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Hubert doesn’t announce his arrival past the ominous flapping of his wings, needlessly black and ridged with scales. They make noise because they’re imperfect things, ripped from the backs of birds and bats and, perhaps, demons: they’re a messy manifestation of the faith of Hubert’s disciples.
(When Sylvain had mentioned them, tracing delicate paths across the veined skin, Hubert had explained: “I change with the humans’ perception of me.” His wings fluttered restlessly against Sylvain’s hand, pushing him away as Hubert stood from the bed. “You should try it.”
Sylvain did not try it; his beauty was objective and eternal, after all.)
“Vestra,” Sylvain greets from where he lounges. His back remains to Hubert, naked but for the scratches that run from shoulder blade to waist. A purpling bruise, outlined perfectly by the sharp, unmistakable imprint of teeth, peeks above the robe that hangs from his hips. “I wasn’t expecting you to visit so soon.”
Hubert hums, wings rustling behind him as they fold to his back. His footsteps are quiet on cool marble. “It has come to my attention,” he says, speaking slowly as though he knows it irritates Sylvain, “that you have—fraternized—with our lady of Revolution.”
Sylvain blinks, twisting on his chaise to stare at Hubert. “Is that what we’re calling her, now?”
Hubert sneers. “That’s what she is.”
A slow, awful smile grows on Sylvain’s face. He does nothing to stop it. “I thought she was our little flower princess,” he says, voice wicked with laughter. It’s not kind of him, and he does love Edelgard an awful lot, but—
Ah, he thinks, power swelling in his chest when Hubert’s face flushes dark. There it is. Hubert’s lip curls and his teeth show, pointed and bright, but his eyes—even with his brow furrowed low, his pupils blow black, a dangerous brew of enmity and desire. Dimitri may have been fooled, drawn in by the flood of righteous anger, but Sylvain—
“Careful, Hubert,” he says, voice supple and slow, “or you’re going to give me the wrong idea.”
To his credit, Hubert doesn’t flinch. He also doesn’t snap, or growl, or otherwise react—instead, he stands perfectly still, scowling as the tips of his ears turn pink. “You,” Hubert says, “are incapable of giving her the loyalty she deserves.”
Sylvain scoffs and waves a hand, as though flicking away a bug. “Yeah, that’s more your thing,” he says, smiling without teeth. “You’re—what was it? Our Benevolent God of Sycophancy?”
“Close,” Hubert grits. “Better that than to be the patron saint of philandering.”
“You’re too kind, Hubert,” Sylvain says, grin stretching wider. The sharp points of his canines bear into the still-tender swell of his lower lip. He’s not offended, but his pride does itch, which is why he pulls his trump card too soon. “Perhaps you’d like to blame your father’s affair on me, as well?”
“My father did not ‘have an affair.’”
Sylvain hums, turning from Hubert as though bored. He feels the ire rolling from the other man in thick, seething waves. “Sure,” he allows, shrugging with his bared shoulder. The scratches from Edelgard’s nails pull at his skin, aching deliciously. “And your mother didn’t create you just to piss him off.”
The air grows hot around them, and Sylvain watches as his potted lilies begin to wilt. He’d just picked them for Edelgard; now the petals droop as the leaves turn yellow, and what once was a proud, beautiful white shrivels into a dank, brown crisp.
Sweat begins to slip between Sylvain’s shoulder blades. Without turning, Sylvain warns, “Vestra.” They may hate each other, but this—they had discussed this, sworn that they would not throw tantrums in each other’s realms. (Sylvain had pouted; Hubert set the rule after Sylvain obliterated a particularly sentimental vase in Hubert’s dining room.)
Several beats of silence pass as the phantom of Sylvain’s heart pounds loudly in his ears; he can hear Hubert breathing steadily behind him. Finally, after a particularly slow, deep breath, the temperature begins to cool. When Sylvain glances back at Hubert, he finds him impeccably composed, lips pulled in a grim line. “Gautier,” he says, Sylvain’s original name dripping like acid from his lips. “I did not come here to discuss my father.”
“Neither did I, to be honest.” Sylvain offers an artless sigh and gestures toward the chaise that mirrors his own. When Hubert cautiously steps toward it, Sylvain adds, “There are much more pleasant things to discuss, after all.”
Hubert’s lip curls as he scoffs, but Sylvain doesn’t miss the flush of his cheeks: Hubert may be preoccupied with devotion and undying fealty and the romance of self-sacrifice, but he does have a cock, and Sylvain can see it hardening below the loose fabric of his robe.
“Hubert,” Sylvain purrs, leaning forward to crowd into his space, “could it be that you’re jealous?”
“Absolutely not,” Hubert replies. He halts where he stands, hands flexing into fists at his sides. How uncomfortable he must be to be so out of his element, Sylvain thinks. The pink of his cheeks grows deeper, as does the scowl on his face and the shadow of his arousal. “I came here merely to warn you about your fraternization with Edelgard.” He sniffs. “It doesn’t suit you to go after such a goddess; she is far beyond your reach.”
Sylvain waggles his eyebrows and laughs, even as he reaches for the sash at Hubert’s waist. “She certainly wasn’t out of reach last night, if you know what I mean.” He tugs at the knot and watches the loose fabric flutter to the floor, a delicate shimmer that reminds him of stargazing with his mother. The fabric slips between his fingers like water, cool and whisper-soft against his hands, and just like always, it strikes Sylvain how other Hubert is: how he clothes himself in the void of space, dark against the eerie pale of his skin. Arousal spears him through the chest, so much different than the slow, heady molasses of Edelgard’s touch, and—
His voice is lower, rougher, when he says, “Perhaps you should be more worried about our princess lowering herself to my level, hm?”
