Work Header

The Best Things Come From Nowhere

Chapter Text

The thing about receiving an education is that not everyone puts it to good use.

Sylvain isn’t one to argue the concept of schooling per se, far from it. But he does however have some novel ideas as to what constitutes a “good use” of his time at Garreg Mach. He’s aware most people would say he’s wasting it away philandering, and is of the opinion that those people should have paid better attention during their own classes, or it wouldn’t be so easy to fool them.

For anyone who underestimates Sylvain is a simpleton who doesn’t look past the surface. He’s smarter than people give him credit for, a miscalculation of theirs that Sylvain takes full advantage of at any given opportunity, cultivating the misunderstanding to stay in control of how people perceive him. It is after all far easier to distract onlookers with superficial exaggerated behavior than it is to allow anyone close enough to catch even a glimpse of the scars Sylvain likes to hide from view. Memories that cannot be changed but that he does his best to bury and forget; so far removed from the idea of who people believe him to be that it’s as if the boy who paid the price for his birthright with his legs spread, his brother balls deep inside him, faded into obscurity.

Sylvain happily helps the past on its merry way by crafting his image, a blend of flippant devil-may-care promiscuity and an arrogance bold enough that it’s been years since he’s had to experience the mocking chill of sympathy. And though denial may skirt dangerously close to lying when practiced for too long, you couldn’t call Sylvain a liar with a clear conscience.

Any gossip about him is usually true, and if not he’ll be quick to remedy that by acting out any supposed scenarios with panache. By proving people right, by performing to their expectations time and again, Sylvain has absolved himself from the false hope he sees in the likes of Dimitri: the belief that living in constant pain does anything to make up for the terrible things they’ve done, or that have been done to them.

Yes, if there’s one thing Sylvain has learned through his classes and interactions with fellow students, it’s that any information is useless if you aren’t in control of your reaction to it. So he observes, listens, and continues to play the role he cast himself in.

And alright, maybe it is a bit of a stretch for Sylvain to think he’s “in control of his own reaction” as he considers one of his lessons today in the privacy of his own room, jerking off with more furor than he has in years.

It’s just that the image of an experienced wyvern trainer coaxing out that thick, thorny wyvern dick out from its cloaca—while she explained the intricacies of breeding wyverns in captivity to a selection of would-be-wyvern-riders—is too much for his sex-addled mind to ignore.

It’s also probably not helped by how distracted he’d already been during the course of their flying come wyvern-handling classes. There’s something about the attractive house leader of the Golden Deer and the way he talks to the wyverns. Something reminiscent of knights and nobles attached to the horses they’ve grown up with, as if they have a real relationship with them.

It’s too easy to picture, now Sylvain knows about the biology of the inverted phallus, and the fact that wyverns struggle to breed in captivity because they lose some of their territorial instinct. Too easy to indulge in the mental image of that foreign member in his own hands, between his lips, to imagine what it’d be like to take it in the ass. Would a wyvern even mind? Wouldn’t he be doing it a service? 

Look, Sylvain has just been having a bad time. His reputation has gotten bad enough by their second year that even hate sex among the gentry is getting harder to come by, and he’s always had this fantasy that someday, somewhere, someone or something would fuck the pain away. Hard, and without the backlash he usually gets after sex when his partner leaves, a partner now aware there was no love to be found in Sylvain’s bed. When they’re both left with broken promises of a relationship that add a bitter aftertaste to the sweet mellow of climax—hey, don’t be quick to judge! Sylvain may be a player but he knows what it’s like to hurt, too. If anything, he’s got a lifetime of experience at it.

That’s why the wyvern fantasy is so appealing. Intense pain birthing only pleasure, no questions asked or strings attached, you know the drill. Nothing wrong with a bit of private fantasizing.

For the first few weeks of daydreams, that is. That’s probably how long it took for Sylvain to find himself in the stall saddling his usual partner, wondering what it would take to coax out that meaty, spiney cock out from its fold. Once the thought struck, it became impossible for him to resist the compulsion to pet the wyvern’s rough, beautiful scales, to avoid thinking of its long, rough tongue on him; how its thick saliva and sour breath would taste on his lips—and it makes him so fucking horny that he’s stood there, technically in class, with a raging hard on. Even for Sylvain that's pretty bad, and he’s a sexual deviant who’s had all sense of guilt and morals fucked out of him before he even enrolled at the academy. But hey, no arguments there! The problem is that this particular thought haunts him, has him visiting the wyvern coop outside of classroom hours under the pretense of practicing or hiding from some jilted lover, gulping down deep breaths of the heady stench that wafts down from the rafters where the beautiful beasts perch like it’s a luxurious treat.

