#even Rel from MSQ fall into this pattern

[anyelir]

. yeah. being so long in the fandom makes you indifferent eventually.

[chrysalispen]

locum tenens (NSFW)

In which Nero is extremely conflicted about. Um. A lot of things, but Cid and Aurelia specifically.

(Set during ARR, post-Titan MSQ. Masturbation, but it’s an implied threesome and there’s fairly overt Cid/Nero overtones in this one, so give it a pass if that isn’t your thing.)

NSFW under the cut. 

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He has long since lost focus on the evening's work. For the last bell the buzz of the overhead fluorescents have proven a most effective distraction: one of the bulbs is about to die. It flickers at random, the flaring and receding patterns of light in his already sensitive eyes leaving him with both a burgeoning headache and an increasingly foul mood. 

Thus, the tribunus laticlavius has instead chosen to tilt the adjustable back of his office chair as far back as it will go and stare blankly into space for some unspecified amount of time. His pale blue eyes tilt upwards and relegate the faulty bulb to his periphery, tracking some fixed point within the maze of crisscrossed steel supports that adorn the castrum ceiling like a roof strewn with bones. 

It's quiet. Late night. Other than the Fifth Cohort's rookies running the graveyard shift guard duty along the castrum perimeter, everyone else has sought their bed. Everyone, that is, save one Nero tol Scaeva, currently finding his office ceiling a fascinating subject of study, and whomever else in the XIVth Legion that might at this juncture have eschewed the blood in their veins in favor of roughly equivalent amounts of caffeine. 

Van Baelsar being one of them, probably.

With a slow and careful exhalation Nero stares down at the files sitting in his lap. He's long since shed his armor; it's sitting polished and neat in its compartments until he has need to don it again -- another eikon investigation, perhaps -- and he is clad only in carbonweave breeches and a loose, untucked linen undershirt. Even his boots sit by the door, and if the legatus were to enter right this moment he knows he'd get a long and piercing hazel stare and a thinly veiled lecture about the dress code.

But neither the Black Wolf nor one of his lectures appears to be forthcoming, meaning Nero will pass another sleepless night alone with naught but a pile of tomestones and paper. 

More distractions from Project Ultima that he would prefer not to have. But he agreed to accept the posting, and the posting included a duty as the head of legate counterintelligence, and he might as well do something productive if he can't sleep. Old habits die hard.

At length he wrenches his gaze away from the ceiling (where it had returned while he considered putting his boots back on, at the very least). Runs a restless hand through thick platinum-blond curls. Glancing at the door one last time as if to satisfy his silent suspicion that he is the only man awake at this hour, before forcing himself to return his focus to the godsdamned reports.

He leafs slowly and thoughtfully through the copied printouts he'd selected from the raw data earlier in the day. Since Operation Quicksand's semi-successful conclusion he's had his men scouring the surrounding region for any sign of the missing adventurer who somehow managed to escape Livia's net. 

Somehow. He allows himself a smirk.

He picks up the reading glasses from their perch on the lacquered edge of the table and skims a few more pages of the assembled dossier.

His man's stakeout along the Sunroad has yielded unexpected fruit: not one, but two persons of interest. A woman matching the adventurer's description was recently seen around the so-called town of Camp Drybone, little more than a rest stop with a chapel run by some religious order or other.

He'd expected that, of course. She wouldn't have strayed far from Vesper Bay. 

It's the other one that catches his eye, one of the apparent clergymen at first blush. The beard throws him for a handful of minutes; it adds years to the man's face, makes him look far more like someone else Nero used to know. But the question lingers for barest moments, and then vestigial memory locks the rest into place, fills in the holes that time has eroded.

A cold and mirthless smile twitches at the edges of his lips. 

So. Alive, then. 

He's not sure whether to question the strange watershed sensation of relief or to let himself ruminate over that tight coil of anger already forming in his gut. The bastard should be  gone  , by all rights, out of  everyone's lives, but especially Nero's. 

He tosses that picture to the desk along with the neatly typed file clipped to it, reaches for his coffee (long since gone cold), and downs the rest of it in one sitting. It's only his iron control over his temper that keeps him from slamming the earthenware vessel onto the surface of the table in a fit of pique. 

