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Dimitri I, King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and United Fodlan, is screaming, holding tightly to the ornamented balls of gold at either side of his throne.
The royal throne of Faerghus’ king is a glimmering, imposing work of purest art. Tall and intricate like a statue, like finest marble work and the most delicate gold smithing, it sits in the throne chamber of Castle Fhirdiad. Winter sunlight and curt moonlight perpetually shine through windows crafted above the throne, here to shine on the king always, a symbol of his guiding light.
It’s evening now, the light of the setting sun in its most peculiar positioning of each day. King Dimitri’s hair is more golden than ever, touched with angles of light that shine purple and orange over him. He sits in his throne, legs spread wide, wearing naught but his kingly cloak reserved for public audiences. His thighs propped up on either side of his throne, calves flung in the air, posture tense and his perfect, divine lips bitten red and frowning. His royal crown hangs from one arm of his throne, blinding diamond white in the evening light. Between his thick thighs, his margrave kneels, slurping at and moaning around his king’s cock so loudly it echoes through the chamber.
The king is in need of a break. He needs to forget that he’s a ruler responsible for an entire continent, he needs to be used like a silly little toy one tosses to the side when they get good use of it, never to be thought of again. Sylvain lives to serve.
Now, Sylvain and Dimitri’s first idea involved staying after bi-weekly hearings were finished. The king would listen and speak to his people all afternoon, until Felix and Sylvain ushered them out, and Sylvain made an untoward joke that would send Felix bursting out of the throne room, great slamming doors behind him. Dimitri would keep his wrists tightly bound to the arms of his throne and Sylvain would undress him, have his way with him.
But that was too private. It required waiting for everyone to leave, shooing them away. It required active concern about being caught. And then Sylvain thought - no, Dimitri doesn’t need that . Worry is the last thing Sylvain wants him to think of when they are having sex.
So here they are, in the early evening, nothing in particular planned for the night. Everyone who has the ability to simply walk into the throne room knows Dimitri is in here, and that he is free. He has a multitude, as always, of meetings to be had, plans to go over, and Sylvain and Dimitri both would wager there is a fifty-fifty chance of someone requesting entrance to speak to the king. If that someone is Felix, there won’t be any requests. Felix will burst in, and then he will burst out yelling expletives down the hallways.
There is a fair chance they will be caught. Despite trying to convince Sylvain otherwise, Dimitri relishes in the possibility of discovery. He throbs for the shame of it. Sylvain knows this, of course. Dimitri is a poor secret keeper. That is why he kneels between the king’s legs now, chamber doors guarded heavily but unlocked.
Sylvain’s mouth is pried open, trying to swallow Dimitri’s entire dick in his mouth. He’s almost there, going slowly for Dimitri’s benefit rather than his own - he frets about hurting Sylvain. Drool slides down his chin and his eyes perk with pretty tears. He tongues the underside of Dimitri’s cock, far as he can. Dimitri tastes salty and musky and so warm . Sylvain moans obnoxiously, eager for more of him, taking him at last all the way down to his balls. Sylvain shivers in pleasure, sucking harder like he’s trying to drink the last drops of a wine pouch. Dimitri groans loudly, his whole body vibrating. Unintentionally, Dimitri starts to slide his cock in and out of Sylvain’s mouth, whimpering deliciously all the while.
That is when Sylvain decides to pull away.
“Sweetheart, see? Anyone could come in, y’know, d’you like that, baby? Fucking, anyone,” Sylvain hisses into King Dimitri’s ear, his fingers pressing, nails digging just outside the rim of Dimitri’s hole. “I said, do you like it, Dimitri?”
“Mfph,” Dimitri cries, voice muffled by his mouth pressed into his great white cloak. “Y- yes !”
“Yes, good,” Sylvain coos warmly, finger playing with Dimitri’s rim. Then, deviously, smirk felt through his breath puffing into Dimitri’s stomach, “What is it you like?”
“Hn, this, I, I like this,” Dimitri pants, tries to thrust his hips up; Sylvain pops off his cock and holds his waist down to stop him until he wails and tears swell in his eyes.
“No, no, you’ve gotta tell me what you like, sweetie,” Sylvain tells him, lips still touching the tip of Dimitri’s cock. Using pet names that always make Dimitri lose his breath and cry. Sweetie, sweetie, sweetheart, Sylvain’s sweetheart.
Sylvain pats his thighs, murmuring soft noises of encouragement. Kisses trails across Dimitri’s length, petting him all the while. “You can tell me, sweetheart. Wanna make you scream all night.”
