Dedue Molinaro (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
donoteattheweeds) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gachabox2024-12-03 04:36 pm
donoteattheweeds) wrote in gachabox2024-12-03 04:36 pm
how many tropes can i smash into one psl
The war has ended. Dimitri's claim to the throne of Faerghus-- and the new territories won by conquest-- is secure, and he has stalwart allies who will work tirelessly to keep him there. Progress has been made on many fronts, including the sovereignty of Duscur, despite the pushback from the old guard of Faerghus. While there are many who support His Majesty's new policies, there are an equal number who vocally oppose his deviation from tradition.
It is truly unfortunate that rumors of Sylvain's... dishonor should come to light in these delicate times.
As the margrave's only heir, his ability to inherit is paramount to Dimitri's plans for peace with Sreng. As an omega, his position is perilous-- both valuable for continuing the Gautier bloodline, but precarious in that his value could be easily tarnished. And Sylvain has always been reckless, both in battle and, apparently, in his personal affairs. It has left the margrave now in a poor bargaining position for suitors, with an unwed omegan son plagued by gossip, stripped of what virtue he had. The most advantageous matches would be out of his reach now-- Dedue had heard whispers that the Margrave intended to leverage his son's relationship with His Majesty to angle for a truly grand leap in status-- and all that would be available were those who either could not leverage their own better matches, or would take pity on a ruined reputation.
His Majesty had spoken to Dedue at length about it in the very late hours of the night, his concern driving him to sleeplessness. He had voiced the possibility that he might offer to marry Sylvain himself, even though it would be politically ruinous and would cut him off not only from a more advantageous match, but even from a true love match one day. While it was a noble sentiment, while it spoke well of Dimitri's character to not want to leave his beloved friend to a cruel fate, it was also an eventuality that Dedue could not allow. Both for love of His Majesty, and for the good of Fodlan.
The way forward was, at least to him, easy enough to decide. As a man of Duscur, even one beloved by the king, he was not a favorable match in Faerghus; as a vassal, he is at His Majesty's command. It was unlikely that he would have ever had the opportunity to marry for love, and it would have been quite likely that he would have eventually been arranged a political marriage by His Majesty. And, of course, Dimitri would have done so gently and considerately, finding someone whom he could have a tolerable, if perhaps passionless, union. This is the kind of situation that his status is suitable for; the margrave is in no position to refuse his offer, both for lack of better prospects and because he would risk the anger of his king.
Dedue offers. Dimitri frets, as he is wont to do, and hesitates, and asks Dedue over and over if he truly would be all right with it. Dedue reassures him, as he is also wont to do.
In truth, it is not entirely out of altruism that Dedue would wed Sylvain. There had been a time, when they were nothing more than students at the monastery, that he had been... very fond of the time that he spent with Sylvain, and had not been blind to the fact that Sylvain is handsome and charming. It had all been impossible, of course, Dedue was a lowly vassal and Sylvain the margrave's son, and Dedue had relegated his feelings to nothing more than admiration from afar. But now--
But the margrave had accepted the offer, presented to him by His Majesty on Dedue's behalf. The wedding had been planned, a slightly rushed affair because of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding it. Byleth had presided, Dedue had stood before the assembled nobility of Faerghus and His Majesty and swore love and faithfulness to Sylvain. When he looks back on it, the whole affair was surreal, like something out of a strange dream.
And, as Sylvain's husband, there are certain marital duties that he must perform. Ones that are imminent, unavoidable, and vital for their marriage to be considered legitimate. The last thing that Sylvain needs is for anyone to spread more rumors about the legitimacy of his marriage, now that he has obtained one. Pressing, one might even say, as he endured Sylvain's scent becoming sweet and warm with impending heat, as he stands in their bedroom with the nesting blankets piled high on their marriage bed, waiting for his husband to arrange them as he pleases. Control was easier when Sylvain's scent wasn't honey-sweet, so lovely that Dedue was hard-pressed not to rest his face in the crook of his husband's neck and breathe it deep. As Sylvain's husband-- his alpha-- it's supposed to be his duty and his privilege to comfort him through his heat. As the man who wed Sylvain out of convenience and to save him from his own fallen reputation, it would be distasteful to even touch him without permission.
It leaves him at something of an uncomfortable impasse.
It is truly unfortunate that rumors of Sylvain's... dishonor should come to light in these delicate times.
As the margrave's only heir, his ability to inherit is paramount to Dimitri's plans for peace with Sreng. As an omega, his position is perilous-- both valuable for continuing the Gautier bloodline, but precarious in that his value could be easily tarnished. And Sylvain has always been reckless, both in battle and, apparently, in his personal affairs. It has left the margrave now in a poor bargaining position for suitors, with an unwed omegan son plagued by gossip, stripped of what virtue he had. The most advantageous matches would be out of his reach now-- Dedue had heard whispers that the Margrave intended to leverage his son's relationship with His Majesty to angle for a truly grand leap in status-- and all that would be available were those who either could not leverage their own better matches, or would take pity on a ruined reputation.
His Majesty had spoken to Dedue at length about it in the very late hours of the night, his concern driving him to sleeplessness. He had voiced the possibility that he might offer to marry Sylvain himself, even though it would be politically ruinous and would cut him off not only from a more advantageous match, but even from a true love match one day. While it was a noble sentiment, while it spoke well of Dimitri's character to not want to leave his beloved friend to a cruel fate, it was also an eventuality that Dedue could not allow. Both for love of His Majesty, and for the good of Fodlan.
