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Margrave Gautier didn’t really expect it to be like this. 

Well. If he’s being frank, he didn’t have any actual set of expectations regarding Almyra. Sure, he’s heard a ton of hearsay and rumors, both the positive and negative sort. But he didn’t hold any specific presumptions about the nation whatsoever. He’s heard nonstop strange things, including a bunch of stuff that had him questioning the capacity of the person spewing the nonsense. 

That the Almyrans are a crazy folk who enjoy overly-spicing their game meat because it was spoiled or something. That the Almyrans have a crazy underground water tunnel system allowing them to relieve themselves in their homes. That the Almyrans are exceptionally good at math and devised a way of counting entirely foreign to Fodlan mathematics. 

Crazy.

But several tongue-numbing beef skewers, indoor toilets with bidets, and algebraic information later, what really stumped the margrave was none of those. 

His shoulders, broadened from over a decade of lance training, squares up at the sensation of the evening breeze licking along his nape. The margrave’s skin, thickened by the winters of Faerghus, becomes textured with goosebumps. 

He hadn’t expected the nighttime in Almyra to be surprisingly… well, chilly . 

He had just expected it to be warm almost all the time, especially now that it is the Harpstring Moon. In fact, the margrave thinks the palace grounds should be even more insulated, given that it seems to just be catered to the hot summer months. The tiled floor, although pretty, is… dare he say… cold. 

Yeah. 

He’ll man up to it. It’s cold. It’s cold at night in Almyra ! 

Maybe it’s because of his work in dealing with his equally-insufferable liege and the latter sending him to various places across and outside the continent of Fodlan as one of the ambassadors. He’s been sent chiefly to the warmer areas, such as down south in Brigid and even Morfis. 

Is it flattering? Yes. 

Has the Margrave enjoyed his travels? Yes and no, but the souvenirs and the courtesans usually make things worth the trouble of voyaging to and fro. 

To be fair, his leader was supposed to go to Almyra, given that he had an actual audience with the painfully-elusive and incredibly slippery sultan. 

But things had happened when Duke Goneril made their leader a salad with mushrooms and decided not to boil them beforehand. Sure, they are edible, but like most fungi, they should be heated up before being served with anything else. According to Linhardt, who found the whole thing fascinating, their liege would be fine after a few days of him being painfully sick. 

Lorenz, even paler than usual, had begged for the margrave to specifically seek you out after his official duties had ended. 

Speak first with Clau– Sultan Khalid , and if you could please… Please speak with our dearest friend. I know she is in good hands, but– but I wish for you to ensure it for me. I need to know that she is happy and well-cared for. Do this… do this for me, I ask of thee. For all the times that we had spent in study and in the fields of battle, I beg of thee, not as thy leader but as thy friend, to grant me this one wish. 

The margrave had stared at his leader, who had taken his gauntleted hand in both of his, much to his disgust. As soon as he had agreed, the violet-haired man had sunk back into his many cushions, eyes fluttering shut. Slightly concerned, he looked over at Linhardt, who looked back at him with a thumb’s up. So he shrugged, wiped his gauntlet on Lorenz’s fluffy blanket, and left after eating his leader’s lunch spread on the bedside table.

This is precisely why he’s hurrying in his walk down the path to the harem. 

Sure, he wishes to go to the fabled sultan’s harem to enjoy himself, but Lorenz had asked him to do this. On his fake deathbed, no less. As much as he wishes to cavort with the ladies (and possibly other men and people) in the seraglio, this would still be considered an official duty. Why? Well, because he was told to do so, and although many think he’s lazy and stupid, he always gets the job done. 

Besides, it’s been quite long since he’s seen you last. Outside of his leader’s dramatic request of checking in on you, the margrave also wishes to know how you’re doing. Have you adjusted well? Are the others treating you with kindness and respect? 

But now, as he stands in the doorway of your private quarters, any thoughts of being here on official duty are thrown out the keyhole-shaped window. Behind him, he hears the attendants’ robes wish against the hard flooring. He knows that any male, especially a foreigner, would have to be carefully watched by a heavily-armed eunuch.  

The sultan had assigned five upon his entrance into the harem walls. Maybe he should be offended, but he can’t find himself to care. 

Sylvain’s breath is caught in his throat, lips parted, bare fingers curling into fists at his side. 

From where you’re seated on one of the ottomans, a couple of other beautiful people are lounging by your side, chattering and talking. They’re all pretty-faced and well-dressed in Almyran garb, and he doesn’t even blink when they turn their attention to him. 

He has heard many a tale from the new Lord Duran’s novels of romances where two lovestruck individuals had felt as though it was only them in the entire room. He had heard many a honeyed lyric from the Mittelfrank Opera’s diva of a lover who saw only their beloved in a room full of people and that the world screeched to a halt for them. He had seen many soldiers on the battlefield protect their own with their life – he had seen the Marquis Vestra go beyond his duties as a vassal and sacrifice himself for his emperor. 

And yet all the romantic stories he had heard and the simulations of love he had conjured had not prepared him to see you again. 

The chatter in the elaborately-furnished room dies and goes silent as even the concubine playing the oud continues their strumming. 

His breathing stills in his clenched throat as he sees you lift your gaze from what he assumes to be a mancala. The expression on your pretty face has his heart seizing in his chest, beating like a rabbit’s against the confines of its cage. 

The world stills on its axis, the oceans pause in kissing the shore, the music in the world has gone out in a still whisper. Nothing else matters, except for how your lips part to murmur his bisyllabic name. 

“Sylvain.” 

Yes? Anything. I’d do anything , he thinks to himself.   

You smile, eyes disappearing into crescent moons. 

“You visited.” 

Yes , he thinks as he swallows hard, spine feeling unnecessarily stiff under his skin. I have. Anything. I’d do anything. I’ll do anything.  

Around the both of you, the other concubines leave, brushing past Margrave Gautier amidst a few giggles and curious looks. He feels out of place here in his regular clothing. You’re so elaborately dressed, and even though you are the only woman in the room now, it is more than evident that you’re wearing far fancier robes than anyone else. 

“Please, Sylvain,” you say, “Have a seat. It’s been such a long time; it’s nice to see you again.” 

He makes himself comfortable on one of the plush ottomans across from you. He maintains a respectful distance when he hears one of the eunuch’s knuckles crack. His hazel-colored eyes don’t even have to glance in the direction of the guards to know that there are a whole lot more now. 

It doesn’t take a genius to piece together that you have a near-unnecessary amount of individuals in your retinue. 

Even the mancala marbles you’re holding are not regular. There are moonstones, lapis lazuli, and many others that the margrave, in his many months of traversing on his leader’s behalf, cannot name. His eyes fall upon one of the many pearls that are as large as his thumbnail. 