He doesn’t have to try hard with Dimitri. The simplest lines work on him. It is all well and good, because Sylvain means them. There is merit in the popularity of these phrases, Sylvain has realized. Simple and clear, sincerity cleans away all cheesiness.
Dimitri whines at his words. He tries, “I like - t-that someone could catch us. Someone who… admires me and expects much from me. I want Felix or Dedue or Gilbert or Hapi to come in and find you using me like nothing, like trash in the mud.”
“Mm. You want them to see you as you are?” Sylvain drops down to Dimitri’s cock again.
“ Yes ,” he thrusts his hips recklessly forward. “I want them to see that I am - gah - no savior, I am barely a king, I’m merely a weak - a weak boy who lives for others.”
“Why is that?”
“Be - because I live only to be of service. I need only to be used. A tool or a weapon, anything they want.”
Sylvain smiles around Dimitri, saliva dripping. He chuckles so the vibration of his throat teases Dimitri. The endeavor chokes him a bit, but he is glad for it. Little is better to him than the vicious sting of a dick down his throat. He savors it, the damp smell, the salt of sweat and pre-come, bitter and all-encompassing. Down to the base he surges, aiming for no part of Dimitri untended.
Dimitri’s heavy cock bends down at the back of his throat, so thick and long Sylvain would sit and take it for hours, hoping to have him unfathomably further and deeper. He uses his left hand to play with Dimitri’s balls, fingers grazing and then pressing and then squeezing until the king of Fodlan yowls heedlessly, shaking and fucking his margrave’s mouth.
He’s got such a pretty cock, so delicious in Sylvain’s mouth. The tip of his cock smacks and smacks the back of Sylvain’s throat, spurting pre-come down his throat. Hot, hot, it slides intermittently back warm as winter soup, comforting like a lover, all the blessings and gifts which the Goddess could hope to give. And hope she might, but Sylvain has no faith in her. No wish in the world would she grant him, or anyone else.
An attitude like his has gotten him far, in matters of pleasure and living fully. In theory. But with the heavens and the Goddess damned from him, there is nothing to stop him pursuing the fullest extent of these moments. Here, kneeling before his king, is the most he will ever receive. And it is enough.
So his lips, at last, touch press against his king’s balls, hand toying with them. Sylvain slides his other hand to circle the pink of Dimitri’s rim with two fingers. Dimitri shivers and thrashes fiercely, mumbling all the while “yes, yes, please, my Sylvain , oh , my Sylvain,” a desperate need within him to give voice to his pleasure. Sylvain looks up at Dimitri with his open jaw and wide, hollowed cheeks in question. Are you ready, his eyes ask.
Dimitri nods. “Oh, Seiros, Saints and Seiros, please put something inside of me.”
Sylvain hums affirmation. Dimitri shudders again, eyes screwed shut and little tears on his cheeks. Normally, Dimitri prefers to keep his eyes open during sex - he always wishes to see every twitch of expression on Sylvain’s face, but when he is particularly overwhelmed, he grounds himself by shutting them as any other does.
He groans brokenly. His need flows forth out of every point in his body, his sounds speak words he isn’t able to say. To Sylvain, the breaking of his voice is delicious, it is treasure. Dimitri’s moans spur inside Sylvain feelings he has sought his whole life. His fingers trembling in eagerness, Sylvain pulls them from Dimitri and slides them through the spit rolling down his throat. Absolutely disgusting; something he would find revolting were it another person or another activity - despite his reputation, he has never allowed strangers to use spit as lube with him. Now slick with saliva and pre-come, Sylvain teases his fingers around Dimitri’s asshole, edging one inside slowly.
“Faster, please,” Dimitri sobs. “I need more!”
Sylvain thrusts his finger around inside of Dimitri, not aiming to please but merely to let him adjust to having something inside of him. Quickly, encouraged by Dimitri attempting to grind down on that single finger, he slides a second in. This time, he scissors slowly, finding Dimitri’s prostate.
“Oh, fuck!” Dimitri growls. His physical reaction is to slam down on Sylvain’s fingers so harshly his heavy golden throne rattles.
“Alright, let’s try something, can we do that? It’ll be uncomfortable,” Sylvain asks, fingers soft inside, once he has pulled off Dimitri’s cock.
“As though any of this is comfortable. Of course, yes. What is it?” Dimitri says, his deep voice cracking high-pitched, thighs quaking.
