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Stockings were something Sylvain did for himself.
In younger days he’d only understood half the equation. How to dress to say something to others. It sounds ridiculous even to him, to say that he’s grown—but 29 is far from 19. Even if it feels like he could open a door in an unused part of the manor, and there young Sylvain would be: fresh off never graduating academy, old war at his back and a new one at his front. Big as he’d ever known, smaller than he’d ever be again.
So, tumult, and he understood that. It had simmered down inside him to something not so terrifying or imminent, less and less in need of attention. Maybe aging had something to do with that. But if the war had never stopped, or they’d tumbled into a new one, there wouldn’t have been time to learn himself this way. Idle likes and dislikes that only time and peace guaranteed.
Aging as a synonym for survival but not security. Sylvain is lucky all the same. For a lazy afternoon; for clean clothes and a quiet room; for light through the windows, and a full length mirror he hasn’t hated in months, years.
He is lucky for a body. He has decided this and had it decided for him. The latter is choosing to say, thanks, I guess, for bearing me through all that, alive and all.
The former is moments like now. When he pulls on a pair of stockings just because. He runs his hands down the plane of his stomach, his thighs and ass, and finds he’s been shaped smooth and tight.
A private little joy flares warm in him then. It’s nearly a physical feeling. A loose, excited energy in his limbs, and he becomes indulgent with himself.
There was a time when that could only mean hedonism, a void to chase and an excuse for never finding it full. Now it’s Sylvain rubbing his legs against each other just for the feel of it and for the luxurious sense it feeds back to his brain.
He feels soft and hot. Sensual. He imagines himself and there’s no one else in mind when he does. Sometimes he’ll jerk off teasing and slow, wearing just the tights and maybe a loose shirt—arching his back and grabbing at the sheets, shooting across his own stomach with a low, weak cry, like he’s too undone for anything else.
Made a mess of myself, he might think afterward, boneless and spent. Goddess how that phrase has evolved for him. Debauchery doesn’t come at the same cost as it used to. Paying the price, the way everyone always said he would, isn’t much more now than the coin spent for new nylons, maybe a tube of lipstick if the mood strikes.
What comes completely free is the look on Felix’s face, whenever he happens to find his husband dressed down this way.
Stockings are something Sylvain does for himself. What’s mine is yours, Sylvain swore in their vows.
That was another thing Sylvain learned and relearned—unlike taking or giving, one doesn’t lose anything to share.
-
A clock starts when Felix comes in the door. Sylvain knows it, Felix probably does too, except he’s the one time-keeping. Things happen on his say so.
“Hey sweetheart,” Sylvain says, full warmth; Felix’s been gone all day, visiting local leaders, and his cheeks are wind-chapped, his gait heavier than normal.
Sylvain stands and stretches. His shirt is buttoned to the throat, but beneath that he wears only a pair of nylons. Near-sheer, shaded dark where they stretch around his thick thighs, and more opaque where the meat of his legs strain them less.
He looks good. He knows he looks good, the shape of his calves and thighs, and even the parts Felix isn’t privy to currently; his ass is full and firm, the hair of his stomach trails below the waistband, a suggestion of what’s to be had beneath the gift wrap of his stockings.
Felix sheds his coat and gloves and steps right into Sylvain’s space without the courtesy of a hello. He looks at Sylvain with dark, considering eyes. The he hooks a finger in Sylvain’s collar to pull him down to a kiss.
Felix gets his mouth on Sylvain’s like it’s obvious, natural, inevitable as gravity. It’s insistent and deeper than a greeting—licking the roof of Sylvain’s mouth is a claim more than a salutation, which is a shame for the world of diplomacy.
All that, like Sylvain wouldn’t notice Felix’s hand on his hip, thumbing the waistband of his stockings.
Seems that maybe the Duke has had a long day. This is possibly the fastest Felix has ever put aside pretending that he can just ignore Sylvain looking this way. Sylvain isn’t just smug; he’s proud of Felix, too.
“Just sitting around like this?” Felix accuses, hands on both sides of Sylvain’s hips and gripping.
“Did some paperwork,” Sylvain says easily, and loops his arms around Felix’s neck, presses close to the skin there. “Thought about edging myself ‘till you got here, but I know you’d hate to be put out of work.”
