A Given Thing
Dec. 23rd, 2023 11:09 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: A Given Thing
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 3177
Notes: Written for a prompt that I liked on the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ffxvi_kink_meme. It really played with what I like about their dynamic.
Edits: 5.11.24. Title change, a few typo fixes.
-
“So Titan and Garuda share a bed now,” Terence says dryly. “Waloed need not try harder to secure the Dhalmeks, I suppose.”
“It hasn’t been uncommon in our history for dominants to pursue each other. For the nations involved it’s a great alliance.” A pause. “For the rest, a terror,” Dion tacts on.
“I remember.” Terence nods wearily. “There hasn’t been a union of that sort in centuries.”
“And with the state of the realm, there likely won’t ever be. I have no complaints.”
“You could use an ally,” Terence says.
“One that preferably would not turn to stab me in the back at the indignity of chains. I am looking at one currently.”
Terence smiles and huffs, but says little. The Holy Empire is without allies and Dion knows he walks alone — but not — carrying her banner forward on a fragile precipice. Information is far flung and for every rumor to reach his ears there is a grain of truth to be found.
The rumors are thus: Waloed’s spy master had business in a shady corner of the Dominion with Titan’s dominant. Her guard was small and vulnerable. She means no offense in her visit. But her presence is a crisis nonetheless.
Dion has no doubt that whatever their intentions the path Garuda will carve will only end in violence.
“I think they miss their Lord Commander,” Dion murmurs. “It’s a fine thing they’ve done giving the Dhalmeks hot air.”
“I wouldn’t mind a few more fumbles this season. But I don’t think Garuda’s plans will fail her.”
Dion turns his head, then stretches. His neck cracks and he sighs. “You think she’s clever.”
“Yes, My Prince, I think she has found herself an ideal ally in a dominant who is her match in brutality.”
“We better hope not,” Dion remarks dryly. He’s heard of Titan’s fists and seen what they’ve done to his enemies. He can imagine his eikon and the upheaval of earth and roots toppling skyward, toward his domain; there’s naught to be done about the collateral damage of a fight between eikons and the land lost in between moments of reckoning.
Luckily, he knows what conflicts he sees shall be carefully determined by the hand of Greagor. Even if she wills him to danger it is his affair to discharge and no Waloeder or Dhalmek will come close to the Empire’s borders without retaliation. These are efforts for his people and nothing less. A partnership will need coordination and trust and that will take time to build. It is why when Dion shifts to catch the hint of upset written across Terence’s face, he stills.
Outside the tent, Dion can hear the dull footsteps of the men as the evening bell sounds the end of the day. All around their scattered space are the remnants of a late supper and the carefully scripted observations from returned scouts. He thinks his spies are lucky to have arrived with this information, and luckier still to have given him an avenue to consider in what pawn Waloed invests their efforts for a footstep on Storm. But it’s not, despite the importance to find an answer, the direction he finds his attention rapidly shifting. He’s weary enough with the indignity of needed rest as is to recognize it in the face of his knight.
“Let us call it an evening. This is not something we will uncover anything new on tonight.”
“As you wish, My Prince.”
“But I would hear what’s troubling you.”
Terence looks at him in surprise, mouth a thin line. Terence is never compelled to speak about his own uncertainties until Dion draws them out. Endlessly resilient until Dion presses on the suggestion of a wound — he cannot lie to save himself. All the truths long cast aside did nothing to save them until the bitter end nearly saw the departure of their recipient entirely. Now, Dion knows real fear — abandoning words left unsaid.
“You’re upset,” Dion says. “Come out with it.”
“It’s nothing, My Prince.” Dion waits patiently, knowing his silence will speak for him. Terence looks at him, expression drawn, then sighs. He gathers the loose paper into a neat stack before rising from the bench, extracting himself.
“I have just been reminded that I should not possess you so easily,” Terence confesses. “That I walk among gods.”
Ah, Dion thinks. There it is.
“Have their been defamations? You’ve never mentioned this before…”
“No, I’ve been — careful. It is simply — from myself.”
“Well, I don’t think I could bear to point a spear at that.”
“I would thank you for it now,” Terence assures. “I did not mean to worry you.”
“You’ve done no such thing.” Sighing, Dion draws to standing and takes his hand. His palm is warm and scratchy against his own where the calluses are raised. War has regrettably marked him as unkindly as it has himself. The curse has only just begun, but Dion thinks Terence’s suffering on his behalf started long before they knew what they wanted. He threads their fingers and holds fast.
