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owlespresso · 8 months

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well-behaved. clive rosfield/reader. tags: petplay, hybrid au, puppy boy clive, submissive clive, hand jobs

Your fingers run through his tousled mane of dark hair, the sudden bliss of your touch eliciting a small whimper. His ear twitches, the fur silken, and you can’t resist the urge to give him a well-earned scritch, savoring the breathy sigh he rewards you with. All things considered, he’s been such a good boy—

He pushes greedily into your palm, breath warm against your fingers as you slide down to cup his cheek. The bristled stubble draws a shiver down your spine. You cast him a glance as he kisses your palm. His tongue peeks out from between plush lips, greedily running over the salt of your skin.

“You’re distracting me,” you mumble, and gently pinch his nose. He grumbles, dissatisfied, and drops his face into your thigh, rubbing up against you through your trousers.

“You should already be distracted by the naked man who's been sitting at your feet for the better part of an hour” Clive lifts his head just enough to glower at you. Such a mean look would be intimidating if he were not already on his knees and bare. “What are you working on up there, anyways?”

He’s entirely hunched over, hulking mass of him curled to press against your lower leg. His cock is absolutely throbbing—weeping, even. Every now and again, his hips twitch. He’s barely holding back the urge to rut against you, still too proud despite the plug you know is wedged between his cheeks, settled underneath the plush expanse of his tail.

You pinch the tip of one crooked ear. “Important paperwork,” you say coolly. “Like your adoption papers. They were very happy to hand over such a poorly behaved pup.”

“Hah,” Clive huffs humorlessly at your little joke.

“Silly, really. They just didn’t know how to make you act like a good boy.”

“And how is that?” Clive inquires, a measure intrigued as he peers up at you. The press of his body is immeasurably warm up against you. He’s his own furnace.

“I’ll tell you, but you have to come here first.” You pat your lap with both hands, your smile bright and expectant. He blinks at you, as though attempting to discern if this is another joke—but there is no humor to your countenance.

“What? I’ll squish you.” he says, frankly concerned.

You don’t dignify him with a response. It’s an order, one you give whilst well-aware of how his weight will likely crush you into this chair.

“...If you insist,” Clive says. He sighs, but he clambers onto your lap just a bit too eagerly to be humoring you. He settles perpendicular to you, both of his thighs settled across yours. It must be a ridiculous sight, considering how he has to hunch in on himself to fit, how his legs dangle far over the armrest. One of his arms wraps around the back of your shoulders, forced to cling tight lest he topple to the floor. Your legs are probably going to be numb by the end of this, but it’s hard to care when you’re finally able to run your hand up and down the abundant expanse of his chest.

He sighs into your temple, rippling muscle of his abdomen tensing as you skirt your touch over his tummy, nails scratching light at his skin. You pet the downy hair there.

“You’re so beautiful, Clive,” you purr into his throat. He tilts his head and exhales shakily as you kiss up and down the strong column of his throat, going bone loose against you. He shivers and sighs. His hand clings onto one of the chair’s arms, grip knuckle-white as you come dangerously close to his erect cock. He’s got one of the prettiest you’ve ever seen, flushed and weeping. You would have him in your lap all the time, if you could. Safe and warm in your arms.

“Don’t,” he mutters, half-hearted and weak. He hides his face, nose pressing to the top of your head. Anything else he could have said dies on his tongue as you finally wrap your hand around his heavy, aching cock. Your fingers just barely touch together, girth as impressive as his length.

He gives throaty moans and husky growls, a euphony of deep sounds he can scarcely withhold. He’s long since given up on trying—a habit you had wrung out of him by the fourth day of living together.

“So good for me,” you continue. His halfhearted little protests are belied by the sounds he makes as you start to pump him in earnest, slow and sweet.

He arches his back, skin glistening with new sweat. Your free hand wanders up to his chest, petting the plush of his pecs. Your thumb skirts around his areola in circles.

“God, your chest is just not fair,” you mumble.

“So you’ve said,” he says, a little shake in his voice. His petal perfect lips open to say something else, but his voice pitches into a debauched whine. You pinch his left nipple, bud pebbled against the chilled air in your study.

He goes quiet, then. Only breathes wetly as he struggles to tamper down each lewd noise. His eyes flutter shut and his face contorts with each syrupy pulse of pleasure, cock throbbing hot in your hand as you knead him. His hips roll, pathetic little squirms atop of your thighs. The looming threat of tumbling over the armrest and onto the floor keeps him clinging tight to your shoulders, each desperate pant brushing against your temple. He kisses you there, and on your cheek, any patch of skin he can reach, really.

“Oh, Clive. You’re so perfect.” you praise, and he lets loose a choked sob.

He cums into your fist with a quiet sob, taut muscles of his abdomen shuddering. Thick cum spurts on his chest and dribbles over your closed fingers. You work him through it, until his moans tremble onto the wrong side of pained. Still, he doesn’t ask you to stop. One of Clive’s biggest weaknesses is his desperation to please. He craves approval like he needs air to breathe, lets you draw climax after climax out of him because he knows you love seeing him so ruined, so debauched.