“What do you mean? Isn’t this good?” Sylvain pulls his fingers out.
Dimitri moans, sounding truly heartbroken. “Wh - no, of course it’s g-good, it, ah , I just meant being on the throne. I- I enjoy this t-hough- hhh. ”
With no warning, Sylvain enters him again. Crooks his fingers, finds Dimitri’s prostate again. Dimitri mewls so deeply Sylvain’s own dick leaks untouched at the sound of his timbre. Dimitri clenches around his fingers, his cock standing tall and sopping pre-come. He’s so beautiful Sylvain could definitely come from watching him. In fact, he has.
“Okay, I want you on your hands and knees, see? With your arms holding you up on the floor, but I want you to keep yourself upright with the rest of you in this throne. Does that sound doable?”
“Y-yes,” Dimitri says, thighs shaking.
Sylvain whirls around his fingers inside him one last time before he pulls out and kneels aside. His knees hurt worse now that he’s finally removed the pressure. He winces, but he is pleased. Pain and marks from sex are evidence of a pleasurable time, and he will wear them proudly. Dimitri fumbles with his cloak, the inner linings of it damp with pre-come spilt between his thighs. Sylvain decides to help him, grabs the end of his cloak in his arms and keeps it up high while Dimitri moves into position. Dimitri sits up, stands for a moment, straightening his spine.
“Sylvain, come sit before I do this,” he says.
“Sure, let me just… this damn cloak is so - here we go, okay.”
Sylvain sits on Dimitri’s throne. He sits on the throne his king belongs at, always shining in the lights of Fhirdiad. There’s a strange lump in his throat. Dimitri trusts him unfathomably.
He does his best to deserve it.
Cloak spilling over the side of the throne, Dimitri sits back, aiming to fit between Sylvain’s legs ideally. Dimitri knows he is too big for that, so he ends up in Sylvain’s lap, which is heavy of course but also rather delightful. Precious boy.
“Will you hold me while I do this? I think that I may fall otherwise,” Dimitri asks, sliding his fingers through Sylvain’s, pulling their hands to his waist.
“I’ll always hold you,” Sylvain winks as he says this, but he means it far too sincerely.
Sylvain’s hands on his hips, Dimitri stretches downward. His palms lie flat on the marble. His ankles hook on the throne, knees touching the floor, his dripping, stretched hole raised open for Sylvain.
“I am ready whenever you are,” he grunts.
“Hell, am I ready, baby,” Sylvain squeezes his hips, lining his cock against Dimitri’s hole, brushing it with his own wetness.
“Please,” Dimitri grunts from the floor, pretty picture with his hands in fists on the marble floor, hair circling his face which is turned down.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Okay.”
Where had they put the oil?
“Wait,” Dimitri rasps. “The pocket of my robe - the oil is in it, on the right.”
“Gotcha.”
Sylvain fumbles eagerly inside Dimitri’s pocket with slick hands. Dimitri likes to have discreet bottles of lubricant, where Sylvain has oddly shaped and fantastically colored brands for himself, simply for the fun of it. His personal favorite might be his red, bacon scented one. For the spirit of it, of course. One woman wanted to use it and he found it to be nauseating in practice.
Sylvain gets on his knees in the throne, holding Dimitri by his hips. His hands are full, and this bottle is nearly empty, so… No harm in getting rid of the entire thing. He uses a bit of fire magic to burn the cork lid off and crack the bottle. He’ll clean it up carefully when they’re done. He lets it drip into his hand, rubs his fingers to warm it a little, then slicks it along his dick. He’s already wet and a painful red color, he has been for some time. He whimpers when he finally smothers his cock in the last of their lube, slowly slides his fist around his cock, teasing himself.
“Ah,” he whines, teasing his slit. He lets go of himself, grips Dimitri with his oily fist. He tugs Dimitri into an easier angle, and slides his head inside. His eyes screw shut.
“Gah, yes,” Dimitri hisses immediately. Lifts his ass up, trying to inch more in.
Sylvain opens his eyes, looks down upon him. Dimitri likes getting fucked, and often. He’s loose from getting fingered, and wider still from whatever he’d done to himself this afternoon, in between meetings. He alternates between pressing his sweet forehead to the cold floor and tilting his head to look back at Sylvain. When he does, Sylvain sees the heavenly crimson of his cheeks, up to his forehead. Sylvain fucks into him more, sliding Dimitri’s ass down along Sylvain’s cock until he bottoms out and their hips join. When they are flush together, he tucks strands of Dimitri’s hair behind his left ear, boasting the burning blush of his ears. Beautiful. He fucks him truly now. Fast, hard, focused. There is only one man Sylvain can see, can feel, and that man knows this.