All polished to a reflective degree, and the redhead knows that the most minute detail must be perfected for you – the sultan doesn’t wish for his most favorite concubine’s fingertips to be roughened by an unpolished stone. Even the Ottoman he sits on, and all the others save for yours, are much shorter. Everything has been set in place to show you off. 

He finds himself smiling; Sultan Khalid cares deeply for you.  

“You look as lovely as ever,” he tells you as you pour him a cup of tea. He takes it gratefully, the cup a delicate glass thing as he sniffs. It is lovely and minty, and he makes a mental note to take a bag home with him. “How have you been doing?”  

You smile up at him, legs crossing at the ankles. It is more than apparent when Sylvain catches it, his gaze settling a little longer than necessary before dragging it back up to your eyes. 

“Well. I’m sorry for not responding to the letters from Leicester as often as I should.” 

You offer him a silver plate of fancy cube-shaped sugar blocks. The margrave picks up the silver tongs, picking one and letting it dissolve in his amber-colored liquid. 

“Yeah. You’ve been making Lorenz worry more than he should,” he tells you, stirring his tea with a spoon that’s way too tiny for his fingers. “He asked me to talk with you to ensure you’re doing okay.” 

“I have been,” you confess, pouring yourself some mint tea before sighing and looking at both of you in the beautiful room. “They take care of me and are so kind to me. Since my arrival, everyone has shown me nothing but sincerity, support, and affection.” 

Everything is gilded, shimmery to perfection. This is everything that Sylvain knows you’ve dreamt about, everything that suits you. He knows that he cannot compete against your desires and what fate and the goddess had in store for you. 

“But are you happy?”

“Yes,” you respond, a smile on your face. 

The margrave swallows down hard; he hadn’t expected such a rapid and genuine response. He lets out a little chuckle, wondering why it hurts. Taking a sip of the mint tea, he realizes it helps significantly, the cooling properties soothing his frazzled nerves and churning stomach. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, a lopsided grin on his handsome face. “I…” 

You look up at him, setting the marbles onto the mancala board. 

“Ferdinand was originally assigned to visit this place, you know. Makes more sense. That other ginger would have fared much better in this temperature, especially in the morning since he’s from Adrestia.” 

He’s rambling as his brain starts coming up with filler topics, such as how cold it is in the evening. 

“But I requested to go in his stead because I wanted to see you.” 

Your eyes snap up from the glassy marbles in the curve of the mancala. Even with his trademark smile and characteristic jaunty attitude, his brown eyes speak a volume of words that are better left unspoken. 

“Sylvain…” 

“I always liked you, you know?” He starts, and he laughs, hands gesturing aimlessly in the air. 

You know he’s going to just start and never stop. He’s always been like this. Dread begins to pool in your stomach at the new direction the conversation is heading.  

“I’ve always thought you were not only hot as hellfire, but you’re just so smart and kind and witty and just a tiny bit mean and–” 

“...Sylvain.” 

 “--but back then, I couldn’t really make a move because I thought you were that Gloucester brat’s fiancee. Then by the time that I figured out you weren’t, you had other work on your hands and had to leave and–” 

“Sylvain–”

“--and I joined the Alliance hoping to get closer, and I don’t regret it, but I asked Lorenz’s permission to ask for your hand in marriage. I wanted to marry you. Haha, surprise! Lorenz had already signed you away as a gift for the sultan.” 

Your shoulders square up, eyes widening as you see one of your personal guards unsheathe his sword. 

“Sylvain–” 

“So please, please, tell me–” He says, taking your hands in his own. 

You hear the guards take steps towards the two of you, their shouting reaching your eardrums like you are underwater. It pulses against the delicate skin of your ears, feeling all vibrations like muddy water. 

“Tell me that he treats you well and that you are happy here and with him. Tell me. I’m begging you. I know I can’t compete with a goddamn sultan, but I need to know you are doing okay for yourself here. I won’t be able to sleep at night knowing that I could save you from–” 

His eyes plead with you in ways that his words cannot, and Sylvain doesn’t flinch when he feels the tip of your guard’s rapier press against the side of his neck. 

Margrave Gautier is one of the most capable generals in all of Fodlan. He would quickly ruin this eunuch’s fingers and impale him on his sword. Yet he doesn’t move, his pretty brown eyes locked with yours, both calloused hands holding one of yours.  

Freezing up, you still. Your breath stutters to a stop at how quickly things have spiraled out of hand.

Your guard has every right on earth to attempt to protect you anyway, driving his blade through Sylvain’s throat. You know he wouldn’t because who would risk starting a political issue between two continents? Regardless, you see the possibility would be there. It would be within your eunuch’s legal right to protect you and any other person in the sultan’s harem. 

“Right. What’s all this?” 

“Your majesty.” 

You swallow hard and breathe again, the smell of oak moss and pine filtering through the air and filling your senses. Sylvain lets out a haggard chuckle, letting go of your hand as he turns his head, looking over to see the sultan standing behind the unamused guard. 

“Come now, Marwan. That’s no way to treat one of your sultan’s guests, right?” 

The guard stares down Margrave Gautier for a second before pulling his blade away, sheathing it once more by his side. 

“Wonderful! After all, my good friend Sylvain is the furthest thing from a threat anyway,” the sultan laughs, patting the eunuch’s back good-naturedly as though they are best buddies. 

Perhaps they are sharing some inside joke, especially about how he’s just insinuated that Sylvain Jose Gautier would never pose a threat to him in any way. 

“Isn’t that right, Margrave Gautier?” The sultan asks, a bright smile on his face as his eyes close in mirth. 

The muscles in the redhead’s jaw constrict for a second before he lets out a small laugh before looking up at the Almyran ruler. 

“Of course, your majesty. Never a threat to you or her.” Sylvain looks like he’s swallowing down the largest, bitterest pill ever made. 

The sultan nods, his clover-green eyes opening. The smile does not reach his eyes as he steps towards you. His hand reaches for your face, and you instinctively lean into his touch, bowstring-calloused fingertips grazing your cheekbone. Expression softening, he smiles down at you, a tender look on his face that makes you forget that you are not alone with him in the room. 

“Marwan.” 

“Your majesty.” 

“Take your men, and have a good day.” 

“Your majesty–” 

“You’re right; have an amazing rest of your evening. And while you’re at it, why not take tomorrow off? I know it’s your daughter’s birthday.” 

Marwan opens his mouth before closing it. Giving a bow to the sultan and to you, he squints at the redhead Faerghan before leaving the area with the other guards. 

The sultan smiles down at you, his hand cupping your cheek. His expression is saccharine, and the feeling he gives you is like that of the lokum that you enjoy eating so much. You feel like your blood is molasses, inebriated by the desire to simply be held by this beautiful Almyran man. 