The way forward was, at least to him, easy enough to decide. As a man of Duscur, even one beloved by the king, he was not a favorable match in Faerghus; as a vassal, he is at His Majesty's command. It was unlikely that he would have ever had the opportunity to marry for love, and it would have been quite likely that he would have eventually been arranged a political marriage by His Majesty. And, of course, Dimitri would have done so gently and considerately, finding someone whom he could have a tolerable, if perhaps passionless, union. This is the kind of situation that his status is suitable for; the margrave is in no position to refuse his offer, both for lack of better prospects and because he would risk the anger of his king.
Dedue offers. Dimitri frets, as he is wont to do, and hesitates, and asks Dedue over and over if he truly would be all right with it. Dedue reassures him, as he is also wont to do.
In truth, it is not entirely out of altruism that Dedue would wed Sylvain. There had been a time, when they were nothing more than students at the monastery, that he had been... very fond of the time that he spent with Sylvain, and had not been blind to the fact that Sylvain is handsome and charming. It had all been impossible, of course, Dedue was a lowly vassal and Sylvain the margrave's son, and Dedue had relegated his feelings to nothing more than admiration from afar. But now--
But the margrave had accepted the offer, presented to him by His Majesty on Dedue's behalf. The wedding had been planned, a slightly rushed affair because of the unfortunate circumstances surrounding it. Byleth had presided, Dedue had stood before the assembled nobility of Faerghus and His Majesty and swore love and faithfulness to Sylvain. When he looks back on it, the whole affair was surreal, like something out of a strange dream.
And, as Sylvain's husband, there are certain marital duties that he must perform. Ones that are imminent, unavoidable, and vital for their marriage to be considered legitimate. The last thing that Sylvain needs is for anyone to spread more rumors about the legitimacy of his marriage, now that he has obtained one. Pressing, one might even say, as he endured Sylvain's scent becoming sweet and warm with impending heat, as he stands in their bedroom with the nesting blankets piled high on their marriage bed, waiting for his husband to arrange them as he pleases. Control was easier when Sylvain's scent wasn't honey-sweet, so lovely that Dedue was hard-pressed not to rest his face in the crook of his husband's neck and breathe it deep. As Sylvain's husband-- his alpha-- it's supposed to be his duty and his privilege to comfort him through his heat. As the man who wed Sylvain out of convenience and to save him from his own fallen reputation, it would be distasteful to even touch him without permission.
It leaves him at something of an uncomfortable impasse.
i think we can fit a few more-
For all that he acts the reckless lance-brained man, Sylvain has never been ignorant to the risks that he takes. They are calculated, even if they don't seem that way to anyone else. He simply calculates that a high probably of harm to himself is worth it. Or maybe even part of the point, he might admit on his worst days.
Even the most effective of hormone treatments is not infallible, and with the truly high number of partners Sylvain has, well... it's simple statistics. It's truly ironic how things caught up with him when he was in more of a dry spell, too busy helping with rebuilding efforts and supporting Dimitri's ascent and new policies to be as prolific in his alpha-chasing as he normally would be. Perhaps all that business means his timing was off on a dose or two, who can say.
To not put too fine a point on it, he spiraled. Suddenly realizing what had happened, he coped tremendously poorly with it. Within that breakdown, and in some cases making it worse, the initial cause of all the drama takes itself out of the equation. It leaves scars, though. Physically, emotionally, and socially. Sylvain's essentially numb throughout all of the lectures, berating. He didn't even find the defiance within himself to react when the Margrave's hand meets his face.
The haze he's in doesn't lift even when Dimitri himself comes to visit Gautier. Sylvain can tell that seeing him only increases his old friend's concern for him. He tries to put the masks back on, be somewhat of his old self, but it's more than he's capable of. There's too much to process, too much turmoil in his heart and mind. He can't untangle it. He isn't sure he wants to. When he's called in to speak with his father and Dimitri together he has some suspicions. He knows it has to have something to do with his political death, and it does occur to him to think it might be to discuss a match, to smooth things over and save Sylvain some last tiny bit of face.
He truly doesn't expect the offer to be someone he knows. Not someone he would consider a friend. He thought Dimitri or Matthais might find some nice middling noble or even a well to do tradesman. Dedue, though... it is both a relief and a fresh wave of despair at once. Someone he could consider safe... and someone who absolutely does not deserve the bear trap he's walking into. The infinite potential for Sylvain to ruin things, what gentle friendship they had, and inspire Dedue to despise him spins in his head, squeezing at his chest.
Of course he agrees. It would be a huge insult to both his king and his kindhearted vassal not to do so.
When he has a moment alone with his childhood friend, Sylvain asks him if he can really spare Dedue to be out here in the mountains with him. It's not what he truly wants to ask, but he thinks Dimitri might read it in his eyes. In any case, his king reassures him, and Sylvain allows himself a small moment of vulnerability in the way Dimitri touches their foreheads together and says that he and Dedue will be by his side, that this will pass, and it will get better. It is the most selfish Sylvain has let himself feel in a very long time.
Plans for the ceremony itself happen around him more than they involve him, but that's just fine. He doesn't get much of a chance to see the man he's meant to wed in the time leading up to it, but he hopes that in his distraction he manages not to seem cold.
He knows he seems distant during the wedding itself. He's lost to his own mind, and the whirlwind of events. And his hormones.
The triple dose he took in the fit of his pique has had the unintended consequence of re triggering the prodrome of his heat. He's felt it coming on throughout the planning of the ceremony and knows that the signs of it were in part a motivation for the haste. After all, the sooner he hits his heat and the sooner he and his new husband can consummate the marriage properly the better off everyone will be. Supposedly. In any case, the haze of its encroachment makes it hard to think, on top of the dissociation Sylvain was already fighting against. It means the first short while of their marriage goes by quickly and without Sylvain being fully present for it, and the guilt over that does gnaw at him, when his mind has room for it.
