Work Text:
“You're a dull-witted fool, Ferdinand. What did you expect going there?”
He's long-since become used to Hubert's cutting tongue by this point in his life, but for once he can't find the willpower to argue back. The Prime Minister's head is still swimming, senses dulled by the drinks and whatever else his host had plied him with hours prior. Whatever else he'd needed to coerce him into a more private chamber, far from the trite patriotic function he'd been forced to attend at Edelgard's request.
On some level he's grateful she'd insisted on her gloomy lapdog escorting him. Who else would have shunned the festivities so fervently as to be prowling round their host's home? No doubt there was some higher purpose for it that he'd surely not hear of 'til their plot had come to fruition. But in this moment he can't bring himself to care.
Hubert had found him on his knees, stripped of all but his boots and breeches, and with Duke Friedrich's cock buried so deep in his throat he was choking as much on it as his own tears. Though the years post-war had softened so many of their comrades, in that moment he was reminded exactly why the name Vestra had struck fear into the hearts of entire regiments in years past. Friedrich lived still, though no doubt the Imperial Minister would be seeing to that in due course. There was an unspoken understanding quickly forming that crossing the Imperial household in any manner would result in a very swift and impersonal disposal.
Still that was little comfort to Ferdinand even as he was hurriedly redressed and bundled through deserted hallways into a waiting carriage. Hubert's lecturing hadn't let up throughout their journey back to the palace, nor had the iron-banded grasp on his wrist keeping him close.
“You realise this reflects on us all, surely? A whore in a position such as yours risks the judgement of House Hresvelg being called into question. See to it that you remember that the next time you feel like spreading your legs.”
“I didn't fucking offer it, Hubert,” he slurs, spitting up another repulsively thick mouthful of saliva and something he'd rather not think about. That doesn't seem to dignify more response than the grip on his jaw tightening, head forced up sharply as he's examined like a thoroughbred at market. There's a harsh press of a thumb into a particularly nasty bruise, sucked into his skin too high to be hidden even behind his most ridiculous cravats. Judging by the sneer on Hubert's face the damage assessment is far from favourable.
“No? You could have fooled me. I saw the way you spent the evening.” That still-gloved hand slides round to the front of Ferdinand's throat, closing with just enough force to carry the threat. “Like a hound in fucking heat. I'm shocked you didn't beg him to mount you over dinner.”
“You know I— I wouldn't!” His protests are choked by how raw his throat still proves to be, but fervent nonetheless. Another dizzying wave overcomes him and he sways dangerously on the spot, only saved by the sudden painful grip on his hipbone from splitting his head against the corner of his own desk. He's forced down unceremoniously a moment later, almost soothed by the coolness of the wood against his back. It's a chilling relief even through his shirt as he's pinned in place. Glancing down the length of his own body, he's unsurprised to find Hubert has already forced his way between his thighs, now looming over him and looking for all the world ready to tear his heart clean out of his chest.
“Then tell me why I found you drooling down another man's cock when you're supposed to be mine.”
Ferdinand can only blink up at him through the haze, head rolling as he tries to take it in.
“Yours...?”
“Mine,” he hisses. “Or did you forget who keeps your secrets? Forget what you owe me?”
Ferdinand's stomach drops. It's the first time he's breathed a word of it other than praise in the darkness as he sinks into his body. How many times has it been now? How many nights has he felt the edge of the bed dipping under Hubert's weight? How many times followed by cold hands spreading his thighs, finding his waiting cunt and impatiently opening him up for what was to come?
And now it sits heavy in the air, a barely-spoken threat of indiscretion as he's tugged back to the edge of the desk.
He's distantly aware of a cold draught against his inner thighs, surprised to find himself as wet as he is. Whether it's the result of what he'd been slipped by the Duke, or just a habitual reaction to Hubert's proximity he doesn't know. Doesn't care.
A protest forms on his lips, though whether it's heard is anyone's guess. All he knows now is that it's too much. He's still burning up, still feeling nauseous, and the rising panic in his gut is doing little to help that.
“St-stop. Not tonight. I don't want—Ah!” His gasp cuts it short, feeling as if his lungs are caving in as two long fingers force themselves in without pause. Perhaps it's worth being grateful for how ready his body seems to take it after all. Of all things, it occurs to him that if the silk of his gloves wasn't ruined before, it certainly will be now.
“I suggest you hold your tongue, unless you'd prefer the household know what a whore their master really is. Look at yourself.” Hubert tears another gasp from him as he drags his fingers free, uncaring that the fine fabric is still too rough somewhere so sensitive. Before he can protest again, Ferdinand finds himself gagged unceremoniously by the gloves in question, stripped and forced between his lips 'til he can taste his own unbidden arousal so strong against his tongue he can't think.
It's never repelled him before, but now it only helps his tears to overspill his cheeks, choking on the fabric creeping to the top of his throat and only leaving him more disoriented. Still, it's barely enough to muffle his yell as he feels Hubert first nudge against his hole before sinking home in one violent thrust. His legs shake uncontrollably, giving uncoordinated little bucks in a futile attempt to force him off, force him out.
At some point his hands have found their way to the Minister's chest, bracing with all the strength he's not been robbed of as he drives his nails in. Hubert barely seems to notice.
It's quick and dirty and brutal. Though he's no stranger to rough treatment he's always been lucid enough to ask for it, or at the very least choke his assent out between thrusts that punch the air from his lungs. Now there's no disguising it as anything more than Hubert's possessive streak manifest. As if hearing the redhead thoughts he gives a breathless little laugh, and hitches one of his knees up for a deeper angle.
“Do...do you have any idea...what—ah—what that did to me? Seeing you like that? Someone else’s whore.” He drives in hard enough to kiss some terrible spot inside him, leaving Ferdinand's scream lost in his makeshift gag. It's sodden through already with his own spit whilst his hair slowly mattes to his tear-drenched cheeks.
Time seems to slip sideways as that sickly rhythm builds, and he's only aware in the vaguest sense of the lips pressed to his throat curling back to let teeth sink in deep and hold. Whether it's moments or hours later he can't swear to, but that unmistakable stutter of Hubert's hips marking the end drops him back into himself with a horrifying new clarity.
His feverish daze seems to be breaking, at least enough for him to focus on Hubert's features for the first time in a while. Whatever venom he'd found there before seems to have drained away. Perhaps that's what he feels spilling out down his over-sensitive folds, cooling rapidly as it pools on the polished desk surface beneath him.
When his eyes slide closed time must slip again. This time, lowering his gaze from the ceiling finds the Imperial Minister silhouetted in his doorway, face cast in featureless shadow by the light spilling in from the hall behind him.
“You're an embarrassment to your standing. Clean yourself up.”