He does try to pretend to have a modicum of decency. The first few times he gets himself off, he’s holding himself up with a hand on the wall, hidden behind a stack of tools and equipment in the storage nook at the back of the stables.

But later, a close call with a strolling professor gives Sylvain the excuse to move to his training partner’s stall, where the wyvern is kept separate and docile for students. Maybe he jacks off a little more furiously then, his hand down his pants and cum quickly wiped off in the hay. No harm done right? The wyverns don’t know. Or if they do they'll just find him pathetic and that's hardly anything new to him.

And so Sylvain tumbles down the slippery slope of rationalization and arousal, and the wyvern whose stall he visits gets used to Sylvain’s presence and the scent of his seed marking its little territory.

Possessive even, Sylvain dares to think, when one day during class it shields him with his wing as their teacher reaches out to pull Sylvain away from it. Something about wyverns only sniffing like that at prey they want to toy with.

Or a partner , Sylvain has to hold himself back from saying. He does allow himself a smile however, when the wyvern snorts and stomps off to the back of its stall in apparent disappointment.

That evening, Sylvain is already hard when he sneaks into the coop, eager to see if his scaly friend repeats the behaviour from earlier. And when it shields him with its wings once more in greeting and sniffs at him curiously, well… It's too easy to touch it the way he's seen the handlers do, stroking the fold between its legs near the base of its tail, slowly pushing two fingers into it in encouragement. Sylvain’s panting and close to spilling himself by the time its member swells past the slit, slick, hard, and ready. The wyvern is making soft cooing sounds Sylvain’s never heard before, a sweet rumble that makes this particular affection-starved slut utterly giddy for it.

Sylvain knows he’s utterly ruined for sex with members of his own species the moment he wraps two hands around its considerable girth, in awe of how gorgeous the wyvern’s dick looks to him: flushed pink fading to blue at the swollen tip, a series of longer fleshy hooks sprouting just past the base, tapering into softer spines further down the length, covering the pointed, knobbly cockhead.




Sylvain gets to enjoy that unadulterated excitement and wonder for the grand total of five seconds before he has to dodge the wyvern as it pulls out of his hold to try and mount him. Luckily he dodges, rolls out of reach just in time, and in the wyvern’s confusion Sylvain manages to dart back out of the stall and slam the gate closed. As he sprints back to his dorm, Sylvain spares a moment of thanks for his military training—though he never expected to use it to dodge a horny winged beast. Though it’s terror fuelled adrenaline that gets him back safely to the comfort of his bed, it’s violent, nearly unhinged arousal that keeps Sylvain’s blood (and hand) pumping long after he puts out the lights that night.

Sylvain hadn’t expected the wyvern to respond, you see. After all, he’d mostly followed the technique demonstrated by the experienced wyvern breeders. And while the handlers do on rare occasions encourage the arousal, they’re not usually the recipients of it—at least that’s what they’d claimed during lectures. Sylvain refuses to believe he’s the first human alive to want to get railed by a wyvern. So, once he comes down from the high of his narrow escape as well as the guilt at having left the poor thing hot and hanging (like many a shy virgin Sylvain has attempted to woo in his time), Sylvain fingers himself raw like a man possessed.

A changed man, Sylvain thinks.

The next time he visits the wyvern, Sylvain is prepared. He's focused like he's never been before. People always treat him like he's a simpleminded risk taker but Sylvain isn’t thoughtless. He’s just generally more accepting of his impending death than the average traumatized noble. It's cool. He’s spent the past week preparing, fingered himself open every night so diligently that he can barely get enough satisfaction to come from from it anymore (the physical orgasm that is, nothing psychological or emotional, just to be clear—that's been an issue since Miklan and his friends fucked him raw).