“You know it has not been easy for us to get to this point. So how unworthy could you possibly be?” Dion assures.
“I cannot protect you,” Terence protests, even as he holds tight. “It’s merely — it need not be like this, for you. And I don’t have anything to give save my name. I wanted when perhaps I should not have. I — you were so ill for weeks Dion, for my sake — I needed you to know. Never did I imagine — this. Or what I could cost you.”
Dion draws close and waits. When Terence finally looks at him, he looks ashamed and it reverts Dion to the days of their youth, where even if Terence’s blows held confidence and his achievements were his own he knew his rank and would forever question whether he was worthy of all he’d set out to claim for himself. Dion understands it as such: an overwhelming need to know how far one’s actions reach. And thus, the future that they get to think so little of outside of bureaucracy reminds Dion of what they’re really fighting for. “Don’t think ill of yourself,” Terence continues. “I’m simply more aware of my limits and how woefully unprepared I am. Titan and Garuda are as equals, and there is us, and I am… not better.”
“There has been nothing lacking in your command that I have heard or seen.”
“And yet, I know if I were to stay a blade from an Eikon, I should not live.”
Dion stills. The thought is not unimaginable. “And I should not like to without you. But that won’t happen.” Beneath the long tunic, his injury is a permanent pink. The violence of steel entering and exiting his body still rings in his ears. “Eikons are my fight.”
“Forgive me, but what is the point of my armor if I can’t use it to properly shield the one I care about,” he whispers, breathless and aggrieved. Terence bows his head. “Surely I should be stronger by now to endure our separation on the field,” he says. “That I should not feel this way at all.”
“What concerns me most is your ability to keep yourself safe — and that is the responsibility of a formidable commander in the making to learn. I may order a trusted few but I am lacking in that experience as well. I’ve sent you into countless dangers, and our friends.” Dion pauses, considering. “I suppose, truly, I wish I were better for you as well.”
Terence’s mouth twitches and his hand squeezes his own. Shakily, he laughs. “You? Lacking?”
Dion scoffs. “Do not put me on a pedestal.”
“Indeed, I do not mind helping you down from it.”
Dion laughs a little and pulls him against him in an embrace. “You are plenty. I know of no other who stands by me as you do. Or who pursued me so adamantly to do so, I should say.”
Terence shakes his head and tucks his chin against Dion’s neck. His throat vibrates against his shoulder when he speaks. “A selfish fool,” he murmurs. “I burdened you, when I meant to relieve you.”
“And what will you say about my pursuits?” he returns coolly. “Also folly?”
“Worse still,” Terence says adamantly, but there’s a smile in his voice, betraying him easily. “But it made me happy,” he whispers. “More than anything else.”
They quiet. Dion holds him and savors his warmth. A year may have passed since his close brush with death but what he remembered most was waking to Terence’s ill-kept self, eyes raw, body folded and defeated in his grief and blame for an impulse that Dion could not deny, but could now give voice to. “Power all means very little in love, I think,” Dion says. “There are no alliances I wish to make, and if there were, I would see them so far removed from every personal aspect of my life so I could keep your time to myself.”
Terence says nothing. But his fingers smooth up his back and press into the hair at the back of his neck and stroke carefully. He’s always held him like this, Dion thinks. Gently, admiring, like when he dresses him in the soft silken dress shirts befitting his station, for whatever bloody battle he may be asked to be a part of. Exquisitely, like he’s handling a treasure. And like a man, when he lingers over the firmness of his body, the steel in his spine.
“I adore you,” Dion murmurs against the press of his lips. “I fear I have not said it enough now.”
“You are a man of action. I know I’m included in your efforts for peace,” Terence hushes. “It’s enough.”
“It’s not.” Dion draws back to look at him. “That’s why I wish in the days to come that I may keep you equally at my side. Not simply as my confidant, but as my second.”
Terence swallows. “Who would allow it?”
“Everyone,” Dion promises. “When we make an order of our own.”
“Really,” Terence repeats, voice soft and quiet. His eyes are wide in disbelief.
“Really. If it’s our destiny to live abroad from home then I see no reason to not champion those I care for most.”
