Overthrown
Mar. 6th, 2024 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: Overthrown
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: M
Word Count: 1805
Notes: Dion and Terence play strip chess, but only one player is following the rules. Some light-hearted fun.
-
Terence loses a pawn on his third turn and it’s also the first piece Dion removes from the table. Because Dion had started first, he could always take the initiative until one of them broke the rhythm of the pieces crossing the board.
Dion looks at him as he stands up briefly, stretching his back. It’s been a warm summer and the canvas tents do nothing to spare them its misery. While a hole was punched for ventilation in the top, the late afternoon sunlight that pierces through still can be felt on the skin. It’s warm, too warm. Sliding his hands along the leather knot of his belt, the metal clasp clinks against itself as Terence threads the belt free. Rolling it up into a long loop he lays it beneath his chair and returns to his seat.
Dion is still holding the piece he’d claimed from Terence’s side of the board. Good.
“My turn again, then,” Terence says easily.
“I believe you are up to foul play,” Dion replies. He slides the small pawn to the edge of the board and faces it toward their game.
“Shall I stop?”
“…You might only refocus your attention to the board, less you have to sit there naked so soon.”
“Pardon my prince — but it’s very warm today.” Terence loosens the clasp of his collar and shakes it purposefully.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Dion says coolly. Terence sends his bishop forward but claims nothing. Another turn passes idly, and Terence shoves a pawn into a headlock with Dion’s own. Upon the next wave, he removes one of Dion’s and slides his first win to the side, bumping it gently along the surface to its final resting place.
“I might as well be playing alone,” Dion complains. “Is your strategy to bore me to death?”
Terence reigns in a smile. “Mine is taking some time, I admit.”
“Then you can explain. I am interested in where you’ve learned it and from whom.”
Terence coughs. Dion’s fine hands slide another pawn from the table; it’s to his benefit that this game can be played quickly or slowly and that Dion is so willing to match his pace. He’s a willing participant in most of his sporadic advances — when he’s not distracted trying to execute plans of his own. “The barracks. There were a few evenings where the captain made his payments to us with good wine.” Terence holds up his hand at Dion’s incomprehensible look. “I was compensated eventually, I promise you. The games we fell into usually involved cards or dice and were best suited to a group of six at least, and were usually rowdy — but there’s only us. I thought it might be better to start you with an advantage and something, well, familiar.”
“How considerate of you. It remains to your advantage however when you have knowledge of what’s ahead.”
Terence laughs a little. Standing gleefully, he hooks his fingers under his tunic and pulls it over his head. The fabric clings to his clammy skin but the relief of the open air is immediate — his arms prickle.
Dion watches silently, jaw working. Shaking the shirt free of irregular creases, Terence folds it into a clean square upon his knees and slides it neatly under his chair to join the belt.
“…How is the winner determined?” Dion asks.
“That depends, my prince. Typically, when a piece is lost, an article of clothing is removed.”
“I see…”
He doesn’t have to wait for long.
Dion’s always known how to make quick work of him.
“Good heavens,” Dion mutters.
He sits on the edge of the low table, naked save for a plain pair of breeches, knees brushing Dion’s own. He’s as regally dressed as ever, but there’s little to defend Terence from considering if the flush in his cheeks or the way his hair sticks to his neck is a result of himself and not the weather. He’s not vain but he knows his strength is written into his body, and he’s seen plenty the way Dion’s eyes trace him appreciatively. Perhaps his kindness in not enforcing the rules for the both of them had been a little unkind under the duress of summer; it was, however, important that Dion emerge victorious.
“I believe you mean check, my prince,” Terence whispers. He gently pushes the board away behind him and Dion’s collection of chocobos and shields tumble into a pitiful heap together. Dion silently traces a palm over the bulk of his thigh and down along the flare of his calf, smiling a little, callouses catching along old scars and divots of muscle and bone. His thumb rises to trace the elastic band along his thighs but moves no further. Terence doesn’t mind where they land, as long as they’re on him.
“I have not taken the King yet,” Dion protests gently.
Terence raises a leg and relocates it along the embroidered threads in his trousers, tracing the leather belt’s edges with his biggest toe, letting his weight rest along the sensitive muscle. “That’s not necessary.”
“So there is no winner,” Dion says. His eyes are nearly twinkling, Terence thinks, and he’s about to surprise him — “It was simply a gathering of degenerate youth back then, and you were content to sit on the sidelines thinking of another. For you — the rules did not apply.”
