“You’re such an idiot.”
Sylvain’s been spending too much time with Felix again and Dimitri’s so caught off guard that Sylvain manages to get the upper hand on him, manages to plant hands on his chest and shove him right over onto his own bed.
Dimitri blinks at him, glad he’s already taken his cloak and gauntlets off, “I think I’ve missed an important step here, Sylvain.”
And Sylvain laughs, actually throws his head back and laughs, shoulders shaking.
It’s not a... it’s a nice sight, Dimitri decides, realizing he’s not paid near enough attention to Sylvain in the last seven years. Logically, it makes sense. Sylvain had spent most battles on the front line, whether he was at Felix’s back, slamming through soldiers in armor, or he was dipping in and out on a wyvern, cutting down ranged attackers and opening a line up for the rest of them.
So it makes sense that Sylvain’s broad and sturdy.
Sylvain’s always been handsome too, but now, with time, his fake plastered smiles have given way to smaller, genuine smiles.
Dimitri’s actually seen one of the pages swoon at the sight and Sylvain hadn’t even been trying. He desperately gets the feeling now when Sylvain finally turns his gaze back, his cheeks a little red from laughter.
“Oh man, you really are hopeless,” Sylvain says and he’s unbuttoning the waistcoat he’s got on. “If you thank me one more time for being here when I don’t need to be, someone is going to get hurt,” he tacks on, apropos of nothing.
There’s something he’s missing, Dimitri knows that, but it’s clearly much more important than he realized, “But I am thankful?”
Sylvain’s nostrils actually flare, like he’s trying to contain himself from doing something rash, and he just lets the waistcoat drop right to the floor uncaring. His shoulders are broad and Dimitri sees a strip of skin as he pulls his undershirt free of the waist of his pants, has to swallow some very not friend like thoughts back. When he guiltily flicks his gaze up, Sylvain is smirking at him.
“Uh,” he manages intelligibly.
“Goddess, Dimitri,” Sylvain mutters and toes out of his boots, kicking them away. “I know you’re thankful, I get that. It’s the other part I’m having trouble with,” then he’s drawing his undershirt up and off. It joins his waistcoat on the floor uncaring.
Dimitri blinks several times, cheeks very warm, and looks at the spot passed Sylvain’s shoulder as he tries to regather his thoughts, “The not having to be here?” His thoughts scatter a little, because Sylvain steps forward, standing between his knees.
“Mm, I think you’re finally catching on,” Sylvain’s voice seems lower, deeper, and Dimitri’s not sure if he’s imagining it. “I need you to listen very carefully,” he grips one of Dimitri’s shoulders and his other hand nudges Dimitri’s chin, tipping his head so their eyes meet, “I want to be here, in Fhirdiad, with you. There is nowhere else I’d rather be. As long as you’ll have me.”
That’s not what he was expecting.
“Oh,” he says very quietly.
Sylvain laughs again, more restrained though, “Caught on, have you?”
Dimitri reaches out, a little tentative as he takes hold of Sylvain’s hips, swallows even though his throat feels desert dry now, “Sorry I took so long,” he says, tipping forward to press his forehead to Sylvain’s bare abdomen, “I do want you here.”
Fingers slide through his hair, gentle, and then tug a little, “I’ve waited like fourteen years, I was content to wait a little longer.”
He can feel every breath Sylvain takes, lifting him with each inhale, and he tips his head back, digs his chin into the same spot, “Fourteen years?” He croaks out, disbelieving, pressing his thumbs against Sylvain’s hip bones.
It’s interesting, absolutely fascinating, to watch the color bloom high on Sylvain’s cheeks.
“Yeah, lets not linger on what an embarrassing teenager I was,” Sylvain blusters, his own broad palms coming to bracket in Dimitri’s face, easing him back, “Wanna kiss you, that okay?”
Dimitri nods, doesn’t get a chance to vocalize a reply because Sylvain is ducking in and slotting their lips together, easy like they’ve done it hundreds of times. It seems like now that he’s been given the go ahead, Sylvain’s done hesitating, leans right into the kiss, a flick of tongue, quick nip of teeth.
By the time Sylvain pulls away, his lips feel swollen and a little sore, and Sylvain’s got color spilling down his neck. Then Sylvain’s hands drop from his jaw to his chest, a thumb brushing over one of the buttons on his overcoat, “You’ve got way too much clothing on,” and the sound rumbles through his chest, but there’s still a question to it, gentle lilt at the end.
Sylvain’s giving him an out.