Right now, it does not. His fastidious nature is feeding into the nesting instincts and turning him into a clucking hen. He will be furious about it later, the way he always is, but for now he's fretting about their now-shared bed. And the sheets and blankets, and pillows, and a few bits of clothing- as the itch begins to ebb from being scratched, Sylvain starts becoming more and more aware of Dedue standing in the room behind him. Waiting patiently. He starts to have room for the braincells to wonder about it. They're married. This isn't the first time they've touched each other. He's clearly nesting and therefore getting close to full blown heat... why is he so far away?
Sylvain turns, leaning his hips back against the bed as he forces his eyes to focus on Dedue. He looks... uncomfortable. Sylvain isn't exactly an expert on reading the stoic man, but he's pretty sure that's what the hovering means. Even if he can't for the life of him be sure what the source of that discomfort is. His head tilts to one side like a dog considering something.
Of course the easiest explanation to come to mind is that Dedue truly did not want this. That it was done purely of duty to king and country and some small duty to a comrade in arms. A favor, if a somewhat unpleasant one. There are so many reasons why a man like Dedue would not have chosen this arrangement under better circumstances. A pit opens in his stomach and he has to swallow to keep control of his face.
He wants to tell Dedue he doesn't have to do this. That his being here and saying the vows was enough, but he knows they both know that's not really true. Anything that might call the union into question or lead to annulment would just make the situation that much worse. It would make this all be in vain. He wants to offer it anyway.
"It can't be great entertainment, watching me fuss." He tries to break the ice, first, before taking a few steps toward his new husband, looking for all the world like an unsure omega bride. Probably a strange sight to Dedue's eyes. "I want... this to be as easy as possible for you." He confesses, his soft brown eyes slanting away from Dedue, already feeling like he's failing for being so unsuave about it all.
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Dedue's rut cycle, at least, has not lined up with Sylvain's heats and likely won't until they're bonded. He'll be able to keep a clear enough head throughout this whole process, a small mercy for them both.
"You are not here for my entertainment," he replies, watching Sylvain's hesitant steps towards him. Sylvain has always been gregarious; seeing his reticence is concerning. A result of his heat, perhaps, because he's still unbonded?
Were Dedue a man to follow instinct-- and he is not-- that diversion of his husband's honey-brown eyes and his faltering behavior would have prompted him to comfort, to draw him into his arms and scent him until he feels safe and secure. An insecure and nearly in heat omega makes him want to bar the door and drag him into his neat, tidy little nest, both for simple physical affection and for... baser compulsions. Things that he does not doubt that he will eventually have to do, of course, he understands what marital duties are in broad strokes, but things that would be demeaning without Sylvain's permission for.
It is... ridiculous, mostly. Irritating. He is not a simple beast who obeys his base compulsions to piss in a circle around someone his instincts want to call his. Sylvain is not a thing for him to own.
"I am concerned for your comfort," he says, and when he does take a few steps forward to meet him, only reaches out to gently take one of Sylvain's hands, his grip soft enough that his husband could easily pull away if he so wished. "I am... inexperienced in this arena, and I do not wish to disappoint you. If there is a way that I might be of better service to you, only state it and I will do my best to provide."
It seems the safest option-- he is a man who is skilled at following orders, and if he follows whatever ones that Sylvain gives him, he runs the lowest risk of overstepping. A useful tool to ease along the hardest parts of his husband's heat, the same way that he was a useful shield for His Majesty.
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The clarity and sense in Dedue's eyes is a little bit of a comfort. This would all be a lot messier and frankly more embarrassing to deal with later if they were both at the peak of their cycles. But, as usual, Dedue is a little over-serious. The familiarity of it does soften some of Sylvain's nerves. Old patterns, he can work with those.
"No, but it's no crime to find amusement in one's family." Because that's what they are now. Family. Possibly the first time someone Sylvain actually likes could be called such, officially. The idea warms him even more, so that he's less nervous and pliable when Dedue reaches for his hand. Sylvain squeezes it affectionately, lifting it to press the knuckles to the side of his face in a quick nuzzle.
Those honey-brown eyes turn back toward the big man's face and blink, processing, still not beating the puppylike allegations. "You're... oh, Dedue, you're adorable." There is, in fact, some discomfort in having sex with someone he actually likes and doesn't want to sabotage, but under the circumstances, it's probably better this way than the other. He had resigned himself for so long to the inevitability of a loveless forced marriage full of resentment and fighting like his own parents, and part of him does still expect that to eventually be the case... but it certainly isn't yet. Sylvain has more reason than ever to want to avoid that fate or at least put it off as long as he can.
"Don't worry about me so much. I'm here with someone I trust," his eyes shine pointedly at Dedue as he lifts the alpha's hand to his face again, pressing the palm to his jawline, "I like fucking. We will get through the first maybe somewhat awkward time together and if it isn't a complete disaster we'll do it again and it'll go more smoothly. Just... don't think too badly of how I get when it really turns my brain off, please? If you can? I can get kind of... intense. There's, uh, very little I don't like, when I'm all riled up. If anything I do makes you too uncomfortable you can stop me, ok? I probably won't be up to talking about it for a few days but once I'm normal again."
He wonders if Dedue has ever had sex at all or if he's just knew to being with an omega in heat. He's afraid to ask.
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Dedue is not unaware of Sylvain's general proclivity towards carnal activities, but he lacks his cavalier attitude towards it. Sex is something that he knows about in the abstract, his education mostly coming from what he managed to glean from what few books were available and the gossip of other men about their own conquests. For the most part, his advice on the topic had been a simple don't-- he is a man of Duscur, unfit to sully good Faerghan omegas.
