[Any attention is, at this point in time, better than no attention at all, but the pace Sylvain is setting here! The tempo! Felix's fingers tighten in Sylvain's hair, choking back a frustrated noise as he resists the urge to tuck his too-warm face in the crook of Sylvain's neck, to curl into Sylvain as best he can, given their current positions. More contact would be good, yes, but it wouldn't help. If Sylvain really is planning to keep this up...
...But of course he isn't, Felix hazily reminds himself, remembering just how hard Sylvain felt pressed against his palm. He can't—and even if he wants to try, well? There's a quiet noise that may or may not be a hiss, then, before Felix pulls his hands free and does the unthinkable: leans back.
Not, like, very far? He is, after all, only human, but he ensures there's enough space between them for him to study Sylvain through narrowed eyes. A hint of amber. A trace of something... satisfied, even as he asks:]
Here?
[He's aiming for incredulous; he lands somewhere a bit more, ah, out of breath, which is made all the more obvious by the way his eyes dart to something just over Sylvain's shoulder, throat bobbing as he swallows. Here is not ideal—but it would be a lie to say that here is not exciting, in a way? And besides: Felix has a secret. Not an earth-shattering one, and yet that trace of satisfaction seems to swell as he places his hands on the desk behind him and leans back that much farther. Hmm, hmm, hmm.]
...Fine. [And if Sylvain is surprised to hear this word come out of Felix's mouth, Felix thinks nothing of it; he merely lifts his chin in what is almost an imperious fashion, ignoring his own jagged breathing as he does his best to briskly add:] Fourth shelf down, then. Behind the books— before you get too distracted.
[This is not a request, even though Sylvain has his dick in hand; this is an order, and he will a) keep this sharp Look up and b) refuse to answer any questions until Sylvain just does what he's told. Fourth shelf down on the bookshelf behind him, hidden by the many books focusing on Faerghus and its royal line, Sylvain will find... a good-sized bottle of oil. Or is that just a fanfic trope? Did they call it lube back then? I don't know. It's 2am and we're working with what we have here, which is astonishingly little.
Anyway: Felix will make a very impatient noise if Sylvain takes more than thirty seconds to accomplish this task, so damn, hurry it up. He’s already kicked his boots off; by the time Sylvain turns back around, he may or may not be working on sliding his pants down, too. Efficiency™.]
Here, yes--confirmed with a thoughtless hum as Sylvain makes some unconscious attempt to chase after Felix, leaning onto his free hand against the desk when even this little distance added between them seems like it's too much. It'll take him a moment longer to catch onto anything unusual, because Felix being distracted is fairly excusable, he thinks. But he's also still putting space between them--and really, it isn't that far, it's just the principle of the thing--and he'd fuss more over that if he weren't suddenly more concerned with the fact that Felix is... saying something that he assumes... is supposed to mean something? It sounds like he's giving him directions, but like, he still just sort of. Stops for a second? Just to try and make sense of what he's directing him for (the bookshelf is definitely not where he wants to be, Felix) before that Look pushes him to glance dubiously over his shoulder as well.
Decisions, decisions--! Except it's not really a decision at all, not when Felix looks at him like that and Sylvain finds himself stepping reluctantly away before he can even put voice to his question of what it is, exactly, that he's looking for. It's a small enough space that he should be able to figure it out? Like, what could a guy possibly have hidden behind some books that's so important...
Then he happens to actually spot the bottle, which... is pretty important, so like, alright? Fair. But the implication that Felix has apparently put some thought into this certainly isn't lost on Sylvain. Like, he has to laugh a little, short and quietly incredulous, even if it does shake an unsteady curse from him in practically the same breath, because... well, Felix has apparently put some thought into this? If the bottom of the bottle catches against the corner of one volume, he's too thoroughly distracted by the sudden, sharp rush of heat that particular train of thought provides, and then the sight behind him once he turns back around, to notice if it hits the floor.
"This?"
He lifts the bottle as he crosses the short distance again, and he isn't seeking confirmation as much as he is just... bringing attention to it? It's the same reason he doesn't set it down when he's close enough to slip that hand around to the small of Felix's back.
"This," he repeats, the press of the bottle against his skin as accusatory as his tone as he leans back in, "is unfair. Are you serious...?" Not that that means he's gonna complain, obviously, seeing how he's ducking down to mouth at Felix's collar before he even finishes the statement, his other hand nudging impatiently at one knee. When did he even do this?? But--ah. Actually, this is far from the least convenient place they've ever chosen... "How many did you hide?"
[Felix's sense of humor is often a strange, sardonic thing, and yet there's no denying it: watching Sylvain put two and two together is funny. Not funny enough to make him laugh, perhaps, but as Sylvain approaches, Felix tilts his head back to lock eyes with him, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. It isn't often he manages to pull one over on Sylvain, who always seems to be a step or so ahead of him. He deserves to feel smug.
The cold bottle pressing against his back, however, is something he isn't quite sure he does deserve? Damn? He instinctively stiffens, breath catching in his throat well before he feels Sylvain's oh-so warm breath ghost across his skin—but that smugness is still there. He still feels like he's won, somehow, and so he presses forward as much as he's able, tilting his head down toward Sylvain's as he blindly brings both hands to rest against his stomach. So warm, he thinks, sliding his hands down to the waistband of Sylvain's pants. Always so warm—but practically burning, now, and Felix hums appreciatively, nimble fingers unfastening and unlacing as he does his best to listen. How many...]
Enough. [A beat, then, as Felix works Sylvain's pants down, pointedly ignoring the nudge to his knee, before he adds:] How long are you planning to stay?
[And there is a clear, almost teasing quality to his voice? A challenge. Find them if you can, Sylvain—and Felix drives this idea home by lightly, lazily, dragging his fingers up the length of him. Now he's just out to be obnoxious.]
A smug Felix is an especially attractive Felix, in Sylvain's professional opinion. There's something about the lilt of his words and the pitch of his voice that so effortlessly knocks any and all sense from his head--especially in moments like this, when those hands are on him and his blood is on fire and the whole damn would could fall away around them before he'd ever think to pull away.
There's something about this particular Smug Felix, however, that's out to absolutely destroy him.
"Fuck..." Said softly, but with Feeling on an especially shaky exhale against the column of his throat before Felix even has his pants down. And then: "Fuck," marginally louder this time, because he isn't sure what kind of answer he expected, but he is so into it? It's kind of embarrassing.
...Or at least it would be, if this weren't Sylvain. Instead, he doesn't bother not trying to get more from the contact, instinctively thrusting into that hand while one of his own reaches back between them, as if giving Felix a few more purposeful strokes of his own might encourage him to return the favor. At the same time, he pulls away from the other man's neck so he can kiss him, careless in its urgency and rougher than the ones they'd shared before, made all the more uncoordinated by the way he speaks in all the spaces between.
"However long you want me, babe," he promises, breathless, and his last brain cell is spent on making sure the oil is set on the desk properly before that hand makes a grab for Felix's hip--and then misses, apparently, because his hand somehow finds its way lower, and also behind him, how did that happen? Bizarre. "Until you show me every one, goddess, Felix--"
Because surely Gautier territory can function without him long enough for them to go through every room in the Fraldarius family home... surely the world can be put on standstill long enough for this completely reasonable plan.
[As disciplined, as controlled, as Felix is, expecting him to properly return any sort of favor at this point is foolish. The stupid, mindless things Sylvain says, pumping one hand even as Felix feels the other slip down, smoothing over the curve of his ass—it's all very distracting, you know? So much to take in at once.
But Goddess, if it isn't good to know that he's pushing Sylvain right to the edge. That, in truth, is how Felix likes him best: a little desperate, a little wild. Throwing himself into this with as much reckless abandon as he used to throw himself into battle, and isn't that why Felix takes such satisfaction from moments like these? This is Sylvain wanting to live as badly as he once wanted to die.
And so Felix, against all odds, huffs the quietest of laughs against Sylvain's lips, bringing both arms up to loosely loop about his neck. He can barely think; he's flushed and he's panting and he's so, so hard, but above all else? He's pleased.]
Show you? [he asks, pressing forward for another kiss that's as gentle as Sylvain's was rough. It's the contrast. The tease.] Find them.