“I’ll admit, perhaps I was a little lovesick.” He clears his throat. “Evidence suggests however — that we should go over some pointers —” Terence slides forward and directly into Dion’s lap, hooking his feet along the back of the stool to straddle him comfortably. Dion’s iron arms secure him quickly even as the stool groans its grievances beneath their combined weight; for a moment, he worries it will break and they will tumble down, knights and bishops and royalty together. “…I never made it to this part. Perhaps we can problem solve, if you are feeling charitable.”
Dion smiles a little. It would not have mattered if he had.
“I think,” Dion starts, and fails. His hands trace up Terence’s back grievously slow. His short nails drag along his damp skin. “It is a bit warm in here.”
“You finally admit it.” Terence grips the bottom of Dion’s tunic and tugs upward once, freeing it from his trousers. “I’ll assist. You might get heat stroke at your pace.”
Dion’s mouth twitches.
“You have much restraint,” Terence complains.
Dion smiles and says nothing, shuffling just enough for Terence to feel the hardness of his cock against his own. For a moment, Terence struggles to focus. “What’s the matter,” Dion murmurs, and pulls Terence in hard against him, rolling his hips. “Did I foil your plans? Please, continue.”
Terence breathes, considering. His thoughts don’t go far. Dion presses his mouth against his neck and slides one hand down the back of his breeches, holding him tight. His soft hair tickles his skin and Terence winds a hand through it before he can stop himself, holding Dion firmly in place against him. His mouth traces from one side of his throat to the other before resting still beneath his ear.
He’s very quiet. “My strategy is more forthright.”
“Is that so, Your Highness.”
“I have very little patience in actuality — you are simply tolerant.”
Terence turns his words over carefully. It’s not untrue, but if Dion intends to tease him so, none of this will last for long. He’s his own wants, after all.
Terence settles his weight more firmly and hooks his feet around the stool to anchor himself, fingers splitting Dion’s belt and threading it free of his trousers in a snap of his wrists. He drags his palms against the iron of his stomach and sweeps them to the curve of his back, arcing over every piece of skin he can reach. Dion’s hair snags and twists beautifully in his hands, and his neck is salty against Terence’s mouth where he lavishes attention. It’s simple enough to fumble along his trousers and grab him so — Dion’s breath hitches and a quiet, barely there swear escapes as he trembles, the stool groaning ominously — then suddenly, Terence is airborne.
Dion’s called on his eikon’s strength for this maneuver — Terence knows his own mass and Dion’s limits perfectly.
When Terence’s back hits the bed, Dion retreats to standing a safe distance away and examines him critically from head to toe. Terence ignores the urge to bring himself relief and makes himself comfortable, breathing through his nose, watching the result of his efforts slowly come to fruition. Dion has always been a pinnacle of a man to him — kind, intelligent, capable — and beautiful in every line of his dangerous body. He should know that he’s wanted. He should feel undone.
Dion raises his hands and neatly undoes the clasps across his chest, revealing his skin one heavenly inch at a time. He shucks the shirt from one arm and then the other before laying it across the foot of the bed, clasps clicking together, but not as considerately as Terence. He is, as he said, impatient. Terence bites back a smile as Dion tucks his thumbs along the front of his pants and, considering the already devastated state of them, heaps them to his feet. His pale ankles slip free and he kicks his pants aside, giving Terence a pleasant view of his chiseled legs and crotch. “Like this?” he purrs, eyes fixed on him. Terence swallows; he aches. It is entirely unfair how Dion continues to be so enchanting or deliberate with what respites they stumble into — time may erode everything, but never this brightness Dion always carries within him. Terence wants this slice of happiness to continue on forever.
“Exactly so, my prince,” he whispers. Dion kneels on the bed and kisses his way across his body — by the time he reaches his face and Terence gets his hands on him, he doesn’t believe he’s tolerant after all.
They sit apart after, sated and horribly warmer than before, inching along the covers for the cool parts of the bedding. Perhaps it was not one of Terence’s most brilliant ideas, but Dion looked at ease and relaxed, and it could be worthy of a revisit for another time. Terence passes a water-skin to him and they take turns drinking, letting their breathing slow. After some time Dion threads their fingers together and reclines perpendicular to the bed, laying his face against the curve of his folded thighs. He smiles then, wide and sure, and Terence grows suspicious, swiping his thumb across his knuckles before holding him firmly. “…Yes?”
“I had nearly forgotten,” Dion murmurs. “Checkmate.”
"You rogue--" Terence curses and shoves him away, laughing, but the devilish, charming smile inching across Dion’s face as he wrestles him down against his side is all he wanted to see.
