It's probably karma, truth be told, that Sylvain's managed to find himself in a world that can very deliberately call him out for being Horny on Main in a way that's as unconventional as it is inconvenient. Like... the first couple of times it happened might've been funny, in a self-reflective sort of way, if he hadn't spent them losing track of how long he'd agonize over the unshakable need to touch and be touched, heated thoughts inevitably turning towards the best friend he'd since decided to entrust himself with for his cycles' durations.
Even when he's been granted some reprieve, need tempered into a more manageable want only slightly stronger than the kind he's had years of practice both pretending at and denying in turn, he still finds himself drawn to Felix in increasingly obvious ways--especially so lately, now that he's allowed the liberties of not just a friend, but also those of a lover. It... doesn't exactly make things easier? Not when he still has to go through it all in the first place, but at least it means he doesn't have to feel (quite as) selfish when he asks Felix to lay with him for the evening! Or when he spends half of it with his face buried in Felix's hair... Or against his throat... Or close enough to Felix's own that every second he doesn't spend closing the distance leaves a real, physical ache in his chest.
Listen. He's already a needy shit at the best of times. Iris' influence just means he can't resist being a needy shit at all.
Like... oh, now, for example! Wherever Felix is, whatever he's doing, hi! Hello. He should stop that, because Sylvain is going to very suddenly invade his personal space as thoroughly as he can given the lack of warning. Can he get away with wrapping his arms around his waist? He's wrapping his arms around his waist, somehow or another. Please pay attention to him.
"Come to bed," he murmurs, although a part of him is distantly aware that he has no idea what time it actually is, or when the last time was that he even thought to check, only that he's spent the past Too Long wanting him, and he's had nothing but his own wandering thoughts for company. He'd much rather have Felix himself, warm and solid against him, even if it sparks the heat under his skin to a near unbearable degree. "I can't stop thinking about you."
TL;DR: Him horny. He's lucky Felix loves him anyway.
Edited (This is absolutely worth the edit) 2019-12-16 08:57 (UTC)
don't you fuckin dare... it's only the ears! the EARS!!!
[And there's plenty to be said for the many, ah, changes Felix has been forced to come to terms with during their time here? Paragraphs upon paragraphs just waiting to be written, focusing on both his own cycle (bad!) and the new relationship (good!) he's somehow stumbled into, but all that currently matters is this: Felix is... happy. Not always! This world is still wacky, and nothing in life is perfect, but there is something, mmm, decidedly satisfying about catching sight of Sylvain and knowing that he's his. No more dancing around feelings...
...Knowing that, however, doesn't make being grabbed from behind any better! Especially not when Felix is doing something as innocuous as standing in front of the kitchen sink and filling a cup with water. Like, is it any wonder he instinctively stiffens, wholly unprepared for this unexpected contact? Let a man stay hydrated in peace, Sylvain. God damn.
But it isn't as though Felix wasn't expecting something like this, given that it's That time of the month. He'd known what he was in for the moment he saw those stupid ears atop Sylvain's head—so he resists the very real urge to jam an elbow right back into Sylvain's stomach, choosing instead to focus on the warm puffs of breath near his ear.]
I'm not what you're thinking about.
[By which he means the focus isn't, ah, entirely on him, ya HUSSY! But while he isn't necessarily opposed to wasting the afternoon with his favorite person, it's the principle of the matter? Something, something, he isn't at Sylvain's beck and call (even though he absolutely is), so he wills himself to relax, to reach forward to turn the faucet on. Look at him, continuing to fill this glass like there isn't an incredibly attractive individual nuzzling against his neck... he's soooooo above it all, hence his oh-so casual:]
You can wait.
[He's a different kind of thirsty, you see. Deal with it.]
He appreciates not being elbowed, thanks, especially since he's too distracted elseways to do a damn thing about it if he DID. But he most certainly does not appreciate being more or less ignored in favor of... what, a glass of water...? Please. He's the one dying of thirst, here.
"Felix..."
It's... a warning? A protest? A placeholder, in the sense that there are really just too many things he wants to say here, his usual talent for weaving his thoughts into carefully crafted words failing him now that his one, functional braincell has not just left the building, but torched the place on its way out. It's a lot of things, all packed neatly into a sound that's half a sigh and half a whine, but primarily--because Sylvain knows that, of anyone, Felix has always been a little too good at seeing through him--it's just a simpler way to get all of them across at once.
He can wait, he says... Damn. Sylvain can't help but think that there's something decidedly unfair about the way that unaffected tone only makes him that much more desirable.
"You're all I can think about," he corrects him, insistent even as his hands trail perhaps a little too boldly downward. If it takes some (or more than just some) conscious effort to redirect them to his hips instead, the only hint Felix will get is one slow, steadying breath as Sylvain turns to duck his head against the side of his. "If you come with me..."
He trails off, both as a suggestion, and because he's apparently more interested in pressing more kisses along whatever skin he can reach, but the implication that he'll be all too happy to prove where his thoughts have been this whole time is definitely right there.
[Sylvain has said his name countless times, countless ways—but it's amazing, really, how hearing Sylvain say his name like this eclipses everything that came before. Two familiar syllables, spoken with such need that Felix almost—almost!—fumbles with the faucet as he shuts it off, because he isn't nearly as, ah, experienced as Sylvain; there are still times when he's caught entirely off guard, either by Sylvain or his own reaction to him. It is all... So Much.
As is the man standing behind him, apparently determined to drive him to distraction, but here's the thing: Felix is nothing if not stubborn? Felix is fiercely determined to win, even when, as those light kisses trailing down his jaw remind him, there's no real way to lose. He could sink back against Sylvain, could put up a bit of (token) resistance before allowing him to do as he pleases and take what he needs, and it would be very, very good—and yet it could be better, Felix thinks. Maybe.
...Maybe. It's something to consider, at least, hence his quiet hum as he carefully brings the glass of water to his lips. He can't take a sip, thanks to Sylvain's, ah, attentiveness, but that's fine; the glass is more for the drama of it all than anything else, because current attitude aside, he's in no hurry to shove Sylvain away.]
