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If he were to characterize him, Sylvain would say Dimitri is a man of many possibilities.
He hadn’t considered that Dimitri’s plush tits leaking in Sylvain’s mouth one day would be among said possibilities, but he’s not complaining. Not with his mouth full.
Dimitri feels too good to be embarrassed. Which is to say, he doesn’t seem to notice for a moment.
His back bending off the mattress, seeking after more pressure—it isn’t until one of Sylvain’s moans sounds more like a gurgle that Dimitri opens his eye, bright and pretty against his flushed red face, looks at Sylvain, and slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Oh— Saints— Sylvain, I— I am so sorry.“ He pulls up and off of Sylvain’s face, another hand planted over his tit, milk just barely trickling through his fingers, probably, Sylvain thinks, because of how hard he’s pressing.
Sylvain licks his lips, props himself up on his elbows. “Rude, Dima,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “I wasn’t finished.”
“Sylvain.” Dimitri’s tone manages an interesting mix of embarrassed reproach and whiny-king-likes-his-tits-sucked, but-let’s-not-be-coarse-about-it-please.
Cute, Sylvain thinks.
“Listen,” Sylvain says, and sits up to join Dimitri, closing the distance Dimitri was dithering in. “You’re hot as fuck, I love your tits, and you have to trust me when I say that you’re delicious. I’m the leading culinary expert on this one, the only known sampler of the king’s milk.” He waves a hand. “Which was true before but, y’know, euphemistically.”
Dimitri was redder but less mortified, because now he had his eye narrowed at Sylvain.
“I know this is your roundabout way of being helpful, but I don’t know if I endorse it,” he mutters. It does seem to do something for him though, because he lets his arm fall away from his chest.
“Sylvain,” he says again. “What’s wrong with me?”
There’s a plaintive note to his voice that Sylvain can’t stand. He lays a hand on the side of Dimitri’s face, and uses the other to chase down a drop of milk with his thumb.
Wiping it on the sheets seems like an insult and a waste. Sylvain licks it up instead. Dimitri tracks the movement with a torn fascination he may or may not recognize as lust.
Sylvain knows it, though.
“Honestly, Dima, I think you’re probably fine,” he says gently. “This isn’t totally unheard of, you know. And, uh, to be honest, it’s probably the result of how much you—that is, we, love playing with your tits.”
Dimitri gives a dubious look. “You’ve know other men to… leak, like this?”
Sylvain offers up a smile. “I’ve known other men who’ve actively sought to leak like this. With varying success.”
Half assuaged, frowning lightly, Dimitri says, “You’ve kept strange company, haven’t you?”
“Dima, darling,” Sylvain says and lowers his mouth slowly, giving Dimitri time to intercept. He doesn’t. “I don’t think you can exactly judge.”
Dimitri shudders when Sylvain flicks his tongue over his nipple. It seems almost reflexive, the way he grabs at Sylvain’s hair.
“No,” Dimitri admits, voice sweetly strained, “I suppose not.”
//
A man of possibilities. Dimitri’s best and worst instincts live near to the surface of him. Anything Dimitri decides to be is thrown into sharp relief by everything he has been, and could be again.
Sylvain loves him for it. Maybe that’s cruel, given how, if he had the choice, Dimitri would probably live as a mild and unremarkable man. His whole life spent in the middle, safe from any extremes, just like he’d tried and failed pretending at for so long.
But maybe the opposite would be the callous thing. Loving Dimitri for what he impersonated. Understandable, maybe, to prefer it: if you’ve seen Dimitri crush a skull, it might be a little hard to reconcile, watching him knit a blanket for Dedue’s newborn.
Sylvain himself was too good at acting; even getting caught seemed like a part of the pretend, and maybe it was. Dimitri’s honesty, then, is endlessly attractive to him. It unbridles something in Sylvain to see Dimitri embracing, bit by bit, the duality of himself.
In this way, they free each other.
When they’re intimate, and Dimitri handles Sylvain just so, trusts himself to say yes to what he wants and that Sylvain will say no to what he doesn’t—Sylvain’s brain lights up, his spine uncurls, they are someplace new together, on their own terms.
Dimitri tonight is atop him. A little unusual, but it had been that way from the moment their last diplomatic engagement was through.
Once alone, Dimitri had crowded Sylvain up against a door and put teeth to his throat with a need that confirmed what Sylvain suspected all afternoon and evening—Dimitri was unsettled, desperate, had caught an itch in his bones.
Sylvain smiled then, with Dimitri’s incisors over his pulse point, because it meant Dimitri saw Sylvain and knew it was where he would find his relief.
Sylvain undressed them—he liked these pants, wanted them to live another day—and took great pleasure in how Dimitri all but threw him onto their bed.
Dimitri’s weight now seated over Sylvain’s torso feels right. It feels fucking good to be pinned by him, that which could destroy him and never would, that which held him in place in more ways than one.
“Whatever you want, Dima,” Sylvain gasps out with Dimitri’s hands kneading at Sylvain’s tits, his mouth busy marking up his collarbone, still just a warm-up for what would come. “Take it, I want you to have it. It’s what I need from you, too.”
Dimitri sat up and his face was hungry and open, his eyepatch on the floor with the rest of their clothes. He considers Sylvain with a hand still on Sylvain’s chest and Sylvain sucks in a breath.
Dimitri was devastating to look at, in all sorts of ways, in all manner of light.
In this moment, he resembles so many different shades of himself: the animal, the king, the general. There was something of the prince he once was, in the way he leans forward and catches Sylvain’s mouth in a kiss that’s almost painfully earnest.
Sylvain knew the gesture. It meant trust, and affection, and the gratitude that, when gifted by Dimitri, weighed twice as much as gold and could buy things currency never could. What they had between them, for instance.