[He's not allowed to leave until he finds, like, a solid three-fourths of them, but that's something Felix can dangle over his head another time; for now, he locks his hands behind Sylvain's neck and slowly leans back, attempting to pull Sylvain with him.]
Unless your time in the north has made you lazy. [Hmm.] Lazier.
[Not that diplomatic missions are anything to sneeze at? Sreng is an unforgiving land, Felix knows; Sylvain has a long, long way to go with that bunch, but it's something to say as they settle into place, Felix's back pressing against the cold, unforgiving surface of the desk. Not as comfortable as a bed, but as he wiggles closer to the bottom edge, that will, ah, cease to matter soon enough. Once Sylvain is more action, less talk.]
Their staff combined will be lucky if Sylvain leaves before he finds all of them, but then, he knows he can't stay for even half the eternity he wishes he could. They have their respective territories to run--and yes, Sreng is... hm. It's... a project? Like, he knows he's lucky to have progressed at all to begin with, but it's still undeniably a work in progress.
It's also the absolute last thing on his mind at the moment, because as important as all that is, is there anything, in this world or the next, that could ever be more important than Felix? He offers no resistance as he follows him down, chasing that challenge--that dare, and really, is it such a surprise that Felix would turn this into a competition of some sort?--as he helps to ease him back as best he can given where they're at.
"Maybe." Simple, short, and said as if it really is a possibility to consider--and in a sense, perhaps it even could be! Using words in place of bloodshed to rebuild an entire country's trust has been much more difficult than breaking it had ever been, but even when tensions run high, it's still a much calmer daily life than charging into battle after battle after battle. He hasn't retired his lance, of course--and has no current intentions of it, not as long as there are still people he needs to protect--but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't ever wished for the chance to well and truly settle down.
Plus, there's something to be said of the way Felix had kissed him, because it is dangerously easy to lose himself in, and around, and against him... The hand between them had slowed to a stop as they moved and has since traveled with the other to actually settle at the other man's hips, like, For Real this time, so he can help Felix out by more or less just... tugging him where he needs to be, all at once? He's impatient, okay--and so he wastes no time before he's smoothing his hands down and between Felix's thighs, reluctantly pushing away just long enough to relocate the bottle sitting near the edge.
He reaches down when he leans back in, one arm trapped between them as his hand ghosts over Felix's cock--and then, past it--to slide his fingers farther still, newly slicked with oil.
"Guess I'll make you want to show me," he murmurs, voice low and full of promise as his fingertips slip down, at first only to tease while he steals one more drawn-out kiss; once he feels he's able, he'll press his middle finger in, slow, but insistent, and careful, ever so careful, not to treat him too gently or cause any discomfort, because Felix isn't made of porcelain? But also, let's maybe not be Those Writers, either.
[That Duke Fraldarius, other nobles whisper. So cold, so proud. And it's true, isn't it? Felix is quick to scowl but slow to smile; he holds himself tight in the presence of others, his back straight, his chin high, because he's as carefully controlled in his day-to-day life as he is in a spar. He's disciplined.
But discipline means nothing when Sylvain grabs his hips and moves him so, so easily? Control flies right out the window as Sylvain leans back in for a kiss, hand wandering down, down, down—and really, all it takes is the briefest brush to send him tilting his head back, mouth falling open on a sigh as he digs his nails into Sylvain's shoulders and demands more. It doesn't matter that there's a proper way to go about things; he's been waiting for moons, and while there have been desperate nights he's slipped fingers into himself and thought of nothing but Sylvain, it's not the same, never the same. He wants—
—ah. This. The feeling of Sylvain within him is what he wants above all else, and so the cold, proud Duke Fraldarius does what would be unthinkable to some but should be so familiar to one: he whimpers. He squints his eyes closed and narrows his focus to that one point, amazed, as ever, that even a single finger—Sylvain's, though, thicker than his own—can threaten to undo him so completely. Maybe he should be, ah, embarrassed about such a thing—but as the burn slowly subsides, he lifts a hand from Sylvain's shoulder, tangles his fingers in all of that gloriously messy red hair.]
Sylvain—
[So impatient as to be whiny, because more, he can do more, give him more? But as communicating that is beyond him, he settles for jerking his hips upward, taking him in deeper as he seeks more movement, more fingers. Anything.]
This icon is called 'I don't have any suitable icons for this, sue me'
As far as Sylvain's concerned? The opinion of those nobles--the same as those who probably believe Sylvain's offering himself as part of the peace treaty--doesn't matter in the least. They can continue to believe that Felix is made of sharp edges and cutting words, because they'll never see him like this: flushed, and hot, and so, so beautiful as he comes apart under Sylvain's touch as easily as those soft, early-morning tangles he loves to comb through.
Felix sighs, and Sylvain doesn't hesitate to drop his lips to his throat; Felix's nails drag a shiver out of him as he leaves a trail of absent-minded kisses along the skin there, attention very obviously focused elsewhere. But as he sinks that finger into him, the rest curled lightly against his palm, it's that whimper that earns a quiet moan; it's muffled to more of a hum when Sylvain presses his lips more firmly to the crook of Felix's neck, as if the simple action had done just as much for the both of them.
"I'm here, baby," he says, and, "I know," just thoughtless, breathless little things to mumble as he shifts to hover over him instead--because as much as Felix doesn't like to be stared at, there's never going to be a time where seeing him like this after so, so long doesn't knock the breath out of Sylvain in all of one, unsteady exhale.
Especially when Felix disrupts his attempt at building a slow rhythm with his hand in favor of demanding more... The movement has him rocking forward as well, chasing after what friction he can get at this angle without like, banging a knee against the desk or something. But you know? Since Felix is apparently just as impatient as he is, he'll keep at just that one finger for a moment more, maintaining a steady sort of push and pull before he works in his pointer as well, in the same way as the first.
"Felix," he sighs, "just look at you..." He clearly expects Felix to do no such thing, but listen? He doesn't need to make sense. He's very distracted.
when are you going to make fanart icons... taps watch
[There are times when Felix is very much aware of the effect he has on Sylvain? Moments when he'll purposely allow his hair to slide loose from its tie, when he'll catch Sylvain's eyes and smirk—but this is a different, dimmer sort of awareness. He feels the weight of Sylvain's gaze and he shifts, tugging lightly at Sylvain's hair in a weak attempt to direct his attention elsewhere. It's not... bad, like this. Awkward, but not terribly so, because of all the people in the world, only Sylvain can get away with openly, hungrily staring at him.
And it's all easy enough to forget, when a second finger joins the first. Or, well: It's easy enough to focus on other, more pressing things, like the sensation of being slowly but surely stretched. Uncomfortable, at first, but once again that fades, gives way to a mellowness that elicits a quiet hum of what is almost, but not quite, contentment. This is nothing compared to what he wants, but it's better than what he just had—and with Sylvain whispering stupid, stupid things...
...Hmm. The world is soft! Deliciously fuzzy at the edges, and Felix rolls his hips in time with the pace Sylvain is setting, still craving more but, ah, somewhat aware that the best way to get what he wants is to give something in return. Sylvain wants to watch? Sylvain wants to look at what he's doing to him? Fine. Felix pulls free of Sylvain's hair, clumsily brushing his fingertips down Sylvain's cheek before he brings his hand to his own stomach, wraps his fingers around his own cock. It's been neglected for far too long; even the feeling of his own touch is enough to make him gasp, send him shuddering as he sets a tortuously slow pace of his own. He's desperate, he's needy, but he's waiting for what's hopefully just around the corner. He can be... patient-ish. Maybe.
Maybe. He bites his lip, making a strangled noise low in his throat as he picks up the pace the slightest bit.]
Funnily enough, I spent about 20 minutes trying to find something for our other thread? So... soon
He's very distracted remains to be a very true statement, because every minute shift in Felix's expression is something Sylvain wants to commit to memory. It's why he waits for Felix to relax before he makes any changes to his approach--a different angle, a different pace, always looking for opportunities to really hone in on what gets the best response, whether that be through familiar means or newly discovered ones.