Now physical release on any physical, human terms seems impossible, the need for something bigger to fill him only grows. It’s obvious that he has no other choice but to let the wyvern fuck him. Screwing girls and even rough soldiers all feels so tame now he's come this far. Sitting in class is even more ridiculous. Teasing Felix feels mundane. Even watching Dimitri stare into the distance while his ghosts take him comes with a feeling of detachment. The thought of getting fucked by the wyvern promises a hope of freedom, of his friends who can't express or receive affection, and of release from all this shit he pretends not to be carrying around constantly. Saints, it's fucking pathetic that he feels closer to the wyvern than to any human he’s had contact with for all 20 years of his life.

Sylvain is already dripping the next time he sneaks into the stall. His underwear is soaked through with oil and his ass is already empty and wanting. The thought of keeping himself stretched with a plug crossed his mind but he didn't want to take the risk of it somehow still being in there when the wyvern got to him. Bringing it with him for later though… Now that was a missed opportunity. The thought of carrying the wyvern’s seed inside him as he walks across campus makes him shudder. But no, he needs to keep his first attempt simple. If it succeeds, next time he’ll plug his ass and enjoy being filled to the brim with wyvern seed. Finger himself with it inside him once he can’t take it anymore, push it in as deep as he can and fantasize about being kept as a human pet that’s only good for incubating half-breeds. Tummy swollen and heavy, fucked stupid and happy—anyhow.

That’s if there even is a next time, Sylvain reminds himself, ignoring how much his hands are trembling as he closes the gate behind him.

The beast eyes him carefully as he approaches, sniffing in recognition and already shuffling around in excitement on his arrival. Apparently their previous rendez-vous has trained the imposing creature to get aroused in Sylvain’s presence, because this intrepid little whore barely has to do a thing to coax the wonderfully ridged, spined cock out from its fold once he kneels down to its belly and reaches for the familiar spot. The wyvern growls and stomps with impatience when Sylvain pulls away to undress. Sylvain quickly tugs his pants down to his thighs so he can kneel on the ground to present his gaping, slicked hole for the taking. Fuck waiting, his dick is so hard and throbbing he’s lightheaded. From fingering himself in his room, the walk across the monastery, to the constant thrum of nerves accompanying his painful erection, it’s only now prostrating himself before the dangerous beast that Sylvain starts to feel stupid.

Much to his dismay, he even feels a momentary flash of fear, despite having weighed out and calculated the risk. But once the wyvern prods his ass with its snout, sniffing at the oil and newly exposed skin, fear for his life quickly boils over into the greedy heat of arousal. After all, Sylvain’s been close to dying on the battlefield many times before, and wished he could die time and time again while Miklan fucked him. What more could he wish for, than to feel that once more at the hands of a creature that truly wants him? A creature that only wants to fuck, and not hurt or punish?

That’s all Sylvain wants, to fear for his life but make it feel good, make him feel whole again.

When a rough, prickly tongue finally swipes across the cleft of his ass, Sylvain has to bite down onto his own arm to not whine like a bitch in heat. Shit, the saliva is so thick he can feel it slowly drip down his balls, teasing him with the promise of something more. He loves it so much already that he has to reach between his thighs to squeeze his own cock so he doesn't come immediately. Sylvain thrusts himself back against the tongue hoping to guide it inside.

Come on , Sylvain whines in his thoughts. He needs this. He's so fucking empty and he needs to be bred right now this second, goddess fucking damn it!

The good thing about animals apparently is that they also don't like to wait around, and before Sylvain can reach around to try to instigate things (what was he thinking, that he'd reach back and guide it? Sit on it?) there's a very large, solid member thrusting between his ass cheeks and missing his entrance hard enough that Sylvain and the wyvern are both crying out: one in pain, the other in frustration. Wouldn't it be funny, Sylvain thinks in that moment, if he got his ass bruised from a wyvern’s dick poking at him? Actually nevermind, that wouldn’t even be funny. He'd love it. Before he can finish that thought he's full, spread and split from his ass all the way up to what feels like is his belly. Burning, searing pain from all the ridges and fleshy spines, almost as if he's been grated from the inside out—but fuck, he couldn't give a single shit, not when his mind starts to blank from the insane mix of pain and pleasure pushing him to the edge of consciousness.

More . That's all he can think of when the beast starts to move and thrust inside him. Sylvain’s muscles go lax as he turns into a pool of melted flesh on the ground, solid only where he's filled with a hard wyvern dick. His uniform will be ruined, Sylvain thinks, as the wyvern drags him against the stone floor with each forceful thrust. His ass too. God what is he even going to look like after this? He can feel his face drag badly enough on the ground during a particularly hard thrust to graze his cheek, but all Sylvain can do is gasp out a silly, blissed out giggle.