Dion traces his hand over the short hairs at the nape of his neck, the soft peach fuzz around his ears, then the shell of it. Terence's lashes flutter and he turns his head to look down at him. The warmth in his glance, the careful awe and delight; Dion endures it for a few moments more before shuffling carefully around him to pull him toward the bed and show him what he really means. Terence kisses him eagerly, arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him close. He’s a tad breathless, as altered by his touch as Dion is by his. Despite the fragile complexity of war and what they are allowed, Dion knows now that he’s had a taste of love there is no escaping how it calls to him always.
They undress each other one layer at a time. There is no need to rush, even if Dion wants his bare skin touching his own immediately, Terence’s smiles and soft words stay his hand.
They keep going, until their garments are a careful pile on the bed beside them, and when they remove the last of their small-clothes, unburdened and free to take the other in in their entirety, Dion leans back on his heels to appraise the naked length of the prone body carefully before him. Terence is flushed, with ridges of hard muscle and white lines where skin has knit itself back together under a physicker’s touch, and he’s hard, prick rising quickly under his attention, but mostly Dion settles on his face and the mirrored expression of want he finds there, gray eyes holding him, dark hair out of shape where Dion has mussed it, waiting to see where Dion will lead him. Maybe not to some great victory, or even happiness if they must fight Greagor’s wars with enemies who seek to destroy them, but at least together.
Terence shudders against him with every trail of his hands, and it reminds Dion impossibly of their first time, when Terence had been so nervous he’d trembled like a tree in a storm. Dion rubs circles against his hips, the heel of his hand resting against the tops of his thighs to steady him. But Terence drags himself forward and into his lap instead, and with a smooth motion he’d not been prepared for, wraps Dion’s cock hard between his calloused fingers and strokes up the length of it to the edge of his palm. Dion bows his head against his shoulder and shakes at the near arrival it brings him to, breath shocked out of him, then huffs out a laugh and a groan at the apologetic kiss he’s given. “Sorry,” Terence murmurs.
Not to be outdone, Dion mirrors him, and they shuffle until their legs overlap. He tilts his head sideways to press easier against his mouth and they trade lazy kisses while their hands fall into familiar patterns. Terence’s tender smile against his lips belies the steel in his muscles rippling beneath his palm, his body tensing with the slippery grip of Dion’s hand and the teasing roll of his thumb. His knees press in against his waist, weight warm and heavy against him; a single, firm roll of his hips makes them both shake, jig sawed together, exactly as they’ve lived the entirety of their lives. There’s never been a moment Dion knows where he did not concern himself with where Terence may be in relation to himself.
“You are lovely,” Dion murmurs. Terence is quick to press their foreheads together, pushing his hair carefully away from his face.
“You always make me feel as such,” he replies. Dion need only tilt his chin up for Terence to kiss him slowly again. The luxury of such a moment is not lost on him, nor the force of the warmth he instills in him.
Their fists move in tandem, fast and firm, until Dion is watching his movements grow uncoordinated, the soft roll of his eyes and mouth as he gets closer to the edge, body stuttering against his own. Dion wraps his whole arm around his body to bring him impossibly closer, feeling his own climax pressing in upon him, and Terence sighs harshly against his neck before turning his mouth upon his jaw, betraying his plans in favor of his own. Dion loses his thoughts abruptly.
What dominants have to offer each other is perfect symmetry, and perhaps there is joy in that familiarity of curses and boons shared, but Dion thinks he would be left wanting; there is no replacing the years of trust and hardship that have passed between them. It’s what makes him confident that someday the wars will end. It’s what allows him to enjoy the spike of pleasure in his chest as it crests and dissolve to quiet pieces.
Dion turns breathless, shudders with the force of a sudden punch, and comes deliciously apart in Terence’s arms. Amidst the welcome relief of his orgasm Terence kisses his mouth through his groans and strokes him fiercely with the slickness easing his way, never one to lose focus on the task at hand.
As Dion regains his limbs he pulls Terence into his lap with draconian strength to feel him in his entirety. He grunts, startled, and threads a hand through Dion’s hair and the other around his back. Dion yokes him hard and fast and pushes his body against him, determined for every junction and press of skin to be felt against his own. Terence’s sighs turn to encouragement then to unintelligible noises, and he cries out softly as his body curls tight around his own, falling apart under his hands with the devastating onslaught. He spills over his fingers, eyes screwed shut, expression devastated; Dion keeps his hand moving to send him into throes until Terence returns to his mouth to kiss him stupid, shoves his hand away, and presses him back in the mattress with his weight alone, defeated.
Dion feels impossibly warm and he hopes Terence feels the same. That the force of his love could remind him a little of where his heart and his efforts really live.