If, [he repeats, voice calm, measured, even though his breathing has obviously quickened.] I'm hardly convinced.
[And that's cruel enough—except it isn't? Not by a long shot. Hearing the smoothest talker he knows obviously struggle to string together a sentence is oddly thrilling; it's reminiscent of, oh, steering a sparring opponent into a corner, watching them realize that their chances of coming out on top are rapidly dwindling with each step they take. Hmm, hmm, hmm. The type of thing Felix lives for, which is perhaps why, when he speaks up once more, there's a clear, almost cocky undercurrent to his voice. Who's in control...]
You can do better than that, Sylvain. Keep talking.
That hum is as good a sign as any, because it means he's thinking, considering--and yet, it still isn't what Sylvain wants out of this, exactly... Getting Felix to weigh his options is all well and good, and getting him on the same page would be even better, but just thinking isn't enough when he could be doing instead. What's so great about that cup, anyway! He should be touching him, obviously, lips pressed to his own instead of the rim of a glass. He has half a mind to take the damn thing from him.
...And then he's lucky to have half a mind at all, because Felix... keeps talking! And Sylvain always listens, of course--always loves whatever words and sounds he can coax out of him, in moments like these especially--but this time, that unexpected tone makes his breath catch sharp in his throat, and even as uncomfortably warm as he is, he can't help the shiver that runs through him at the sound of his name.
...Aha. Well. Give him half a second while he tries to, like, gather all these newly scattered thoughts, but:
"Let me show you," he tries, a too-quiet offer and request all in one. Let him just... try to guide Felix's arm out of the way?? Specifically so he can then try and turn his face up towards him, because he is absolutely certain he will die if he doesn't kiss him, like, right now. "Felix, I'll show you, just--"
Just kiss him?? Touch him?? Look at him, properly, please, he's suffering.
[Another thing Felix has yet to fully adjust to, alongside everything else in this world: the way Sylvain reacts to him. Oh, he's used to a bit of push-and-pull, of backing away from Sylvain until Sylvain draws him right back in; that type of tension has existed between them for as long as Felix can remember, but it's markedly different, now that he's had ample opportunities to touch, to kiss, to feel Sylvain stirring beneath his hand. It's—hmm. There's power in that, you know?
And there's power in this, as evidenced by the sort of pride that wells up within Felix as Sylvain once again struggles to verbalize a complete thought. To think that it's all because of him! ...Or, well. Mostly because of him; like, he's well aware that the Iris moon is doing its fair share here, driving Sylvain to slip a finger beneath his chin and tilt his head back for what is presumably a kiss. He wouldn't necessarily mind one...
...But? But. While Felix does, in fact, lower his arm, he only allows Sylvain to tilt his head far enough back for their eyes to meet—and for Sylvain to see a sliver of what is clearly a smirk, because ah, ah, ah.]
You're not listening. [That cockiness is still there, but now there's a trace of, ah, something else? A hint of steel, just to let Sylvain know he's being perfectly serious here.] Tell me what you want.
[A clear order, because while it's been about what Sylvain can do up until this point—hmm. Well. Felix wonders, vaguely, what it would be like to hear Sylvain ask him nicely for this thing he obviously wants? To hear him say please. It's a good thought, really, which is why Felix sets his glass on the counter and—without ever breaking eye contact—reaches up to wrap his fingers around Sylvain's wrist.]
And ask before you touch.
[Because he'll be pulling that hand away from his face now, thank you—and watching intently to catch Sylvain's reaction. How mean does he have to be? He doesn't know. He's figuring this out as he goes, and damn, but isn't it exciting.]
Hello, Goddess? Are you there? Sylvain would like to have a word, or quite possibly SEVERAL words, because this is obviously some sort of divine plot against him. She and Felix are in fucking cahoots.
The moon's gotta be in on it too, given how quickly his frustration threatens to give way to desperation instead, a protest already forming in his throat. Sure, he could steal the kiss he craves so badly... he could finish closing the distance himself, or force Felix to turn around. If he was feeling especially bold (or just really had a death wish), he could scoop Felix up altogether and simply demand the attention he's being denied for himself. But something--that tone, those eyes on him, their suggestion that he's more aware of him than he's letting on after all--keeps him more or less startled still, a flicker of surprise evident in the way his eyes widen in response and a quick, unconscious twitch of an ear.
Part of him wants to laugh, really, because he probably should've seen this coming? He's seen Felix spar enough times to know how he gets when he's backed an opponent into a corner. It's that sort of smug satisfaction of a fight well-fought, a smirk dangerously similar to the one he wears when Sylvain agrees to take things seriously and still winds up with his back to the dirt, and--oh, but that's the wrong train of thought, isn't it? That's a dangerous train of thought, he realizes, a split second too late to do a damn thing about it except think of how much he wants--
"You..." Over him, all heated skin and panted breaths, confidence written in the curve of his lips and the tilt of his chin--and if Sylvain's breathing quickens, a faint flush rising at the thought, he's too well-distracted to notice. "I want you, please..."
Admittedly vague with how unfocused he is, but thank goodness he hasn't retained even an ounce of pride to make him think twice about begging. Still, he can't help the way he crowds in a step closer, the fingers still at Felix's hip pressing just a bit tighter, because listen. He's already not kissing him?? He's really struggling here, alright, so not being allowed to touch him in general sounds like a terrible rule! He's breaking it immediately.
[Please, Sylvain says, and it's every bit as good as Felix hoped it would be? Knew it would be, and yet Felix is still left staring, lips parting as he unthinkingly allows Sylvain to press even more firmly against him. A momentary lapse in judgment, all due to the fact that Sylvain is so warm, so eager, so obviously desperate for anything Felix will give him—
—and Felix is once again reminded of the power that's been, ah, entrusted to him, because as intoxicating as all of this is, he's well aware of the many ways Sylvain could hurry things along. He takes the lead more often than not, after all, controlling the pace even as he takes Felix's (often unspoken) wants into consideration, but—hmm. Now he's allowing Felix to set the pace? ...Somewhat poorly, it's true, and yet he's still making an attempt to listen, to hold himself back; like, desperation aside, that just isn't something he would do if he wasn't enjoying himself, to some degree. He likes this.