But what's more distracting, he thinks, is that this time, it's Felix's hand (which he leans into, for the brief moment it's there) that travels down, down, down... and okay, yeah, there's definitely something to be said about what a pretty picture Felix paints like this? Something, something, Sylvain does enjoy seeing him when all his walls come down--but Felix's patient-ish and Sylvain's impatient happen to line up a little too well, in that they both undeniably want more, and are anything but shy about taking it. Haven't they been patient enough? Like, it's been so, so long...
It's been too long for the both of them, probably. And so he won't stop him, won't remove his hand at all, but it isn't really that much longer before Sylvain breathes a quiet curse that might even sound just a little bit awestruck, bracing himself with one hip so he can reach his free hand up to brush some hair from Felix's face; he leans in to kiss him, heated and hungry, and when a third finger slides in alongside the rest in practically the same moment, it's clear from the deliberate stretch and drag of them that the movement holds more urgency than teasing. It's even more clear when Sylvain only takes as long as it takes for him to feel Felix relax under his touch before he's removing those fingers all at once, pushing himself back up with all the enthusiasm and reluctance of someone who has to choose between two of their favorite things. Any other time, he would be all too happy to focus wholly and completely on Felix? Give him a lazy day in bed and he'll do his absolute damnedest to convince him they should never leave.
But for right now, he's gonna be selfish, because he needs this just as much as Felix does. So, once he's resealed and replaced the bottle of oil safely to the side:
"Here," he murmurs, "come here." There isn't much adjusting left to be done at this point, but he still brings one hand to Felix's hip before he leans back over him--presses against him--and his breath catches as he briefly pauses, just sort of brushing their lips together with a shuddery exhale. Give him a second? Give him, like, two seconds, maybe, because Felix hasn't been playing fair and he might die otherwise.
[Even with the kiss demanding a majority of his attention, three of Sylvain's fingers within him sends him shuddering, aching—until they're gone? Until the world is suddenly a much colder, emptier place, and all Felix can do is look up at Sylvain through his lashes as his hand stutters to a stop. He's (hazily) aware of what's to come; like, Sylvain's murmuring and continued manhandling makes that clear, but as good as that will undoubtedly be, it doesn't help how empty he feels now.
Or: It's been far too long since Felix has been fucked, and he's too thirsty to feel any sort of shame; after all, the only one who can see him, hear him, is the person currently pressing against him, and Felix's eyes flutter closed once more. It's fine to lose himself in this. It's safe to lose himself in this, because it's only Sylvain, always Sylvain, and as Felix feels Sylvain's breath mingle with his own, all he can think is, I, I, I—]
—love you, [he mumbles, mindlessly, as he hitches his hips higher, blindly searches for whatever angle he needs.] 'm here, please—
[Blunt nails once again dig into Sylvain's shoulder, because please don't make him wait any longer.]
As if you won't be the first to know when I make them!!
Sylvain doesn't intend to wait long? He doesn't intend to make Felix wait long, he just needs a second, but--
Oh.
...Oh, he thinks, because even though this is familiar? Even though this is far from the first time--and farther from the last--it's been said? That doesn't mean it doesn't still flood his chest with a sweet, aching sort of warmth, the kind he's only ever associated with Felix... It makes him suck in a sharp breath, makes him remember all the nights spent missing him in every way, every second spent longing condensed into one, solid point that catches in his throat like it could still yet choke him.
Instead, he lets it melt over his tongue with a soft, whispered, "Felix," as shaken as if he's only just felt the impact, all at once, of how much he'd really, truly missed him... And how can he not kiss him, then? How can he not give him exactly what he wants, when Felix shifts at just the right angle and Sylvain catches his hips to keep him there, a low, desperate noise lost between them when he feels himself finally--finally, finally--sink into him, and it's all he can do to keep himself from thrusting too carelessly forward.
That kiss... absolutely will not last? In fact it doesn't last, because Sylvain quickly decides that tilting their foreheads together is a much easier way to stay close and not have to focus on anything for a moment but the heat of their bodies pressed together, pulse racing in his ears.
"I missed you," he breathes, for probably the hundredth time, and brings one hand up to drag his fingers lazily up around Felix's cock, teasingly light, "I love you, I missed you, so, so much--"
[He knows what's coming the second Sylvain's thumbs dig into his hipbones. He's prepared for it, eager for it—and yet Sylvain sliding into him still knocks the air from his lungs, a sharp, almost startled ah escaping him as their brief kiss breaks. It's been so, so long, and this is always so, so different from clever fingers slowly working him open; he squeezes his eyes closed, catches his bottom lip between his teeth, wills himself to relax as Sylvain strokes him while whispering such stupidly sweet nonsense. He's safe; he's secure; he's loved.
Ah, but he's loved. His arms are trapped between them; he weasels them free, slips his hands over Sylvain's muscled shoulders as he slowly, experimentally, stretches. The burn is... still there? Sylvain is bigger than him in so many ways, but the bit of pain he feels is that inexplicably good type of pain—and it will disappear soon enough, Felix knows. Give way to pleasure as Sylvain rocks into him, again and again and again, which is why Felix wraps his legs around Sylvain's waist, why he digs his heels into the small of Sylvain's back as he arches his own.]
Tell me, [he gasps,] show me—
[A challenge that ends in a breathy whine, all while Felix continues trying to pull Sylvain in deeper.]
The longer I go without fanart icons the more I suffer tbh
Sylvain knows he could tell him 'til he'd spent his last breath, show him 'til his body could move no longer, and still, it wouldn't be enough to convey even a fraction of how deeply he loves this man. He could string together every flowery phrase he knows, bare his heart and soul as plainly as a man ever could, and he knows he wouldn't even come close. Yet, in moments like these, when Felix--his Felix, beautiful, perfect--holds onto him like he never wants to let him go, like he couldn't bear it if he had to, he wishes more than ever that he could.
Still, it's never stopped him from trying; as long as Felix wants him to, it never will. So:
"I will," he promises, breathless. That hand at Felix's hip tightens its hold for a moment as he presses in just a bit deeper, only to pull his hips back again--slowly, deliberately, as if he's only testing the movement, or maybe trying to tease if he thought he had the sense left for it. Spoiler: he does not... But he really won't go far, because Felix is keeping him close, and also because, honestly, how could he, before he's pushing forward again hardly a full beat later, another shaky curse escaping him. "I did... I do, Felix."
He ducks down to Felix's neck once their hips are flush, murmuring soft encouragements and praise against the skin of his throat; there are quiet 'I love you's interspersed between them and the gentle bites he leaves in his wake as he gives him a moment to adjust, providing slow, deliberate strokes while his other hand has since slipped to the small of Felix's back, offering what support he can in place of a more, ah... suitable location... It's a little late to worry about that much.
[Sylvain moving so methodically is Sylvain ensuring that Felix enjoys every second of this that he possibly can—but while Felix is aware of this kindness, it's still maddening. He wants what he wants and, in typical Felix fashion, he wants it all at once, but when a (weak) kick to Sylvain's back fails to hurry any of this along, Felix drops his head back against the desk, turns his face to the side as he takes in breath after breath. Even Sylvain finally, blessedly sinking into him to the hilt doesn't give Felix everything that he craves; he needs so much more, despite the way he moans, brokenly, while Sylvain repeats the phrase he likes best between nips and licks. Three simple words. It's amazing, really, how going a month only seeing them scrawled on parchment makes him so very desperate to hear them.
And some part of him—the barely conscious part of him—wonders if it's the same for Sylvain? Felix's letters are always short and to the point; he isn't one to include anything he doesn't need to, which leaves, ah, little room for words of endearment. He's not very good at those, anyway. Sylvain has the way with words—but as Felix wriggles his hips, seeking friction any way he can get it, he hears the quiet ah, ah, ah of his panting and decides he's already being... audible. It wouldn't kill him to speak, if he's able...
...But it might kill Sylvain, he thinks, one hand snaking up to the back of Sylvain's head, and that barely conscious part of him is pleased. Serves him right.]
Every day, [he whispers, strain evident in his oh-so quiet voice.] I th-thought of you every day.
[It's the sort of thing he'd normally find, mmm, awkward to admit? The sort of thing that would send him blushing and turning away in a hurry, especially after such an embarrassing stammer—but here he is, laid out on the desk that's been in his family for generations as Sylvain nuzzles his throat and carefully takes him apart. He's too far gone to care about anything other than that, which is why he swallows. Licks his lips. Continues, shakily, with:]
Missed you.