Shite and hellsfire, matters were unbearable enough when he thought he must needs merely contend with the man's ghost. 

Setting the file and his glasses aside, he picks up the other: a much smaller dossier, owing largely to its subject's relative obscurity. There is surprisingly little information about her beyond army records. Highborn, but of unremarkable parentage and even less remarkable service. No different, surely, from any of the other pureblooded ladies who play chirurgeon for their requisite four year tours.

The difference, of course, being that this woman is supposed to be dead and clearly that is not the case. 

The Scions of the Seventh Dawn have done remarkably well to conceal her identity; it gives one cause to wonder what other secrets they might be keeping close to the chest. No doubt Livia is now taking great pleasure in wresting that information out of them.

She has been seen in Garlond's company, he muses. 'Tis most like she is an associate of his in some capacity, most likely professional by his man's reports, unless of course Garlond has taken more of a liking to the girl than he would have assumed.

Nero unclips the photo and studies it in silence, steepling his fingers before his lips as he leans forward in the chair. Committing that face to memory.

Carefully he places the file atop the collection of paperwork and pushes back the chair, padding towards the entrance to his quarters on bare feet. As he does so, he ignores the chill of corrugated steel against his soles. He's felt far worse. 

One of the few objective advantages of his lofty rank within the XIVth is the privacy it affords him. Second in command and privy to extremely sensitive information, he cannot afford a security breach. The door is soundproofed and can only be opened upon his command; locking it will alert the guards standing watch to dissuade any unexpected visitors -- and that he will brook no interruptions.

He throws the deadbolt. Behind him the dying light continues to flicker. 

He stares at the switch panel, considering for a brief moment, then uses the flat of his hand to push all of them down simultaneously, and the flickering is blessedly gone. Cool blue light from the walls spills across the darkened room like water.

That done, Nero turns towards the entrance to his personal quarters. Empty office space he only uses during his visits to this particular outpost, adorned with a desk, a small console with his feeds from R&D, and two small metal armoires. 

Between them, situated behind the soulless steel table, there lies a long and narrow cot with a stiff, uncomfortable mattress and a single thin blanket. Up until now, it has gone untouched. Nero has long since accustomed himself to falling asleep upon whatever surface exhaustion places him, and that's been in labs for countless weeks now, his fingers wrapped about a mug of coffee with a tomestone scrolling raw data for decryption on the screen before him. 

Nero sits down on the edge of the cot, swings his legs up and over the side, and stretches his lanky frame from end to end -- he is a tall man even by Garlean standards, and his toes are only an ilm or two shy of the armoire. There is no pillow so he folds his arms behind his head and lets his eyes fall shut, listens to the soft and even whisper of air through his nose as he takes a breath, lets it out, takes another. 

He's not going to fall asleep like this, though. Not with his mind defying him, still moving a malm a minute.

Sifting idly through spare bits of information for something his mind can use, his thoughts turn to the woman. Adventurer, defector, a cipher in and of herself. 

The photo that now lies in Frumentarium's keeping is somewhat outdated now, but still reasonably accurate to his memory of her battles otherwise: hair the color of honey, falling in soft and loose waves to tumble past slim, proud shoulders. Dark blue eyes. An almost unreasonable air of personal composure. In the dark and quiet stillness of his sealed chambers he can paint a picture of her in his mind's eye, what he has witnessed of her, a force of nature in battle -- and there is an appeal in that strength which Nero won't deny. He has ever appreciated power in all its forms.

Idly he wonders what she would look like without the unadorned battle robes of a conjurer: a context in which there would be no cause for her soft mouth to set in that grim line, nor eyes to harden as they stare down a dangerous opponent. No crudely fashioned silver circlet to conceal that third eye, a mark of her heritage that in a just world she could display with pride.

Softly disheveled, she would appear quite different. Candlelit glow against gold and the porcelain field of flesh laid bare, indigo eyes perhaps burning with a different sort of fire. Mouth slack and soft, the lips parted ever so slightly, to admonish or to laugh or to whisper. To smile. 