...Ah.
Felix's fingers are still wrapped around Sylvain's wrist, and it's easy, really, for Felix to push that arm back, to send Sylvain slightly off-kilter while simultaneously twisting around to face him. It's the same type of move he would use in close-quarters combat, all to put some space back between himself and his opponent, but there's no need for much space here; he merely remains where he is for a moment, eyes narrow as he takes this opportunity to study Sylvain's flushed face. A good enough angle, he supposes, but... it could be better...]
What did I tell you?
[It's a rhetorical question? One he obviously doesn't want an answer to, given the way he brings his free hand up to Sylvain's shoulder, pushing down at the same time he gives that captive arm a sharp tug.]
Down.
[On his knees, clearly. In... the kitchen. But they'll move SOON, don't WORRY, this is not Lalli/Hans 2.0!]
Yes I'm using the same icon twice and you can't stop me
You wanna know the worst part? Sylvain would be absolutely fine pinning Felix between him and the counter, even if it's far from ideal, just for the sake of scratching this all-consuming itch searing through him from the inside out. They're walking such a narrow wire right now over the potential of Lalli/Hans 2.0, and 80% of their balance depends on Felix... literally, apparently!! Because Sylvain's current condition means his reaction time is dulled to what might be an embarrassing degree, if only he could spare the brainpower necessary to actually give a damn.
One moment he's appreciating the look on Felix's face, wondering if he might get away with leaning in to cover those parted lips with his own; the next, he's yelping in surprise as he stumbles back a step. That hold on his wrist keeps him close, keeps him at least marginally steady, but before his discontent with the short distance added between them can form itself into words, Felix is reaching for him. He reaches up, tells him down...
...And Sylvain, caught wholly off guard for the second or possibly third time in such a short span, only realizes he's sunk to the floor when he finds himself blinking up at Felix one dizzying moment later. This... could be fine? This could be good, he thinks, and it already is, but for all he can feel his pulse racing at the unexpected turn this has taken... hmm. His lips are still slightly parted in a silent oh when he lifts his free hand up, fingers folding gently over the ones at his shoulder with an uncharacteristic sort of uncertainty. Yes, he was told to ask first, but let him just... subtly turn his head towards that hand? To check that this is fine, in a way, or at least to encourage him to continue taking the lead, because at this point, Sylvain's not sure he'd know what to do with it if he gave it back.
use it for the rest of the thread for all i care!!
[Bringing Sylvain to his knees was a hazy idea, at best. A way to see if Sylvain would test Felix's tentative authority—which he doesn't. He drops down without any resistance whatsoever, blinking back up at Felix in an almost bemused fashion, and Felix wonders, dimly, if he's ever loved Sylvain more than he does at this very moment. It isn't about power; it's all about trust, about a willingness to give, and there's a familiar ache in Felix's chest even as heat pools low in his stomach. He does love this man. He does, he does, he does...
But that is that—and this is this, which is why he promptly pulls his hand from beneath Sylvain's? Why he grabs Sylvain's chin and swivels his head forward, tilts his head back, firmly holds him in place as he appreciates this different angle from which to study this familiar face. He's spent years watching Sylvain from afar, taking in every flicker of emotion with something akin to greed; perhaps that's why it sometimes feels as if he knows Sylvain's face better than he knows his own, but there's something new, he thinks, about this. Sylvain is heart-wrenchingly beautiful like this, practically begging to be touched, and Felix finally releases his hold on Sylvain's arm just so he can oh-so lightly smooth his fingers over a cheekbone.]
Sylvain—
[Ah, but his voice is so much breathier than it should be? He takes a second to swallow, watching his fingers slide down the curve of a cheek before coming to a stop at the very corner of Sylvain's still-parted mouth. He wants to—but no. Not yet. He settles, instead, for sweeping the tip of his pointer finger over Sylvain's bottom lip, which is far softer than it has any right to be.]
Touch me again and I won't touch you, [he manages, voice starting low and progressively working its way to what is practically a purr. Of course he's still smug; how can he not be, when Sylvain is on his knees because of him?] I'll leave you here. Alone. Understand?
[Would he really? ...Maybe. Probably, given his stubborn nature, but it would certainly hurt.]
Edited 2019-12-20 09:22 (UTC)
I'll never use any other icon ever again, don't try me
This time he at least expects Felix to pull away, though it's no less disappointing of a loss; he does not, however, expect that hand to shift to his chin instead, as firm as it had been against his shoulder. There's still a second in which some vague instinct has him reaching for the other's wrist--to push his grip away or to prevent him from letting go, he can't even begin to guess which--but he hesitates, catching himself as his fingers hover awkwardly in the air for a beat, and then another, before he forces his arm down with a slow, shaky exhale.
He's already gotten so used to being able to touch Felix whenever he likes?? It's practically second nature by now, that selfish desire to remove whatever distance comes between them; he's always been looking for excuses, probably, since before he was allowed anything more intimate than hanging over his shoulders. So, when that hand against his cheek drags like sparks against his skin, it's damn near painful not to try leaning into it--especially when the sound of his name like that paired with such a gentle touch leaves him aching for more, more, more...
And normally, this would be the part where Sylvain grins, and probably laughs something about how Felix doesn't mean it! How he can tell he wants this, too, because he'd know that if Felix tried to walk away after all, all he'd have to do is wrap him up in his arms and kiss him until he felt convinced enough to stay. Instead, the thought of Felix leaving him like this somehow manages to feel like it might just be the worst thing to happen to him, ever, in his entire life... or at least, the worst thing he can imagine in this exact moment, anyway. So the threat of Felix leaving becomes nothing less than what it is: a threat, and one he could quite easily make good on at that.