And there are times when you will keep going, keep wringing pleasure from him until he forgets his own name. Those are some of his best moments, when his tummy and chest are painted white with his own cum. When his head is tossed back to give you more room to kiss, to bite, to carve your claim into his very flesh.

But you’re feeling particularly sweet on him, today, so you stop. He slumps in relief, catching his breath. Hot puffs of air brush your temple. His spent cock rests heavy next to his thigh.

“Good?” you lean over, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he says after several shuddering breaths. His chest rises and falls with each one. You shamelessly admire the plush of his pecs.

“A little death, maybe,” you murmur. You nip at one of his hickies, relish in the hitch of his breath. Your lips linger against the skin, letting him feel your fond smile.

#clive rosfield/reader #cliveposting #ffxvi fantasizing #ffxvi/reader

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rydiathesummoner · 5 months

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Ranking the FFXVI dominants according to how good they would be at singing

#8: Jill.

Sorry Jill, but singing is not in the cards. Her early life in the north was wartime, and her side losing. Probably not a lot of singing lessons. Given how Anabella called her savage and viewed her as marriage stock it's unlikely she ever learned how to sing. No biggie though, she would rather shovel chocobo shit than perform in front of people anyway. Sometimes when it's just her and Clive, she will hum off-key. Clive thinks her humming is the most beautiful sound in Valisthea and doesn't even notice she's off-key because if Jill is happy enough to hum, then that's the best thing ever and beautiful and perfect.

#7: Hugo

Singing is for sissies. Pansies. Only weak men participate in the arts. Why learn to sing when you can have the glory of combat, gold and women?? That said, he was able to hold that "FUUUUUUUUUUCK" pretty well so he might be able to hold notes just as well.

#6: Joshua

He probably had music lessons as a kid so he knows the theory and can carry a tune. However, he spent his voice-changing puberty years in a coma. It probably took him ages just to get used to his body doing all kinds of wild new shit for him to re-learn how to sing. He might sing along in a crowd for holidays and ceremonies, but he's mostly lip-synching. It also doesn't help he has an alien in his chest and a tendency to cough up blood. Good luck projecting your voice with that.

#5: Cid

Yeah he's a bit off-key, and?? He's a former military commander, not a theater star. He doesn't give a shit if he's singing well or not, he's going to get drunk, sing his heart out with his buddies and if you don't like it, well the door's over there. He gets the lyrics right, mostly! What he lacks in skill he makes up for in style and getting the (bar) crowd involved. Not to mention his speaking voice is great, right? Just... kind of add a tune and it's still gonna be better than average.

#4: Benedikta

Despite her impoverished background, her singing is pretty nice. She really excels in sultry and jazzy/blues types of songs. Obviously she uses this surprising skill to entice men and not because she enjoys it or anything. To her it's just another tool in her kit, and like any tool she keeps it sharpened with plenty of practice while slinging her weapons around. Everyone in the weapons range loves to listen to her singing but they don't dare say anything.

#3: Barnabas

He has a rich and beautiful baritone. He could have been a star if he hadn't elected to be a murderous slave king to a deceitful god. He doesn't sing anyway though. Singing is useless. Unless it would summon Mythos. Wait, will it attract Mythos for the Lord and Master? Could singing potentially buff Mythos to prepare him to be even stronger for his Master? He's heard tales of such people from other stories. Better sing while battling Mythos. Just in case.

#2: Dion

His singing voice is stellar. His singing is like a clear night's sky. But you'll never hear it. He doesn't sing in front of others. That's... awkward. He's a weapon, not an entertainer. What would his troops think if he started belting out the show tunes he secretly loves? That's not how a Proper Bahamut™ acts! They would either never take him seriously again or make inappropriate song requests constantly and he's not sure which one is worse. He'll sing for Terence though. He gets flustered when Terence encourages it but does it anyway and secretly enjoys singing for him. Terence knows he secretly enjoys it. That's why he asks. Well, that and his voice really is amazing.

#1: Clive

Of course the theater kid is number 1. He was the star of all his Rosarian school musicals. He's been singing his whole life! As a kid some of his favorite memories are belting out old songs with Uncle Byron and his dad. They used to fantasize about becoming a singing quartet once Joshua was older if they didn't have the whole royalty and eikon thing going on. When he was enslaved by the Imperial army he didn't sing much, except on rare occasions with his fellow Bastards after a long mission and some smuggled alcohol. The bastards are confused why Wyvern has such a beautiful singing voice but whatever he kills good too. Once he's freed and has accepted himself he feel the urge to get back into singing again, but by now he's feeling a bit awkward about it. Like how does one approach the topic? "Hey guys, I'm a great singer check it out!" No, that's too weird for Outlaw Cid, he can't force it. He wishes to himself that there would be a singing contest or at least a drunken sing-along at the Fat Chocobo so he can finally show off his talent, or that Jill would somehow spread the idea around so somebody could ask, but so far he's been disappointed. Someday the Hideaway will hear it. Someday.

#shitpost #ffxvi #ff16 #final fantasy #clive rosfield #joshua rosfield #dion lesage #hugo kupka #jill warrick #benedikta harman #barnabas tharmr #cidolfus telamon

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