“Me too,” Sylvain whispers against his mouth. “I love you. I’m all yours.”
Dimitri pulls back, brushes Sylvain’s hair from his face with one hand, and with the other, grasps his own tit, arching into his palm.
“You’re beautiful, Sylvain,” he says, voice hoarse, from the work of the day or the depth of his need.
Sylvain is smiling when Dimitri leans over him, then opens gratefully to accept Dimitri’s tit in his mouth. He works a hand over the other one, thumbing at the nipple, weighing it in his grasp, while Dimitri snakes an arm down between them to take both their cocks in his grip.
Where Sylvain needed more finesse than force with his mouth—tugging at Dimitri’s nipple carefully with his teeth, worrying it lightly, anything to make Dimitri hiss and curse—his grip on Dimitri’s other tit is rough, possessive. The soft but solid give of Dimitri’s chest fits so satisfyingly in his palm.
Sylvain licks and bites and gropes and as he does he wants blindly for a thing he can’t name, just—more. Dimitri’s body, abundant and whole and bare. There are times the fullness of Sylvain’s need almost frightens him. The strange, metaphysical desire to be coupled with Dimitri is so overwhelming that he thinks his hands might slip right through Dimitri one day, if he gripped too hard. Once inside, he might never want to leave.
Dimitri groans and Sylvain’s want only surges, impossibly. He takes to sucking hard at Dimitri’s nipple then laving over it with broad strokes of his tongue in turns.
They make a good pair, he thinks. If ever Dimitri thought himself odd—judged himself for how wild it drove him to have his tits sucked, or for the satisfaction Sylvain recognized on his face watching Sylvain swallow down his milk—then equally as strange was Sylvain with his mouth open, begging for the privilege.
It had to be nearly there, Dimitri’s milk; Sylvain knows from touch, from experience. Their cocks leak over each other, twitching in Dimitri’s hand—it wouldn’t last much longer now, not with Dimitri’s hot grip and diligence, not with Sylvain whining around the flesh in his mouth.
Dimitri sits up and Sylvain has new reason to whine, empty now, and Dimitri’s hand gone from his cock. Dimitri takes deep, ragged breaths, and his heaving chest gleams. Sylvain’s spit catches in the light, shiny around Dimitri’s swollen nipples, his areola, run down the crease of his pecs.
Dimitri looks down at him, eye dark with want. He licks his lips before making a bigger mess of his chest, coming to palm both his tits, his hand messy, and he smears their precum over his skin.
“Fuck,” Sylvain says, and he reaches down helplessly to jerk his cock in rough movements.
Dimitri nods almost absently in approval and shuffles to sit higher on Sylvain’s torso. He settles back and works over his tits with deep, thorough movements, like he’s savoring, but the edge to his movements forecasts how quickly he’ll devolve into something more frantic.
Rough noises from the back of Dimitri’s throat put Sylvain in mind of how Dimitri sounds while being fucked. The sensitivity of the king’s tits were a wonder. Sylvain grabs his sac and presses, trying to stave off coming just from watching Dimitri’s desperate squeezing, the feel of how he rolls his hips like he were riding Sylvain’s dick, his balls a wet, satisfying weight on Sylvain’s stomach.
“Sylvain,” he says suddenly, sounding urgent and parched, and from the curve of his spine, Sylvain knows what’s coming.
Sylvain nods, says please, says it twice more.
Dimitri leans over, flushed down his chest, and squeezes the milk from his tits onto Sylvain’s face with a moan like he’d already come, like he was coming just then.
He misses Sylvain’s mouth, coats his chin, glazes his cheekbones, but if he feels anything like Sylvain does, the mess is the point. Sylvain sticks his tongue out far, like a man in a drought desperate for the taste of rain.
“Good,” Dimitri says, low and fervent, and the tacit praise blooms hot in Sylvain’s spine. “You look so good like that, Sylvain.”
“Yeah?” Sylvain says, breathless. “How do I look?” He swipes through the milk on his face and rubs round his own nipple, tweaking it with a sharp intake of breath.
Dimitri’s gaze zeroes in and he does the same, wipes his milk from Sylvain’s face and neck down over Sylvain’s chest. When that doesn’t appear to satisfy his want, Dimitri massages his tits once more, presses them against Sylvain’s and rubs, smearing milk between them. Sylvain groans, throws his head back. The pressure is amazing; his hand isn’t even on his dick now but he feels it throb.
The air hits the wet mess on his tits when Dimitri sits up, warmth gone, and Sylvain hisses. He watches with lidded eyes as Dimitri pulls his body up along the length of Sylvain’s until his intent is clear.
Sylvain grabs his own tits, wet and sticky, and mashes them together to make proper cleavage.
“No one could mistake you,” Dimitri answers at last, and lines his cock up in the crease of Sylvain’s tits. “Like this, you look like you belong to me.”
Sylvain only whines, his brain a flood of feeling, and then his tongue is put to better use than words. He laps at Dimitri’s cockhead when it nudges his bottom lip, pushed near by his rutting. The glide is slick and easy with Dimitri’s milk, and distantly, Sylvain thinks it’s funny that he wasn’t the one who’d thought of this.
The next thing he thinks, when coherent thought is an option again, is how claimed he must look, the slut of his own dreams, with Dimitri’s come all over his face, mixing with what hasn’t dried of his milk, the blend dripping down into his hair.
Then Dimitri is slicking Sylvain’s cock—oil, not milk, they are practical men on some level—and when he lines himself up and sinks down Sylvain doesn’t have spare capacity for thinking much at all; save for one tangle of gratitude flashing abstract in his brain. How good it is to know Dimitri. How strange it is to be known in return. To be trusted, to be loved, to be fed so well.