Felix’s hold on him goes tighter. It’s not an unconscious gesture.
“Signing off reports with one hand and fucking yourself on another,” Felix exhales, like this is par for the course. “The Margrave Fraldarius may be a slut,” Felix palms Sylvain’s ass beneath his shirt, “but it can’t be said he doesn’t get the job done.”
“Saints, Fe.” Sylvain arches his back, pushes into Felix’s steady hands.
“No fucking smalls, hm? Couldn’t be bothered?“ Felix ignores him, muttering beneath his breath, shoving his way between Sylvain’s asscheeks and probing for modesty he won’t find. “Why you even get dressed is beyond me.”
“Felix,” Sylvain says, almost chiding. “As fun as it would be to keep me naked in our bed all day, slicked up and ready for you—“ Sylvain starts to work on his buttons, looking up through his lashes, and Felix’s hands usurp the task at once.
“See?” Sylvain says. “You don’t like when someone does your work for you. You wanna get your hands dirty.”
Felix rolls his eyes and bares Sylvain’s torso, smacks his tits and makes them bounce, both as retaliation for Sylvain’s innuendo—tit-for-tat, Sylvain absolutely doesn’t say—and because Felix’s irritation with his own love of Sylvain’s chest is an open secret between them.
Sylvain pulls Felix forward by his ass till they’re flush together. He might be acting out of turn but he needs the friction; his dick’s been filling out since Felix first called him by his preference of their joint surnames.
Felix rolls his hips, even as he shakes his head, then clicks his tongue. The calculating look he gives Sylvain makes his dick twitch.
“Turn around,” he says. “Hands on the desk. Show me how you manage to get work done like this.”
“Felix,” he says, emphasis on the first syllable like: all that’ll happen here is you’ll make me drool on my papers, then mock me for it—but his dick twitches again and he has to concede. Nothing to complain about, actually.
Sylvain does as he’s told; bends over and presents himself, makes a real show of it—back arched and ass up, he acts out how hot he feels when he’s alone rolling in his sheets. It feels just as good, maybe better.
“So do you want me to pretend to write?” he asks. “Or is this how we should handle—“
A slap rings out in their chamber. Pain blooms over his ass and Sylvain chokes back a gasp.
“Yeah, okay, that works,” Sylvain groans. “Got any more for me?” He hardly needs to goad but he wants to see how far his mouth can take him.
The next strike is harder, predictably. Felix says, “I should gag you with these stockings, then. That your angle?”
“No angle babe,” Sylvain says, and takes another blow with a grateful hiss. “You’ll put me where I belong, I know.”
A pause. “Even when you agree it feels like a con,” Felix mutters, running a reverent hand over Sylvain’s ass.
Sylvain smiles and takes a few more blows, the burn of them radiating out across his skin. He whines, tosses his head, keeps on tiptoes and chases Felix’s hand.
Playing the part of the wanton slut is his way of actually being the wanton slut. The line blurs, like the way to ease himself into it is to pretend. He loses himself to what feels good to them both.
He grates out a low, unthinking sound when Felix lines himself up and grinds his still-clothed dick between the cleft of Sylvain’s ass cheeks. Fuck, that’s not fair.
Sylvain’s been waiting. Sylvain’s been good. “Please,” he says, swallowing down a mouthful of spit. “Fe, c’mon. Wanna be full of you already.”
“Eager,” Felix names him, like there’s any good reason to be dry-humping when Sylvain is expressly ready to be used.
The stretch of Sylvain’s dick tenting his nylons is ridiculous. Hot, but ridiculous. The wet spot on their front is even worse, precum beading up through the thin material. The friction is only enough to make him want more, his hips snapping stupidly against air.
At least Felix has him to rut against.
“Baby,” he says. “Please.” Sylvain reaches behind himself, holding position with just his core strength when he slips his hands beneath his nylons. Without pulling them down—since Felix didn’t see fit to fucking undress him—Sylvain spreads his asscheeks open beneath them.
Invitation and plea in one. This has to be enough. It would wreck Sylvain, were it Felix baring his hole like that, and his face does go a little hot. He’s not totally shameless.