 It's funny how right he was about this being the most amazing thing ever. Goddess, who wouldn't want to fuck like this? The wyvern is in control, all Sylvain can do is moan when the swollen tip of the wyvern’s cock catches deep inside him. He can't even tell where the pain is coming from anymore. Is it the grating, alien texture of the wyvern’s dick? The force and depth of its thrusts? Not that you can really call them thrusts, not if you’re referring to the in-out motions humans are used to, at least. The beast is pumping, already deep as it can be inside Sylvain. It’s not pulling out, only pushing further in and swelling and shit Sylvain's coming, probably for the second or third time actually, from how sore and sensitive he felt. Was that a dry orgasm? He can’t tell anymore. Haha, the wyvern is so big he didn't even have space to think about himself. When Sylvain manages to wrangle a moment of consciousness away from the intense feeling inside him, he can sort of feel his own dick hanging and waving about limply, spurting dribbles of whatever's left in his balls. And when there's nothing left to think about, when Sylvain's tongue lolls out of his open mouth and he's too far gone to be conscious of anything, something pulses and pushes at the base of his ass. The wyvern is erratic above him, covering him completely with its scaly, warm belly, dripping hot saliva over him. Sylvain just loses whatever control he had left. His piss and tears splatter all over the dusty stone floor while he’s thrown around like a fuck toy, and his moans escape his mouth between choked, ugly sobs.

The wyvern roars and presses him to the ground, so that he’s pinned still as it shoots what feels like a fountain of cum inside him. The pressure is so overwhelming that Sylvain’s eyes roll into the back of his head, his mind totally blank. But the flow doesn’t stop. Soon he’s full. Too full. He’s retching at the alien heat of it all and crying in bliss both at once.

Sylvain can’t tell if it’s his vision or his entire body that’s tingling with a numbing brightness, burning like fire but dripping in the cold sweat of a sickly fever. It's perfect. While the wyvern stills and wheezes heavy warm breaths above him, Sylvain just lies there in a grimey puddle of dirt and his own fluids, fulfilled. He tries weakly pushing back onto the wyvern’s gradually softening cock, chasing the glorious dick that brought him what probably is his first moment of genuine happiness in years. Untainted, unbothered, and genuine. He attempts to heave himself back onto his forearms and knees, every muscle in his body shaking with a painful scream, but promptly collapses down into the pool of his own mess. When the wyvern pulls out, the resulting slosh and slurp of his gaping hole tears a high keening sound out of him that Sylvain didn't think himself capable of making. Thick, stringy cum slides out of him in waves, encouraged by the spasming of his tortured, gaping muscle.

I'm so fucked , Sylvain thinks, laughing weakly where he's lying on the ground still panting. His eyes struggle to focus and his grazed cheeks sting from the mixture of dirt and tears streaking them. But just when he’s at risk of starting to feel sorry for himself, the wyvern unexpectedly nudges Sylvain’s head and huffs a breath against his ear. With it blooms a gentle heat in Sylvain’s chest, spreading through him as if to ease the pain. Sylvain knows in that moment that it's the kindest touch he's ever felt. The wyvern continues without expectation or complaint, simply nuzzles Sylvain’s neck and licks a stripe across his face before leaving him and going to curl back up in its spot, spent and satisfied (at least Sylvain hopes). For his part, Sylvain rolls onto his back and forces his hands to grip and clench, until his blood starts to flow properly and he can feel his limbs somewhat. All he needs now is to be able to move enough to grab the vulnerary he snuck with him from their last excursion, which he’s banking on being enough to help him get back to his dorm without too much difficulty. If that doesn’t work, he can probably bother Mercedes. She'll know what he did of course, but that's fine. Sylvain isn't afraid of scorn, not for this, not after years of living with what his brother did, what happened to Glenn, Duscur, everything—if anything, getting his ass torn from being fucked by a wyvern is an amusing anecdote in comparison.