Well. Perhaps the argument could be made that he isn't going to sully a good Faerghan omega, though he would have been displeased to hear those arguments.
"I am grateful for your trust." It's a rare thing, trust. And an important thing to be given when he's going to see Sylvain at his most vulnerable. "I swear that it will not be misplaced. I will take care of you."
To the best of his ability, he would. And Sylvain knows him well enough to know that when Dedue makes a promise, he sees it through, no matter the difficulty.
"Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to inform me of what you do enjoy, while you are clear-headed enough to think of it."
That seems like a reasonable step, right? Sylvain could tell him what he likes, and then he'll do that. Following instructions is easy enough.
"Being able to please you properly will be enough satisfaction for me."
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Dedue will be rewarded for giving in to that small urge. Sylvain hums his approval, eyes briefly closing at the touch. He's weak to most all positive physical touch, he's just the most infamous for his interest in the more sexual of those. But especially now, in the state he's starting to enter, and with this large, kindhearted alpha he finds himself really melting for the affection, no matter how small.
Sylvain appreciates that part of all of this is Dedue's discomfort with his lack of experience, but his stiffness about it still sets his teeth a little on edge. He's being so... businesslike about it. He wonders once again if he should offer to just not. To let Dedue have a normal night. He swallows it down and steps in closer, resting a hand on Dedue's chest and looking up at him through thick eyelashes.
"I know you will." He has no doubt that Dedue will keep his word, and do his best to fulfill a duty... it's just that Sylvain doesn't really want to be his duty. He doesn't want to be an item on a checklist. A requirement... He wants to be an indulgence.
"I like being kissed. Everywhere, but especially the obvious places, my shoulders, my hands. I like being pushed around a little. Lifted, carried, tossed, pinned down." A devilish smile curls on his lips. If this has to happen, he's going to make sure Dedue at least gets flustered about it! He wants to see lust color his cheeks, feel his heart start to race. "I like my hair touched, gentle or rough," Sylvain's voice takes on a huskier tone, "I like being fucked in every hole," a truly lascivious admission for an omega. He shouldn't be wasting good breeding on his mouth or ass! He slides his hand down Dedue's arm until he can press both palms to his broad chest, his previously so soft brown eyes boring holes in Dedue.
"What do you like? Or think that you like? This isn't as fun for me if I can't also target you back."
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Dedue doesn't want a false sweetness, and thankfully Sylvain's further forays into dirty talk are more what he'd anticipate from the man. He'd heard his husband's talk around the fire pit with Felix, the way he'd tease him with stories of his conquests. Felix would usually tell Sylvain that he'd gut him, or throw something at him, which was the reaction that he'd wanted to get out of his prickly friend; there is intent here, with what he says to Dedue.
His face heats. For once, his dark complexion does him a favor and hides some of it, but it's an uncontrollable tell. Though Dedue has often prided himself on his stalwart composure, even iron has its limits. And Dedue, as Sylvain can undoubtedly tell, is not made of iron.
Sylvain's scent is only getting sweeter, his voice warm and inviting. There's a sharpness to his gaze; Dedue might be the alpha, but this is Sylvain's arena. He's outmatched by far.
There are a great many things that Dedue would like to do, but to put them in order and list them out would take far longer than either of them want. Some of them are things that he doesn't really have words for, nameless, instictive desires that he would have to figure out once he was there. Once Sylvain was spread out for him like a feast, lovely and his. But he can voice the first thing he thinks of, obvious with how he is continually transfixed by the movement of his husband's clever mouth.
"I should very much like to kiss you."
There's just a little hint of breathlessness to his tone-- he hadn't had the opportunity to kiss Sylvain since their wedding night, and that had been a chaste kiss, kept shallow and tame due to their audience and Sylvain's own listless distraction. Not his first kiss, but only because his first had been stolen by a girl in his village long ago, before the Tragedy. Now he yearns for something more, something with substance. Sylvain in his arms and hands in his hair and lips and teeth, things that he only has vague ideas of.
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Ah, there it is. The warm color creeps into Dedue's face and a satisfaction like the rumble of a well-fed cat settles into Sylvain's stomach. He feels warm and pleased, knowing he's getting that good reaction. Some of it is cerebral- he does want his friend to actually have reason to enjoy being married to him- but much of it is instinct. Being a good omega.
Or just being a good fuck.
"I'm glad." It's a fun little head-turn for the expected dynamic, and that is enough for now to make Sylvain feel like he's ahead of the game. That he's somehow winning against those pesky biological imperatives. Sort of. Anyway, Sylvain slides his hands higher, until one of them can slide around the back of Dedue's neck, pulling gently down as Sylvain stops making himself smaller and stretches up to his full height to meet him. He waits until they are close enough to breathe the same air to speak again. He's breathing deep and heavy, taking in the pleasant, cinnamony scent of the alpha. Not particularly strong, not yet, but it's only a matter of time before he starts to react to Sylvain's heat in earnest.
"You don't have to ask, for that. You're allowed to initiate. In fact, I want you to." He smiles as he makes to close the gap, pressing that smile to Dedue's lips before he softens, meshing them together with practiced artistry and genuine eagerness.
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He smells honey-sweet and faintly smoky (and very, very faintly like horse), and his smile makes Dedue want, and he makes it feel simple and easy to give in to him, to lean into his kiss and let him take over. Dedue places a hand first on Sylvain's hip, then the other on his back; then urges him closer, hungry for the warmth of him. He makes a soft noise at the touch of his tongue to his lips-- embarrassing, if there had been anyone else around to hear-- and lets Sylvain lead him into a deeper kind of kiss.