“Fuck,” Felix breaths, sounding nearly irritated. As he usually is, when his composure falters. “Alright then,” he hisses, “if you need it so badly.”
Sylvain presses his forehead to his desk when he hears Felix undoing his pants. He hooks his thumbs in his own waistband but Felix slaps his hand.
“No,” he says. “You begged, not chose.”
Saints, Felix’s voice. The hook it gets in Sylvain, overriding everything. Sylvain plants his elbows on the desk, arms flat against it. Felix makes an approving sound and leans forward over Sylvain’s back.
Sylvain shorts out at the glint of his own silver letter opener in Felix’s fist.
Felix doesn’t play coy. That could be for another day, the whole day, really. Felix and his favorite knife and all Sylvain’s skin he could want. A song they’ve sung before, always more trust than blood.
Today, now, Felix pricks the fabric and splits Sylvain’s tights right over his asshole.
Sylvain clenches, shivers. He can feel the material give, taut as it was. The rasp as it tore sounded curt like punctuation, the end-stop of a line.
He can’t stop imagining how it looks. Sylvain’s a decorated general, Lord of two territories. He sits on the king’s counsel and he’s married to the second most powerful man in the continent.
Right now, his hole is exposed like it’s the most useful thing he has to offer. A cocksleeve. A clutch for convenience.
“Felix,” he says, a note of urgency, needy even to his own ears.
Willfully obstuse, Felix says, “Don’t whine. I’ll buy you more.”
He leaves Sylvain bent over and leaking, flexing his toes in the carpet. When Felix returns it’s to pour oil over Sylvain’s asshole, too much—Sylvain can feel it run down his leg, matting his stockings.
Sylvain squirms, fucks back against nothing. Felix tears the stockings a little wider, working his hand in and he pulls one of Sylvain’s asscheeks to the side.
Then comes the slap of his cock against Sylvain’s hole. Sylvain could whimper, could beg. Might curse. Felix slides up the wet crease of him, and for a moment Sylvain thinks he’s gonna push in, let his dick do the stretching, for all Sylvain’s insides should have the shape memorized.
Then Felix replaces his cockhead with a thumb, petting over Sylvain’s rim.
“You do it,” Felix says suddenly. “Open yourself up. Do it how you think I would.”
“Fuck,” Sylvain says, winded, and he grinds his forehead against his desk. He’s so hard it hurts. “What’s gotten into you?”
It’s not a question he expects to have answered. But—
“You look good like this,” Felix says, more fact than sentiment. “You know it, too. I like when you know it.”
His voice is low and intense. Sylvain knows he’s tracking every movement Sylvain makes to swipe up oil, line up his fingers, and he teases his rim for Felix’s viewing pleasure.
“Does kind of make me wanna mess you up, though,” Felix adds, voice even lower.
Sylvain’s short on words, caught between too much, all too large. That’s Felix for you. Two nice things from his mouth and the third’s a blow: bruising the apple soft then taking a bite.
Sylvain’s weak for him. He’s more exposed by simple, straightforward talk than he is fingering himself open while Felix watches.
“Good,” Felix says, quietly, when Sylvain sinks in to the last knuckle after a bit more teasing—an imitation of the preamble Felix will dole out when he’s feeling mean, which is often.
The angle’s not ideal for hitting his prostate, but sweat pools on his lower back as it is. Once he’s full enough it won’t even matter. Sylvain adds another finger and fucks into himself. Short and quick thrusts, just a little rough.
“Sylvain,” Felix says, voice gone a bit tight. Gratification sweetens the heat in Sylvain’s gut.
Felix plants a hand on his back and works a finger in alongside Sylvain’s own. That feeling in his stomach flares, liquor on the fire pit. Felix’s finger is crooked to rub firmly against his prostate; Sylvain gasps out a cry at first contact.
Things are so fucking tight, their fingers a hot, slick press, working against each other on Sylvain’s insides. His body is becoming rapidly irrelevant. He’s just a collection of sensations mapped to a brain overwhelmed by need. Need more. Need him to keep doing what he’s doing. Need to come; need to come around Felix’s cock.
“Fe,” he pants, rolling his hips back onto their fingers.
“Yeah,” Felix says, because they know one another, all the little sounds. “I’ve got you.”