"Right," he breathes, less of a word and more of an uneven exhale against that one, distracting finger. He eases his newly freed hand down, bringing both loosely to his sides with his palms facing forward, as if to prove that he's listening. He can behave, if this is what Felix wants from him? If this is what it takes to get Felix's hands on him... "...Got it."
[Felix frequently snaps orders at Sylvain, but they're rarely—well! They're meant in the sense that Felix feels his input is warranted, given Sylvain's, ah, more easygoing nature, but unless they're fighting back-to-back on a battlefield, it would be a lie to say that Felix expects immediate follow-through. That just isn't how they work? Felix pushes, Sylvain pulls, and, more often than not, they somehow both wind up in the middle. It's a system.
And as Felix tracks Sylvain's hands as they drop down to his sides, said system is (temporarily) forgotten, lost beneath a sudden wave of want. The sheer want of Sylvain, of course. The almost desperate desire to drift downward and touch every available inch of him, kitchen floor be damned, but—hmm. There's also the distinct want to see just how far he can take this... game of theirs. Can they both win...]
Do you?
[It's easier, now, to keep that purr in his voice? To feel comfortably in control while noting how still, how patiently, Sylvain is sitting, even though he's obviously wound tight, tight, tight. Felix could kiss him, really. Add that to his list of wants, even as he cants his head to the side, humming thoughtfully yet again.]
Do you want this? [With "this" being, of course, the current state of things, the as-of-yet-unspoken things Felix is still piecing together—which is why he settles for bringing another finger to Sylvain's lip, calloused fingertips slowly tracing the shape of it.] Prove it.
[In typical Felix fashion, aka through action as opposed to words. It's why he presses both fingertips against the seam of Sylvain's lips, applying slight pressure—but not enough to force his fingers between them? The expectation, however, is clear, both in the way he loosens his grip on Sylvain's chin and in the way his eyes hungrily flick down to Sylvain's mouth.]
It figures that Felix would settle into this as quickly as he does, always so determined to hone any new skill he deems worthy, to do better, and he has to admit: there's a certain sort of thrill that comes with seeing him like this? With hearing him test the weight of his words as he would test the weight of a weapon, as if to see which ones will be more effective in taking him apart. So, while every second spent under the scrutiny of those sharp eyes stretches his remaining patience thinner, and thinner still... well.
...Well. Sylvain has never wanted Felix to stop looking at him before. He sure as hell isn't about to start now. Especially not when he can see a hunger similar to his own reflected back down at him, and he has to swallow back a thoughtless response of yes, he wants this, and him, and more--which are all things Felix surely knows already, and yet, still, he asks him to prove it!
And you know? He'd be more hurt (rather, he'd at least act like he was) if he didn't find, somewhere between the instruction and the subtle hint of pressure at his lips, that he wants to prove himself, too.
It probably says something about him, that with or without Iris' influence, he's happier bruising his knees on the kitchen floor for a couple of fingers than he's ever been going out to fall into the bed of some pretty thing offering so much more, so much faster... It probably says a lot, actually? Sylvain can't really bring himself to care as he wets his lips, letting his tongue slip beneath the tips of Felix's fingers so he can take them carefully into his mouth while he tries to catch the other's eyes, searching for some sort of approval there before he dares to lean in further.
[It isn't until Felix feels Sylvain's lips part that he realizes he's holding his breath, and that... is stupid? They've been together for months, eagerly making up for all the years they'd never even realized they were wasting; like, Sylvain's tongue has slid along almost every inch of him by now—and vice-versa—which means that this little whatever-it-is should be nothing.
But it's something, alright. Sylvain's tongue touches the tips of his fingers, soft and slick and warm, and what should be objectively disgusting sends heat climbing up to the very tips of his ears. Maybe it's the sight of Sylvain on his knees that makes this all so much more, ah, intense? The way Sylvain is looking up at him, brown eyes somehow so bright in the dim light of the kitchen? Goddess. It's all simultaneously too much and not enough, which is why he finally releases his hold on Sylvain's chin, resisting the urge to palm himself as he takes in this sight. It would be good—but waiting will make it better.
And besides, there's something to be said for bringing that newly freed hand up to rest atop Sylvain's head? Just so he can push past all of that messy, messy hair and oh-so lightly scratch at the base of one sensitive ear.]
That's all? [he taunts, unable to resist sliding his fingers a scant half an inch forward.] Pathetic.
[He wants Sylvain to do the work here, hence the goading; he wants Sylvain to earn this, but patience has never been his strong suit.]
Approval, as it turns out, comes in many, many forms. Sometimes it's praise, sometimes it's encouragement, but sometimes--in a surprising twist that, considering those involved, really isn't so surprising after all--it's disguised as disappointment, sharp words and harsh tones that probably... shouldn't be as exciting as they are? Like, objectively, he's sure that being taunted to do better ought to be at least a little bit insulting; but it isn't disinterest he sees in Felix's eyes, and so instead those taunts spark something hot within him, a shiver coursing through him in their wake.
The sound he makes is practically a whine, and his ear twitches at the attention as he resists the temptation of leaning into the hand in his hair. He just needs to focus on those fingers for the time being, so that's what he does: he eases forward to take more past his lips, tongue pressed flat against them as he pulls back only to lean right back in, because even distracted as he is, nails biting the faintest crescents into his palms... this is still a game for two? He's willing to play by Felix's rules, but he's also going to do his damnedest to give Felix exactly what he wants--because as luck would have it, that's the fastest route to getting exactly what he wants, too.
[The whine... is good. The whine is great, really, and as Felix watches Sylvain's head bob forward, he's suddenly determined to draw forth more of that. How many noises can he coax out of this man? How many sentences can he push him to start, just so he can watch them stutter to a stop, hear them give way to a moan?
Well! You know. It's the smallest possible things, surprisingly enough.]
Better.