Perhaps even to kiss, he thinks, and for some reason that is the thought that spears itself down the core of his spine. Heat blossoms in his groin. 

His hand strays to his waistband and lingers, settling over the silver clasp of the first buttons without unfastening them just yet. As a younger man he would have been impatient to seek release, but now that he has so little free time to himself these days, save stolen moments such as these, he prefers to take a more relaxed approach. He rests the flat of his palm upon his belly, giving the heat and tension time to build upon themselves. Beneath his gently curled fingers he can sense the indentation of his navel and a light mat of wiry blond curls, tapering downward in a smooth line from the broad planes of his chest.

The tribunus opens his eyes, staring sightlessly at the darkened ceiling.

She'd smiled once, after one of those battles: a quiet, shy thing that had lit up her face as she said something to the man accompanying her. Another Scion associate, or a lover? 'Tis rumored the adventuring profession attracts a certain free-spirited sort of individual. If the defector is of that bent, he imagines she has had her share of suitors, if not simply like-minded souls willing to warm her bed when the mood strikes.

Perhaps Garlond is one of them. 

A sullen annoyance arises at the thought and Nero kills it swiftly, before it can put him back into the less-than-ideal state of mind he'd come in here to dispel. It isn't likely, for one. The same man who had reported their presence in Camp Drybone had also provided a rough map from his memory of the chapel interior, in case the tribunus might decide to order a raid on the premises to arrest them. The floor plan is open, spread among narrow and rough-hewn wooden pews -- no room there for trysting clerics.

Or is there? The Academy's floor plan had included a similar layout in the main lecture halls, and there had been winter nights where the snowfall had been so heavy and the gales so dangerous a student could risk their lives simply attempting to walk back to the dormitories. Sometimes they'd be shut in the school building for days at a time, bundled two to a pallet along the floors at night for warmth through body heat while the arctic wind wailed around steel eaves. 

Nero knows from personal and very lived experience that one could get up to some interesting pursuits beneath those heavy blankets with one's instructors none the wiser, were one so inclined. 

And the desert is quite cold at night. 

Have they maintained professional distance, or have they indulged themselves? Shared more than body warmth of a cold and lonely evening? 

Nimble fingers slip the silver-plated button through the first loop, loosens his breeches just enough to allay some of the growing discomfort, and his cock twitches at the sensation of touch in its general vicinity. His lower lip catches for just a split second between his teeth before his fingers move to unfasten another.

He would never admit it to a living soul but he can remember the precise location of every one of the calluses that work and long hours had worn into Cid nan Garlond's hands. Can almost feel the half-remembered sensation of roughened fingertips and broad palms tracing their circuitry patterns down his back from shoulder to waist and beyond. The memory brings no rancor with it, and that, he finds, is a surprise in itself. 

His eyes fall shut again, and this time his breathing is ever so slightly uneven. Another button slips from its confines, then a fourth when he finds no relief to be had from the pressure of his own clothing. A noticeable ridge has formed beneath the carbonweave and with a light and questing touch he places his palm upon it, notes the way it stretches and strains against the coated fibers. It's warm to the touch, and acutely sensitive; his breath hisses between clenched teeth upon contact and his knees flex in response, heels drawing an ilm or two upward. The motion drags his feet away from the cold steel armoire and he exhales, a trembling gust of air.

He begins to touch himself in earnest. Slow and firm and unhurried strokes, palm gently cupped about the half-clothed shaft, heel of his palm applying just enough pressure to feel each subsequent twitch as it occurs.

Nero knows his touch intimately, but the adventurer's (defector's) is as much a mystery as the rest of her. She would be soft, he muses. Soft and smooth, the tiny hairs on the surface of her skin like the nap of fine velvet: an exquisite contrast to her partner, toned muscle and wiry silver filament strands against the rough homespun pallet. 

From there it is easy to imagine the two of them entwined, concealed from prying eyes beneath their shared blankets in the cool desert night. Calloused hands upon slim and elegant shoulders, drawing the simple linen conjurer's robes along her limbs and down to pool at her waist. The heat in those ceruleum-blue eyes of hers, when those same strong fingers trace the shape of her collarbone before descending upon the soft and pliant weight of her breasts.