[Sure, Sylvain has said it enough for both of them... but it feels important for him to say it, too. Right here, right now.]
Sylvain may be taking his time, but it's... hm. It's a little like he's a live wire, thrumming with too much heat and too much of the electricity that comes with every breath, sound, move that Felix makes. He can fall back on autopilot for some things--the practiced stroke of his hand, for example--but even that much falters when Felix shifts against him, and Sylvain's breath catches on a gasp as both his hands snap back to the other man's hips, this time to try and still them. Which... may work better, admittedly, if he could also still the slow, absent grind of his hips against him. They're both just fools looking for more of the other however they can get it--but isn't this how it always goes? After spending so long apart, isn't it so much easier to lose themselves in each other, chasing that feeling of closeness they've gone without in every way that they can?
It makes the hand in his hair feel like it belongs there, his own quiet pants hot over the skin of Felix's collar as he wills himself to focus on the sound of Felix's voice. He speaks so rarely in moments like these--hardly at all, in comparison to himself--and as much as Sylvain loves the soft, wordless noises he makes against him, for him, he especially loves hearing him like this? Desperate, unsteady, vulnerable--all the things Felix would never, ever let himself be around anyone else, all reserved for him...
It's that thought, paired with Felix's words as they register properly in his ears, that for a moment he thinks nearly could kill him. That live wire threatens to snap without an outlet for the overwhelming heat coursing through it, and he can't help but shiver as he squeezes his eyes tight, steadying himself with one, slow breath before he brings his head and one hand up, fingers light against Felix's jaw as he guides his face back toward him so he can gaze at him through lidded, hazy eyes as he hovers so, so close.
Quietly, he asks, "Can I...?" and really, it's more of a sigh than a question. It's unspecific; the fingers left at his hip tighten, but his eyes wander down to Felix's lips as he trails off, hardly a breath away from his own--and then, not even that far, as he adds, "Please..."
Please, please, please--because he hardly waits for the go-ahead he knows he'll get in whatever form it comes before he's closing that distance with a moan of his own as he eases them into a rhythm that starts off slow, but quickly, impatiently shifts into something more befitting of the desperate need that's been building in him since they'd started. He can only play at being patient for so long.
[There are times when it feels as though Felix puts up a fight every step of the way, and there are times when Felix is as he is now: pliant. Eager to respond to even the lightest of touches, which is why he allows Sylvain to turn his face, to gaze down at him. Face flushed, hair askew, lips parted—he's halfway to wrecked and it's so, so obvious, but he can't bring himself to care as he blinks back at the person responsible for his current state. Can he? Such a superfluous question...
But it's a yes Sylvain receives, sighed against his mouth just before Felix kisses him—and it's followed by another yes, one that's more of a gasp as Felix's fingers tighten in Sylvain's hair while he tries, desperately, to lift his hips to match every thrust. Ah, but it's good, so indescribably good, dizzying in the best possible way, and when Sylvain hits the perfect angle Felix can't help but to cry out. He barely registers that he does, really; conscious thought is almost entirely beyond him, leaving him giving into such instincts as ducking his chin, doing his best to nuzzle against the hand preventing him from once again turning to the side. He wants warmth, and touch, and Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain, whose name falls from his lips like a litany.]
He asks these things not because he expects Felix to say no, but rather because he's not sure he'll ever get over the fact that Felix will tell him yes. It's a habit set well into his skin by now, not by nature but by nurture, and every 'yes' serves to satisfy that part of him--often silenced nowadays, but never cut out--that questions whether he deserves this, whether he's taking advantage, whether he's still as wanted and needed and loved as he wants and needs and loves. Through more than just words, but in actions, too--and as often as Sylvain might doubt himself, he's certain he's never doubted Felix a day in his life. He'll spend the rest of it making sure he never gives Felix any reason to doubt him, either.
Between how long it's been, and how long they've been at all this, Sylvain knows better than to think this won't be over sooner rather than later, but they have time--which means there's no reason to hesitate in his movements now. Not when he can get sounds like that from him, careless enough to ever so briefly fill the room, as if he's forgotten where they are, and Sylvain can't help the broken noise that escapes him in response. That hand at Felix's hip holds firm as he drives them nearer and nearer to that inevitable edge; everything is hot, and heady, and so, so good, he thinks, Felix is so good to him, and in the haze of it all he can't tell whether he says as much out loud, or if his thoughts are just that much louder over the crashing of his pulse in his ears.
Whatever the case, he ducks down to kiss the corner of Felix's mouth when he tries to turn again, comparably quiet as his hand shifts to brush some hair back from his face before reaching down between them. The other shifts too, slipping around again to the small of Felix's back. Let him like, adjust his position to try and coax Felix into sitting up, just a bit, as he drags his fingers over the length of him with obvious intent. He can support him, it's fine! They probably won't be here much longer, anyway.
[In the grand scheme of things, they've only been apart for... four weeks? Nothing at all, compared to the weeks they spent apart during the first few years of the war—but everything is so different, now. They're different. Felix no longer bottles everything up, keeps everything inside, because he doesn't need to.
Until he does, thanks to their busy, busy lives, and it's fine! Mostly. After all, Felix has never been the disgustingly dependent sort—but there is, perhaps, something to be said about finally permitting himself to lean on someone. These past weeks of meetings, of disagreements, of returning to an empty room to silently sort through mountains of missives, have taken their toll; Felix was—is—tenser than he even realized, and now that he's back with the person he trusts above all others, it feels wonderful to let himself go? To be as noisy, as uninhibited, as he pleases.
...Because Sylvain has him. Because Sylvain, as strong and as steady as ever, is pulling him up, holding him close, stroking him in tandem with each snap of his hips, and all Felix can do is hold onto his shoulder as familiar pressure builds within. Goddess, it's so much? Too much. He both wants it and he doesn't, not yet, but Sylvain is nothing if not relentless, fuck, fuck, fuck—]
So close, [he slurs, the raw need in his voice rendering it practically unrecognizable to his own ears.] Sylvain, I'm—
[He's tensing, suddenly; he's tilting his head back; he's coming, back arching into a bow as a strangled cry escapes him.]
Four weeks away from Felix is four weeks away too long, thank you, because if Sylvain had things his way, he'd spend every day for the rest of his life (and not one less) waking up beside him. If Sreng weren't such a delicate balance of negotiations and concessions and recompense--if he believed in anyone more, or in what he's doing for his country and future generations to come any less--he knows he wouldn't hesitate to abandon his title and territory and all the responsibility that comes with them. Not if it meant he could have this instead.
Still... he's not so foolish to think of it as a real possibility. Not yet, anyway; not until he's done his part, and by then there will probably be more to be done, and so he'll take his fill of every moment he is allowed, greedily drinking in everything Felix deigns to give to him, as if he'll never get enough.
And it's true to some extent, isn't it? Because he does crave more of him. Always more, just a little more, until his breath grows ragged with it and his body burns with the need for him... But Goddess, he does need him. There's heat pooling low within him, distracting in its urgency even while quiet reassurance spills from his lips in little 'I know's and 'I've got you's when he feels that same tension rising in Felix, too. Then:
"Fuck," he gasps, stroking him through it when he comes; and it isn't long after that Sylvain's hold around him tightens and his hips stutter, words failing him until the only thing he can think is, "Felix, Felix--"
Against anyone's better judgement (which, in his defense, his own has long since abandoned him anyway) he sinks in deep before he stills, pulling Felix tightly against him. And he'll honestly stay like that until Felix pushes him off, or like, tells him otherwise, probably pressing lazy kisses wherever he can reach with a hushed, "I love you," or maybe several, because things are still a little hazy? And maybe they should've gone to Felix's room for this, actually, because he really, really just wants to hold him like this for a while, and the desk is like, increasingly inconvenient for that.