[But not great, that implies—and he drives this unspoken point home by abruptly slipping his fingers even farther back, pressing them down against the smooth surface of Sylvain's tongue as he watches Sylvain's reflexes kick in? As he feels Sylvain's reflexes kick in, the back of Sylvain's throat clenching up as Felix applies just a bit more pressure. Sylvain's gag reflex is a thing he's all but tamed, through what Felix believes to be years and years and years of practice; it's a thing that normally annoys and arouses Felix in equal measure, and now he's pushing it to its very limit, enjoying the way those bright brown eyes turn watery. Lovely.
They are not, however, lovely enough for Felix to consider causing Sylvain anything more than mild discomfort? It's why Felix pulls his fingers free just as abruptly as he'd pushed them back, relishing the wet pop he hears almost as much as seeing Sylvain trying to hold himself together. Dangerous stuff! Doubly so, when that hand scratching at one of those bunny ears grabs it, sharply tugs Sylvain's head back so that he's looking right up at Felix's flushed, smirking face.]
You look good like this. [A tease, of sorts, all while Felix rudely draws those spit-slick fingers across a cheek.] Maybe I'll keep you here? On your knees.
[He could. It wouldn't be bad—but as Felix continues studying Sylvain's upturned face in an almost wolfish fashion, he waits and wonders if this is all it will take to make Sylvain beg for more. A decent enough start...]
Better, he says, which Later Sylvain will likely recognize as the last remaining point he held any fragment of control over the situation; Now Sylvain, however, lets that potential for praise get the best of him, too distracted in the split second it takes for Felix to take matters into his own hands to recognize the implication involved. So it's... unexpected, of course!! Both the decision to act, as well as the action itself, and it's only those years of practice that keep him from trying to jerk away, or choking against the sudden intrusion outright.
Years of practice, and the unwavering trust that Felix won't, like, actually do anything genuinely harmful... Even as his pulse leaps into a frantic, startled pace and he has to blink his vision clear of the involuntary tears springing to the corners of his eyes (and also despite the troublesome flash of heat that accompanies the far-off realization that, if Felix really wanted to, he probably could still choke him like this, and you know, isn't that a thought...) Sylvain doesn't even think to question whether that pressure will ease up in time.
It's all just a little... ah, dizzying, if he's honest. Exciting in ways that are as familiar as they are unfamiliar, recognizable in some dimly lit corner of his imagination and yet new and exciting and unexplored all at once--and with the current moon cycle in full effect, absolutely everything is amplified by ten?? It's all he can do to try and collect himself in the seconds before he's pulled from his momentary daze, that tug earning a quick gasp of something probably about as breathless as it is blasphemous.
"Goddess," Sylvain mutters, and unlike Felix, he can't resist letting one hand drift to the front of his own pants to offer himself just, like, the tiniest bit of relief... He can't touch Felix, and it's not nearly as satisfying a feeling as it could be, but it feels like he's already been waiting so, so, so long. And sure, it's still enough that he has to bite back a quiet moan, eyes screwing themselves shut for a beat before he blinks back into some sort of focus, but that's at least 60% from the way his mind decides to run with Felix's suggestion anyway...
He has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak again, but once he does, what he winds up asking is, "When did you become such a tease...?"
...Which sounds more like it SHOULD be phrased as, 'stop teasing me, Felix, please, I'm dying', but here on the floor of this kitchen, we ask the real questions.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Remember when you asked if we were furries? 🤡
Even when he's been granted some reprieve, need tempered into a more manageable want only slightly stronger than the kind he's had years of practice both pretending at and denying in turn, he still finds himself drawn to Felix in increasingly obvious ways--especially so lately, now that he's allowed the liberties of not just a friend, but also those of a lover. It... doesn't exactly make things easier? Not when he still has to go through it all in the first place, but at least it means he doesn't have to feel
(quite as)selfish when he asks Felix to lay with him for the evening! Or when he spends half of it with his face buried in Felix's hair... Or against his throat... Or close enough to Felix's own that every second he doesn't spend closing the distance leaves a real, physical ache in his chest.Listen. He's already a needy shit at the best of times. Iris' influence just means he can't resist being a needy shit at all.
Like... oh, now, for example! Wherever Felix is, whatever he's doing, hi! Hello. He should stop that, because Sylvain is going to very suddenly invade his personal space as thoroughly as he can given the lack of warning. Can he get away with wrapping his arms around his waist? He's wrapping his arms around his waist, somehow or another. Please pay attention to him.
"Come to bed," he murmurs, although a part of him is distantly aware that he has no idea what time it actually is, or when the last time was that he even thought to check, only that he's spent the past Too Long wanting him, and he's had nothing but his own wandering thoughts for company. He'd much rather have Felix himself, warm and solid against him, even if it sparks the heat under his skin to a near unbearable degree. "I can't stop thinking about you."
TL;DR: Him horny. He's lucky Felix loves him anyway.
don't you fuckin dare... it's only the ears! the EARS!!!
...Knowing that, however, doesn't make being grabbed from behind any better! Especially not when Felix is doing something as innocuous as standing in front of the kitchen sink and filling a cup with water. Like, is it any wonder he instinctively stiffens, wholly unprepared for this unexpected contact? Let a man stay hydrated in peace, Sylvain. God damn.
But it isn't as though Felix wasn't expecting something like this, given that it's That time of the month. He'd known what he was in for the moment he saw those stupid ears atop Sylvain's head—so he resists the very real urge to jam an elbow right back into Sylvain's stomach, choosing instead to focus on the warm puffs of breath near his ear.]
I'm not what you're thinking about.
[By which he means the focus isn't, ah, entirely on him, ya HUSSY! But while he isn't necessarily opposed to wasting the afternoon with his favorite person, it's the principle of the matter? Something, something, he isn't at Sylvain's beck and call (even though he absolutely is), so he wills himself to relax, to reach forward to turn the faucet on. Look at him, continuing to fill this glass like there isn't an incredibly attractive individual nuzzling against his neck... he's soooooo above it all, hence his oh-so casual:]
You can wait.
[He's a different kind of thirsty, you see. Deal with it.]
Mmhm, suuuuure... that's what they all say
"Felix..."