Terence hooks a leg over his hip by touch alone and traces his arm from shoulder to elbow, eyes closed. His breath is warm and rapid in his ear, and Dion wills his own to slow to hear its wild gallop better.
Terence’s eyes flutter half-open eventually, and Dion turns his head to watch him beneath the swoop of his lashes. His dark hair where it lays neat and perfectly windswept is in disarray across his sweaty forehead until Dion pushes it back with his clean hand to mirror the order it usually holds. “I have not closed doors for you, do you think,” Terence whispers finally. Dion shakes his head.
“No. Not at all.”
Dion curls his fingers through the short fringe against his crown. Terence tries so hard to match him and succeeds nigh every time, raising the bar higher for every man and woman to follow in his footsteps. But this between them is his alone, and whatever dominants choose to live without the warm flesh of a normal human beside them shall never know how precious that life really is. Garuda and Titan may find happiness in what they share, but Dion is relieved that he’s chanced upon it without.
Terence shivers against him occasionally, body still elated from Dion’s touch, but his smile is charming and unrestrained — the most significant novelty Dion’s ever received. Dion shifts to kiss him slowly some more and pictures all the evenings to come where Terence may feel free to do so in turn. He imagines their comrades congratulating him, and Terence’s presence at his side without the pretense of servitude. It’s near. No enemy shall have them or come close to this. He won’t ever let him wonder if his heart is safe within him.
“When will you propose your plan?” Terence asks sleepily.
“At the end of the campaign season, when father is most amicable. I don’t believe anyone will be unhappy to see me commit to the role I’ve been sentenced to.”
“Not true.” Terence tightens his arm across his chest, eyes slipping closed. “I might.”
“And I’m thankful for it always,” Dion breathes. He shuffles to face him better. He traces the bridge of his nose, then trails down to touch the swell of his lips. A kiss is placed there. “We will stay safe together.”
Terence smiles a little, a promise without words, but it’s such that when they fall asleep later that night, Dion does not concern himself with what tomorrow’s hardships may bring them, only the luxury of restful sleep.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: Explicit
Word Count: 3177
Notes: Written for a prompt that I liked on the
ffxvi_kink_meme. It really played with what I like about their dynamic. Edits: 5.11.24. Title change, a few typo fixes.
-
“So Titan and Garuda share a bed now,” Terence says dryly. “Waloed need not try harder to secure the Dhalmeks, I suppose.”
“It hasn’t been uncommon in our history for dominants to pursue each other. For the nations involved it’s a great alliance.” A pause. “For the rest, a terror,” Dion tacts on.
“I remember.” Terence nods wearily. “There hasn’t been a union of that sort in centuries.”
“And with the state of the realm, there likely won’t ever be. I have no complaints.”
“You could use an ally,” Terence says.
“One that preferably would not turn to stab me in the back at the indignity of chains. I am looking at one currently.”
Terence smiles and huffs, but says little. The Holy Empire is without allies and Dion knows he walks alone — but not — carrying her banner forward on a fragile precipice. Information is far flung and for every rumor to reach his ears there is a grain of truth to be found.
The rumors are thus: Waloed’s spy master had business in a shady corner of the Dominion with Titan’s dominant. Her guard was small and vulnerable. She means no offense in her visit. But her presence is a crisis nonetheless.
Dion has no doubt that whatever their intentions the path Garuda will carve will only end in violence.
“I think they miss their Lord Commander,” Dion murmurs. “It’s a fine thing they’ve done giving the Dhalmeks hot air.”
“I wouldn’t mind a few more fumbles this season. But I don’t think Garuda’s plans will fail her.”
Dion turns his head, then stretches. His neck cracks and he sighs. “You think she’s clever.”
“Yes, My Prince, I think she has found herself an ideal ally in a dominant who is her match in brutality.”
“We better hope not,” Dion remarks dryly. He’s heard of Titan’s fists and seen what they’ve done to his enemies. He can imagine his eikon and the upheaval of earth and roots toppling skyward, toward his domain; there’s naught to be done about the collateral damage of a fight between eikons and the land lost in between moments of reckoning.
Luckily, he knows what conflicts he sees shall be carefully determined by the hand of Greagor. Even if she wills him to danger it is his affair to discharge and no Waloeder or Dhalmek will come close to the Empire’s borders without retaliation. These are efforts for his people and nothing less. A partnership will need coordination and trust and that will take time to build. It is why when Dion shifts to catch the hint of upset written across Terence’s face, he stills.