They pull out with a wet squelch. Sylvain’s hole flexes around nothing for a moment before Felix presses into him slowly, and they groan, tandem in different pitches.
Felix fucks him like Sylvain fucked himself imagining it was him. Slow and deep to drive him up the wall. Then, when savoring is off the table and they’re just animals for it, Felix turns relentless.
Fast, hard, he claims Sylvain from the inside, drives him out of himself. No room for anything that isn’t how good Felix feels fucking him.
“Yeah, fuck— Felix.” Sylvain’s scrabbling at the desk top for purchase as he’s fucked forward, shoving papers to the floor to preserve them.
He hears Felix huff a laugh behind him, and Sylvain clenches hard to spite him, hear him hiss, but he can ill-afford to do so—he’s dangerously close to coming untouched.
Felix knows his body, he’s fucking right into his prostate every time. It feels like a game of chicken. Like a prize he’s fever dreaming, Sylvain thinks that if he holds out, staves off the melting feeling, there’ll be a reward in it for him.
He plays dirty. Rolls the waistband of his tights down to finally free his dick, but leaves it pressing down on his balls. Doesn’t touch himself which, fuck, gargantuan effort. Next he bears down again, fucks himself onto Felix’s dick. Felix’s hands go bruising on his waist.
“Fe,” he slurs. “Feels so good, baby. You’re, ah, exactly what I need.” Sylvain wipes at his mouth, messy, fruitless, it’s like Felix fucks the drool out of him on each thrust. Even so— “Harder, c’mon, I can take it. Wanna feel you when I sit down.”
Felix obliges, as though there were anywhere left to go. Sylvain’s not gonna last. Sylvain’s burning and wet, and the sound of Felix’s balls slapping against him, the sheer dominance of him at Sylvain’s back, Sylvain can’t—
“Come inside, baby. Let me take your load, please, please, I’m so empty,” he’s babbling, his dick is throbbing, but he hears Felix curse, and he bends over Sylvain’s back, sinks his teeth into Sylvain’s shoulder. Sylvain feels Felix cock pulse inside him, a hard and momentary flex, and then he’s so much wetter, fuller, and still wavering on that precipice.
Felix stays draped over him, breathing hard against Sylvain’s neck while Sylvain blinks back honest to goodness tears. His situation is getting painful. When Felix pulls out with a wet, sucking sound, Sylvain feels come dribble hot down his inner thigh. He drives his fingernails into his palms and turns around with some effort.
Felix is wiping his dick with a handkerchief, the fucking bastard, and does not offer it up to Sylvain. Sylvain watches his gaze track down the length of his body to his cock, swollen and red.
Sylvain is gonna say—something. Please? Haven’t I been good?
But Felix hushes him, “Yeah. Yeah, just a sec,” sounding a little like he’s been taken for a ride himself.
Felix crosses the fucking room and Sylvain almost howls. Wants to pin Felix and jerk off over his face, because Felix likes that too and at least that would be mutual.
But then Felix is back. His hair is down. He offers something to Sylvain—Sylvain’s own lipstick: a dark, dark red.
“Help me with this,” he says, and parts his lips expectantly.
Sylvain looks at him dumbly. He suddenly does or doesn’t own a dick; it may or may not still need something from him. He doesn’t remember.
“You wanted something for winning, didn’t you?” Felix asks, and cuts a look at Sylvain up through his lashes. As sly as he gets.
Sylvain gives a strangled sound and makes his hands work. The precision he summons to apply lipstick to Felix’s beautifully pliant mouth surprises him. He thought he’d be shaking. The whole time Felix watches him with this dark, heady look. Sylvain feels it in his peripherals, but all his focus is on Felix’s lips, his tongue, the white wet shine of his teeth.
He feels breathless by the time he’s done. His dick an absent ache. Felix smiles, says “Thank you,” and that alone could double Sylvain over.
Felix plants one kiss on his lips, smearing the lipstick between them, and another, pristine on his neck. Then he lowers to his knees, tears the front of Sylvain’s stockings, too, and goes to work.
The darkest flush of Sylvain’s dick can’t compete with the red of Felix’s mouth. Pretty, Sylvain thinks and naturally, he means Felix.
But he thinks he includes himself, too.