The final button undone, he carefully lifts his hips from the mattress so he can move his loose breeches to mid-thigh, then slides the elastic waistband of his smalls down and over the curve of his hips, just enough to expose his aching cock to the night air. The surface of his skin feels... electric, a living levin conduit. His heartbeat is a drum pounding its rhythm in his ears. 

He wraps a hand about himself, a short gasp escaping his lips at the sensation, and the pace he sets is far less measured than before.

It isn't only Garlond that Nero imagines now, breathing ragged and heavy beneath the close darkness of homespun blankets, learning the adventurer’s body with the meticulous eye reserved for an engineer's schematic. It's himself as well, his curious nature making it impossible for him to refrain from conducting his own investigation - and his jealousy, the pride that leaves him unwilling to allow even a phantom Cid borne of his own fevered imaginings to possess aught that Nero tol Scaeva wants for himself. 

The shy little smile he remembers has become something approaching wicked as she presents herself to him, lounging with her back relaxed against Cid's broad chest and his arms wrapped fondly about her waist. He would enfold that slender frame in his arms, soft warm skin damp from sweat. Inhale the scent he'd caught that day in the caverns, trapped within the skeins of blonde hair that slip across his chest. 

Her long legs flex when she parts them and his gaze catches upon the small cap of curls nestled at the apex of her thighs, soft and lush and inviting. 

In his mind's eye he sheathes himself in one stroke: an easy and perfect slide into her cunt, slick and grasping and as hungry for him as he is for her- and then there are hands, not one set but two, hers tangled in his hair and Garlond's rough, broad ones, dragging across his back, soothing and sure and familiar. 

His back arches, hips rolling into the quickening movements of his hand, taut flesh slick with his own fluids. A deep moan, urgent and frantic, threads its way from his lips and goes all but unnoticed. Wholly caught within the gossamer threads of his own fantasy, he is entwined with them, pressed into that warm closeness they share, overcome both by lust and a deep-seated desire to possess whatever undefinable quality it is that seems to draw others to them. 

That draws Nero, for all his protests to the contrary. 

The heat and the painful tension in his belly surge, drawing to a point as fine and white-hot as the tip of an iron. Nero's free hand finds desperate purchase in the scratchy fabric of the blanket beneath, pulls, clenches into a fist so tight it will leave crescent-shaped indents in his palm even through the cheap synthetic wool.

The phantom lovers in his head sigh. His name is a prayer on her lips as she shudders around him. Another (far more familiar) mouth presses itself against his neck, an echo of her cry rasped in hot breath and a soft male rumble, and it is his undoing. 

The sound he makes when he comes is a broken and stuttering cry. Wet heat paints his bare stomach and the fingers wrapped snugly about his length. He lies on the cot for long moments without budging, staring into the darkness with unfocused fjord-blue eyes, his breathing rapid and loud and the pounding of his heart keeping time with the bright pulse still thrumming in his spent cock. 

His eyes adjust, eventually, as his heartbeat slows from its breakneck pace. 

He sees the same ceiling as before. Standardized castrum architecture. Soulless black steel, the neat and careful lines backlit by cool blue light, light that will turn a deep scarlet were he to switch on the fluorescents. The last vestiges of afterglow have faded. Garlond has been presumed dead for five years, his adventurer associate is a stranger with a bounty on her head for defection, and Nero is the engineer Gaius van Baelsar has rather than the one he wants. The acceptable substitute.

He is also no closer to sleep now than he was before. Too much on the mind, too much still left to do before the project is ready for a field test. Garlond and his eikon-slaying friend, wherever they are now, will have to wait upon further consideration, and Livia will have to accept what means of intelligence she has available. For now. 

Nero swings his legs carefully over the side of the cot, grimacing briefly at the mess. He uses the corner of the blanket to clean what he can as he tucks himself back into place and stands, thoughtfully buttoning his breeches. First order of business: fresh smalls, and a long shower. After that he might as well get back down to his lab and put on a fresh pot of coffee. He can work out his leftover frustration on that damned servomech he's been wrestling for the past few days.

And if he finds himself distracted by an old memory, or the whisper of a scent-

Well. 

He can ignore it.