Outside the tent, Dion can hear the dull footsteps of the men as the evening bell sounds the end of the day. All around their scattered space are the remnants of a late supper and the carefully scripted observations from returned scouts. He thinks his spies are lucky to have arrived with this information, and luckier still to have given him an avenue to consider in what pawn Waloed invests their efforts for a footstep on Storm. But it’s not, despite the importance to find an answer, the direction he finds his attention rapidly shifting. He’s weary enough with the indignity of needed rest as is to recognize it in the face of his knight.
“Let us call it an evening. This is not something we will uncover anything new on tonight.”
“As you wish, My Prince.”
“But I would hear what’s troubling you.”
Terence looks at him in surprise, mouth a thin line. Terence is never compelled to speak about his own uncertainties until Dion draws them out. Endlessly resilient until Dion presses on the suggestion of a wound — he cannot lie to save himself. All the truths long cast aside did nothing to save them until the bitter end nearly saw the departure of their recipient entirely. Now, Dion knows real fear — abandoning words left unsaid.
“You’re upset,” Dion says. “Come out with it.”
“It’s nothing, My Prince.” Dion waits patiently, knowing his silence will speak for him. Terence looks at him, expression drawn, then sighs. He gathers the loose paper into a neat stack before rising from the bench, extracting himself.
“I have just been reminded that I should not possess you so easily,” Terence confesses. “That I walk among gods.”
Ah, Dion thinks. There it is.
“Have their been defamations? You’ve never mentioned this before…”
“No, I’ve been — careful. It is simply — from myself.”
“Well, I don’t think I could bear to point a spear at that.”
“I would thank you for it now,” Terence assures. “I did not mean to worry you.”
“You’ve done no such thing.” Sighing, Dion draws to standing and takes his hand. His palm is warm and scratchy against his own where the calluses are raised. War has regrettably marked him as unkindly as it has himself. The curse has only just begun, but Dion thinks Terence’s suffering on his behalf started long before they knew what they wanted. He threads their fingers and holds fast.
“You know it has not been easy for us to get to this point. So how unworthy could you possibly be?” Dion assures.
“I cannot protect you,” Terence protests, even as he holds tight. “It’s merely — it need not be like this, for you. And I don’t have anything to give save my name. I wanted when perhaps I should not have. I — you were so ill for weeks Dion, for my sake — I needed you to know. Never did I imagine — this. Or what I could cost you.”
Dion draws close and waits. When Terence finally looks at him, he looks ashamed and it reverts Dion to the days of their youth, where even if Terence’s blows held confidence and his achievements were his own he knew his rank and would forever question whether he was worthy of all he’d set out to claim for himself. Dion understands it as such: an overwhelming need to know how far one’s actions reach. And thus, the future that they get to think so little of outside of bureaucracy reminds Dion of what they’re really fighting for. “Don’t think ill of yourself,” Terence continues. “I’m simply more aware of my limits and how woefully unprepared I am. Titan and Garuda are as equals, and there is us, and I am… not better.”
“There has been nothing lacking in your command that I have heard or seen.”
“And yet, I know if I were to stay a blade from an Eikon, I should not live.”
Dion stills. The thought is not unimaginable. “And I should not like to without you. But that won’t happen.” Beneath the long tunic, his injury is a permanent pink. The violence of steel entering and exiting his body still rings in his ears. “Eikons are my fight.”
“Forgive me, but what is the point of my armor if I can’t use it to properly shield the one I care about,” he whispers, breathless and aggrieved. Terence bows his head. “Surely I should be stronger by now to endure our separation on the field,” he says. “That I should not feel this way at all.”
“What concerns me most is your ability to keep yourself safe — and that is the responsibility of a formidable commander in the making to learn. I may order a trusted few but I am lacking in that experience as well. I’ve sent you into countless dangers, and our friends.” Dion pauses, considering. “I suppose, truly, I wish I were better for you as well.”
Terence’s mouth twitches and his hand squeezes his own. Shakily, he laughs. “You? Lacking?”
Dion scoffs. “Do not put me on a pedestal.”
“Indeed, I do not mind helping you down from it.”
Dion laughs a little and pulls him against him in an embrace. “You are plenty. I know of no other who stands by me as you do. Or who pursued me so adamantly to do so, I should say.”