“No tea for your sultan? Ugh,” he says, playfully clicking his tongue against his pearly-white teeth. “By far, the worst hostess yet.” 

Snickering, you roll your eyes and pour him a cup of steaming mint tea.  

His hands are gentle as he gathers your hair, braided beautifully by your other sisters in the harem, and moves it over one of your shoulders. You shiver at the sensation, but you feel Sylvain, who has been quiet this whole time, glaring daggers into the mating mark on your neck. 

You can smell something akin to unbridled rage. You hear the sinews stretching along his knuckles strain. The air, perfumed with rosewater and citrus, smells like the ozone before lightning strikes.

“So, I don’t think I heard your response to our good friend here, my dear,” Sultan Khalid says, leaning to kiss your shoulder. “Are you happy here?” 

His fingers rest over yours when you offer him the dainty cup of mint tea, and you lean forward to blow cool air lightly over it. 

“Of course,” you respond, and his other hand cups your nape, thumb brushing along the skin there. “Everyone here is so kind to me, everyone spoils me here. Especially you, my love.” 

He smiles, the hand on your nape sliding to the front of your neck. The sultan’s chest rises and falls, his beautiful green eyes on yours as he caresses your lower lip with his thumb. Lifting the cup held by both your hand and his, he brings the tea to your lips. You drink a sip, eyes on his twinkling ones.

“Margrave Gautier,” the sultan calls out, not breaking his gaze from yours. “Doesn’t the future sultana have the most kissable lips?” 

You hear Sylvain draw in a sharp breath. 

“Yes.” 

“Yes,” Sultan Khalid says, voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, she does.”  

And then he’s leaning in after you swallow, pressing his lips to yours tenderly. Your eyes flutter shut, allowing your husband to catch you in sweet kiss after sweet kiss. When he pulls away, you feel lightheaded and inebriated, mentally on tiptoes as he holds you to him. 

“Margrave Gautier,” he says, eyes on yours and not the redhead’s. “Have you ever thought of kissing her?” 

The both of you look at Sylvain, whose face rivals the color of his hair. You can’t help how your eyes drift down to the area between his thighs, bulging more than obvious. 

“Yes.” 

The sultan hums at that, carefully drawing you down. Obediently, you allow him as you kneel in front of him, fingers balling into fists in anticipation as his fingers undo his sashes. 

“Don’t you think she has the most fuckable mouth, margrave?” Khalid asks him, to which Sylvain’s brows twitch, the smile on his face strained thin. 

The sultan leans down, kissing you once more as he takes his cock out from his loose-fitting linen pants. Although your attention is taken by the thick shaft presented to you, you can hear Sylvain swallow and inhale. Khalid croons quietly, caressing your jaw before running the pad of his thumb over your lower lip. Obligingly, you part your lips, eyes directed to his clover-green ones. 

“I asked you a question, Margrave Gautier,” the sultan says, smiling. 

Sylvain looks as though he could die. 

“Yes.” 

Sultan Khalid hums, the grin still on his lips before he looks back down at you. 

“You’re so good for me,” he says, tracing your rosy lips with the tip of his cockhead. “My girl.” 

As your tongue darts out to flick over the sensitive slit, his mouth parts, breath hot. Your pink wet muscle slips just a bit further, eyes half-lidded as you let him push further, further, further– 

The man’s fingers are in your hair, holding you in place as his hips move. He pushes in and out, moving deeper each time until you feel the tip pressing to the back of your throat. Forcing yourself to relax, he pushes in all the way, his fat cock no longer visible because you’re housing it in your mouth. It’s so far in, spreading your throat and making himself comfortable there. 

There are tears in your eyes from the intrusion, your painted nails digging crescents into the soft flesh of your palm. But you keep yourself there before him, eyes upturned to his, throat snug around his girth. The softness of his balls is pressed against your chin, the tip of your nose against his skin. 

He sucks in air through his clenched teeth. 

“Good girl. Good girl.” 

And then the sultan is pulling away, leaving you gasping wetly as a thick viscous string of saliva attaches your lips to his spit-shiny cock. 

“Seems like you’re right, margrave,” the sultan laughs, reaching down to wipe your lips. “She does have the most fuckable mouth.” 

The sultan’s eyes never leave yours, expression gentle – as though he hadn’t just shoved his cock down your throat. His thumb caresses your cheek. 

“Margrave.” 

“...your highness.” 

“You said you’ve thought about kissing her.” He hums, thumb tracing the sticky glossiness of your lips. “Would you like to kiss Margrave Gautier, my darling?” 

Your eyes move from staring at the sultan to the red-haired man across you. Although the Faerghan looks wilted, he musters a little smile at you. 

“I would like to.” 

You can hear Sylvain inhale sharply through his nostrils, throat muscles flexing. Sultan Khalid laughs, head gesturing for the margrave to hurry over. 

“Well? You aren’t making the future sultana wait much longer, are you?” 

And so Sylvain moves over, half-kneeling on the carpet that is worth more than the contents of all the Gautier stables. 

His eyes are on yours, pretty brown ones that scan your face and fall on your spit-slick lips. They’re just slightly swollen, blood pumping through the capillaries from having your mouth stretched taut around Khalid’s hefty cock. 

“May I?” He asks, voice soft. He ignores that the sultan is towering over where the both of you are kneeling before him. 

You nod. 

The margrave leans in, his eyes fluttering shut as he presses his lips to yours. 

It’s surprisingly chaste, with the both of you half-kneeling and his hand resting on your cheek. His lips move sweetly against yours, now sticky from the touch of your mouth. Somewhere in the back of his head, he vaguely realizes why the kiss is so tacky and humid without being too lewd, and– and it’s because the sultan had shoved his cock down your throat earlier. 

By the time he pulls away, your eyes are still shut, and he needs to resist the urge to cup your face in his hands. You’re so pretty, doll-like, almost as your eyes flutter open, looking at him with an expression he can’t exactly read. Time seems to be nonexistent, just the two of you. 

He smells lovely, like clean mountain air and sugar and barrels upon barrels of imported sugar-preserved orange peel. It’s not as intoxicating as the sultan’s, but it’s enough to make your feet feel like it isn’t touching the ground. 

At least, until Sylvain notices the sultan stroking the top of your head. 

“C’mere, habibti ,” the dark-haired man tells you, gesturing for you to follow as he lounges on one of the cushioned benches. 

Your eyes settle onto Sylvain’s momentarily before proceeding to follow your husband. Taking a seat on his lap when he pats his thighs, the sovereign plants a kiss on the side of your neck and shoulders, his bowstring-calloused fingers working to undress you. You allow him, shivering at the rustle of clothing against your body as you sit on his lap, facing the red-haired nobleman. 