[He's drifting down from his own high when he hears his name—and then he's suddenly pulled so, so tightly against the other man, which prompts his blissed out, boneless self to whimper encouragingly. He's on the brink of overstimulation; another minute of this would send him hissing, begging for the briefest break, but—
...But. Sylvain's release comes as swiftly as his own, and Felix feels, mmm, stupidly smug as Sylvain sinks against him? Content as Sylvain showers him with slow, soft affection, because all is comfortable, all is right; he doesn't even mind the hoarseness of his own breathing, choosing instead to focus all of his (limited) attention on snaking the hand atop Sylvain's shoulder a bit higher up, fingers blindly smoothing down the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. Mine, he foggily thinks, warmth welling within. Exactly as it should be.
The afterglow, however, can't cover up everything. It only takes a minute for the comfortable weight of Sylvain to become an uncomfortable weight, all heat and, ah, uncomfortably sticky skin. Sweat and spend, drying between them—and isn't there more all over Sylvain's hand? The hand pressing somewhere against him, Goddess above. Even though he's been covered in worse things—thanks, battle—he can't keep himself from shifting, humming ever so quietly when he's reminded that Sylvain has yet to pull out. Another unfortunate realization: everything that's going to trickle down his thighs the moment he stands.
Ah, well. The things he suffers ("suffers") through for the man he continues to pet, even as he grumbles:]
You're disgusting.
[And so is he, he knows. What of it! He wouldn't be Felix if he didn't grumble about something the second he's back to himself—and besides, it's so fond, so full of obvious affection.]
Hey?? Sylvain is definitely the cleaner of the two here! Were that comment from anyone else, he might actually be offended... but, ah, it's pretty well-warranted here, isn't it? It's easy to let himself melt into Felix like this as tension eases into pleasantly loose limbs and fuzzy thoughts, easy to forget things like the edge of the desk digging against his skin as he leans into it, or the fact that his hand is definitely gross, or any of the other dozens of things that will slowly dawn on him piece by piece as the seconds pass.
Until then, he'll simply enjoy the feeling of that hand in his hair, and at least it's his not gross hand rubbing slow, absent circles at the center of the other man's back... Little victories, Felix.
"Mm." It's the vaguest noise possible, a hum that's set decidedly at the center overlap of affection, agreement, and amusement right against Felix's throat; he breathes in a deep, contented sigh as he nuzzles into the skin there. "You liked it... and you needed a bath, anyway."
He could've taken one earlier with him, but nooo, someone had to be responsible! And someone will have to be responsible still, because that shift is enough of a hint that he probably should, like... move... which brings its own set of inconveniences to his attention. Not just in the 'but he really still wants to cuddle' kind of ways, either, but rather the fact that when he moves to actually pull out, it is his gross hand that he presses to the surface of this poor, old desk... and all at once he comes back to himself enough to wince at the feeling of the wood beneath his touch.
He just cleaned this desk...? He just cleaned this desk...
...And he will clean it again, because the Goddess herself might as well smite him down before he asks any of the staff to do it (not because he's embarrassed, but because he just isn't that much of an asshole), but first, here: have this like, half-apologetic smile as he pushes back just enough to survey the damage? Which actually only lasts all of like, two seconds before it falters and turns into more of an appreciative once-over than intended, because... look. Look... Mess be damned, it's like Felix just stumbled right out of one of his goddamn fantasies, all messy hair and warm, lovebitten skin, lazy and spent atop the desk, all because of him...
Hm. Absolutely fucking tragic--looks like Sylvain's going to duck his face right back down to Felix's shoulder after all.
"Goddess, please let me go with you this time..." Don't judge him, just love him.
[Wow, Sylvain! Don't just assume that he enjoyed himself—even though he did? And rather, ah, vocally, at that, hence the noise he makes low in his throat as Sylvain nudges even closer. He's feeling too languid to be annoyed, too pleased to be embarrassed; better to think of a nice, hot bath in which he could possibly soak for a good, oh, ten minutes or so. Just enough time to feel well and truly clean before he burrows beneath the covers of his bed, tucks himself as close to Sylvain as he possibly can. Nights are cold in Faerghus, and Felix is always freezing. This is purely practical.
And just, you know. Nice to think about as Sylvain pulls away, because there's always that emptiness to contend with... which is ridiculous, really. They can't remain entwined together forever, and even if they could, it isn't as though Felix would want to—but there's still that brief sensation of loss, which he's made all the more aware of when Sylvain, like, gazes down at him for a moment. Just looks at him, as though he hasn't seen him in this state hundreds of times, and Felix feels his face heating up once more. Is there anything worse than being stared at! The cold air hitting the mess on his stomach, perhaps, but other than that...
Listen: Thank the Goddess Sylvain comes back down when he does. Felix isn't sure how long he could stand the softness of that stare, given how open, how vulnerable he still feels. He will gladly accept another thirty or so seconds of this.]
Disgusting and incorrigible, [Felix amends even as he noses into his hair, taking in the smell of him. Sex and sweat and Sylvain.] Although I suppose it's only fair you clean the mess you helped make.
[Yeah!! Suffer the very real consequences, which soon includes a gentle kiss pressed just above Sylvain's ear. Shh. Just enjoy this moment, please, until Felix winds up shifting yet again. He's never been very good at sitting still, so:]
Give me your shirt. [Mmm—] And my pants.
[Sylvain doesn't need his shirt, you see. Duh. Just listen to him.]
These consequences are honestly too much? How will he ever make it... But like, actually though, because he loves when Felix is sweet like this. He loves the way kisses like this one, wherever they land, spark into a slow, steady flame in his chest--not the flicker of wildfire, but... tamer, somehow. Gentler. Like the warm, familiar comfort of coming home to a well-tended hearth on a cold winter's night.
He loves when Felix is rough with him too, of course--probably more than he should. But when it comes down to it, he really just loves Felix, in every way he can have him, so... you know, forgive him if he responds by mumbling something about making an even bigger mess of him first, which is a threat just a little too ambitious after the long, long day they've each had, and he knows it. They BOTH know it?? But even that isn't enough to temper the quiet heat behind it anyway, because who would he even be otherwise.
But... ah. A shirt? His shirt, which--hey?? That's foul PLAY! Doesn't Sylvain have enough to tempt him! And yet here he is, pushing back again to see where it even ended up, because lord fucking knows I've forgotten by now pick it up off the floor beside him, because he isn't a heathen who throws his clothes around, unlike SOME.
"Do you need the pants?" As if that's any sort of question worth asking? As if Felix doesn't have like, at least two Very Obvious reasons to put pants on just at a glance, but even as Sylvain hands over the shirt and goes to pull his own pants back on, he doesn't sound like he's kidding. "The bath isn't that far..."
[That threat! Sylvain. Felix could—would—roll his eyes, were they not already closed as he continues enjoying this (mostly) quiet moment. It would be nice to be curled up together in bed, at this point in time; it will be amazing when they actually are, but for now, Felix contents himself with feeling the thrum of Sylvain's voice.
Until, you know. Sylvain pulls away, so rudely, and Felix is left with no choice but to drop to his feet with the quietest of huffs. The real world is a cold, cold place; the shirt he's soon handed promises a modicum of warmth (and the lingering scent of a wonderfully clean Sylvain), and yet he isn't desperate enough to put it on in his... current state. That, you see, is why Felix needs his pants, and that is why he shoots Sylvain a flat Look as he bends down to collect them. No, he isn't going to wear them—but between the two of them, they only have two functional pieces of clothing? These pants are unnecessary, and thus they are now... a towel. Watch him wordlessly scrub himself off, Sylvain.
And then watch him toss those pants atop the desk, just so he can swiftly slip this much-too-big shirt right over his head—and muss up his hair even more in the process. Ah, well. There are, in Felix's opinion, so many positives to Sylvain's size? Not that he thinks about them on the regular, but as he glances down at the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, considers that the hem hits just low enough to cover the, ah, important things...
Once, perhaps, it would have sent him straightening to his full height, trying his damnedest to seem more than he is; now, however, he's old enough to enjoy this for what it is, which is why he gives no thought to the open collar exposing his marked collar bones. There are better things to focus on, anyway? Like, say, a shirtless Sylvain. Hmm.]
It's far enough, [is his pointed—and delayed—response.] But your shirt will do.
[If he brazenly drags his eyes down Sylvain's torso when he falls silent? Well? He's tired, yes, but he's only human; let him live. Let him cant his head, savoring this sight even as he attempts to gauge Sylvain's reaction.]
Well?