Terence shakes his head and tucks his chin against Dion’s neck. His throat vibrates against his shoulder when he speaks. “A selfish fool,” he murmurs. “I burdened you, when I meant to relieve you.”
“And what will you say about my pursuits?” he returns coolly. “Also folly?”
“Worse still,” Terence says adamantly, but there’s a smile in his voice, betraying him easily. “But it made me happy,” he whispers. “More than anything else.”
They quiet. Dion holds him and savors his warmth. A year may have passed since his close brush with death but what he remembered most was waking to Terence’s ill-kept self, eyes raw, body folded and defeated in his grief and blame for an impulse that Dion could not deny, but could now give voice to. “Power all means very little in love, I think,” Dion says. “There are no alliances I wish to make, and if there were, I would see them so far removed from every personal aspect of my life so I could keep your time to myself.”
Terence says nothing. But his fingers smooth up his back and press into the hair at the back of his neck and stroke carefully. He’s always held him like this, Dion thinks. Gently, admiring, like when he dresses him in the soft silken dress shirts befitting his station, for whatever bloody battle he may be asked to be a part of. Exquisitely, like he’s handling a treasure. And like a man, when he lingers over the firmness of his body, the steel in his spine.
“I adore you,” Dion murmurs against the press of his lips. “I fear I have not said it enough now.”
“You are a man of action. I know I’m included in your efforts for peace,” Terence hushes. “It’s enough.”
“It’s not.” Dion draws back to look at him. “That’s why I wish in the days to come that I may keep you equally at my side. Not simply as my confidant, but as my second.”
Terence swallows. “Who would allow it?”
“Everyone,” Dion promises. “When we make an order of our own.”
“Really,” Terence repeats, voice soft and quiet. His eyes are wide in disbelief.
“Really. If it’s our destiny to live abroad from home then I see no reason to not champion those I care for most.”
Dion traces his hand over the short hairs at the nape of his neck, the soft peach fuzz around his ears, then the shell of it. Terence's lashes flutter and he turns his head to look down at him. The warmth in his glance, the careful awe and delight; Dion endures it for a few moments more before shuffling carefully around him to pull him toward the bed and show him what he really means. Terence kisses him eagerly, arms wrapping around his shoulders to pull him close. He’s a tad breathless, as altered by his touch as Dion is by his. Despite the fragile complexity of war and what they are allowed, Dion knows now that he’s had a taste of love there is no escaping how it calls to him always.
They undress each other one layer at a time. There is no need to rush, even if Dion wants his bare skin touching his own immediately, Terence’s smiles and soft words stay his hand.
They keep going, until their garments are a careful pile on the bed beside them, and when they remove the last of their small-clothes, unburdened and free to take the other in in their entirety, Dion leans back on his heels to appraise the naked length of the prone body carefully before him. Terence is flushed, with ridges of hard muscle and white lines where skin has knit itself back together under a physicker’s touch, and he’s hard, prick rising quickly under his attention, but mostly Dion settles on his face and the mirrored expression of want he finds there, gray eyes holding him, dark hair out of shape where Dion has mussed it, waiting to see where Dion will lead him. Maybe not to some great victory, or even happiness if they must fight Greagor’s wars with enemies who seek to destroy them, but at least together.
Terence shudders against him with every trail of his hands, and it reminds Dion impossibly of their first time, when Terence had been so nervous he’d trembled like a tree in a storm. Dion rubs circles against his hips, the heel of his hand resting against the tops of his thighs to steady him. But Terence drags himself forward and into his lap instead, and with a smooth motion he’d not been prepared for, wraps Dion’s cock hard between his calloused fingers and strokes up the length of it to the edge of his palm. Dion bows his head against his shoulder and shakes at the near arrival it brings him to, breath shocked out of him, then huffs out a laugh and a groan at the apologetic kiss he’s given. “Sorry,” Terence murmurs.
Not to be outdone, Dion mirrors him, and they shuffle until their legs overlap. He tilts his head sideways to press easier against his mouth and they trade lazy kisses while their hands fall into familiar patterns. Terence’s tender smile against his lips belies the steel in his muscles rippling beneath his palm, his body tensing with the slippery grip of Dion’s hand and the teasing roll of his thumb. His knees press in against his waist, weight warm and heavy against him; a single, firm roll of his hips makes them both shake, jig sawed together, exactly as they’ve lived the entirety of their lives. There’s never been a moment Dion knows where he did not concern himself with where Terence may be in relation to himself.