Despite the cuts, the serious bruises and suspicious bowel movements that almost cause him concern for the first few days after the encounter, Sylvain is honestly quite proud of himself. It's genius really. He feels disgusting and satisfied at levels never before reached by his wanton, indulgent escapades. The only niggling worry he has is that he was somehow doing something that could hurt his scaly lover, but he doesn’t ponder that thought any further. That worry he swallows down deep. It's a little too close to reminding him of Miklan. Nah, it's fine. Wyverns are used to being coaxed to breed in captivity, it's cool. It took him of its own will, after all.

An unexpected side effect of this rendez-vous is that Sylvain suddenly finds his focus. For the first time in years, he’s taking day-to-day activities seriously. He knows where he can get his fix now. He knows he can make it through the day or the week if it's for that one moment of getting fucked to hell and back by a snorting, flying lizard. Besides, the wyvern is surprisingly gentle towards him for how rough it is during fucking, which is more than can be said for most people after they’ve had their fun with him.

And that's how Sylvain develops a habit of taking his favorite wyvern’s monster cock at any given opportunity.

On top of that, he no longer needs to keep himself busy chasing skirts 24/7 (though he does a little to keep up appearances). He trains more diligently to make up for the constant strain on his body and the injuries, so that no one can question their presence. The training started after he walked in on Felix in the sauna, who he should’ve known would only use it at stupid o'clock to avoid other people. The look Felix gave him when he took in the suspicious scrapes and bruises over Sylvain’s body was far too close to comfort. No words were exchanged, but the sharp jerk of Felix’s head said it all:

Don’t try to bullshit me , Felix was obviously thinking, I know you didn’t get those just from training. I live in the training grounds, and you’re hardly ever there.

The look they exchanged was far too close to being seen for Sylvain’s comfort. Far too close to Felix asking if something was wrong with him.

If someone was hurting him.

After that, Sylvain made a point of teasing Felix as much as he used to.

But fuck him, literally, Sylvain’s actually kind of relieved. Alright, maybe it's weird to think about wyvern dick so much that he gets hard in class wondering if it'll complain if he sucks on it (it does a bit when he tries, but it lets him do it long enough to gag on the odd stench and texture of it). But who cares, seriously? No one, as usual. So there you go.

Except one evening, Sylvain gets a knock on his door just as he’s about to leave for his steamy, spiky date. It's late, he’s barely wiped the oil off his hands, and his ass is ready and wanting. He hasn't upset any girls that he can remember—ok, fair point, he's always been good at forgetting that. He considers ignoring the knock, until an odd polite cough and shy shuffling from outside the door gets his attention. 


Sylvain’s question is muffled, whispered almost as if he doesn't want an answer. Still, he pulls his pants back up and leaps towards the door in a bit of a daze to open it.

"Oh," Sylvain smiles when his guess is proved correct, "bad night again?"

"Something of the sort."

Dimitri's reply is... shy, if Sylvain didn't know any better. The prince is nervous and twitchy, like he always gets when he wants to but can't use his words.

"Hey," Sylvain closes the door and gives Dimitri's hand a gentle tug, "come sit with me. I'll keep you company."

Sylvain would be lying if he said he wasn't disappointed by the interruption, but it's also an uncomfortable reminder that he's... Maybe lost focus on his interactions with others. Maybe the facade is slipping.

Dimitri stands for just a moment too long for it not to be awkward, even when Sylvain sits back on his bed. Sylvain hopes the oil doesn't seep through his pants too quickly. He wishes he'd thought to plug himself or wipe himself off before letting Dimitri in. When Dimitri still doesn't sit, Sylvain laughs and teases: 

"Cat got your tongue? Felix made you feel bad about something again? Or do you want to talk about the professor?"

Dimitri shakes his head and mumbles something inaudible, standing stiff as a board. Sylvain makes another attempt:

"Come on. You know you came to see me for a reason." 

Dimitri won't make eye contact, not even when Sylvain leans forward and offers him his most heartfelt smile. Dimitri always has this effect on him. Softens him right up. It's a curse, probably. Though it’s the same with Felix. And Ingrid. And anyone who gives him the time of day in any way, shape, or form, at a time when his guard is down. 

"Sylvain—" Dimitri starts, and pauses. 

"No rush, we've got all evening." 

A lie. Dimitri knows, and Sylvain knows that he knows when he gives him that look up and down. 

"You were about to go out." Dimitri states.

"Yes, but it can wait."