It's... a warning? A protest? A placeholder, in the sense that there are really just too many things he wants to say here, his usual talent for weaving his thoughts into carefully crafted words failing him now that his one, functional braincell has not just left the building, but torched the place on its way out. It's a lot of things, all packed neatly into a sound that's half a sigh and half a whine, but primarily--because Sylvain knows that, of anyone, Felix has always been a little too good at seeing through him--it's just a simpler way to get all of them across at once.
He can wait, he says... Damn. Sylvain can't help but think that there's something decidedly unfair about the way that unaffected tone only makes him that much more desirable.
"You're all I can think about," he corrects him, insistent even as his hands trail perhaps a little too boldly downward. If it takes some (or more than just some) conscious effort to redirect them to his hips instead, the only hint Felix will get is one slow, steadying breath as Sylvain turns to duck his head against the side of his. "If you come with me..."
He trails off, both as a suggestion, and because he's apparently more interested in pressing more kisses along whatever skin he can reach, but the implication that he'll be all too happy to prove where his thoughts have been this whole time is definitely right there.
can't believe i have to kill you? sad
As is the man standing behind him, apparently determined to drive him to distraction, but here's the thing: Felix is nothing if not stubborn? Felix is fiercely determined to win, even when, as those light kisses trailing down his jaw remind him, there's no real way to lose. He could sink back against Sylvain, could put up a bit of (token) resistance before allowing him to do as he pleases and take what he needs, and it would be very, very good—and yet it could be better, Felix thinks. Maybe.
...Maybe. It's something to consider, at least, hence his quiet hum as he carefully brings the glass of water to his lips. He can't take a sip, thanks to Sylvain's, ah, attentiveness, but that's fine; the glass is more for the drama of it all than anything else, because current attitude aside, he's in no hurry to shove Sylvain away.]
If, [he repeats, voice calm, measured, even though his breathing has obviously quickened.] I'm hardly convinced.
[And that's cruel enough—except it isn't? Not by a long shot. Hearing the smoothest talker he knows obviously struggle to string together a sentence is oddly thrilling; it's reminiscent of, oh, steering a sparring opponent into a corner, watching them realize that their chances of coming out on top are rapidly dwindling with each step they take. Hmm, hmm, hmm. The type of thing Felix lives for, which is perhaps why, when he speaks up once more, there's a clear, almost cocky undercurrent to his voice. Who's in control...]
You can do better than that, Sylvain. Keep talking.
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...And then he's lucky to have half a mind at all, because Felix... keeps talking! And Sylvain always listens, of course--always loves whatever words and sounds he can coax out of him, in moments like these especially--but this time, that unexpected tone makes his breath catch sharp in his throat, and even as uncomfortably warm as he is, he can't help the shiver that runs through him at the sound of his name.
...Aha. Well. Give him half a second while he tries to, like, gather all these newly scattered thoughts, but:
"Let me show you," he tries, a too-quiet offer and request all in one. Let him just... try to guide Felix's arm out of the way?? Specifically so he can then try and turn his face up towards him, because he is absolutely certain he will die if he doesn't kiss him, like, right now. "Felix, I'll show you, just--"
Just kiss him?? Touch him?? Look at him, properly, please, he's suffering.
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And there's power in this, as evidenced by the sort of pride that wells up within Felix as Sylvain once again struggles to verbalize a complete thought. To think that it's all because of him! ...Or, well. Mostly because of him; like, he's well aware that the Iris moon is doing its fair share here, driving Sylvain to slip a finger beneath his chin and tilt his head back for what is presumably a kiss. He wouldn't necessarily mind one...
...But? But. While Felix does, in fact, lower his arm, he only allows Sylvain to tilt his head far enough back for their eyes to meet—and for Sylvain to see a sliver of what is clearly a smirk, because ah, ah, ah.]
You're not listening. [That cockiness is still there, but now there's a trace of, ah, something else? A hint of steel, just to let Sylvain know he's being perfectly serious here.] Tell me what you want.
[A clear order, because while it's been about what Sylvain can do up until this point—hmm. Well. Felix wonders, vaguely, what it would be like to hear Sylvain ask him nicely for this thing he obviously wants? To hear him say please. It's a good thought, really, which is why Felix sets his glass on the counter and—without ever breaking eye contact—reaches up to wrap his fingers around Sylvain's wrist.]
And ask before you touch.
[Because he'll be pulling that hand away from his face now, thank you—and watching intently to catch Sylvain's reaction. How mean does he have to be? He doesn't know. He's figuring this out as he goes, and damn, but isn't it exciting.]
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The moon's gotta be in on it too, given how quickly his frustration threatens to give way to desperation instead, a protest already forming in his throat. Sure, he could steal the kiss he craves so badly... he could finish closing the distance himself, or force Felix to turn around. If he was feeling especially bold (or just really had a death wish), he could scoop Felix up altogether and simply demand the attention he's being denied for himself. But something--that tone, those eyes on him, their suggestion that he's more aware of him than he's letting on after all--keeps him more or less startled still, a flicker of surprise evident in the way his eyes widen in response and a quick, unconscious twitch of an ear.
Part of him wants to laugh, really, because he probably should've seen this coming? He's seen Felix spar enough times to know how he gets when he's backed an opponent into a corner. It's that sort of smug satisfaction of a fight well-fought, a smirk dangerously similar to the one he wears when Sylvain agrees to take things seriously and still winds up with his back to the dirt, and--oh, but that's the wrong train of thought, isn't it? That's a dangerous train of thought, he realizes, a split second too late to do a damn thing about it except think of how much he wants--
"You..." Over him, all heated skin and panted breaths, confidence written in the curve of his lips and the tilt of his chin--and if Sylvain's breathing quickens, a faint flush rising at the thought, he's too well-distracted to notice. "I want you, please..."
Admittedly vague with how unfocused he is, but thank goodness he hasn't retained even an ounce of pride to make him think twice about begging. Still, he can't help the way he crowds in a step closer, the fingers still at Felix's hip pressing just a bit tighter, because listen. He's already not kissing him?? He's really struggling here, alright, so not being allowed to touch him in general sounds like a terrible rule! He's breaking it immediately.