It takes effort for him to get his fingers to cooperate again, to unlock from where he’s been holding desperately to Sylvain’s hips and there are already red smudges there. He swallows and flicks his gaze up, “Should I apologize for that?”
Dimitri nods and nudges Sylvain back so he can stand, “I should take some of this off then,” he offers, fingers already on the buttons of his coat, chin to his chest because he can only take so much of the way Sylvain is looking at him. There’s barely an inch of difference between them so when Sylvain steps in, his forehead ends up against Sylvain’s shoulder without any hunching on his own part. Curious, he presses a kiss there, listens to Sylvain’s quiet inhale.
Fingers join his and between the two of them, his coat ends up undone quickly and he rolls his shoulders back, humming out an appreciative sound as Sylvain’s hand slide up his chest and then across his shoulders to push the coat off.
It pools at their feet and Dimitri doesn’t care at all.
Sylvain doesn’t pause, already rucking his undershirt out of his waistband, pushing it up his chest, “Goddess, that’s unfair,” he breathes out and Dimtri’s gonna ask what he means, but his hands give up on the shirt and instead press against bare skin.
Dimitri shudders out a quiet breath, sucks in sharp through his teeth when Sylvain digs blunted nails over his skin.
The hands return to rucking his shirt up again and he’s got to pull away from Sylvain’s shoulder to do so, but he’s glad for it, to see the way that blush is down to Sylvain’s collar bones now, to see his pupils wide and dark.
Another shirt for the pile on the floor.
“Flames, you look like you were cut out of marble,” Sylvain breathes out, tips in and then there are warm lips against his skin, and it takes Dimitri a minute to realize that Sylvain’s pressing all his attention to the scar where Edelgard had stabbed him.
It knocks a quiet sound out of him and he reaches out for Sylvain again, for his hips, waist, whatever he can get his hands on.
Sylvain hums against his skin, “If you want to stop, whenever you want to stop, say so,” his breath is warm against Dimitri’s skin. And his fingers are back against his chest, down across his stomach, over his hips, exploring.
“I will let you know,” Dimitri replies, which feels far too formal for this situation, takes a deep breath, “Sylvain.”
“Mm?” Sylvain finally tilts back to look him in the face and those clever fingers are at the waistband of his trousers, tugging at the laces holding them closed.
Dimitri swallows, his face warm, “You have me at a disadvantage here.”
It makes Sylvain bark out a surprised laugh and his laces come undone, “Don’t worry your kingly head about it,” he says, sound very much like the Sylvain of even three years ago, “Let me take care of you.”
Sylvain hums, pecks him quick on the lips, and then turns attention back to his trousers, pushing them off his hips, “Come on, still too many clothes, Dimitri.” His focus is intent and Dimitri’s unprepared for Sylvain to sink right to his knees, “Sit on the bed again, going to take your boots off.”
Dimitri sinks down on the edge of the bed, very aware of Sylvain’s eye level and strain of his cock against the placket of his trousers.
True to his word though, Sylvain focuses on his boots first, tossing them both away from the bed. Then his fingers curl around the band of his socks, drawing those off too. It’s strangely charged, as mundane it is, which means Dimtri’s not all prepared for Sylvain to sit up, to push broad palms up his thighs, to watch the way Sylvain’s tongue glides quick over his lower lip.
“Goddess,” Dimitri mutteres, tipping back against the bed, braced up on his elbows, because he can’t watch but he can’t not watch.
“Blasphemy,” Sylvain shoots back, smirk sly, like he hadn’t been invoking her name at the beginning of this. Before Dimitri can gripe though, Sylvain’s hooking fingers in his trousers and starts tugging them down off his hips.
It’s all teasing, Dimitri realizes with a sudden start, the way that Sylvain is set at removing one article of clothing at a time, contact light and minimal, “Sylvain,” he groans out.
Sylvain laughs, but doesn’t respond and his pants join the collection of clothing on the floor, before Sylvain’s hands are back, pushing up the bare skin of his thighs, all the way up to his smalls. His knuckles brush against the line of his cock through his smalls and Sylvain slants him a smirk, “I’m going to take care of you, just wait.”
Dimitri groans, quiet but echoing off the stone walls of his chambers, “Take care or tease?”
The answer comes in the form of a hot, dampness covering his cock through his smalls and Dimitri has to close his eye, otherwise the sight of Sylvain on his knees, licking at him through the fabric is going to be his undoing.
