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Sylvain leaned forward on his elbows, casting his shadow on the chess board between them. When he echoed Dimitri, his voice was shades more serious than it’d been the moment before.
“Both?”
From the settee, Felix cut Dimitri a sharp look and set his book aside. “Can you even take us?”
“I’ve had nearly a year of preparation, really,” Dimitri said. He rubbed his thumb over the bishop he’d taken off Sylvain. “The two of you have no small appetite.”
“Pot, kettle,” Felix scoffed, and moved to sit nearer. “All that and you only want more.”
“Careful, Fe. You only barely made that sound like a complaint.” Sylvain turned his smile on Dimitri. “You’re sure then, Dima? You’ve thought about it?”
Dimitri swallowed. Really, he felt greedy, and Felix had it right. The more they gave the more he wanted. Just what malformed facet of his personality made him need so damn much, he couldn’t say.
Maybe it was the years of deprivation. A decade spent convinced he wanted for nothing and deserved even less—only to find himself between two people who only looked happier the more he asked of them.
That sort of encouragement would do something to a man’s imagination, expand its bounds. Dimitri had an ache, and maybe the ache had no edges. Maybe both of them inside him together would prove that wrong.
They still waited on an answer. Had he considered it, well and truly?
How to say it? That he’d entertained the idea so often he felt bereft of a feeling he’d never felt. The phantom ache of where they should be, housed in him.
Dimitri cleared his throat. Went for honesty. “Over the last two moons, if I’ve ever seemed distracted…”
He watched Felix’s grip tighten on Sylvain’s knee. Sylvain didn’t seem to feel it; he cursed softly, voice awed.
“Well said.” Dimitri smiled. “Fuck, indeed.”
//
Dimitri tested his wants on his body himself.
In his rare moments alone he’d take his cock in hand, bury inside him the biggest toy they owned, maybe fit fingers in alongside. Sometimes he was waiting for them to find him like that, other times, he’d simply been too empty to wait at all.
He fucked himself and he pictured it like this: Felix, sharp and watchful and wicked when he wanted to be. Sylvain, who could be even worse, and harder to see coming because he’d still sound so sweet.
Caught between them, they’d make his strength irrelevant, leave him with no responsibilities. Manhandle him the way he likes. Adjust his position like a doll, pet his hair out of his eyes.
He can barely imagine how tight he’d be. Stretched within and surrounded without, all that skin and heat, both of them pressing close to fit. He’d hold them against each other inside of him and he’d be full like he craved. There’d be no doubt as to who he belonged to. He would know himself claimed.
The sounds they’d make—Sylvain, who would soothe him through it while they pushed in: You’ve got it. Nearly there, sweetheart. Felix, who might simply say, voice like a bite, You’re so fucking hot inside, Mitya. And Dimitri, even in his daydreams, could only imagine himself begging.
That is very nearly how it happens, only better than he’d ever been kind enough to himself to dream.
//
The benefit of all their careful forethought is now that Dimitri’s brain has shorted out, there isn’t much he actually needs to say.
He groaned when Felix and Sylvain’s come leaked down his thigh, sluggish and warm. No matter how tightly he clenched to keep it in: they’d fucked him into the shape of them, pliant and well-used.
Only that needful sound, and Sylvain smiled indulgently, swiped up their spend, and fucked it back inside Dimitri with three fingers.
And when Dimitri whined, licked his lips and fucked back against Sylvain, Felix said, in a low voice, eyes intent on Dimitri’s face, I think he wants some.
Sylvain pulled out with a sloppy noise, the sound of Dimitri’s unwillingness to let him leave. It sent a little tremor up Dimitri’s spine to hear it. He sounded like that, loose and wet, just as they’d made him, all because he asked them to.
Felix gathered come from the crease between Dimitri’s ass and thigh, circled Dimitri’s open mouth with his finger. He painted Dimitri’s lips messily and wiped the leftover on his tongue.
“Pretty,” Sylvain said, voice low and appreciative. Felix smirked at Dimitri as if to agree.
Then Felix said, “Keep it open,” but Dimitri’d been on his back for them countless times before, even if this was the most choreographed yet. He’d have kept his tongue out all night if they never said swallow.
Felix gripped Dimitri’s jaw with force the right side of too-firm. Dimitri liked to feel it, strength used against him, for how clear it made the difference between the same act with none of the love behind it.
For that reason it could be called tender, when Felix spat into Dimitri’s open mouth.
As Dimitri had put it once, just because I can’t taste, it doesn’t mean I don’t like to eat. That only started being true after the three of them agreed that what they had was no dalliance, and reordered their lives accordingly.
Felix jerked his head at Sylvain, and Sylvain crawled over the mess of Dimitri’s body to the mess of his mouth.
He held himself above Dimitri. Ever one for style, Sylvain let spit collect on his tongue, let it drip from a height to mingle with Felix’s, with both their spend, probably laced with the oil they’d used to fit inside him together.
Their faces, watching him swallow what they fed him of themselves for the second time that night—would anything ever make Dimitri feel more sated? More simultaneously sought and possessed? Dimitri couldn’t say. If there was, between the three of them, they’d likely find it.