"Were you—are you—" 

Dimitri really looks like a boy when he struggles like this, noble propriety only a hindrance to whatever it is he wants to say. But when he continues, he finally looks Sylvain in the eye and asks, tone firm with misplaced authority: 

"Are you going to meet the person you're in love with?" 

Oh. Now that was unexpected.

Unexpected enough that Sylvain splutters, panics almost and has to hold back a laugh (he fails), does his best to catch his breath and smooth his hair down while being acutely aware of how loose and wet he is under his clothes.

"Dimitri—I... How?! What? Where did that come from?! No—goddess- No! Hah—ah—” 

"Do not laugh at me!" 

Dimitri looks like he's about to retreat back into his shell, and to that effect he takes a defensive step back. Sylvain stands and immediately regrets his outburst, hopes the awkward squelch he thinks he hears is an imagined fear and not reality. Dimitri continues none the wiser, agitated and rocking back a little on his feet: 

"Look, you've been acting differently the past few weeks! People have noticed, and not in a negative sense, please do not get me wrong, you've simply—been more relaxed! And I had hoped..." 

He looks up again, smaller than ever, cheeks flushed in... Embarrassment, Sylvain supposes. 

"...I had hoped," Dimitri speaks a little louder now, "to ask you for advice." 

Oh. The little lordling is full of surprises tonight. Or is Sylvain that much off his game that he can't anticipate and evade anymore?

"What?" Sylvain blurts out, then catches himself and flashes the usual smile. "I—okay, so first, no I am not in love with anyone, but I'm confused as to how that assumption led you to ask me for advice?" 

He pats the bed once more, cocks his head and grins. The bed lets out a painful creak when Dimitri sits himself down on it and sighs. Then the lord shuffles closer, and Sylvain tugs him across the remaining distance to invite him to rest against him. The wetness in his pants is definitely uncomfortable now, and shit, being reminded of it while Dimitri is near is not—

Sylvain pats Dimitri on the back, yes that's it, same as always. 

"I only thought—" Dimitri inhales, lets out a breath in relief, "that maybe you had found something that made you happy. At the very least, you seem more relaxed. Different, somehow. At least everyone else says so, I thought it was idle gossip at first. But then I started to notice. So I had hoped..." 

Sylvain is quick to pick up where Dimitri trails off: 

"You'd hoped I maybe had found something that could help you get through the night?" 

Dimitri nods. It's an unspoken thing between them, that night time brings with it only memories and nightmares best left buried in their graves. Dimitri has a compulsive need to dig his back up, Sylvain tends to bury them deeper, under a pile of fucked out bodies. Or his own. Different strokes for different folks.

 "Sorry Dima," Sylvain laughs out as he musses Dimitri's hair, "nothing new here other than a really good fuck." 

Sue him, it's not a lie.


That never stops being cute. A tad bittersweet. Sylvain shakes his head in response, pats Dimitri's back again and pulls off.

"Look, your highness, it's the truth. I'm sorry to disappoint, but it's business as usual here."

Then he whips out the killer, the devilish grin and the drop in register that draws the dumb ones in and chases the smart ones away.

"You're free to join my bed if you like. I'll show you how."

Maybe it hurts just a bit, knowing how much it'll hurt Dimitri. But it's better this way. Less painful, kept at arm's length.

See, the thing about losing at life, about taking risks that never ever pay off, and about generally, consciously being an insufferable dick, is that you kind of grow immune to being considered a loser. You reach a point, after your brother threw you into a well, molested you, fucked you up enough that your life became this big fat play of pretend. After you survived only because you had others weaker than you to protect, only to watch them go through their own share of terrors you can’t do anything about and somehow not throw themselves off the fucking monastery bridge—

You actually reach a point when you forget that statistical probability covers an infinite scale of potentials, and that not all of them are negative. And tonight, the random, impartial wheel of fate that even Sylvain has grown bored of giving the finger to (Felix could do with learning that one), lands on the following scenario: a tortured traumatized prince, his shameless, wyvern-fucking childhood friend, sat next to each other on a bed, something about ready to break.

"You mustn't joke, Sylvain. You know I would hurt you."


Sylvain's already on edge, broken in, falling apart, you name it. The line is blurry since the wyvern—no that's bullshit, there is no line. It's made up. And where he'd normally laugh it off, tell Dimitri he'd find himself a pretty and strong someone he wouldn’t be afraid to accidentally manhandle someday, Sylvain for once is honest when he states:

"I like to get hurt, you know."