“You are lovely,” Dion murmurs. Terence is quick to press their foreheads together, pushing his hair carefully away from his face.
“You always make me feel as such,” he replies. Dion need only tilt his chin up for Terence to kiss him slowly again. The luxury of such a moment is not lost on him, nor the force of the warmth he instills in him.
Their fists move in tandem, fast and firm, until Dion is watching his movements grow uncoordinated, the soft roll of his eyes and mouth as he gets closer to the edge, body stuttering against his own. Dion wraps his whole arm around his body to bring him impossibly closer, feeling his own climax pressing in upon him, and Terence sighs harshly against his neck before turning his mouth upon his jaw, betraying his plans in favor of his own. Dion loses his thoughts abruptly.
What dominants have to offer each other is perfect symmetry, and perhaps there is joy in that familiarity of curses and boons shared, but Dion thinks he would be left wanting; there is no replacing the years of trust and hardship that have passed between them. It’s what makes him confident that someday the wars will end. It’s what allows him to enjoy the spike of pleasure in his chest as it crests and dissolve to quiet pieces.
Dion turns breathless, shudders with the force of a sudden punch, and comes deliciously apart in Terence’s arms. Amidst the welcome relief of his orgasm Terence kisses his mouth through his groans and strokes him fiercely with the slickness easing his way, never one to lose focus on the task at hand.
As Dion regains his limbs he pulls Terence into his lap with draconian strength to feel him in his entirety. He grunts, startled, and threads a hand through Dion’s hair and the other around his back. Dion yokes him hard and fast and pushes his body against him, determined for every junction and press of skin to be felt against his own. Terence’s sighs turn to encouragement then to unintelligible noises, and he cries out softly as his body curls tight around his own, falling apart under his hands with the devastating onslaught. He spills over his fingers, eyes screwed shut, expression devastated; Dion keeps his hand moving to send him into throes until Terence returns to his mouth to kiss him stupid, shoves his hand away, and presses him back in the mattress with his weight alone, defeated.
Dion feels impossibly warm and he hopes Terence feels the same. That the force of his love could remind him a little of where his heart and his efforts really live.
Terence hooks a leg over his hip by touch alone and traces his arm from shoulder to elbow, eyes closed. His breath is warm and rapid in his ear, and Dion wills his own to slow to hear its wild gallop better.
Terence’s eyes flutter half-open eventually, and Dion turns his head to watch him beneath the swoop of his lashes. His dark hair where it lays neat and perfectly windswept is in disarray across his sweaty forehead until Dion pushes it back with his clean hand to mirror the order it usually holds. “I have not closed doors for you, do you think,” Terence whispers finally. Dion shakes his head.
“No. Not at all.”
Dion curls his fingers through the short fringe against his crown. Terence tries so hard to match him and succeeds nigh every time, raising the bar higher for every man and woman to follow in his footsteps. But this between them is his alone, and whatever dominants choose to live without the warm flesh of a normal human beside them shall never know how precious that life really is. Garuda and Titan may find happiness in what they share, but Dion is relieved that he’s chanced upon it without.
Terence shivers against him occasionally, body still elated from Dion’s touch, but his smile is charming and unrestrained — the most significant novelty Dion’s ever received. Dion shifts to kiss him slowly some more and pictures all the evenings to come where Terence may feel free to do so in turn. He imagines their comrades congratulating him, and Terence’s presence at his side without the pretense of servitude. It’s near. No enemy shall have them or come close to this. He won’t ever let him wonder if his heart is safe within him.
“When will you propose your plan?” Terence asks sleepily.
“At the end of the campaign season, when father is most amicable. I don’t believe anyone will be unhappy to see me commit to the role I’ve been sentenced to.”
“Not true.” Terence tightens his arm across his chest, eyes slipping closed. “I might.”
“And I’m thankful for it always,” Dion breathes. He shuffles to face him better. He traces the bridge of his nose, then trails down to touch the swell of his lips. A kiss is placed there. “We will stay safe together.”
Terence smiles a little, a promise without words, but it’s such that when they fall asleep later that night, Dion does not concern himself with what tomorrow’s hardships may bring them, only the luxury of restful sleep.
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-24 11:26 am (UTC)Aha, this was my prompt – I'm delighted it inspired you!
Yesss Terence confessing his insecurities is so good. They're so in love with each other, I love this 😍
(no subject)
Date: 2023-12-25 02:56 am (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed! <33