Work Text:
This is a terrible idea.
Hubert knows it in the empty husk that serves as his chest. There's a gnawing sensation that grates in his bones, an uneasiness in his stomach that won't settle. He ignores it by leaning forward to claim Ferdinand's soft lips again, mind going blank to everything but how Ferdinand feels beneath him: pliant, resistant, an oxymoron of nothing and everything.
Ferdinand nearly headbutts Hubert in his excitement and there's a pithy retort on the edge of Hubert's tongue. A scathing witticism designed to bite, to tear through all of Ferdinand's defences and leave him bruised in spirit, broken under Hubert's superiority to him. He abandons it to bite into Ferdinand's neck instead, sucking the skin into his mouth until Ferdinand groans and fuck if it isn't one of the most beautiful sounds Hubert's ever heard.
Not that he'd admit it out loud. Even through this tenuous ceasefire between them, the worst of their differences cast aside for the war's sake, the tension still thrums through Hubert's veins when Ferdinand is near. Coiling hot and heavy in his stomach, demanding he pushes all of Ferdinand's buttons until Hubert annotates each and every last noise in the recesses of his sickening skin.
For now, Hubert's intentions to break Ferdinand involve leaving him a whimpering mess rather than a furious one.
Hubert pulls away. Everything in him screams in protest, demanding he close the space between himself and Ferdinand to leave them both panting and sweaty. He's close to losing himself, his purpose, everything in Ferdinand's presence.
"Look what you do to me," he wants to croon. To stroke Ferdinand's face, to be soft and kind and everything he shouldn't.
Instead he forces the former noble to his knees—"the only fitting place for you now"—and shoves his cock into Ferdinand's warm, willing, waiting mouth.
~*~
This is a terrible idea.
Ferdinand's lost, adrift in a sea of change, the solid flooring beneath him rudely pulled out. All of his core beliefs rendered moot. Wrong. He had to fight for his place by Edelgard's side. Fight to be listened to. Fight to get Hubert to stop being so—Hubert.
He didn't fight for this. There was an inevitability to their fateful collision, the sparking atmosphere between them bound to catch and ignite into something.
Ferdinand hadn't realised that this something would be carnal. Teeth biting into the soft flesh of his lip, grazing across his jaw, raking down his neck.
Hubert sucks at the skin over his pulse and Ferdinand can't hold back how good it feels. The groan rises from deep within his chest, unbidden, speaking a truth Ferdinand doesn't want to verbalise.
He wants this. He wants Hubert. Not in the way portrayed in any of the sordid love stories he derives small pleasures from but with a need that's almost primal; raging through his veins without decorum or politeness or any of the pillars he once held dear.
Hubert's eyes darken as Ferdinand vocalises how he feels—every puff of breath or gasp or groan widening the black pool of his pupils until they're so deep Ferdinand could fall in. Truly lose himself, forget everything.
And then a hand coils tight in his hair, pulling Ferdinand to his knees.
He ought to resist. Make, in Hubert’s words, "some asinine comment because you can't ever shut up." Regain the upper hand. Prove his worth as a steadfast advisor.
Instead Hubert tugs and Ferdinand follows his direction, falling to his knees. If they hurt from impacting the floor, he's unable to tell, because in front of him is Hubert's cock: thick, flushed, with a vein running up the left side that now that Ferdinand knows about, he wants to trace with his tongue.
Eyes fluttering shut, Ferdinand opens his mouth to swallow Hubert down, allowing the urges within to consume him.