Just Like Old Times
Xenogears - NSFW
Sigurd had meant to ask what Hyuga was even doing on the surface at all. That Solaris was behind his old classmate's actions was not even in doubt--why else the pastoral garb, the alias, the affable demeanor of a country doctor? His was not the tale of a common defector, Sigurd was certain. But in spite of Sigurd's best intentions, within five minutes of getting Citan on board the Yggdrasil, he was already getting Sigurd out of his clothes.
Sigurd had barely managed to even lock the door of his cabin behind them, as Citan's long fingers slipped inside his jacket, all the questions Sigurd wanted to ask stifled under a greedy kiss. It had been years, but Sigurd had not forgotten a bunk bed in the spare room of Jesiah's government-issue house, and the breathless, furtive discoveries Sigurd had shared there with a fellow student named Hyuga. But whether he was Hyuga Ricdeau or Citan Uzuki he was as intoxicating as ever. And between those first fumbling pleasures and the tangled path of sashes he left on his way to Sigurd's bed now, he had learned quite a bit.
There was no conversation about past or present, though a few comments escaped them when their mouths were not otherwise engaged. "Kept all your rings, I see," Citan said, fingering the most secretive of Sigurd's piercings, the one making hot steel loop through the tip of his swelling cock.
"And you've grown your hair out," Sigurd answered, pulling the ribbon free and letting dark waves of hair tumble loose over Citan's shoulder. "Suits you."
But apart from such things, there no talk of Gebler or Solaris, of Aveh or Kislev, or of just what, precisely, Citan was doing on a freighter with that contraband Gear. And it seemed impolitic to ask just now, Sigurd thought, with that long hair tumbling over his thighs, when Citan's tongue and not his fingers fondled the ring in Sigurd's old slave-piercing. And When Citan lay back in Sigurd's bed with his legs spread in invitation, Sigurd decided very quickly that all those questions could wait.
He slid his palms up Citan's thighs, and even after all this time, that eager little smile of Hyuga's was still the same.
"I'm sure you do this with everyone you pick up out of the desert," Citan said, stroking his fingers over his own belly, caressing the jutting curve of his cock, all too aware of Sigurd's admiring gaze. "I have to admit, I never had a pirate sex fantasy before this exact moment."
"In that case," Sigurd said, nudging Citan's hands away so his own could take over, "I'll leave the eyepatch on."
"Oh, yes..." Citan answered, in what began as a witty comeback and ended as a slow hiss of need. His legs shivered, hips lifting up into the expert cadence of Sigurd's stroking hand.
"I would say surface life has suited you," Sigurd said, leaning over Citan so their cocks brushed together, and a deft motion of his thumb pressed them length to hot length in his hand. "But it seems to have left you wanting in one regard."
"If you're saying I need a good fucking," Citan managed, through little gasps of pleasure, "You'd be so very right."
Sigurd's lips nuzzled Citan's earlobe, breathing deep of the new surface scents in his hair: crushed grass, green tea, the faint oily smoke of a gear battle. "You still like it on your belly, Hyuga?"
Citan's answer was a soft moan of yearning. He rolled away from Sigurd only to bury his face in the pillows, knees folded and ass lifted in perfect eloquent answer.
Sigurd's mouth went dry at the sight. He managed a choked oath in Aveli, and reached for the hatch beside his bed. The bottle had lasted him months already, but with Citan there, Sigurd figured it would be empty within a week. He poured a generous amount over his fingers, dragging them, glistening and wet, down the throbbing line of his cock. Usually, that's where his hand stayed, in the slow watches of the night when Sigurd's thoughts lingered on old lovers or--too often for his own admission--on the white frame of Bart's chaps around his ass. But this time Sigurd poured an extra dose between the cleft of Citan's perfect buttocks, his fingers petting, probing, and finally plunging in with shameless eagerness.
Citan was more than ready for more, moaning his encouragement against Sigurd's pillows. But for a man starved of many pleasures, it was a feast for Sigurd to watch Citan writhing on his hand. Three fingers were not enough--they never had been--not even thrust to the knuckle against the throbbing ring of Citan's anus. Sigurd remembered vividly the feeling of it taut and quivering around his wrist, remembered Hyuga coming as Sigurd's fist drove into him the first time. In a blur of heat and urgency Sigurd pulled his hand away, Citan's noise of dismay dying half-finished as Sigurd took him, thrusting himself in fully without warning or apology.
Pirate fantasies aside, Sigurd had not meant to be so rough. But he was past reason now, as though there was Drive in his bloodstream again after all these years. He slammed into Citan with a relentless cadence, no longer a white-gloved Solarian soldier, but a man used to desperate measures, to violence, to plunder. A pirate, through and through.
And Citan, who for too many years now had walked the precise and subtle line of espionage, stroked himself wantonly under Sigurd's assault, and begged for the stinging slap of Sigurd's open hand, to be both fucked like a whore and called one. Sigurd, always willing to oblige a friend, called him that and plenty worse until Citan came in open admission of the accusations, Sigurd's handprints vivid red on his white ass. He was still begging for more when Sigurd flooded him in a spurting rush, ramming them together like two gears bent on mutual destruction.
It was not until much later that Sigurd wound a long strand of Citan's hair around his wrist, kissed one pale shoulder, and asked, "So what exactly are you doing down here?"
Curled up against Sigurd's chest, Citan sighed. "Honestly," he said, draping one leg over Sigurd's. "Must we get right down to business without even a moment to say hello?"
"You said the exact same thing four hours ago," Sigurd reminded him.
"Oh?" Citan yawned. "Did I? Forgive me, it's been quite a tiring day, what with pirates, and escaping a sinking freighter, ...and all."
"And all," Sigurd repeated wryly.
Citan's only reply was a soft snore, much belated.
"Hyuga?" Sigurd paused. There was no response. "Hyuga."
Citan's snore was a little more forceful this time, and Sigurd chuckled.
"All right, have it your way. But we're going to have a very long conversation in the near future, with our clothes on."
"Oh, fine," Citan agreed, though he had been pretending to be asleep seconds before. "I'm surprised at you, Sigurd. Even after all this time, I'd think you'd know to put business before pleasure."
By the time Sigurd had a suitable retort to that Citan was asleep once more, only for real this time. Draping the blanket over the both of them, Sigurd thought of something Hyuga once told him years ago, when they fought together in powerful gears for the honor of a country that had grievously wronged them both.
Sometimes the best weapon is just a good distraction.