Across the both of you, Sylvain merely watches where he’s still half-crouched, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. 

Once the soft fabrics of your robes have settled onto the floor, your muscles tense for a second at the more relaxed sensation of your bare flesh. There’s the softest shade that rosies up your cheeks from being the only naked person in the room of the two clothed men. 

“My sweet girl,” the sultan says, murmuring against your neck. It’s loud enough for Sylvain to hear and enough to send vibrations running down your spine. You feel hot between your legs, unintentionally arching more against the warmth of his body. 

“Do you want the margrave to taste and play with you, darling?” 

Wordlessly, you look up at Sylvain, who’s staring at you with an expression that belies his thinning patience and growing need. Khalid runs his hands down, nails raking along the soft skin of your thighs, causing you to unintentionally part them. The redhead’s gaze is diverted from yours for a moment, settling on the wet seam of your bared cunt. 

When you nod to answer the sultan’s question, he gestures for Sylvain to come closer. 

It should be embarrassing for him, but he doesn’t care; he clearly doesn’t give a damn as he crawls over to you like a dog. 

There’s confusion on Sylvain’s face, but you know that he was given this opportunity. Who is he to deny what he wants? 

His eyes flicker up to your husband’s, and you don’t have to look behind you to know that the sultan has the smarmiest expression on his clover-green eyes. Certainly, Sylvain must feel worried, wondering if this is one of Khalid’s little games. If the margrave deems it to be, he clearly doesn’t care, not when his former classmate reaches down to open you with his fingers. 

Your cunt makes the slightest clicking noise, something that sends your neck heating up in shame at how aroused you are from the unspoken tension that exists in the room. 

Sylvain eyes your cunt, his chest expanding and decompressing visibly as though he’s struggling to keep his breathing under control. It’s as though he had just finished running a mile, or better (worse) yet– a dog starved of food for days. 

“May I?” 

 The sultan’s thumbs stroke the soft skin of your inner thighs as though urging you to answer the Faerghan lord. 

“You may,” you respond. 

So he leans in, nosing along the plushness of your thighs, planting kisses along your warm skin. The muscles in your lower abdomen flex momentarily, impatience and eagerness growing by the second. When he hovers over your pussy, his warm breath tickles your sensitive entrance, your eyes transfixed on his brown ones. 

The man runs his tongue lightly over the seam of your pussy, barely tracing the shape of your petal-soft lips. Your toes curl a little at the sensation, nails pressing into your palms as he adds more pressure. A soft huff leaves you when he circles your entrance, teasing but not dipping where you want him the most. 

But then his tongue runs in a wide loop around your aching bud, only for him to miss your clit. When he looks up at you, you realize he had done that purposefully. However, it only gives you a moment to gather your senses as he uses his wet tongue to trace your equally damp hole. 

Whatever pretense of being a tease is clearly thrown over the margrave’s broad shoulders. 

His pink wet muscle, notorious for his honeyed words, proves to be just as sweet on your cunt with how he uses it. The man, for all the rumors about his penchant for being an open whore, knows precisely what he’s about. As he practically groans into your pussy, nose nuzzling against your clit, his tongue fucks itself in and out of your hole. It’s as though the arousal leaking from you is all that can save him, the only thing to sate the lust that threatens to burn him up from the inside out. 

All you can do is gasp and shudder, body held down by the sultan as you lean against his firm chest, your thighs spread open for Sylvain to feast on you. 

“Mm, does that feel good for you, my darling girl?” The sultan asks, nuzzling into the side of your neck. 

Breathlessly, you nod. You don’t know what to do, but at some point, you find purchase in the margrave’s red hair. 

The muscles in your leg and abdomen twitch, tensing up at the feeling of Sylvain slurping and licking at your center. It’s a sensation you’ve become familiar with for the last few moons in the soft touches and whispers of your sultan’s skilled fingers and lips. But it’s different in this way, as your very sultan is the one holding you down, offering you like a gift from a far-traveled friend to eat your cunt like a man starved. 

And with the way he laps at your sopping wet core, shaking his head to send vibrations running through your body, he is acting like one. 

“O-Oh–” You choke out, breathing more rapidly with each skillful flick and trace against your clit. 

The man keeps going, not caring even when your thighs close in on either side of his head. In fact, you could swear you feel his lips pull up in a grin. It’s as though he doesn’t care, even if you actually somehow manage to crush him. In fact, with how he continues tonguing at your pussy like he’s trying to fuck it and his nose pressing against your clit, you just may squeeze the life out of his head. 

“I’m close–” You croak out, fingers tugging at his locks so tightly that he groans. “Oh– oh, 

And that’s what tips you over, the vibration from his thoroughly enjoying how you’re pulling at his messy red hair. 

Pleasure washes over you, bringing you down to the depths as he licks at your clit. It sends shocks tingling throughout your body, muscles twitching, and your head tilted with ecstasy. A choked sound escapes you, strangled and airy, as your back bows against your husband’s chest. 

“So beautiful,” Khalid murmurs, petting your hair as Sylvain doesn’t stop running his tongue against your leaking pussy. 

Your husband holds you against his chest even as your legs begin to kick, his grip keeping you from accidentally hitting the margrave squarely in the face. By the time you are entirely writhing from oversensitivity, your hands are pushing Sylvain’s eager head away, earning a chuckle from your husband. 

The margrave’s lips and chin are glossy from you, earning the heat of embarrassment sifting through your neck and cheeks once more. Your breathing quickens a bit at the expression on his face, his eyes locked on yours as he licks his shiny lips from any remnants of you. 

Soft, open-mouthed kisses are planted along the side of your neck. Instinctively, you lean into the sultan’s warmth, a pleased hum escaping you as he strokes your thighs gently. 

“Do you want to fuck the future sultana, Margrave Gautier?” 

Sylvain’s eyes lift from yours to your husband’s. 

“Your majesty, I–” 

“You’d be a fool to decline, you’re aware of that,” Khalid says, his chin on your shoulder after he kisses it. “And also rude to your very gracious host. Wouldn’t it, my dear hostess?”

“So rude,” you respond, turning your head to the side to peck his cheek. 

Sylvain’s throat constricts as you look over at him, his brown eyes betraying any sense of propriety for his desire for you. Even as he smiles, the crease between his eyebrows says otherwise: calculating what your husband means. 

There is no such thing as free when it comes to the great sultan of Almyra. 

 “I’ll cut to the chase; I feel bad for you, margrave–” Khalid laughs, still stroking your thighs. “Textile trade between the Gautier region and Almyra. I wish that to be increased significantly and for the fur prices to be dropped by at least 15% by–” 

“Yes.” 