“Fuck, my pretty boy. Gorgeous boy, you’re always so good for me,” Sylvain warbles, close to incoherent. “So good, so sweet, you’d let me do anything, huh?”
“Yes, yes!” Dimitri mewls. “Anything you want.”
Fuck, fuck. Sylvain’s so selfish. “Even if what I wanted hurt you? If it embarrassed you, if it ruined you? You’re too goddess damned kind for me, I’ll eat you alive.”
Nevermind that he is engaged to Dimitri, that he has courted him for a long three years and known him for twenty-five more. Nevermind that Dimitri has, before, eaten Sylvain alive himself, spat his bones out carelessly and let them fall down a chasm unaware.
“You silly man. Of course I would. I want you to,” he gasps when Sylvain’s pace becomes frantic. His voice hitches on every word. “I want you to be happy and to find peace, my love. No matter what you wish, I would do anything.”
Sylvain could cry. Dimitri is just that sort of man. He would flip the earth upside for a stranger, and would do infinitely more for a lover. “Shit, c’mere.”
He hauls Dimitri up, back to chest, to fuck him in Sylvain’s lap. “‘M sorry. Need you so close.”
His hands find Dimitri’s chest, tweak his nipples and settle there, stroking. Dimitri’s cock spurts pre-come and his body quivers. There are tears in his eyes and tears in Sylvain’s eyes. “Kiss me.”
Sylvain finds Dimitri’s prostate easily in this position. He bites down on Dimitri’s shoulder, thrusting upward relentlessly into that spot that makes Dimitri scream. And he does, he screams. Loudly and brokenly and the baritone of his voice rattles Sylvain to his core, to his cock. Dimitri meets his thrusts with equal force, slamming himself down, urgency in his every twitch and sigh.
Sylvain’s drool runs down Dimitri’s chest. They’re both covered in wet, in lube and pre-come, sweat and spit, tears. “Sylvain,” Dimitri sobs. “Sylvain, Sylvain, hah , I,” he shrieks in overstimulated joy, “I love you, Sylvain.”
Oh, Sylvain has to cry now. Ugly, boiling tears spurt down his cheeks. “Me too, of course, love you too. Oh, baby, baby, my baby …”
And that is that. Dimitri’s lovely, large hands circle his own on Dimitri’s chest and he presses wet kisses all along Dimitri’s upper back. Murmuring delirious declarations, Sylvain goes stiff, before his spend pours inside of Dimitri. In his aching, mindless state he thrusts desperately and clumsily inside his darling king. It is this display of need that makes Dimitri tighten painfully around him, falling backward into Sylvain’s chest with a thud as his seed splashes across his taut belly.
“Sylvain,” he screams. “Sylvain, Sylvain - “
“Fuck, Sothis, yes yes yes yes yes, Dimitri - “
Apparently they both sort of blacked out. Sylvain becomes aware of himself slowly, first confused at his location and then notices the tightness in his chest is because there’s an enormous, ripped king unconscious on his chest.
Fuck. That was good.
Sylvain cards his fingers through Dimitri’s wet hair, kissing the back of his head. He moves his hands to thumb Dimitri’s damp cheeks, horribly warm. He’s gorgeous. He’s so good. Letting Sylvain take him on his own throne, blessing Sylvain with his small, perfect asshole that shrugs around Sylvain’s cock like magic.
Dimitri stirs. Sleepily, he nuzzles Sylvain’s chest. “Mm. Hello. That was wonderful.”
“Hey. Sure was. Gotta get you cleaned up soon."
Dimitri flips to his side, wraps his arms around Sylvain. “Indeed. But thank you for this. I needed it very much.”
“Dimitri,” he sighs. “Baby, you’ve got to stop thanking me after sex. It’s like, my favorite thing to do. Ever? Anyway, this is what fiancés do.”
Dimitri kisses his chest. “Ah, yes. You will have to forgive me. I am a bit inhibited at the moment.”
“Oh, hush. Are you feeling okay?”
“More than okay. Excellent. I’m content.”
Sylvain sighs to hear it. He’s so glad. “Good. I’m tired.”
“As am I. Let us sit here a moment.”
They sit there for an hour. Gilbert gets worried and finds them. They do not hear from him again for a week.