute, nearly incoherent as his guilt and lust fight a dangerous battle. What if they found out? What if they hear him stroking himself into a fucking mess?

You’re muffled, but he can pick up your pleas through the wooden door.

“More, please, ‘m so close—“

A creak, and then you cry out again. He decides in that moment that he doesn’t fucking care about the consequences, not when you sound like that.

Clive’s eyes clench shut as a shiver runs through him, you serve as fuel to fan the fire scorching his very being, flashes of you in various positions occupying his mind, a being of lust and nothing more. Ears ringing, heart battering in his chest, a tightness in his abdomen that grows ever taut at the sound of your voice growing higher and higher.

Cid’s voice interrupts the cacophony of your sounds, strained and deep. “There’s my girl, come on, let go for me—“

At that moment you let out the loudest sound he’s heard from you, a final crescendo to the music that leaves your lips. You’re a mess of slurred speech and half-uttered praises, Clive is only able to pick up a few words as his cock throbs with need.

“Yesyesyes, so good, I can’t—fuck—I can’t—“

“Yes you fucking can,” Cid interrupts, and the sound of skin meeting skin is more intense. “Be good and let me see you stain the sheets love.”

That does it for him. With a muffled cry he chokes out your name into his hand, the taste of iron coating his tongue as he lets go, the evidence of his shame soaking the front of his pants.

He can’t move, shaky and unbalanced, but he forces himself to anyway, moving through the hallways back to his own chambers. He slides against the old oak door, fully spent and panting.

What the fuck did I just do?

He raises his hand, and just like he thought there was the smallest mark on his palm where his teeth broke his skin. His pants are uncomfortably wet with cum, he could barely muster the energy to lift his head, much less walk, and the worst of it all was that your voice still echoed in his mind and made his cock twitch against his leg.

Founder, help me.

#robo writes #final fantasy xvi #final fantasy xvi smut #clive rosfield #clive rosfield x reader #Clive rosfield smut #I love it when men are pathetic husks of themselves

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