Khalid’s brow raises at his word, seemingly affronted momentarily at how he’d just been interrupted. His smile breaks through, nevertheless, as he lets out a little chuckle. 

“Any trade deal between my territory and your kingdom would be an honor.” 

“You’re right,” the sultan hums, tilting his head and leaning it against yours. “Swear on it.” 

“Your majesty?” 

“Swear,” Khalid says, voice dragging like honey dripping from his tongue. 

You gasp as his fingers move downwards, swirling against your entrance before pushing two into your aching cunt. A soft moan escapes you, back arching against your husband’s chest as your eyes fall half-lidded. Regardless, you gaze on Sylvain’s desperate ones while Khalid fucks his fingers in and out of you, your cunt noisy and wet. The margrave focuses solely on that, watching how your hole greedily takes what Khalid is graciously giving. 

“I-I– Yes. I swear on my honor.” 

"Oh, c'mon now, something more substantial than that, margrave," the sultan laughs before tilting his head and nuzzling your neck. 

Sylvain lets out a hollow laugh. 

Khalid inhales the perfumed oil you have there, the aroma mixing with your natural scent and the salt on your skin. Khalid murmurs soft words to you, kissing the junction between your neck and shoulder. 

"I… My parents and brother. On my family's name," Sylvain croaks out, still eyeing the glossy shine of your cunt so greedily clenching around the sultan's rough fingers. "I swear it." 

The sultan pauses kissing you, a hum escaping him as he grins upon hearing the margrave's words. 

"I was kidding, actually. But I'll accept," he tells the redhead, pulling his fingers from your needy hole to push into your mouth. Your tongue immediately rubs against his skin, groaning quietly at the taste of your own flavor against the salt of his skin. "Now, come here, and don't keep her waiting." 

Sylvain swallows for the nth time, your eyes both curious and wanting as he strips himself of his clothing. 

For a Faerghan, he is usually all bundled up for the weather. Down here, he wears significantly less but looser robes that hide well-toned musculature. From what you recall in your shared days in the academy, he was always tall and quite athletic, although he seemed more inclined to grow lean. 

While he isn't as large as Raphael became, he's definitely put in a lot of hours of training even outside of the battlefield. He's surprisingly thick and well-built, thighs thick from riding and shoulders sculpted for wielding lances and armor that weighs as much as he. 

Your eyes take him in, a picture of alabaster perfection, save for several battle scars that seem to only glorify his stature. He looks beautiful, and even the sultan seems to think so, too, with the smile you feel against your shoulder. 

And between his legs, his cock stands heavy and hard and thick. He is definitely not as thick as Khalid, but he is a little longer. Clearly, you think, at how it is nearly touching his belly button. Greedily, you eye it and how incredibly stiff it is, precum already leaking needily from the pink slit. 

"One thing though, too, Margrave Gautier," Khalid tells him as he scoots closer, making his way between your spread legs. 

Sylvain and you both look up to the sultan, who has such a cheery smile on his lips.

"You kiss her again or cum in her, and you will be returned to Lorenz in five separate baskets, alright?"  

The sultan's smile does not reach his eyes. 

Sylvain laughs, the sound coming off more like a strangled wheeze than anything else. 

"Noted. No kissing." 

"Otherwise, you can use her in whatever way you want." 

You clench at Khalid's words, Sylvain practically salivating as he sees you grasp around nothing. The margrave scoots closer, dick bobbing with every movement he takes towards you. Something on his face betrays conflicting ideas in his brain, but it is more than evident that whatever those ideas are – they can take the back seat. 

Sylvain leads his cock to your pussy, thrusting up just a bit so his heavy cock slides against the dampness of your entrance. You grunt at that, the tip nudging against your clit as he moves up and down against you. You aren't sure if he's simply trying to coat himself with your arousal, tease you, or both. 

But before you can open your mouth to form a complaint, he's pushing in. 

Lips parting, you breathe in and out quietly, eyeing the way his cock splits you open slowly. You're so wet that with the minimal fingering that Khalid afforded you, Sylvain pushes in quite quickly. It soothes the need in your core to be filled up. Although it does not feel like your bond with the sultan, your mate, it is something different and delightful. 

Sylvain has to pull out an inch or so only to push further inside you. You gasp quietly, toes curling and back muscles twitching when you suddenly feel his tip nudging the furthest wall inside you. 

"O-Oh–" You croak out, eyes locked on how he still has a few more inches that haven't been entirely sheathed inside you. 

Looking up at Sylvain, the man's expression looks like he's just finished running a mile with his brows knit together, sweat beading at his hairline, and lips parted. He looks gorgeous, and when you squeeze around him, he lets out a weak exhale from his mouth. 

He begins to move, the motion slow and simply halfway as he pulls out, only to push as far as he can until your body jerks beneath him. Khalid chuckles behind you, the air tickling your neck and causing you to tighten up a bit. Sylvain groans, his hands sliding onto your thighs to keep them open, allowing the Almyran ruler to grope and squeeze your tits instead. 

"Isn't she just perfect?" He asks Sylvain, gently scraping trimmed fingernails against your nipples to make you squirm. "She takes cock like she was born for it." 

"She does take– fuck– she takes it well," Sylvain responds. "Goddess. Look at you…" 

Your lips are parted, breath coming in soft pants as the margrave thrusts in and out of you in strokes where he pushes only half of his cock before pulling out altogether. He repeats the action, your pussy opening further and greedily wanting him to fill you up until you become a crying, sobbing mess. 

"More, please," you choke out, looking up from where his cock was stretching your pink hole out for him. "I want more– don't make me beg." 

Behind you, the sultan chuckles at your demand, to which Sylvain gives you what you want.

“Demanding,” Sylvain muses. "Who am I to say no to such a– oh f– such a request?"  

He speeds up his thrusts, pushing in a bit more this time. Each slide in you nudges his cockhead against your cervix, earning little hiccups from you. Your eyes flutter shut, head tilting back against your sultan's shoulder while Sylvain fucks you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the air. It's relatively quiet, save for the soft, breathy moans and gasps between you and the margrave. 

At least until one of his thrusts slips slightly, causing the angle of his hips to change. And it is a delicious mistake, with your eyes opening wide, lips in an "o" at the sensation of his cock rubbing against that spot. You see stars at the feeling, and in all his perceivable antics and foolishness, the margrave is smart and quick at noting your reaction. So he continues thrusting at that same angle, making sure that it stimulates you in the way you need it. 

"Is he making you feel good, my love?" The sultan murmurs, tilting your head to the side so he can kiss your lips. It leaves no room for an answer, but given the sweet moans in his grinning mouth, he can deduce that as a reasonable response. 