Sylvain’s hand trails from Hubert’s calf to his thigh, thumb smoothing wrinkles from the fabric at Hubert’s hip. Purposefully, levely, he brings his gaze from Hubert’s groin to Hubert’s face—a slow, deliberate flicker of his eyes—and reaches, at last, for Hubert’s cock. When he squeezes, he feels Hubert jump. “I think,” Sylvain says, barely above a whisper, “that you want to see why.”
“The musings of Lady Edelgard are—” Hubert hisses, rocking awkwardly against Sylvain’s palm. He looks as though he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. Clearing his throat, he tries again: “Lady Edelgard’s reasons are not for me to understand,” he says, vowels drawing long and breathy when Sylvain’s hand begins to massage. “I exist merely to serve—serve her.”
A frustrated groan breaks Hubert’s voice, and though he perseveres—so devoted, Sylvain thinks with a self-satisfied laugh—Sylvain can see his control slipping in the way his shoulders tremble, the way that sweat beads on his forehead.
Sylvain smiles, toothy and broad. He thumbs idly at the damp, sticky head of Hubert’s cock, still clothed but leaking admirably. “If you’re so busy serving her,” he muses aloud, “then who should be the one to serve you?”
Hubert’s mouth falls open as though he means to respond, but Sylvain tugs him closer with one big hand on Hubert’s bony hip and breathes along the hard line of his cock. It jumps in his grasp, undeterred by Hubert’s attempt at self-control, and so Sylvain continues:
“Should I?” He’s leaned close enough that his lips brush Hubert with every breath, every word—and each time they do, he feels Hubert throb like an iron brand against his palm. “Do you want me to serve you, Vestra?”
The look on Hubert’s face is torn, the faint dusting of his brows furrowed in pain. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. Even still, the arousal rolls from him in waves, just as his anger did; it cloaks the room in naked heat, and when Sylvain finally, wickedly, presses the flat of his tongue against Hubert’s drooling cockhead, he hears the shatter of Hubert’s resolve in the explosion of glass behind them.
“As a gift to you,” Sylvain murmurs, nuzzling Hubert’s cock to his cheek, “I won’t ask what you just broke.”
“What I broke? You’re the one who—”
Sylvain groans with disdain and takes the whole of Hubert’s cockhead into his mouth, suckling at him through the clinging fabric. His eyes meet Hubert’s, and he watches Hubert’s gaze flit about his face—from the dark, heavy void of his eyes, to the red swell of his lips, to the drool that already drips from his chin—before pulling off with a lewd pop and saying, “Be nice, Hubert.”
Hubert swallows his anger with noticeable effort. Even his rebuke is dry, a farce that crumbles in the wake of his own desire, mirrored so clearly on Sylvain’s face. “Do not presume to—”
“Hm.” Sylvain bobs over Hubert’s cock, letting his mouth fall open to show Hubert how perfectly, how easily Sylvain can take him: sliding along the dripping hollow of his tongue, as sweet as it is vulgar. “I’ll say this once, and only once, alright?” Hubert frowns at him; Sylvain laughs and presses a single kiss to his slit. “Drop your robe and fuck my face, Hubert von Vestra, and maybe you’ll get a taste of why your little Lady Edelgard stoops beneath her station to ride my cock.”
A snarl rips itself from Hubert’s throat before he shoves Sylvain away, knocking him back just far enough to loosen his robe and let it slither to the floor. His bared cock bobs angry and purple between his legs—toned, coiled thighs, hairless and lily-white—and, while Sylvain’s distracted by his own hunger, Hubert grabs a fistful of his hair and tugs.
“You will not,” he growls, “speak of Her Majesty that way, Gautier.” His grip tightens, forcing Sylvain to bare his throat and pant wildly through his open mouth. His cock dangles just out of reach, drooling thick globs of precum onto Sylvain’s tongue. “When I come down your throat, know that it was only to quiet the rabid barking of a bitch in heat.”
The insult settles into Sylvain’s bones with an unparalleled intensity, burning him bright and hot from the inside out. He whines and wheezes, dismayed when he realizes his own hips are rutting against the leg Hubert has forced between his knees, but—but. When he meets Hubert’s eye as a final act of defiance, of fuck you, of I’ll suck your fucking soul out through your cock, just watch me, he sees that same fire blazing in Hubert’s wide, fucked-out pupils.
Hubert wants this.
Sylvain smiles with his tongue still out, groaning when Hubert’s fingers tense against his scalp. “Fuck me, bitch,” he says.
Hubert rudely pulls Sylvain’s mouth over his cock, tugging him forward until he’s bullying against the back of his throat. His control is tenuous; Sylvain can tell by the way he twitches against the roof of his mouth, the way that his hips rock haltingly against the wet heat of his tongue. Hubert allows Sylvain one breath, two, before finally—finally, Sylvain thinks—shoving forward to watch Sylvain gag around the thick length of him.
He holds him there until Sylvain melts into it, tears streaming down his cheeks to mix lewdly with the spit that drips from his chin. His hands shake where they touch Sylvain, desperate with his own hunger, and then—one thrust, two thrusts, animal and feral—“As you wish,” he hisses, wholly consumed.
Sylvain glows with satisfaction, even as his eyes roll back and his throat burns and his own cock twitches pathetically against the insulting pressure of Hubert’s shin: Another victory.