Dimitri freezes. It's far from new information but the icy tone, the way Sylvain's smile is even more detached from his eyes than he'd expect when he looks at him... It scares him. Heats him up, his blood pumping fast enough that he grips the fabric of his uniform at the knees, an anchor to reality.

"Sylvain... Do not. Joke about these things. Please."

Terse, gritted out between teeth ground down by sleepless nights of anxiety.

"I'm not joking."

Automatic, anticipated. Sylvain leans in. Dimitri shakes his head and grips harder.

"Don't... You sound like Felix, telling me I need to… This isn't like you."

"Isn't it? Come on now, you know me better than that. That's why you're here. That's why you're the only one with the guts to talk to me face to face."

They're so close. Close enough to feel each other's breathing, for it to fall in sync.

In a novel, this might be the moment when they would kiss. Where the dam breaks, the flood of feelings and relief drained into a reassuring, heated embrace, Sylvain swearing to give up on his philandering (wyvern-fucking) ways, Dimitri's mind, heart, and cock now awakened to the pleasures of the flesh.

But no, this is real life, and there aren't any easy, satisfying revelations to be found here. The bed creaks again but this time it's from Sylvain's weight shifting so that their thighs touch and Dimitri stammers when he for some goddess-forsaken reason (another lie, they're both too at home teetering on the edge of an abyss, the only place to feel alive) doesn't pull away:

"I—I only—I know you're not terrible Sylvain. You could have, I'd hoped—you're kind, you're gentle, no matter what the others say about your behaviour and nighttime habits you're still…”

 Oh Dimitri, naive and old both at once. A contradiction as blatant as Sylvain's, that yet somehow still needs to be stated.

"You're sweet, Dimitri. I can be all of those things, but it won't change the fact that I've been fucking a wyvern."

It's so flippant, so bizarre that Dimitri bursts out laughing.

Yeah, Sylvain thinks, that sounds about right. Even when Sylvain's honest, he's such a fucking joke that his closest friends don't believe him.

"O-oh," Dimitri wheezes out, "really now. A wyvern! Surely you didn't expect me to fall for that?"

 "Nah," Sylvain relinquishes, "but it was worth a try. You're terribly earnest sometimes."

Dimitri can't stop laughing, and it's nice. He takes a few moments to calm himself then places a hand on Sylvain's shoulder, giving it far too macho a squeeze. What a try-hard.

"Thank you, Sylvain. For being honest with me. Next time anyone gossips, I'll tell them you fell for a fair Almyran maiden with greyish-green hair."

"You do that."

Were Dimitri any more astute, he would have picked up on the tinge of disappointment that Sylvain couldn't quite keep out of his voice. He'd have asked if things really were that bad, if he was hurt, out of his mind. If he thought it was funny to joke about such things, to make light of what already is a terribly unhealthy coping mechanism. But Dimitri doesn't, he gets up and sighs, readjusts his uniform like the good little soldier he is. Offers Sylvain an awkward smile before he leaves, a longing glance, and a sweet:

"Well, whoever they are, they seem to be treating you well. Perhaps you could introduce us sometime- oh, apologies, I forget that's not how you handle affairs. Anyhow. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you Dima. Take care now, yeah?"


"Alright, alright. Try to pretend you at least got some sleep tomorrow then."

Dimitri couldn't have closed that door fast enough.

Sylvain collapses back onto the bed, groans, and focuses instead on the sticky feeling between his thighs. Yeah, he really needs to get fucked into oblivion tonight. At this point, Sylvain doesn't even have the patience to finger himself again. Dimitri wasn't there that long, he's still soaked in preparation, and there's the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. It's self-loathing o'clock, which means time for his medicine: a big dose of hard wyvern cock shoved up his ass while his face gets fucked into dirt and shit. It's late, and he's too busy trying to ignore the gnawing feeling the conversation with Dimitri gave him when he rushes out of his room, stumbling down the steps as he puts his jacket on. If anyone sees him, they'll just assume he's going to see some girl, so it's fine. (He tells himself. Rationalizes.) 