[It's that impatient sort of well that implies he's ready to leave, but go ahead, Sylvain. Say something cheesy. He's honestly waiting for it, because while Felix isn't vain, Felix is well aware of the effect he has on one particular person.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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...But of course he isn't, Felix hazily reminds himself, remembering just how hard Sylvain felt pressed against his palm. He can't—and even if he wants to try, well? There's a quiet noise that may or may not be a hiss, then, before Felix pulls his hands free and does the unthinkable: leans back.
Not, like, very far? He is, after all, only human, but he ensures there's enough space between them for him to study Sylvain through narrowed eyes. A hint of amber. A trace of something... satisfied, even as he asks:]
Here?
[He's aiming for incredulous; he lands somewhere a bit more, ah, out of breath, which is made all the more obvious by the way his eyes dart to something just over Sylvain's shoulder, throat bobbing as he swallows. Here is not ideal—but it would be a lie to say that here is not exciting, in a way? And besides: Felix has a secret. Not an earth-shattering one, and yet that trace of satisfaction seems to swell as he places his hands on the desk behind him and leans back that much farther. Hmm, hmm, hmm.]
...Fine. [And if Sylvain is surprised to hear this word come out of Felix's mouth, Felix thinks nothing of it; he merely lifts his chin in what is almost an imperious fashion, ignoring his own jagged breathing as he does his best to briskly add:] Fourth shelf down, then. Behind the books— before you get too distracted.
[This is not a request, even though Sylvain has his dick in hand; this is an order, and he will a) keep this sharp Look up and b) refuse to answer any questions until Sylvain just does what he's told. Fourth shelf down on the bookshelf behind him, hidden by the many books focusing on Faerghus and its royal line, Sylvain will find... a good-sized bottle of oil. Or is that just a fanfic trope? Did they call it lube back then? I don't know. It's 2am and we're working with what we have here, which is astonishingly little.
Anyway: Felix will make a very impatient noise if Sylvain takes more than thirty seconds to accomplish this task, so damn, hurry it up. He’s already kicked his boots off; by the time Sylvain turns back around, he may or may not be working on sliding his pants down, too. Efficiency™.]
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Decisions, decisions--! Except it's not really a decision at all, not when Felix looks at him like that and Sylvain finds himself stepping reluctantly away before he can even put voice to his question of what it is, exactly, that he's looking for. It's a small enough space that he should be able to figure it out? Like, what could a guy possibly have hidden behind some books that's so important...
Then he happens to actually spot the bottle, which... is pretty important, so like, alright? Fair. But the implication that Felix has apparently put some thought into this certainly isn't lost on Sylvain. Like, he has to laugh a little, short and quietly incredulous, even if it does shake an unsteady curse from him in practically the same breath, because... well, Felix has apparently put some thought into this? If the bottom of the bottle catches against the corner of one volume, he's too thoroughly distracted by the sudden, sharp rush of heat that particular train of thought provides, and then the sight behind him once he turns back around, to notice if it hits the floor.
"This?"
He lifts the bottle as he crosses the short distance again, and he isn't seeking confirmation as much as he is just... bringing attention to it? It's the same reason he doesn't set it down when he's close enough to slip that hand around to the small of Felix's back.
"This," he repeats, the press of the bottle against his skin as accusatory as his tone as he leans back in, "is unfair. Are you serious...?" Not that that means he's gonna complain, obviously, seeing how he's ducking down to mouth at Felix's collar before he even finishes the statement, his other hand nudging impatiently at one knee. When did he even do this?? But--ah. Actually, this is far from the least convenient place they've ever chosen... "How many did you hide?"
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The cold bottle pressing against his back, however, is something he isn't quite sure he does deserve? Damn? He instinctively stiffens, breath catching in his throat well before he feels Sylvain's oh-so warm breath ghost across his skin—but that smugness is still there. He still feels like he's won, somehow, and so he presses forward as much as he's able, tilting his head down toward Sylvain's as he blindly brings both hands to rest against his stomach. So warm, he thinks, sliding his hands down to the waistband of Sylvain's pants. Always so warm—but practically burning, now, and Felix hums appreciatively, nimble fingers unfastening and unlacing as he does his best to listen. How many...]
Enough. [A beat, then, as Felix works Sylvain's pants down, pointedly ignoring the nudge to his knee, before he adds:] How long are you planning to stay?
[And there is a clear, almost teasing quality to his voice? A challenge. Find them if you can, Sylvain—and Felix drives this idea home by lightly, lazily, dragging his fingers up the length of him. Now he's just out to be obnoxious.]
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There's something about this particular Smug Felix, however, that's out to absolutely destroy him.
"Fuck..." Said softly, but with Feeling on an especially shaky exhale against the column of his throat before Felix even has his pants down. And then: "Fuck," marginally louder this time, because he isn't sure what kind of answer he expected, but he is so into it? It's kind of embarrassing.
...Or at least it would be, if this weren't Sylvain. Instead, he doesn't bother not trying to get more from the contact, instinctively thrusting into that hand while one of his own reaches back between them, as if giving Felix a few more purposeful strokes of his own might encourage him to return the favor. At the same time, he pulls away from the other man's neck so he can kiss him, careless in its urgency and rougher than the ones they'd shared before, made all the more uncoordinated by the way he speaks in all the spaces between.
"However long you want me, babe," he promises, breathless, and his last brain cell is spent on making sure the oil is set on the desk properly before that hand makes a grab for Felix's hip--and then misses, apparently, because his hand somehow finds its way lower, and also behind him, how did that happen? Bizarre. "Until you show me every one, goddess, Felix--"
Because surely Gautier territory can function without him long enough for them to go through every room in the Fraldarius family home... surely the world can be put on standstill long enough for this completely reasonable plan.
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But Goddess, if it isn't good to know that he's pushing Sylvain right to the edge. That, in truth, is how Felix likes him best: a little desperate, a little wild. Throwing himself into this with as much reckless abandon as he used to throw himself into battle, and isn't that why Felix takes such satisfaction from moments like these? This is Sylvain wanting to live as badly as he once wanted to die.
And so Felix, against all odds, huffs the quietest of laughs against Sylvain's lips, bringing both arms up to loosely loop about his neck. He can barely think; he's flushed and he's panting and he's so, so hard, but above all else? He's pleased.]
Show you? [he asks, pressing forward for another kiss that's as gentle as Sylvain's was rough. It's the contrast. The tease.] Find them.
[He's not allowed to leave until he finds, like, a solid three-fourths of them, but that's something Felix can dangle over his head another time; for now, he locks his hands behind Sylvain's neck and slowly leans back, attempting to pull Sylvain with him.]
Unless your time in the north has made you lazy. [Hmm.] Lazier.
[Not that diplomatic missions are anything to sneeze at? Sreng is an unforgiving land, Felix knows; Sylvain has a long, long way to go with that bunch, but it's something to say as they settle into place, Felix's back pressing against the cold, unforgiving surface of the desk. Not as comfortable as a bed, but as he wiggles closer to the bottom edge, that will, ah, cease to matter soon enough. Once Sylvain is more action, less talk.]
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It's also the absolute last thing on his mind at the moment, because as important as all that is, is there anything, in this world or the next, that could ever be more important than Felix? He offers no resistance as he follows him down, chasing that challenge--that dare, and really, is it such a surprise that Felix would turn this into a competition of some sort?--as he helps to ease him back as best he can given where they're at.
"Maybe." Simple, short, and said as if it really is a possibility to consider--and in a sense, perhaps it even could be! Using words in place of bloodshed to rebuild an entire country's trust has been much more difficult than breaking it had ever been, but even when tensions run high, it's still a much calmer daily life than charging into battle after battle after battle. He hasn't retired his lance, of course--and has no current intentions of it, not as long as there are still people he needs to protect--but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't ever wished for the chance to well and truly settle down.
Plus, there's something to be said of the way Felix had kissed him, because it is dangerously easy to lose himself in, and around, and against him... The hand between them had slowed to a stop as they moved and has since traveled with the other to actually settle at the other man's hips, like, For Real this time, so he can help Felix out by more or less just... tugging him where he needs to be, all at once? He's impatient, okay--and so he wastes no time before he's smoothing his hands down and between Felix's thighs, reluctantly pushing away just long enough to relocate the bottle sitting near the edge.