He had mentioned enjoying being lifted. Though Dedue is in uncharted waters right now, he is a man of action, and he trusts that Sylvain wouldn't tell him something if he didn't actually want it. Picking him up is a simple task-- just sliding his hands down to Sylvain's thighs and lifting-- and once he's in his arms, Dedue can walk them both back towards the tidy nest that he'd constructed on the bed. An omega ought to be in their nest when they're in heat, and a good alpha would bring them back there to be nice and comfortable. Is Dedue not a diligent alpha?
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For all the downsides to having a spouse with a long history of sexual promiscuity, there are benefits. Like his skill in kissing, knowing just the right amount to give to make it feel intimate, without being sloppy. Like his knowledge of his own preferences and his ability to guide.
Not that Sylvain feels like he's guiding much, as Dedue's hands slide down his body, making him shiver as they settle on his thighs and hoist him up. He makes a noise that isn't a squeal but might be a cousin to one, clinging on tight with his cavalier's thighs and wrapping his arms around Dedue's neck to support himself. He gasps into that kiss, breaking it in his surprise, but if the low tone that follows and he way his scent spikes in sweetness are any indication, he approves. He dives back in to the kiss as he pulls the tie in Dedue's hair free, tangling his fingers in it and nipping at his lip in some kind of revenge.
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Crossing the room to the bed-- a large affair with wool-stuffed mattresses and featherbeds atop, and more blankets, bedlinens, and pillows than Dedue had previously ever had the privilege of sleeping with-- is a matter of only a few steps for a man of his size, and when he feels his knees hit the edge, he lets Sylvain fall from his arms into the middle of his nest.
There's something to that, to Sylvain laying amidst the warm blankets carefully assembled across his bed, fiery red hair a brilliant contrast against the white linens. House Gautier was not as opulent as Fraldarius or Blaiddyd, and there would have been more sumptuous fabrics in His Majesty's or Duke Fraldarius' bedrooms, but... there's a charm to this. The fabrics are warm to insulate against the frigid northern winters, well-made and practical and durable, and something about that suits Sylvain. If he asked for it, Dedue is certain that His Majesty would send any amount of silk and brocade for their bedroom and call it a wedding gift, and he is equally as certain that Sylvain would balk at it.
He's lovely. Were the circumstances not so dire, Dedue would have considered himself lucky to have gotten such a handsome spouse.
Dedue waits at the edge of Sylvain's nest. It's an old etiquette, probably rarely practiced anymore, almost certainly one that falls to the wayside in time and familiarity, but he asks anyway--
"May I come in?"
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There's a sense of lightness that makes Sylvain nearly dizzy, between the mental haze of his impending heat and the physical hoisting into the air. He feels them move, and the air around him almost seems to spin, making him grip harder to the handful of hair and the back of Dedue's clothes.
Then the room really is spinning for a moment as he's dropped back onto the bed, cradled in his nest, splayed out. His chest visibly moves from his more rapid breaths, a flush on his pale face from the thrill of it. He feels a pleasant twitch. He's already warmer, nestled among his linen and wool, but it's an exciting, feverish warmth. The heat of a fire in the dead of winter. A hearth to return to after a cold mountain hunt.
Dedue fairly looms over him, and Sylvain feels his suaveness fail him all over again, the vulnerable feelings from being tossed about too close to the surface and playing into instincts. Instincts even older than the manners Dedue is relying on now.
Of course he would be so old-fashioned. Sylvain's face curls with wry affection. He holds out a hand, palm up. "I will be very upset if you don't." Not exactly the expected response, but it certainly qualifies as enthusiastic consent.
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Now that he's been accepted into Sylvain's nest, those old-fashioned books don't really say much about what he should do there. It had been left more... vague, an implication of performing one's marital duties with the same tone that might be used to describe a man stoically going off to die with honor in battle. Sex was something to be performed because it was necessary, because it was the duty of the crested nobility to bear crested children. Is he to look at Sylvain's flushed, lovely face and his welcoming arms and think of Faerghus?
He is not stoic enough to be in the arms of someone he's been so fond of for so many years and treat it as a contractual affair.
In the nest, Dedue reaches forward and gets his hands around Sylvain's waist, and they're broad enough that they nearly meet in the middle. It's a good grip to manhandle him, pull him closer and insinuate himself in the space between his thighs.
"I should hate to upset you."
They're still very clothed, though, even if it's evening and they're far from wearing all of the layers that would be appropriate for a person of Sylvain's, and now Dedue's by marriage, station. There is the momentary temptation to grab Sylvain's shirt and rip it asunder to get to his skin, overcome mostly because it's difficult to get wool in house Gautier's particular blue-green shade. And, anyway, Sylvain would likely want to incorporate both his clothing and Dedue's into the nest, and he's fastidious enough to want it intact.
"Allow me to make amends," he says, and pushes up the warm woolen fabric to reveal some of his pale skin, scattered with freckles. Presses a kiss there-- Sylvain did say that he loved to be kissed, and wouldn't it be a lovely way to remove his shirt, having it chased with kisses?
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There is a brief moment where it seems Dedue isn't sure how to proceed. A second or two of clear thought happening, but before Sylvain can try to start steering, the big man makes a decision. His hands are... frankly ridiculously large, but the sense of being held and fully enfolded is too pleasant to his near-heat brain to do anything but be grateful about it. He hums a pleased note, his back arching just slightly. It's hard to say if it's true instinct or simply a very practiced response, habit formed from doing his best to be winsome and put on a good performance.
He doesn't really want to be performing, this time. He isn't sure how to turn it off.