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—and Felix is once again reminded of the power that's been, ah, entrusted to him, because as intoxicating as all of this is, he's well aware of the many ways Sylvain could hurry things along. He takes the lead more often than not, after all, controlling the pace even as he takes Felix's (often unspoken) wants into consideration, but—hmm. Now he's allowing Felix to set the pace? ...Somewhat poorly, it's true, and yet he's still making an attempt to listen, to hold himself back; like, desperation aside, that just isn't something he would do if he wasn't enjoying himself, to some degree. He likes this.
...Ah.
Felix's fingers are still wrapped around Sylvain's wrist, and it's easy, really, for Felix to push that arm back, to send Sylvain slightly off-kilter while simultaneously twisting around to face him. It's the same type of move he would use in close-quarters combat, all to put some space back between himself and his opponent, but there's no need for much space here; he merely remains where he is for a moment, eyes narrow as he takes this opportunity to study Sylvain's flushed face. A good enough angle, he supposes, but... it could be better...]
What did I tell you?
[It's a rhetorical question? One he obviously doesn't want an answer to, given the way he brings his free hand up to Sylvain's shoulder, pushing down at the same time he gives that captive arm a sharp tug.]
Down.
[On his knees, clearly. In... the kitchen. But they'll move SOON, don't WORRY, this is not Lalli/Hans 2.0!]
Yes I'm using the same icon twice and you can't stop me
One moment he's appreciating the look on Felix's face, wondering if he might get away with leaning in to cover those parted lips with his own; the next, he's yelping in surprise as he stumbles back a step. That hold on his wrist keeps him close, keeps him at least marginally steady, but before his discontent with the short distance added between them can form itself into words, Felix is reaching for him. He reaches up, tells him down...
...And Sylvain, caught wholly off guard for the second or possibly third time in such a short span, only realizes he's sunk to the floor when he finds himself blinking up at Felix one dizzying moment later. This... could be fine? This could be good, he thinks, and it already is, but for all he can feel his pulse racing at the unexpected turn this has taken... hmm. His lips are still slightly parted in a silent oh when he lifts his free hand up, fingers folding gently over the ones at his shoulder with an uncharacteristic sort of uncertainty. Yes, he was told to ask first, but let him just... subtly turn his head towards that hand? To check that this is fine, in a way, or at least to encourage him to continue taking the lead, because at this point, Sylvain's not sure he'd know what to do with it if he gave it back.
use it for the rest of the thread for all i care!!
But that is that—and this is this, which is why he promptly pulls his hand from beneath Sylvain's? Why he grabs Sylvain's chin and swivels his head forward, tilts his head back, firmly holds him in place as he appreciates this different angle from which to study this familiar face. He's spent years watching Sylvain from afar, taking in every flicker of emotion with something akin to greed; perhaps that's why it sometimes feels as if he knows Sylvain's face better than he knows his own, but there's something new, he thinks, about this. Sylvain is heart-wrenchingly beautiful like this, practically begging to be touched, and Felix finally releases his hold on Sylvain's arm just so he can oh-so lightly smooth his fingers over a cheekbone.]
Sylvain—
[Ah, but his voice is so much breathier than it should be? He takes a second to swallow, watching his fingers slide down the curve of a cheek before coming to a stop at the very corner of Sylvain's still-parted mouth. He wants to—but no. Not yet. He settles, instead, for sweeping the tip of his pointer finger over Sylvain's bottom lip, which is far softer than it has any right to be.]
Touch me again and I won't touch you, [he manages, voice starting low and progressively working its way to what is practically a purr. Of course he's still smug; how can he not be, when Sylvain is on his knees because of him?] I'll leave you here. Alone. Understand?
[Would he really? ...Maybe. Probably, given his stubborn nature, but it would certainly hurt.]
I'll never use any other icon ever again, don't try me
He's already gotten so used to being able to touch Felix whenever he likes?? It's practically second nature by now, that selfish desire to remove whatever distance comes between them; he's always been looking for excuses, probably, since before he was allowed anything more intimate than hanging over his shoulders. So, when that hand against his cheek drags like sparks against his skin, it's damn near painful not to try leaning into it--especially when the sound of his name like that paired with such a gentle touch leaves him aching for more, more, more...
And normally, this would be the part where Sylvain grins, and probably laughs something about how Felix doesn't mean it! How he can tell he wants this, too, because he'd know that if Felix tried to walk away after all, all he'd have to do is wrap him up in his arms and kiss him until he felt convinced enough to stay. Instead, the thought of Felix leaving him like this somehow manages to feel like it might just be the worst thing to happen to him, ever, in his entire life... or at least, the worst thing he can imagine in this exact moment, anyway. So the threat of Felix leaving becomes nothing less than what it is: a threat, and one he could quite easily make good on at that.
"Right," he breathes, less of a word and more of an uneven exhale against that one, distracting finger. He eases his newly freed hand down, bringing both loosely to his sides with his palms facing forward, as if to prove that he's listening. He can behave, if this is what Felix wants from him? If this is what it takes to get Felix's hands on him... "...Got it."
So please...? Please...
i double dog dare you
And as Felix tracks Sylvain's hands as they drop down to his sides, said system is (temporarily) forgotten, lost beneath a sudden wave of want. The sheer want of Sylvain, of course. The almost desperate desire to drift downward and touch every available inch of him, kitchen floor be damned, but—hmm. There's also the distinct want to see just how far he can take this... game of theirs. Can they both win...]
Do you?
[It's easier, now, to keep that purr in his voice? To feel comfortably in control while noting how still, how patiently, Sylvain is sitting, even though he's obviously wound tight, tight, tight. Felix could kiss him, really. Add that to his list of wants, even as he cants his head to the side, humming thoughtfully yet again.]