It’s an unclear answer though, because Sylvain seems content to stay like that until the fabric is soaked through and clinging to him. Until Dimitri’s sounds have groan louder and louder.
He hopes no one is posted outside his door right now.
“Hips up,” Sylvain says suddenly and as soon as Dimitri obeys, his fingers hook in the top of his smalls and drag them down over his thighs.
Dimitri kicks them away, cracking his eye open to peer at Sylvain, lick his hips, “You’re still too dressed,” he says and marvels at his own voice. Low and gravelly, the sort of tone he hasn’t let himself drop into in almost three years.
Sylvain visibly shudders though and sits back on his heels before pushing to stand. The line of his dick is apparent through his trousers and Dimitri’s mouth waters as he watches Sylvain palm himself before he sets to the laces. It’s not much of a show, but Dimitri appreciates the view anyways as Sylvain shoves his trousers and smalls down in one fluid motion.
Swallowing back the wild urge to sink his teeth into the meat of Sylvain’s thigh, he flicks his gaze up, unprepared to find Sylvain glancing right back at him.
“Up to the pillows,” Sylvain tells him, “back against the headboard.”
Sylvain’s thought about this, he realizes with sudden clarity, planned it. He nods and shuffles up to the pillows, kicking loose blankets towards the end of the bed as he stretches his legs in front of him.
The bed dips as Sylvain climbs onto it and Dimitri hadn’t known what to expect, but it’s not Sylvain slinging a leg over his lap and sinking right down against him. He groans, head smacking off the headboard as Sylvain grinds down, ass against his cock.
“Thought so,” Sylvain murmurs, face unbearably smug, so Dimitri takes hold of his hips, grinds him down again, watches with satisfaction as Sylvain’s mouth opens around a quiet groan of his own.
He wants to do it again, but Sylvain is pushing up, creating a gap between him as he fidgets with something in his hand that Dimitri belatedly realizes is a vial of oil that he hadn’t noticed Sylvain getting. His heart thunders as he watches Sylvain slick two of his fingers and then Sylvain pointedly meets his gaze as his hand disappears around his back.
“Oh,” he says dumbly.
Sylvain rumbles low in his chest, then moans out a throaty sound, hips twitching in Dimitri’s grip, and Dimitri’s focused on watching the muscles in his arms flex, the way his stomach tenses and relaxes, his thighs seemingly having no trouble holding him up.
He’s not sure how much his brain can take really.
“You can touch you know,” Sylvain pants at him, chin against his chest as he grinds back against his own fingers.
Dimitri nods even though Sylvain isn’t paying attention, drags his hands down to press his thumbs hard into each of Sylvain’s thighs, wondering if he can leave smudgy bruises there. It seems to work for Sylvain though because his cock twitches and Dimitri releases his thigh to wrap a hand around his dick, thumb over the precum beading at the head.
Sylvain groans above him, loud and uncaring.
Leaning forward, Dimitri presses a kiss to the skin over his heart, then drags his mouth up, bites at his shoulder, works his teeth there. When he pulls back, there’s a purpling imprint of his teeth and he wants to do it again and again and again.
“Fuck, Dimitri,” Sylvain’s breath stirs his hair and when he turns his head, their mouths slide together, sloppy and a little uncoordinated. The kiss devolves quickly and Sylvain turns his head so their cheeks are brushing, “C’mon, you’ve got long fingers, help me out here.”
The implication hits him like a brick to the face and he tucks his face against Sylvain’s throat to breathe for a second before he slides his arm around Sylvain’s back. He slides his fingers down the length of Sylvain’s arm, his wrist, back of his hands, then traces around where Sylvain’s fucking himself with his own fingers. He’s not prepared for the bite to his jaw, Sylvain’s rumbled, “Hurry up.”
He presses one of his fingers in alongside Sylvain’s two fingers, relishes in the punched out sound Sylvain makes near his ear.
“Here, oil,” Sylvain says and claps him on the chest, the bottle of oil cold against his skin.
Withdrawing his finger, he hums and it takes a bit of blind work to get the bottle open behind Sylvain’s back, careful not to dump it all over his own legs or the sheets, since Sylvain is slumped against his chest, still rutting his hips back against his fingers and dragging his cock over Dimitri’s stomach.
He presses back in with the same finger, now slick with oil, and Sylvain twitches against him, mutters, “Another,” so Dimitri pulls back, pushes back in with two fingers.