"I'm not actually- oh," he laughs at himself a little as his protest is cut off with that kiss. He had taken Dedue's tone too seriously. A mistake he's sure he will make a few more times still before he learns how to confidently read his subtle tone. The playfulness of it makes his heart warm at the same time it causes a pleasant tightening feeling between his thighs. Some of his fussing softens, and he relaxes some of the tight mental hold he had on focusing on being certain this goes well. His main goal was to draw Dedue out of his stiff nerves, to make sure this didn't feel like duty to either of them. It seems he might not have to try so hard at that, after all.
His hands keep busy as well, pulling off whatever upper warmth Dedue might still have, scarf or wrap, before plucking at the buttons of his shirt.
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Sylvain's clever hands draw the scarf from his neck, where it had been hanging loose around his shoulders. It's of Duscur make, and different in both texture and pattern than anything that would be made by Faerghan craftsmen; one of the few things that Dedue could easily bring with him from his homeland. Considering how often he wears it, it would hold his scent well and that would probably make it a valuable item for Sylvain during his heat. The shirt is a less precious thing, something that had been made for him at Dimitri's insistence, after he had realized that Dedue's wardrobe would be insufficient for Gautier winters.
"Does this displease you as well?" Not really, of course, but it's a small amusement to pretend, and Dedue shrugs his way out of the garment as though it was something that offended his new spouse.
Until he had gotten the garment off, he had almost forgotten-- the war had been... unkind to him, and it showed readily on his skin. His time in Fhirdiad's dungeons had left marks on him that time could not undo. And while his face had never been beautiful by any Faerghan metric, he had, at least, once been mostly unblemished. He couldn't say that now, and he can't argue against the fact that the scars that he bears are ugly. There is a particularly gnarled and twisted one that runs across one pectoral from shoulder to center, the end result of both the blow that prevented him from fleeing with His Majesty and the infection that resulted from it.
"If... other things displease you, that can be dealt with."
The lights could be dimmed, or snuffed entirely. Or he could keep himself covered as much as possible, to avoid showing the worst parts of him.
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Sylvain's always had an appreciative eye for art. Paintings and sculpture are obvious, but also for things like theatre, music, and fibercraft. He has no talent in the least for delicate things like weaving, sewing, embroidery, or knitting, but he knows what good make is when he sees it. The weave on Dedue's scarf is unique, he hasn't seen the pattern anywhere else, but the skill is clear nonetheless. The tension is even, the threads smooth. The dyes are also a little unfamiliar, and he stops to take a moment to appreciate it, running a thumb over part of the colorwork before gently draping it on a part of the nest where it isn't likely to get bothered by their activities.
He moves on smoothly to the shirt, which is clearly of Faerghan make, good wool for the cold, and he chuckles to himself at the continued joke as it falls from Dedue's large shoulders. He sighs, a small contented sound at getting an unobstructed view of his new partner, smoothing his palm up Dedue's abdomen to his chest. His eyebrows pucker with some concern at the sight of that scar, but it's not at all what Dedue fears. It is a mark of an intense battle and a struggle to heal, and imagining the man in the sort of pain it would have caused makes Sylvain fret. He traces the edge of it, imagining how gruesome it would have looked when fresh. Then Dedue speaks and he looks up, catching that expression and realizing all at once that somewhere, something got misread.
"The only thing that displeases me is knowing how much you've suffered. Thinking about how badly I want to take up my lance and get revenge for you is a little distracting, I'll admit, but those are fantasies I can save for later." He offers a playful smile, lifting his hand to press a palm to Dedue's cheek. "If you assumed that all this proof of you being a resilient warrior and stalwart defender didn't make me even more fond of you and find you even more attractive, then you assumed wrong."
Sylvain is not exactly unblemished himself, as Dedue will come to see very shortly. There is the edge of a scar visible from where his shirt has been lifted, a splatter-shaped puncture scar near his lower ribs, matching in front and back, but larger in the back. He has a few other small scars on his back and at each of his joints-where his armor is weakest. In spite of being an omega, he is still a knight and warrior. Faerghus accepts nothing less than an heir who can defend themself, no matter what their primary or secondary sex, and Sylvain is large and strong for an omega. He put effort into it, from a young age, fueled by his desire to protect his friends.
He will not admit that the worst of his scars were not from the battlefield at all.
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His husband’s hand is gentle against his cheek; Dedue covers it with one broad palm.
“If you desire vengeance for me, I regret to inform you that you are likely too late,” he says. “His Majesty purged Cornelia’s followers, including those who guarded the dungeons.”
Dedue can’t be sure, of course, that Dimitri’s men had found the exact people who had been responsible for his confinement, but he had certainly been… motivated. And though he had not always been involved in the hunt, Felix had been— and Felix is notoriously terrible at deception. Dedue had learned enough.
Another alpha might have been upset or irritated at their omega expressing something that isn’t docile and submissive. While Dedue has no great desire for violence, he understands his husband’s protectiveness.
“But I am glad that I do not disappoint you entirely.”
In a better world, though, Sylvain would have had a far more handsome spouse than Dedue; a more favorable match would’ve been made for him, and he could have perhaps had an alpha who was both pleasant and beautiful. But he lives in the world where he is married to Dedue, and he supposes that it speaks well of Sylvain that he can be content with a kind and well-built but ugly husband. Should they ever have children— an eventuality that they will certainly have to address at some point— perhaps they’ll be fortunate enough to have them take after Sylvain.
He draws Sylvain’s palm from his cheek to his lips, pressing a kiss in the soft hollow.
“You have been very kind to me in your regard.”