Do you want this? [With "this" being, of course, the current state of things, the as-of-yet-unspoken things Felix is still piecing together—which is why he settles for bringing another finger to Sylvain's lip, calloused fingertips slowly tracing the shape of it.] Prove it.
[In typical Felix fashion, aka through action as opposed to words. It's why he presses both fingertips against the seam of Sylvain's lips, applying slight pressure—but not enough to force his fingers between them? The expectation, however, is clear, both in the way he loosens his grip on Sylvain's chin and in the way his eyes hungrily flick down to Sylvain's mouth.]
Alas, I am weak and cannot rise to this challenge
...Well. Sylvain has never wanted Felix to stop looking at him before. He sure as hell isn't about to start now. Especially not when he can see a hunger similar to his own reflected back down at him, and he has to swallow back a thoughtless response of yes, he wants this, and him, and more--which are all things Felix surely knows already, and yet, still, he asks him to prove it!
And you know? He'd be more hurt (rather, he'd at least act like he was) if he didn't find, somewhere between the instruction and the subtle hint of pressure at his lips, that he wants to prove himself, too.
It probably says something about him, that with or without Iris' influence, he's happier bruising his knees on the kitchen floor for a couple of fingers than he's ever been going out to fall into the bed of some pretty thing offering so much more, so much faster... It probably says a lot, actually? Sylvain can't really bring himself to care as he wets his lips, letting his tongue slip beneath the tips of Felix's fingers so he can take them carefully into his mouth while he tries to catch the other's eyes, searching for some sort of approval there before he dares to lean in further.
you're just a COWARD
But it's something, alright. Sylvain's tongue touches the tips of his fingers, soft and slick and warm, and what should be objectively disgusting sends heat climbing up to the very tips of his ears. Maybe it's the sight of Sylvain on his knees that makes this all so much more, ah, intense? The way Sylvain is looking up at him, brown eyes somehow so bright in the dim light of the kitchen? Goddess. It's all simultaneously too much and not enough, which is why he finally releases his hold on Sylvain's chin, resisting the urge to palm himself as he takes in this sight. It would be good—but waiting will make it better.
And besides, there's something to be said for bringing that newly freed hand up to rest atop Sylvain's head? Just so he can push past all of that messy, messy hair and oh-so lightly scratch at the base of one sensitive ear.]
That's all? [he taunts, unable to resist sliding his fingers a scant half an inch forward.] Pathetic.
[He wants Sylvain to do the work here, hence the goading; he wants Sylvain to earn this, but patience has never been his strong suit.]
I'm a slow coward, it's true
The sound he makes is practically a whine, and his ear twitches at the attention as he resists the temptation of leaning into the hand in his hair. He just needs to focus on those fingers for the time being, so that's what he does: he eases forward to take more past his lips, tongue pressed flat against them as he pulls back only to lean right back in, because even distracted as he is, nails biting the faintest crescents into his palms... this is still a game for two? He's willing to play by Felix's rules, but he's also going to do his damnedest to give Felix exactly what he wants--because as luck would have it, that's the fastest route to getting exactly what he wants, too.
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Well! You know. It's the smallest possible things, surprisingly enough.]
Better.
[But not great, that implies—and he drives this unspoken point home by abruptly slipping his fingers even farther back, pressing them down against the smooth surface of Sylvain's tongue as he watches Sylvain's reflexes kick in? As he feels Sylvain's reflexes kick in, the back of Sylvain's throat clenching up as Felix applies just a bit more pressure. Sylvain's gag reflex is a thing he's all but tamed, through what Felix believes to be years and years and years of practice; it's a thing that normally annoys and arouses Felix in equal measure, and now he's pushing it to its very limit, enjoying the way those bright brown eyes turn watery. Lovely.
They are not, however, lovely enough for Felix to consider causing Sylvain anything more than mild discomfort? It's why Felix pulls his fingers free just as abruptly as he'd pushed them back, relishing the wet pop he hears almost as much as seeing Sylvain trying to hold himself together. Dangerous stuff! Doubly so, when that hand scratching at one of those bunny ears grabs it, sharply tugs Sylvain's head back so that he's looking right up at Felix's flushed, smirking face.]
You look good like this. [A tease, of sorts, all while Felix rudely draws those spit-slick fingers across a cheek.] Maybe I'll keep you here? On your knees.
[He could. It wouldn't be bad—but as Felix continues studying Sylvain's upturned face in an almost wolfish fashion, he waits and wonders if this is all it will take to make Sylvain beg for more. A decent enough start...]
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Years of practice, and the unwavering trust that Felix won't, like, actually do anything genuinely harmful... Even as his pulse leaps into a frantic, startled pace and he has to blink his vision clear of the involuntary tears springing to the corners of his eyes (and also despite the troublesome flash of heat that accompanies the far-off realization that, if Felix really wanted to, he probably could still choke him like this, and you know, isn't that a thought...) Sylvain doesn't even think to question whether that pressure will ease up in time.
It's all just a little... ah, dizzying, if he's honest. Exciting in ways that are as familiar as they are unfamiliar, recognizable in some dimly lit corner of his imagination and yet new and exciting and unexplored all at once--and with the current moon cycle in full effect, absolutely everything is amplified by ten?? It's all he can do to try and collect himself in the seconds before he's pulled from his momentary daze, that tug earning a quick gasp of something probably about as breathless as it is blasphemous.
"Goddess," Sylvain mutters, and unlike Felix, he can't resist letting one hand drift to the front of his own pants to offer himself just, like, the tiniest bit of relief... He can't touch Felix, and it's not nearly as satisfying a feeling as it could be, but it feels like he's already been waiting so, so, so long. And sure, it's still enough that he has to bite back a quiet moan, eyes screwing themselves shut for a beat before he blinks back into some sort of focus, but that's at least 60% from the way his mind decides to run with Felix's suggestion anyway...
He has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak again, but once he does, what he winds up asking is, "When did you become such a tease...?"
...Which sounds more like it SHOULD be phrased as, 'stop teasing me, Felix, please, I'm dying', but here on the floor of this kitchen, we ask the real questions.