It's so fine that everyone is so used to him being a fuck up that he can get away with whatever he wants under their noses, could probably whip his dick out and jack off naked in class and only garner a few eye rolls and tuts in his general direction—

Shit. No. Fuck. Sylvain breaks into a sprint, a desperate attempt to keep the thoughts at bay until he reaches the coop. Too focused on surviving the feeling to notice Dimitri wandering still, on his way to the chapel to think. Too desperate to realize that even Sylvain doesn't run like a madman to a hook-up, that to any bystander it'd look like he's running to someone's help, or running away. Neither is much of an abstraction of the truth. But if Sylvain had considered the scenario that someone could ever care enough about what he’s doing to follow him, then he would’ve paid more attention to his behaviour. Slowed down to an eager skip, or the jog of someone late to a date. Not run like an addict whose sanity depends on his next kick.

However, the matter of fact is that trauma has this way of painting pictures over reality; of blurring, twisting, or brightening the space and time around you to fit into whatever broken pieces remain. Sylvain's been juggling the scraps of himself he has left for so long that a few of them have already slipped from his fumbling hands along the way. 

Sylvain Gautier's picture is bleak, and orgasm is one of the last ways he has left to paint over it. When you've fucked your way from the bored older ladies of the Faerghus noble court through to most of the knights at the Garreg Mach monastery and you have enough of a reputation for being a scoundrel, you sort of hope that someone will write books about your exploits one day. One of the unfortunate side effects is that past the dozens and into the hundreds of lovers you stop counting, and so does your dick. That's how you find yourself, boots and pants again discarded, lying down in the hay while cooing a great, powerful flying beast down from its perch in the hopes that tonight it'll spear you once more, spread you open hard and unforgiving. One final thought intrudes, right as the wyvern lands over Sylvain in a swoosh of air and sudden wave of heat, painful until the knobbly cockhead finds his entrance and pushes straight in.

One day Sylvain, you'll also get bored of this.

But not tonight, Sylvain thinks. Tonight he's howling in relief, thrusting back up and propping his ankles in place against the wyvern's rough scales. He's completely bent back so that when the wyvern drives its cock in as deep as possible, Sylvain wonders if there's a bulge visible in his stomach. And when the wyvern growls and thrusts so hard his head hits against a stone wall, all it does is set more sparks alight in Sylvain's vision, arms useless and flailing as loose as his mouth, spouting the kind of affectionate profanities he'd normally read off of a carefully prepared script.

"Fuck," he sings, "yes, ah, mmng, shit, a-ah gonna die, fuck my guts out, hurts so fucking good! Fu—uck!"

The wyvern doesn't care that he's loud. It doesn't care that he's a useless, horny slut who just takes it. That's exactly what it wants. When he has the strength, sometimes Sylvain will pathetically try to hook his arms around its long neck and guide its head down so he can swallow some of its dripping spit—he's tried licking, but that nearly lost him his tongue, a terrifying but nice reminder that Sylvain is apparently in love with the idea of dying in pain, rather than the act of it.


A vague echo of Dimitri resonates in his mind from earlier. No, no, no, no this isn't what he wants. He likes the silence. He likes his head being empty of unrealistic fantasies.

Sex, hard, good. Feelings, desires, bad. Friction, yeah, that's it!

The feeling of those hardened fleshy spikes dragging against his prostate, his dick almost numb from being milked of all the orgasms it can muster within minutes—

"Sylvain, what on earth—!?"

Huh? Sylvain lets his head lull to the side, blinking to focus on—the door to the stall—open— oh.  


Haha. Hah. Oh well, not much he can do about it now, with an animal balls deep up his ass. He did say, didn't he? That he was fucking a wyvern.

Not so funny now, huh?

Did he say that out loud? He can't tell. He's still moaning, so probably not. No, definitely not funny. Dimitri looks furious, his eyes wide and fierce like the way he looks when he's about to lose it in battle. Like the wild boar Felix tells him he is, like he looks before Sylvain normally steps in, cools the tension with a tasteless joke, soothes nerves with touches at the small of his back or with a hand firm on his wrist. Yeah, this is fine. Totally fine. Mind hazy, eyesight flickering, heat burning from arousal to nausea—

"Sylvain, are you insane?!" the Prince yells, voice far too bold and strong, strong enough to carry out of the stables—

Sylvain passes out when the wyvern roars and spills into him, limit finally reached. 


Who would've known that there was a sense of shame Sylvain could feel that was strong enough to shut off everything?