But that’s enough about Dedue’s deficiencies— he can move on from that, since Sylvain is pleased well enough by his body. And moving on entails unveiling more of Sylvain’s, drawing the shirt off of him with gentle hands. He is scarred too, of course— he is a knight, and Dedue can read where the gaps in his armor lay by the shape of the scars at his shoulders, the elbow, wherever the joints are in the plate. The strange puncture at his ribs, that seems deep enough to go through and through. He frowns a little— hard to tell with his chronically stoic microexpressions— and his large fingers trace the edge of it.
“I do not believe that I was present for this injury.”
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A snarl and a small growl are Sylvain's answer. It is no surprise that the worst scar is from that insurrection, but the confirmation of it has his protectiveness flaring. "I suppose his majesty deserved the honor." And he's glad the world is rid of them. He flicks a smirk and moves on, his hands roaming over more of Dedue's chest, mapping scars and the form of him.
"You do not. Not at all." There's something so specific, so special, about the quiet strength in Dedue. In how gentle he is in absolute contrast to his size and strength, his stoicism, his scars. So unlike anyone else Sylvain has ever known. That novelty has yet to wear off in all their years of knowing each other. In spite of all of his fears, mostly for Dedue's sake, this is an outcome of an arranged marriage better than anything Sylvain had never imagined for himself. Perhaps there is some better world where he could have courted for his own sake and asked someone to marry him himself, or be asked, directly and personally without any one else being involved. But that's an impossible dream... and could still have led to this outcome, really. Something Sylvain might never have the courage to say.
Sylvain would be more than content if any potential future children simply don't take after his father's side of the family. Now those are some ugly looking men, in Sylvain's humble opinion. The only good feature the Gautier men pass on is their flaming red hair. He's grateful every day to have his mother's bone structure, if not her icy cold heart.
Though ice does flow through his heart when he notices Dedue paying so much attention to the scar by his ribs. He had been hoping it might blend in with the others, and finds himself grateful that the other suspicious looking scars he bears are on his back, and currently out of his husband's view. He clears his throat, and his skin textures and prickles from the light touch at the edge of the scar.
"You weren't. It's quite old." He shrugs half-heartedly, leans back in to try to trap Dedue in another kiss, to distract him and get him off the subject.
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The scar is old. Old enough, perhaps, that it's part of that tumultuous childhood that Dedue can only guess at.
Sylvain pulls him into a kiss and he goes along with it. Instead of further interrogating the source of this injury, he covers the scar with his palm, hiding it from sight. Perhaps Sylvain will tell him about it one day, when he feels like doing so; perhaps he never will. His decision either way.
They don't need to dwell on painful things for tonight, though. This is the first heat of their marriage, and it should be a happy time, or, at least, a pleasant one. And it is technically Dedue's responsibility to ensure that it's pleasant, being the alpha, so he has work to do on that front.
There is an abundance of bare skin before him, most of it dreadfully un-kissed. While Dedue could easily linger on Sylvain's lips for most of the night, he also deems it right and proper to dole attention onto other parts of his husband, too-- his neck to start, of course, being so close in proximity. What he hadn't anticipated was how pressing his lips near Sylvain's scent glands would affect him, how the sweet, warm scent of him would make his blood burn and his teeth itch to bite. Another thing for later, though Dedue does allow himself the indulgence of pressing his face into the crook of Sylvain's neck to breathe there, drawing his scent into his lungs like he might keep it there. But not for too long-- Sylvain's shoulders deserve kisses, and his chest, and even down his arms to his wrists and palm. Then to his pale stomach, Dedue's hands following after, just for the pleasure of touching him.
"You are lovely," he says, after kissing him just above the navel. "I am sure that many have told you so."
shh do not look at the datestamps
In better circumstances, Sylvain might have hidden his feelings better. Has done, plenty of times when any of the scars that came from Miklan have been pointed out by bed partners. These are not better circumstances, though, and Sylvain's fear of how Dedue might react if he knew, his fear of anyone he cares about knowing the extent of Miklan's transgressions at all, ironically make him worse at obfuscating. The other young faerghus nobles knew Sylvain when they were all small, know at least a little more than Dedue does, but Sylvain is 2 years their senior, and in childhood that made a bigger difference. He worked hard to keep as much knowledge from them as he could. Dedue, in turn, knows even less. Better that way.
Blessedly, Dedue lets Sylvain's obvious redirection pass. A large, warm palm presses to the ruined skin, making it tingle all over again in the strange way that half-numb scars can do. In turn, Sylvain's hands start to wander more, sliding up over Dedue's shoulders to his back and pulling him in a little as he parts his lips into the kiss again.
He turns his head easily to give Dedue the room at his neck when he notices where things are going, and he feels a pang through his stomach even before lips connect to his skin. It's a vulnerable place for a mouth to be, though he is certain Dedue would not dare to put teeth to him without asking, probably multiple times. Sylvain's basest instincts don't know any of that. All they know is that an alpha is here, during heat, and a mouth is on his neck. Sylvain shudders, digging his fingertips into Dedue's skin as he goes, as he noticeably breathes in Sylvain's scent at the source. He starts to feel a flutter in his chest as Dedue moves on to his shoulders, currently still peppered with freckles, and down his arms to his hands, and it's only then that Sylvain identifies what he's feeling as shyness. Of all things. He manages to shake it somewhat by the time Dedue returns to his torso, and Sylvain can tangle his fingers into thick white hair again. He sighs and leans into every touch and kiss that he can, both out of genuine enjoyment and to purposefully reward and encourage everything Dedue is doing. He wants no misunderstandings about how much he does want this touch and want this man.