Sylvain positively groans, cock jumping in your pussy at the sight of Khalid tongue-fucking your mouth, his fingers wrapping around your throat. Your eyes are glazed over and dreamy when he pulls away from the kiss, breathing significantly reduced with the sultan's grip. Pleasure pulses like a heartbeat in your eardrums, threatening to burst. 

But the great sultan of Almyra knows you like his well-studied maps of the continents and knows precisely when anything is too much. And you know that he is exercising the most tremendous amount of restraint since you feel his own hard cock against your back. Are you crushing him like this? To be honest, you aren't sure, not with your tits bouncing gently with every thrust Margrave Gautier gives. You can't find it in yourself to care either, with your brain cells rattling in your skull as the redhead rubs his thumb against your clit. 

"Fuck," you wheeze, clenching around him and bucking against his hips. "Oh god– Sylvain–" 

Behind you, you feel the muscles of Khalid's firm chest tense significantly from hearing you call the margrave by his first name. Then he chuckles, his warm breath tickling against your ear as you whine from the onslaught of Sylvain fucking you. 

When you look back up at the margrave, his gaze is directed to your cunt, the pink opening greedily taking in his enormous cock to the best of its ability. You're so tight and wet and perfect around him, your pussy just squeezing him the way that anyone in their right mind would ever want. With each slide out, the nobleman can see the slightest cling of pink against his throbbing cock, earning a throaty groan at the mere visual of it. 

But when he finally lifts his gaze to yours, his hips stutter for a moment while his brain haywires at the very notion of finally being able to fuck you. And not only fuck you – but with your sultan holding you open for him like a present. 

"If you want to fit yourself in completely, push her legs up and press her down," Khalid encourages him, earning a half-hearted glare from you. He easily assuages your annoyance with another sweet kiss on the cheek. 

"Yeah?" Sylvain asks with a chuckle, nervousness beginning to settle in your stomach. 

Meanwhile, he follows Khalid's advice, hands on the back of your knees to push them on either side of your head. Your mouth goes dry as arousal seeps past the tight stretch around his cock, the tall nobleman holding you open and hovering over you. It's such a display of authority on his part as an alpha, and the same for your sultan offering you as a toy for their guest. 

You're more than happy to oblige. 

And then Sylvain is pushing in from tip to root, your eyes widening as your cunt manages to take his lengthy cock. You're gasping, your body allowing for the massive intrusion inside your body. Crying out, your legs flex, and your toes curl in the margrave's gasp. 

"Oh– ah– oh god– oh it's so–" You can't form words properly, not when your guts are pushed to their limit because he's so deep inside you. 

"Fuck," Margrave Gautier groans out, jaw slack and eyes glazed as he stares down at where the both of you are connected. 

Neither can see his cock because your pussy has somehow miraculously taken him. Sylvain's sheathed himself in you completely, forming your silky insides around the shape of him. 

"You're so pretty when you cry," he murmurs, leaning in, face close to yours. You didn't even realize you were until he had mentioned it, his hand reaching over to brush some tears away. "So lovely." 

"Margrave," Khalid warns, noticing how close the nobleman's lips are to yours. 

Dismissively, Sylvain chuckles, instead pulling himself out halfway, only to push himself back entirely into you. 

"No tricks, don't worry, friend," the redhead reassures your husband. "Your house, your rules." 

But what he does do is fuck you brutally, as though trying to take out his internalized rage for not being able to have you. Indeed, this is quite a boon that the sovereign leader of this nation would offer his most favored consort to the Fodlan emissary. 

He continues to pet and stroke his thumb against your clit, your walls fluttering helplessly around him. You’re getting closer and closer to the precipice, the great yawning chasm of unbridled pleasure threatening you with every vicious thrust from the knight. 

“You close? Fuck, I bet you are,” he groans, angling his hips to make sure he’s grinding up against that sweet spot of yours. “Clenching around me like a vice– so good. So good. You gonna cum for me, yeah? C’mon, pretty girl. Wanna feel you cum around my cock.”

Then he’s pushing his fingers into your mouth to wet them before pulling them out. He brings them down onto your clit, thumb rubbing aggressively in a tight circle, and your last thread snaps inside you. 

The pleasure pulls you down into the abyss, wrenching the air from your lungs as your mouth parts. Not a single sound escapes you as you crest, your back bowing from Khalid’s hold and pussy clenching desperately around Sylvain’s cock. He pauses with a low groan at how you’re tightening around him, your heartbeat pulsing in tandem as he rubs you through your climax. 

You don’t realize how you’ve whited out for a second until your eardrums are ringing, your body’s natural sirens going off. This isn’t your mate; your biological makeup makes you squirm in his hold. Your brain, however, is still wallowing in the post-orgasmic bliss that Sylvain’s dick is bestowing you. Still, at some point, you’re swatting his hand away from your sensitive clit. 

 “Sylvain,” you groan, voice sounding entirely shot and hoarse. 

Did you scream earlier when you orgasmed? You don’t even remember at this point. 

Your body is still thrumming with the fumes of your climax, so you can’t bother caring anymore. Behind you, Khalid holds your tits, pressing little butterfly pecks along your neck and nosing along the mating mark. 

A keening sound leaves your kiss-swollen lips when he moves again, the glossy slide of your arousal helping him thrust more smoothly in and out. 

“Yeah, sweetie?” He asks, a beat of sweat trickling down his face. 

A particular thrust has you gasping and crying out, legs slipping out of his grasp. He curses quietly at that, losing his balance with his hands propped on either side of you and Khalid. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist and lock at the ankles to keep him in place. 

The margrave’s brown eyes widen significantly at the action and paired with how you lift yourself up to grind against him, he’s choking on his own spit. 

Sylvain cannot help the way his hips fuck into you on their own accord, even when he’s groaning and muttering curses about how he needs to pull away and pull out. 

“Do you wanna cum in her, Margrave Gautier?” Khalid asks, his fingers carding through Sylvain’s sweat-damp red locks. “Is that what you’re trying to do? Spill your seed in my woman’s womb?” 

The Fodlan knight is stammering, trying to pull away, only to be entrapped by how good you feel. Sylvain can’t pull away, even though he knows he should. He’s not interested in being torn apart limb by limb, but fuck. Your cunt is making it very difficult for him. 

“I– Sultan Khalid, I’m–” 

He groans when your husband tightens his grip in his hair, hips stuttering and arms shaking as he’s doing his best to stave off his orgasm. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry– fuck, I–” 

The redhead doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. For not yet filling you up with his cum? For the headache Lorenz will have when he returns without a head? He isn’t sure at this point. 

“Do you want to cum in her?” 