He reaches down when he leans back in, one arm trapped between them as his hand ghosts over Felix's cock--and then, past it--to slide his fingers farther still, newly slicked with oil.
"Guess I'll make you want to show me," he murmurs, voice low and full of promise as his fingertips slip down, at first only to tease while he steals one more drawn-out kiss; once he feels he's able, he'll press his middle finger in, slow, but insistent, and careful, ever so careful, not to treat him too gently or cause any discomfort, because Felix isn't made of porcelain? But also, let's maybe not be Those Writers, either.
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But discipline means nothing when Sylvain grabs his hips and moves him so, so easily? Control flies right out the window as Sylvain leans back in for a kiss, hand wandering down, down, down—and really, all it takes is the briefest brush to send him tilting his head back, mouth falling open on a sigh as he digs his nails into Sylvain's shoulders and demands more. It doesn't matter that there's a proper way to go about things; he's been waiting for moons, and while there have been desperate nights he's slipped fingers into himself and thought of nothing but Sylvain, it's not the same, never the same. He wants—
—ah. This. The feeling of Sylvain within him is what he wants above all else, and so the cold, proud Duke Fraldarius does what would be unthinkable to some but should be so familiar to one: he whimpers. He squints his eyes closed and narrows his focus to that one point, amazed, as ever, that even a single finger—Sylvain's, though, thicker than his own—can threaten to undo him so completely. Maybe he should be, ah, embarrassed about such a thing—but as the burn slowly subsides, he lifts a hand from Sylvain's shoulder, tangles his fingers in all of that gloriously messy red hair.]
Sylvain—
[So impatient as to be whiny, because more, he can do more, give him more? But as communicating that is beyond him, he settles for jerking his hips upward, taking him in deeper as he seeks more movement, more fingers. Anything.]
This icon is called 'I don't have any suitable icons for this, sue me'
Felix sighs, and Sylvain doesn't hesitate to drop his lips to his throat; Felix's nails drag a shiver out of him as he leaves a trail of absent-minded kisses along the skin there, attention very obviously focused elsewhere. But as he sinks that finger into him, the rest curled lightly against his palm, it's that whimper that earns a quiet moan; it's muffled to more of a hum when Sylvain presses his lips more firmly to the crook of Felix's neck, as if the simple action had done just as much for the both of them.
"I'm here, baby," he says, and, "I know," just thoughtless, breathless little things to mumble as he shifts to hover over him instead--because as much as Felix doesn't like to be stared at, there's never going to be a time where seeing him like this after so, so long doesn't knock the breath out of Sylvain in all of one, unsteady exhale.
Especially when Felix disrupts his attempt at building a slow rhythm with his hand in favor of demanding more... The movement has him rocking forward as well, chasing after what friction he can get at this angle without like, banging a knee against the desk or something. But you know? Since Felix is apparently just as impatient as he is, he'll keep at just that one finger for a moment more, maintaining a steady sort of push and pull before he works in his pointer as well, in the same way as the first.
"Felix," he sighs, "just look at you..." He clearly expects Felix to do no such thing, but listen? He doesn't need to make sense. He's very distracted.
when are you going to make fanart icons... taps watch
And it's all easy enough to forget, when a second finger joins the first. Or, well: It's easy enough to focus on other, more pressing things, like the sensation of being slowly but surely stretched. Uncomfortable, at first, but once again that fades, gives way to a mellowness that elicits a quiet hum of what is almost, but not quite, contentment. This is nothing compared to what he wants, but it's better than what he just had—and with Sylvain whispering stupid, stupid things...
...Hmm. The world is soft! Deliciously fuzzy at the edges, and Felix rolls his hips in time with the pace Sylvain is setting, still craving more but, ah, somewhat aware that the best way to get what he wants is to give something in return. Sylvain wants to watch? Sylvain wants to look at what he's doing to him? Fine. Felix pulls free of Sylvain's hair, clumsily brushing his fingertips down Sylvain's cheek before he brings his hand to his own stomach, wraps his fingers around his own cock. It's been neglected for far too long; even the feeling of his own touch is enough to make him gasp, send him shuddering as he sets a tortuously slow pace of his own. He's desperate, he's needy, but he's waiting for what's hopefully just around the corner. He can be... patient-ish. Maybe.
Maybe. He bites his lip, making a strangled noise low in his throat as he picks up the pace the slightest bit.]
Funnily enough, I spent about 20 minutes trying to find something for our other thread? So... soon
But what's more distracting, he thinks, is that this time, it's Felix's hand (which he leans into, for the brief moment it's there) that travels down, down, down... and okay, yeah, there's definitely something to be said about what a pretty picture Felix paints like this? Something, something, Sylvain does enjoy seeing him when all his walls come down--but Felix's patient-ish and Sylvain's impatient happen to line up a little too well, in that they both undeniably want more, and are anything but shy about taking it. Haven't they been patient enough? Like, it's been so, so long...
It's been too long for the both of them, probably. And so he won't stop him, won't remove his hand at all, but it isn't really that much longer before Sylvain breathes a quiet curse that might even sound just a little bit awestruck, bracing himself with one hip so he can reach his free hand up to brush some hair from Felix's face; he leans in to kiss him, heated and hungry, and when a third finger slides in alongside the rest in practically the same moment, it's clear from the deliberate stretch and drag of them that the movement holds more urgency than teasing. It's even more clear when Sylvain only takes as long as it takes for him to feel Felix relax under his touch before he's removing those fingers all at once, pushing himself back up with all the enthusiasm and reluctance of someone who has to choose between two of their favorite things. Any other time, he would be all too happy to focus wholly and completely on Felix? Give him a lazy day in bed and he'll do his absolute damnedest to convince him they should never leave.
But for right now, he's gonna be selfish, because he needs this just as much as Felix does. So, once he's resealed and replaced the bottle of oil safely to the side:
"Here," he murmurs, "come here." There isn't much adjusting left to be done at this point, but he still brings one hand to Felix's hip before he leans back over him--presses against him--and his breath catches as he briefly pauses, just sort of brushing their lips together with a shuddery exhale. Give him a second? Give him, like, two seconds, maybe, because Felix hasn't been playing fair and he might die otherwise.
which other thread! i want to see...
Or: It's been far too long since Felix has been fucked, and he's too thirsty to feel any sort of shame; after all, the only one who can see him, hear him, is the person currently pressing against him, and Felix's eyes flutter closed once more. It's fine to lose himself in this. It's safe to lose himself in this, because it's only Sylvain, always Sylvain, and as Felix feels Sylvain's breath mingle with his own, all he can think is, I, I, I—]
—love you, [he mumbles, mindlessly, as he hitches his hips higher, blindly searches for whatever angle he needs.] 'm here, please—
[Blunt nails once again dig into Sylvain's shoulder, because please don't make him wait any longer.]
As if you won't be the first to know when I make them!!
Oh.
...Oh, he thinks, because even though this is familiar? Even though this is far from the first time--and farther from the last--it's been said? That doesn't mean it doesn't still flood his chest with a sweet, aching sort of warmth, the kind he's only ever associated with Felix... It makes him suck in a sharp breath, makes him remember all the nights spent missing him in every way, every second spent longing condensed into one, solid point that catches in his throat like it could still yet choke him.
Instead, he lets it melt over his tongue with a soft, whispered, "Felix," as shaken as if he's only just felt the impact, all at once, of how much he'd really, truly missed him... And how can he not kiss him, then? How can he not give him exactly what he wants, when Felix shifts at just the right angle and Sylvain catches his hips to keep him there, a low, desperate noise lost between them when he feels himself finally--finally, finally--sink into him, and it's all he can do to keep himself from thrusting too carelessly forward.
That kiss... absolutely will not last? In fact it doesn't last, because Sylvain quickly decides that tilting their foreheads together is a much easier way to stay close and not have to focus on anything for a moment but the heat of their bodies pressed together, pulse racing in his ears.