"Sure, but not all of them were worth believing when they said it." His smile is a little lopsided, hoping Dedue takes it the right way.
wandering in like a month late with starbucks
But they have better things to do than dwell on old memories of Miklan's mistreatment. There are kisses to press to Sylvain's skin, affection to be given to every inch of him. And, technically, it is Dedue's sole right and privilege to dole out such affection, being Sylvain's lawfully wedded husband. He could never be neglectful of such an important task.
He runs out of new skin to kiss, the rest of his path blocked by the waistband of Sylvain's trousers, and lifts his head to look at his husband. The crookedness of Sylvain's smile is charming and wry, and Dedue has the compulsion to kiss him at each corner of his mouth.
"They were not worthy of the privilege that they had been given," he says. There had been many who had been in his position before, and that's something that he could have been jealous about, were he a jealous man-- but they are gone now, and Dedue has the opportunity to fulfill Sylvain's needs and desires. That's a far more productive thing to focus on than the ghosts of lovers past. "I will endeavor to prove myself better."
There are trousers, now, that need to be removed; a final barrier between them and the performance of their marital duties. And, hopefully, more than just marital duties, but more than one thing can be true at the same time. He'll need Sylvain's help, once he's undone the buttons, to pull the fabric off of those equestrian's thighs.
Same……….
There Dedue goes again, talking about Sylvain like he’s something high-tier precious. Like he’s worth more than anyone else gives credit for. It makes something in Sylvain’s soul tremble and ache to dissemble. He knows that it won’t get him far, with this man, he learned that quickly enough years ago and learned it again only moments ago, and still he wishes to say something flippant, to jump down off of the pedestal Dedue seems to see him on. “You don’t have anything to prove to me,” Sylvain says instead, softly, eyes intense in a warm expression.
His pale skin carries an obvious flush that has risen in strength as warmth suffuses him with each descending kiss. The tint of color now spreads down his neck to his chest. He smiles still, lopsided and dimpled on one side as he lifts his hips, thumbs hooked in his trousers, tight enough for riding in without getting chafed. He shows no shame at baring his lightly freckled legs, or what lies between them, even as his undershorts peel away damp and set his still rising erection free. Sylvain sighs from the relief of it, comfortable in his nudity. He hooks a leg around Dedue and smiles lasciviously up at him. He reaches lazy fingers toward Dedue’s trouser fly as well, fingertips skating teasingly over the ties.
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But perhaps it is also true that Dedue doesn't have to prove himself in this arena, if Sylvain already trusts him.
Regardless, Sylvain's trousers peel off of his legs in a very... visually appealing manner, revealing the long length of his pale, freckled legs. He is very well muscled in his lower half from all of the horseback riding, and there is something charming about the constellations of brown speckles that dot his skin. Dedue remembers that Sylvain's shoulders and arms would become even more freckled with exposure to the summer sun; he cannot help but wonder if the same would happen to the skin here, were he to ever bare his legs to the sun for long enough.
His smallclothes come off as well, and he is truly bared. Sylvain's cock lays flushed and stiff against his hip, and it's the first time that Dedue has come face-to-face with another man's cock that he's expected to do something about. He's spared from thinking too much about how he's supposed to handle such a new experience by Sylvain's fingers tracing along the front of his trousers, and the way even that light touch makes a warm frisson shiver through his guts.
Fair's fair, though. Sylvain is nude, and Dedue should be, as well, and not just because the practical portion of this whole event would be very difficult without it. Dedue unlaces the ties, and he shouldn't be proud of the fact that his hands don't tremble as he does. It's something of an unnerving situation, the first time baring yourself for another's evaluation, for more than a perfunctory bath in a cold river with half a dozen other men who just want to wash a day's worth of sweat off of themselves.
Dedue has, because of the aforementioned cold river baths while on campaign, seen other men. Other alphas, even. As he pushes his trousers down his thighs and further, freeing his own half-hard cock from its trappings, he... well, he knows how he stacked against those other men that he had seen. He had heard the more uncouth of them bluster about their size or girth and how well their endowments would please an omega. They seemed confident that a larger size meant better sex by default, with a sureness that made little sense to Dedue. A man could have as large a weapon as he liked, but if he didn't know how to wield it, he was just as liable to injure himself as he was anyone else on the battlefield. And after a certain size, any weapon became unwieldy, regardless of skill.
Dedue is somewhat concerned that he falls into the latter category, whether he likes it or not. He has always been built to something of a larger scale than most Faerghans, and it wasn't just with regards to height.
He tosses his trousers aside. Sylvain will be able to judge whether he is... acceptable, and Dedue will have to decide what he does after that. There must be ways that one manages when one's spouse is unwieldy. Smaller omegas than Sylvain have been wedded to large alphas and still managed to have successful couplings, certainly they would be able to as well.
coughs
Despite the stripping of his clothes and the chill that is always in the air in Gautier, Sylvain is warm. His skin feels hot enough to form steam, and it isn't just the flush that reaches from his face to his chest. The air between him and Dedue seems almost hazy to him, but that could just be his near-heat playing tricks on him.
He watches with the hungry expression of a nymphomaniac as Dedue strips, the anticipation rising in him to bring that heat even higher, his already damp sex causing a trickle down his thigh. His shyness of earlier is gone, far more comfortable is he with the carnal than with the tender, and that is where his thoughts and ideas are gathering, now. If Dedue is watching Sylvain as he undresses himself, he will see Sylvain's pupils dilate at the sight, a flicker of tongue appearing between his lips. There is no hesitation, only eager interest as he reaches out, brushing teasing fingertips up the length of that unwiedly weapon and brushing his thumb across the tip. He will wield it, thank you kindly.
"Mmm, you'll have to finger-fuck me good and thorough." He is not even in the same realm as complaining.