Fandom: Final Fantasy XVI
Characters/pairing: Dion/Terence
Rating: M
Word Count: 1805
Notes: Dion and Terence play strip chess, but only one player is following the rules. Some light-hearted fun.
-
Terence loses a pawn on his third turn and it’s also the first piece Dion removes from the table. Because Dion had started first, he could always take the initiative until one of them broke the rhythm of the pieces crossing the board.
Dion looks at him as he stands up briefly, stretching his back. It’s been a warm summer and the canvas tents do nothing to spare them its misery. While a hole was punched for ventilation in the top, the late afternoon sunlight that pierces through still can be felt on the skin. It’s warm, too warm. Sliding his hands along the leather knot of his belt, the metal clasp clinks against itself as Terence threads the belt free. Rolling it up into a long loop he lays it beneath his chair and returns to his seat.
Dion is still holding the piece he’d claimed from Terence’s side of the board. Good.
“My turn again, then,” Terence says easily.
“I believe you are up to foul play,” Dion replies. He slides the small pawn to the edge of the board and faces it toward their game.
“Shall I stop?”
“…You might only refocus your attention to the board, less you have to sit there naked so soon.”
“Pardon my prince — but it’s very warm today.” Terence loosens the clasp of his collar and shakes it purposefully.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Dion says coolly. Terence sends his bishop forward but claims nothing. Another turn passes idly, and Terence shoves a pawn into a headlock with Dion’s own. Upon the next wave, he removes one of Dion’s and slides his first win to the side, bumping it gently along the surface to its final resting place.
“I might as well be playing alone,” Dion complains. “Is your strategy to bore me to death?”
Terence reigns in a smile. “Mine is taking some time, I admit.”
“Then you can explain. I am interested in where you’ve learned it and from whom.”
Terence coughs. Dion’s fine hands slide another pawn from the table; it’s to his benefit that this game can be played quickly or slowly and that Dion is so willing to match his pace. He’s a willing participant in most of his sporadic advances — when he’s not distracted trying to execute plans of his own. “The barracks. There were a few evenings where the captain made his payments to us with good wine.” Terence holds up his hand at Dion’s incomprehensible look. “I was compensated eventually, I promise you. The games we fell into usually involved cards or dice and were best suited to a group of six at least, and were usually rowdy — but there’s only us. I thought it might be better to start you with an advantage and something, well, familiar.”
“How considerate of you. It remains to your advantage however when you have knowledge of what’s ahead.”
Terence laughs a little. Standing gleefully, he hooks his fingers under his tunic and pulls it over his head. The fabric clings to his clammy skin but the relief of the open air is immediate — his arms prickle.
Dion watches silently, jaw working. Shaking the shirt free of irregular creases, Terence folds it into a clean square upon his knees and slides it neatly under his chair to join the belt.
“…How is the winner determined?” Dion asks.
“That depends, my prince. Typically, when a piece is lost, an article of clothing is removed.”
“I see…”
He doesn’t have to wait for long.
Dion’s always known how to make quick work of him.
“Good heavens,” Dion mutters.
He sits on the edge of the low table, naked save for a plain pair of breeches, knees brushing Dion’s own. He’s as regally dressed as ever, but there’s little to defend Terence from considering if the flush in his cheeks or the way his hair sticks to his neck is a result of himself and not the weather. He’s not vain but he knows his strength is written into his body, and he’s seen plenty the way Dion’s eyes trace him appreciatively. Perhaps his kindness in not enforcing the rules for the both of them had been a little unkind under the duress of summer; it was, however, important that Dion emerge victorious.
“I believe you mean check, my prince,” Terence whispers. He gently pushes the board away behind him and Dion’s collection of chocobos and shields tumble into a pitiful heap together. Dion silently traces a palm over the bulk of his thigh and down along the flare of his calf, smiling a little, callouses catching along old scars and divots of muscle and bone. His thumb rises to trace the elastic band along his thighs but moves no further. Terence doesn’t mind where they land, as long as they’re on him.
“I have not taken the King yet,” Dion protests gently.
Terence raises a leg and relocates it along the embroidered threads in his trousers, tracing the leather belt’s edges with his biggest toe, letting his weight rest along the sensitive muscle. “That’s not necessary.”
“So there is no winner,” Dion says. His eyes are nearly twinkling, Terence thinks, and he’s about to surprise him — “It was simply a gathering of degenerate youth back then, and you were content to sit on the sidelines thinking of another. For you — the rules did not apply.”