“I– Yes, I do– I really– oh fuck–!” He pauses, jaw clenched and chest muscles tensing. “I want to. Please. Please–” 

“What are you willing to do for it, margrave?” 

“Anything!” He cries out, tortured by his own shackles to his very nature. 

He wants, needs to breed you. He wants to see you round and filled with his children. The man wants to whisk you away from Almyra and spirit you back to his homeland. Sylvain Gautier is willing to start a war for you. He doesn’t care. He needs this, needs you. 

“Lorenz’s trade ledgers,” you breathe out, and by your side, Khalid raises a brow. 

Sylvain looks at you, brows furrowed at your statement. 

“Lorenz’s trade ledgers for Fodlan with other nations– Bridgid, Almyra– bring them here.” 

A laugh escapes Khalid as he turns to look back at Sylvain. 

“Well? You heard her.” 

“Yes,” Sylvain groans out, hips snapping faster against yours. “Yes.” 

“Swear it,” you grit out, vision blurring with tears from how hard the man is fucking you. “Swear it!” 

“I swear! Fuck– I swear, all the trade and business ledgers from Lorenz, they’re yours–! Fuck, fuck, just let me cum– please– please–” 

“Cum,” the sultan orders. 

You’re crying out, gasping for air as Sylvain fucks into you with wild abandon, your body jostling like a ragdoll beneath his large frame. The man uses you like a toy on his cock, hauling your smaller self back and forth. His balls slap against your tailbone, and you know that you’ll be bruised because he’s slamming into you hard before he stills. 

Veins on his forearms, neck, and forehead throb as he empties himself into you. 

Rope after rope of his cum shoots into your pussy, filling you up to the brim. You’re gasping at the sensation, shuddering at being warmed from the inside out. It feels so strange to have another man’s cum inside you, one that isn’t your mate. 

“Fuck– oh fuck–” Sylvain pants out, body trembling at the last spurts of his seed into you. “Goddess…” 

Khalid’s arms are warm around you as he lavishes sweet kisses along your shoulder and cheek. As you calm down from the feeling of the margrave pummeling your poor insides, your eyes flutter shut. It is a lovely feeling of Khalid fussing over you, running his tongue over the scar on your neck to reassure you that you are his. 

When you open your eyes, Sylvain has an expression you can’t precisely place. 

Joy? Happiness? Anger? Regret? Disgust? 

You have no clue. 

But then he’s pressing a kiss to the shoulder that the sultan isn’t closest to, one that Khalid actually allows. It isn’t your mouth, after all, as though he hadn’t just dumped a massive load of cum inside you. 

As the margrave moves upright, his cock slips out of you, earning a hiss and a soft whine from you. Khalid hooks his chin over your shoulder, seating you up a bit. Both men’s brows lift, watching the copious seed trickle out from your swollen hole. You stare down between your legs, clenching weakly around nothing in an attempt to keep Sylvain’s spend inside you. 

“Fuck, look at that,” Khalid groans. 

Warmth unparalleled heats you up from your core, spreading like a ravenous fire to your fingertips. It truly is something else to know when your own wants you when you are about to be claimed by the one who sank their teeth into your flesh. 

The mark on your neck thrums, your body singing with need as though Margrave Gautier had not wrenched two orgasms from your body. And that is not to say that your body hadn’t enjoyed the onslaught of pleasure the redhead nobleman had bestowed on you. 

It is simply that when you and Khalid are in sync, nothing else in the world matters. 

The sultan had told you once, one night in the gardens, that everything else fades into silence once you are within reach. He had the expression of a youthful lover whose love was so untouched by time and rust. He had kissed both your hands then, looking upon you in the moonlight with such affection and reverence that only poets could speak of. 

When Sylvain steps back to allow you both space, the sultan tips you forward onto the soft, plush rugs. 

You’re more than compliant as he arranges you onto your hands and knees, body ready for him. 

It is as though the one who had just filled you with his come is not even in the room. 

Everything is your lover, Khalid, and nothing else matters to you. 

And so you present yourself to your darling, ass round and plump and facing him as you look at him over your shoulder. He’s grinning at you mischievously as though you’ve just caught him about to unlatch the chicken coop lock. It’s as though he’s about to sneak out from a boring meeting to spend time with you in the orangery eating citrus fruits by the bushel. 

It’s as though he isn’t about to knot you in front of your most esteemed emissary from the West. 

You shiver when he knees behind you, one large hand smoothing over your ass and up to your waist. Everything about this is so perfectly natural, each cell in your body vibrating and preparing for you to take him. 

“Mm,” he murmurs, enjoying the shiver that licks down your curved spine when he thrusts against your opening, his tip bumping against your clit. It’s meant to tease you, to see how you writhe beneath him as he does it repeatedly. 

“Your majesty, please–” 

“Shush,” he tells you gently, planting a kiss between your shoulder blades. “I got you.” 

The way he slides into you, forcing your already-stretched-out cunt with his fat cock turns you silent. He groans, the sound reverberating into the very marrow of your bones once he settles against you, balls pressed against your swollen clit. 

Around him, you feel the gush of Sylvain’s seed spill out, as though Khalid is forcing the remains out of you. He may as well be. 

You are keen at the sensation, trembling when he kisses your neck. He is inside you, filling and stretching you out completely, leaving no room for anything but him. In every aspect, he is overwhelming and just right, perfect in every way for you. 

With him behind you, you tremble, sensitive nub already burning at the need that grows within. 

“C’mon. You know better than to call me that. Say it, say my name.” 

With your head bent and your eyes closed, you do not even feel the sultan looking directly at where Sylvain is seated on one of the lounge ottomans. 

“It is just us.” 

You gasp when he begins to thrust, motions that have your whole soul rocking back and forth with each movement. 

“It is just us, my love.” 

A soft moan escapes you, manicured nails digging into the soft rug beneath you, yanking at the colorful threads of woven fabric. 

“Khalid.” 

“Yes,” he responds, earning a shrill noise from you when a thrust into you has your upper body nearly collapsing onto the soft rug. 

"God, oh– fuck, Khalid– please," you beg him, although you aren't quite sure what exactly you are praying for. 

You feel so full, his thick cock stretching you out to your fullest extent. With every downstroke, his curve presses easily against that sweet spot, and everything is so perfect. 

The sultan's grip on your waist is firm but not too tight, just enough to keep you in place and yank you back with every forward slide. Your eyes flutter shut, heavy lashes against your cheekbones as you cannot focus on anything but him. 

When your husband's fingers reach around to rub at your clit, you nearly fall forward with your arms about to give out. At least until calloused fingers weave into your hair, pulling you upright. Your spine bows deliciously, palms barely touching the soft rug as he tugs you back and keeps you aloft. 

"That's it," he grunts, his cheery tone slightly strained. "That's it." 