Suddenly, Sylvain smacks him on the chest, shoving so there’s space between them, “That’s enough, that’s enough,” he rambles out, a little wild around the eyes, so Dimitri withdraws his hand, takes hold of Sylvain’s hips with both hands again.
Then Sylvain’s digging in the blankets against their thighs, makes a triumphant sound when he pulls the vial of oil out again and Dimitri nearly swallows his tongue as Sylvain coats his palm then wraps a hand around his cock. It’s quick though, perfunctory, coating him in the oil before Sylvain shuffles forward again,
“Hold your dick for me,” Sylvain instructs, hands clamping down on his shoulders.
Dimitri exhales, wrapping his fingers around the base of his cock and holding tight, steady, eyes on the flex of Sylvain’s thighs as he sinks himself down.
They both groan when Sylvain is finally flush against his lap again. Sylvain’s fingers are digging into his shoulders and Dimitri thinks this is going to be over way too fast, but Sylvain’s cock is leaking between their bellies so he holds out hope it’s not just him.
He gets his hands on Sylvain’s thighs, squeezes tight as he tries deep breaths, but Sylvain doesn’t give either of them much more time, his thighs tensing as he lifts himself again, lowering back down just as quick, hard, letting gravity help him out. “Come on, Your Majesty,” Sylvain starts, red all the way to his nipples now, “Leave your mark, I know you wanna.”
Later, he’ll worry about being so seen, even if Sylvain’s known him longer than most, instead he leans forward and bites at Sylvain’s pectoral, digs his fingers into Sylvain’s thighs as they flex again.
The pace Sylvain sets is brutal, fast and hard, his thighs doing all the work as they both pant and groan, and Dimitri leaves a trail of bites over his chest and a line of fingerprint bruises on each of his thighs. He knows he’s going to have a series of fingerprint bruises on his shoulders, judging by how Sylvain’s grip gets tighter as he continues.
Dimitri tips his head, drags his mouth along the line of Sylvain’s jaw and then has just set his teeth against his throat when Sylvain suddenly goes taut as a bow string, clamping down around his cock.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Sylvain chants and realization slams into him, so Dimitri pushes a hand between them, gets his hand around Sylvain’s dick and it only takes two quick strokes before Sylvain is tipping his head back, almost shouting as he comes, striping Dimitri’s chest in white.
Sylvain slumps against his chest, pinning his hand between them, and Dimitri can feel his heart thundering where their chests are touching, realizing that his own is pounding just as hard. He wraps his free arm around Sylvain’s back, rubs his palm up his spine and up to the back of his head, just cupping it as Sylvain pants against his collar.
Then, without warning, Sylvain swivels his hips and Dimitri is gone, vision whiting out as orgasm slams into him from nowhere.
Sylvain is shaking against him when he comes back to bleary awareness and he realizes it’s because he’s laughing.
Dimitri pinches his side, huffs out a hoarse laugh when Sylvain yelps and smacks him on the chest.
“Sorry, sorry,” Sylvain sits up so they’re face to face, noses almost brushing with how close they are, “it’s just that you fucking roared, man. Everyone in the castle is gonna know after that.”
Orgasm loose as he is, Dimitri’s hard pressed to care but he lifts his hand, digs his thumb against the bruise on the side of Sylvain’s throat, “I don’t think there’s any hiding this,” he points out and Sylvain shudders.
Sylvain hums, tips in to brush their lips a few times, “Don’t want to,” he says, then swings his leg back over, grimacing a little as Dimitri slips free of him. Completely unabashed of his nudity, he crosses the room to the door that connects to his bathroom, pauses there, “Oh and if Felix asks why I’ve been training with him more lately and suddenly stop, lets maybe not tell him.”
It takes a minute for his sluggish brain to catch up before Dimitri splutters and Sylvain’s laughter echoes back from the bathroom before his wild mess of red hair appears around the door frame, “Gonna join me for a bath?”
Dimtri huffs out, rubs a hand over his face, “Yeah, I think I can feel my legs again,” he says and slides his legs to the edge of the bed. It’s not a sure thing when he stands and he can’t meet Sylvain’s too pleased gaze, but he catches sight of his own reflection in the bathroom mirror when he brushes by him into the bathroom.
There is a series of fingerprint bruises across each of his shoulders.
“Should’ve gotten your throat,” Sylvain tells him, hooking his chin over his shoulders, arms looping around his waist from behind.
Dimitri leans back against him, considers Sylvain’s still red and swollen lips in their reflection, “Still plenty of time yet.”
Sylvain’s lips spread into a grin, “Yeah, there is.”