“I’ll admit, perhaps I was a little lovesick.” He clears his throat. “Evidence suggests however — that we should go over some pointers —” Terence slides forward and directly into Dion’s lap, hooking his feet along the back of the stool to straddle him comfortably. Dion’s iron arms secure him quickly even as the stool groans its grievances beneath their combined weight; for a moment, he worries it will break and they will tumble down, knights and bishops and royalty together. “…I never made it to this part. Perhaps we can problem solve, if you are feeling charitable.”
Dion smiles a little. It would not have mattered if he had.
“I think,” Dion starts, and fails. His hands trace up Terence’s back grievously slow. His short nails drag along his damp skin. “It is a bit warm in here.”
“You finally admit it.” Terence grips the bottom of Dion’s tunic and tugs upward once, freeing it from his trousers. “I’ll assist. You might get heat stroke at your pace.”
Dion’s mouth twitches.
“You have much restraint,” Terence complains.
Dion smiles and says nothing, shuffling just enough for Terence to feel the hardness of his cock against his own. For a moment, Terence struggles to focus. “What’s the matter,” Dion murmurs, and pulls Terence in hard against him, rolling his hips. “Did I foil your plans? Please, continue.”
Terence breathes, considering. His thoughts don’t go far. Dion presses his mouth against his neck and slides one hand down the back of his breeches, holding him tight. His soft hair tickles his skin and Terence winds a hand through it before he can stop himself, holding Dion firmly in place against him. His mouth traces from one side of his throat to the other before resting still beneath his ear.
He’s very quiet. “My strategy is more forthright.”
“Is that so, Your Highness.”
“I have very little patience in actuality — you are simply tolerant.”
Terence turns his words over carefully. It’s not untrue, but if Dion intends to tease him so, none of this will last for long. He’s his own wants, after all.
Terence settles his weight more firmly and hooks his feet around the stool to anchor himself, fingers splitting Dion’s belt and threading it free of his trousers in a snap of his wrists. He drags his palms against the iron of his stomach and sweeps them to the curve of his back, arcing over every piece of skin he can reach. Dion’s hair snags and twists beautifully in his hands, and his neck is salty against Terence’s mouth where he lavishes attention. It’s simple enough to fumble along his trousers and grab him so — Dion’s breath hitches and a quiet, barely there swear escapes as he trembles, the stool groaning ominously — then suddenly, Terence is airborne.
Dion’s called on his eikon’s strength for this maneuver — Terence knows his own mass and Dion’s limits perfectly.
When Terence’s back hits the bed, Dion retreats to standing a safe distance away and examines him critically from head to toe. Terence ignores the urge to bring himself relief and makes himself comfortable, breathing through his nose, watching the result of his efforts slowly come to fruition. Dion has always been a pinnacle of a man to him — kind, intelligent, capable — and beautiful in every line of his dangerous body. He should know that he’s wanted. He should feel undone.
Dion raises his hands and neatly undoes the clasps across his chest, revealing his skin one heavenly inch at a time. He shucks the shirt from one arm and then the other before laying it across the foot of the bed, clasps clicking together, but not as considerately as Terence. He is, as he said, impatient. Terence bites back a smile as Dion tucks his thumbs along the front of his pants and, considering the already devastated state of them, heaps them to his feet. His pale ankles slip free and he kicks his pants aside, giving Terence a pleasant view of his chiseled legs and crotch. “Like this?” he purrs, eyes fixed on him. Terence swallows; he aches. It is entirely unfair how Dion continues to be so enchanting or deliberate with what respites they stumble into — time may erode everything, but never this brightness Dion always carries within him. Terence wants this slice of happiness to continue on forever.
“Exactly so, my prince,” he whispers. Dion kneels on the bed and kisses his way across his body — by the time he reaches his face and Terence gets his hands on him, he doesn’t believe he’s tolerant after all.
They sit apart after, sated and horribly warmer than before, inching along the covers for the cool parts of the bedding. Perhaps it was not one of Terence’s most brilliant ideas, but Dion looked at ease and relaxed, and it could be worthy of a revisit for another time. Terence passes a water-skin to him and they take turns drinking, letting their breathing slow. After some time Dion threads their fingers together and reclines perpendicular to the bed, laying his face against the curve of his folded thighs. He smiles then, wide and sure, and Terence grows suspicious, swiping his thumb across his knuckles before holding him firmly. “…Yes?”
“I had nearly forgotten,” Dion murmurs. “Checkmate.”
"You rogue--" Terence curses and shoves him away, laughing, but the devilish, charming smile inching across Dion’s face as he wrestles him down against his side is all he wanted to see.