When you unintentionally clench around him at a stroke that rubs into you just the right way, he groans, the sound so satisfying in your design to pleasure him. His thrusting into that particular spot has both of you crying out, your body taut around him as he continues to toy with your overstimulated clit. 

"Khalid, oh– Khalid, your cock feels so good inside me, oh god–" You choke out, bunching up the fabric of the woven rug into your fingers. Tears build up along your kohl-rimmed lash line, lips parting to let out staccato breaths. "You're s-stretching me out so g-good–!" 

The sultan lets out a breathless laugh, tugging your hair more to tilt your head up. A sob of complaint escapes you when he pulls his hand away from your sensitive little nub. Your eyes open, upset at the loss of stimulation even as Khalid continues to ream your sweet cunt. 

But your gaze settles upon the margrave, cock half-hard even after he had spent so much inside you. He's staring at you, pupils still blown wide and muscles tense as he watches the great sultan of this nation plow into your sopping wet hole. The man shamelessly watches your tits bounce in response to each of Khalid's firm thrusts. 

"C'mon, sweet girl, look at our guest and beg him to let you cum on my cock." 

Sylvain shivers at the sultan's words, his brown eyes desperately searching your pretty face and teary eyes. 

"S-Sylvain, please… Please ask him to let me cum, please…" 

You whimper, pussy trembling around Khalid at a particularly rough thrust that has his balls momentarily pressing against your clit. His knot is starting to form; soon, he'll shove it into you. 

"Honey. You have better manners than that, don't you? Use your words; I love hearing them from your pretty mouth." 

You could scream at the sultan in frustration, but your body is so hot, so tightly wound around Khalid's finger. Even if he were to loosen, you would wind yourself still, desperate and clinging to the sovereign who gives you everything and anything you desire. 

"My– My lord– Margrave Gautier, please– please… I need to cum," you beg, an iridescent tear trickling down your cheek and dripping off the point of your chin. "I want to cum around the sultan's cock– please, please– I need it, I want it, please–" 

You're babbling, filthy words leaving you with little shame as you're rocked back and forth on Khalid's hot cock. More arousal leaks out of you with each of his movements, betraying how helpless and wanton you are for the unfolding situation. 

The ruler has never outrightly stated debase words that directly degraded your station, but his actions towards you? That's a different story. And as embarrassing as it may be and as much as you would never admit it, you love and crave it. You enjoy how he makes you ache for him, only for him to satiate him with every ounce of affection and some. 

"Please!" You cry out, desperate for release with each throb of your needy clit. "My lord–!" 

The Fodlan noble stares at the both of you. The glistening shine of sweat on the sultan's chiseled abs, the rippling fat on your ass from each slap of Khalid's hips. Your swinging tits, the pink on your cheeks, the tears in your eyes. 

When Khalid winks at him, he swallows, averting his eyes back to you as heat stirs in his loins once again. 

"Please, your majesty," Sylvain tells you, voice tempered like steel as he stares at the both of you. "Let her cum. She deserves it." 

Khalid laughs, the sound just slightly strained. 

"Fine." 

His fingers are right back where you want them to be, and you break into his hold. 

The pleasure consumes you, hot and overwhelming. Your descent into the cosmic abyss of pleasure drowns your senses in nothing but the white-hot bliss of being filled by your mate. Not a single noise escapes you, save for the shuddering gasp of air you make while your cunt trembles around him. 

Behind you, the sultan groans, enjoying the sensation of your pussy clutching at him, desperately trying to keep him in place. He continues to pummel your insides, albeit at a slower pace, given the vice-like grip you have around him. 

"Yes– oh fuck, fuck. Fuck," he chuckles breathlessly, still circling your nub to help you ride out your orgasm. "That's it. That's my good, good girl. Fuck. I don't deserve you." 

When your breaths have stabilized, his hands are both on your waist. You nearly fall forward, arms bracing your fall with your ass up in the air. He follows on, slamming into you, fucking you. 

The sultan fucks you hard, plowing into your cunt with such ferocity that you finally pull more oxygen into your lungs. You cry out for him, body trembling like a leaf beneath your sovereign ruler, your husband, your sultan. The growing knot makes it difficult for his whole dick to get into you, but neither of you has ever backed down from a challenge. 

"Khalid!" You call out, unable to think of anything else but him and the heavy cock rearranging your insides the way you need. "Mmmfth–" 

He gasps and grunts, jaw clenched as he pummels your pussy, balls slapping hard against your overly-sensitive clit. You shake and whine, begging wordlessly for him to fill you up. With the after-effects of your last orgasm, you're lightheaded, and nerves frayed from exhaustion. 

"Fuck, that's it," he grits out, muscles tense as he viciously fucks you. "I'm going to fill you up." 

"Please! Please knot me," you choke out, only for him to push in, your pussy swallowing up his knot as you sob. 

The sultan wraps his arms around you, knees propping himself up so he doesn't crush you. Although his hold on you is tight, it is still gentle enough to remain tender and careful. 

"Fuck–" He growls out, teeth digging into the mark on your neck. 

It's not hard enough to break the skin or draw blood, but just enough to get you whining at the sensation. Both of you pulse around each other, your cunt milking his knot. His seed fills you up, hot and thick as it floods you, trickling into your womb as it has nowhere else to go. 

You pant, a tear escaping your eyes as he carefully settles you down onto the ground, his body held up so he doesn't squish you. When he kisses your shoulder and the side of your neck, you smile a bit, tilting your head so he can peck your lips. 

"Khalid," you whisper, voice hoarse. 

"Mm," he pushes your hair from your face. "Sweetheart." 

Reaching around, he grabs a soft throw blanket to wrap around you. As the both of you are sweaty, he knows you'll get cold soon since the evening air is chilly. A pillow is propped under your head, too. He adjusts the both of you so he can spoon you on the soft rug, thrumming body warm against your own. 

As your breathing slows and lashes flutter shut, he regards you, gaze so affectionate that the other man in the room shifts awkwardly. 

"Margrave Gautier." 

"Your majesty." 

Khalid adjusts himself as he looks down at you, expression gentle and tender as he leans down again to kiss your cheekbone. 

"Have a good evening." 

"...your Majesty." 

There's the shuffle of clothes being picked up and put on, but Khalid doesn't even bother to look up. He's too busy tracing the shape of your face with the tip of his finger. 

So the redhead Gautier dresses, giving a bow and a soft your majesty before leaving. 

Sylvain sighs as he exits the room, the cold evening air of Almyra once more greeting him back to reality. 

He runs his hands through his hair and exhales with a soft fuck . 

Margrave Sylvain Gautier needs to figure out how to get his hands on Lorenz's ledgers.