"I missed you," he breathes, for probably the hundredth time, and brings one hand up to drag his fingers lazily up around Felix's cock, teasingly light, "I love you, I missed you, so, so much--"
taps my WATCH
Ah, but he's loved. His arms are trapped between them; he weasels them free, slips his hands over Sylvain's muscled shoulders as he slowly, experimentally, stretches. The burn is... still there? Sylvain is bigger than him in so many ways, but the bit of pain he feels is that inexplicably good type of pain—and it will disappear soon enough, Felix knows. Give way to pleasure as Sylvain rocks into him, again and again and again, which is why Felix wraps his legs around Sylvain's waist, why he digs his heels into the small of Sylvain's back as he arches his own.]
Tell me, [he gasps,] show me—
[A challenge that ends in a breathy whine, all while Felix continues trying to pull Sylvain in deeper.]
The longer I go without fanart icons the more I suffer tbh
Still, it's never stopped him from trying; as long as Felix wants him to, it never will. So:
"I will," he promises, breathless. That hand at Felix's hip tightens its hold for a moment as he presses in just a bit deeper, only to pull his hips back again--slowly, deliberately, as if he's only testing the movement, or maybe trying to tease if he thought he had the sense left for it. Spoiler: he does not... But he really won't go far, because Felix is keeping him close, and also because, honestly, how could he, before he's pushing forward again hardly a full beat later, another shaky curse escaping him. "I did... I do, Felix."
He ducks down to Felix's neck once their hips are flush, murmuring soft encouragements and praise against the skin of his throat; there are quiet 'I love you's interspersed between them and the gentle bites he leaves in his wake as he gives him a moment to adjust, providing slow, deliberate strokes while his other hand has since slipped to the small of Felix's back, offering what support he can in place of a more, ah... suitable location... It's a little late to worry about that much.
make! them!!!
And some part of him—the barely conscious part of him—wonders if it's the same for Sylvain? Felix's letters are always short and to the point; he isn't one to include anything he doesn't need to, which leaves, ah, little room for words of endearment. He's not very good at those, anyway. Sylvain has the way with words—but as Felix wriggles his hips, seeking friction any way he can get it, he hears the quiet ah, ah, ah of his panting and decides he's already being... audible. It wouldn't kill him to speak, if he's able...
...But it might kill Sylvain, he thinks, one hand snaking up to the back of Sylvain's head, and that barely conscious part of him is pleased. Serves him right.]
Every day, [he whispers, strain evident in his oh-so quiet voice.] I th-thought of you every day.
[It's the sort of thing he'd normally find, mmm, awkward to admit? The sort of thing that would send him blushing and turning away in a hurry, especially after such an embarrassing stammer—but here he is, laid out on the desk that's been in his family for generations as Sylvain nuzzles his throat and carefully takes him apart. He's too far gone to care about anything other than that, which is why he swallows. Licks his lips. Continues, shakily, with:]
Missed you.
[Sure, Sylvain has said it enough for both of them... but it feels important for him to say it, too. Right here, right now.]
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It makes the hand in his hair feel like it belongs there, his own quiet pants hot over the skin of Felix's collar as he wills himself to focus on the sound of Felix's voice. He speaks so rarely in moments like these--hardly at all, in comparison to himself--and as much as Sylvain loves the soft, wordless noises he makes against him, for him, he especially loves hearing him like this? Desperate, unsteady, vulnerable--all the things Felix would never, ever let himself be around anyone else, all reserved for him...
It's that thought, paired with Felix's words as they register properly in his ears, that for a moment he thinks nearly could kill him. That live wire threatens to snap without an outlet for the overwhelming heat coursing through it, and he can't help but shiver as he squeezes his eyes tight, steadying himself with one, slow breath before he brings his head and one hand up, fingers light against Felix's jaw as he guides his face back toward him so he can gaze at him through lidded, hazy eyes as he hovers so, so close.
Quietly, he asks, "Can I...?" and really, it's more of a sigh than a question. It's unspecific; the fingers left at his hip tighten, but his eyes wander down to Felix's lips as he trails off, hardly a breath away from his own--and then, not even that far, as he adds, "Please..."
Please, please, please--because he hardly waits for the go-ahead he knows he'll get in whatever form it comes before he's closing that distance with a moan of his own as he eases them into a rhythm that starts off slow, but quickly, impatiently shifts into something more befitting of the desperate need that's been building in him since they'd started. He can only play at being patient for so long.
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But it's a yes Sylvain receives, sighed against his mouth just before Felix kisses him—and it's followed by another yes, one that's more of a gasp as Felix's fingers tighten in Sylvain's hair while he tries, desperately, to lift his hips to match every thrust. Ah, but it's good, so indescribably good, dizzying in the best possible way, and when Sylvain hits the perfect angle Felix can't help but to cry out. He barely registers that he does, really; conscious thought is almost entirely beyond him, leaving him giving into such instincts as ducking his chin, doing his best to nuzzle against the hand preventing him from once again turning to the side. He wants warmth, and touch, and Sylvain, Sylvain, Sylvain, whose name falls from his lips like a litany.]
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Between how long it's been, and how long they've been at all this, Sylvain knows better than to think this won't be over sooner rather than later, but they have time--which means there's no reason to hesitate in his movements now. Not when he can get sounds like that from him, careless enough to ever so briefly fill the room, as if he's forgotten where they are, and Sylvain can't help the broken noise that escapes him in response. That hand at Felix's hip holds firm as he drives them nearer and nearer to that inevitable edge; everything is hot, and heady, and so, so good, he thinks, Felix is so good to him, and in the haze of it all he can't tell whether he says as much out loud, or if his thoughts are just that much louder over the crashing of his pulse in his ears.
Whatever the case, he ducks down to kiss the corner of Felix's mouth when he tries to turn again, comparably quiet as his hand shifts to brush some hair back from his face before reaching down between them. The other shifts too, slipping around again to the small of Felix's back. Let him like, adjust his position to try and coax Felix into sitting up, just a bit, as he drags his fingers over the length of him with obvious intent. He can support him, it's fine! They probably won't be here much longer, anyway.
uses this icon forever ig
Until he does, thanks to their busy, busy lives, and it's fine! Mostly. After all, Felix has never been the disgustingly dependent sort—but there is, perhaps, something to be said about finally permitting himself to lean on someone. These past weeks of meetings, of disagreements, of returning to an empty room to silently sort through mountains of missives, have taken their toll; Felix was—is—tenser than he even realized, and now that he's back with the person he trusts above all others, it feels wonderful to let himself go? To be as noisy, as uninhibited, as he pleases.
...Because Sylvain has him. Because Sylvain, as strong and as steady as ever, is pulling him up, holding him close, stroking him in tandem with each snap of his hips, and all Felix can do is hold onto his shoulder as familiar pressure builds within. Goddess, it's so much? Too much. He both wants it and he doesn't, not yet, but Sylvain is nothing if not relentless, fuck, fuck, fuck—]
So close, [he slurs, the raw need in his voice rendering it practically unrecognizable to his own ears.] Sylvain, I'm—
[He's tensing, suddenly; he's tilting his head back; he's coming, back arching into a bow as a strangled cry escapes him.]
How the turns have tabled!!
Still... he's not so foolish to think of it as a real possibility. Not yet, anyway; not until he's done his part, and by then there will probably be more to be done, and so he'll take his fill of every moment he is allowed, greedily drinking in everything Felix deigns to give to him, as if he'll never get enough.
And it's true to some extent, isn't it? Because he does crave more of him. Always more, just a little more, until his breath grows ragged with it and his body burns with the need for him... But Goddess, he does need him. There's heat pooling low within him, distracting in its urgency even while quiet reassurance spills from his lips in little 'I know's and 'I've got you's when he feels that same tension rising in Felix, too. Then:
"Fuck," he gasps, stroking him through it when he comes; and it isn't long after that Sylvain's hold around him tightens and his hips stutter, words failing him until the only thing he can think is, "Felix, Felix--"
Against anyone's better judgement (which, in his defense, his own has long since abandoned him anyway) he sinks in deep before he stills, pulling Felix tightly against him. And he'll honestly stay like that until Felix pushes him off, or like, tells him otherwise, probably pressing lazy kisses wherever he can reach with a hushed, "I love you," or maybe several, because things are still a little hazy? And maybe they should've gone to Felix's room for this, actually, because he really, really just wants to hold him like this for a while, and the desk is like, increasingly inconvenient for that.
make me more icons!!! i ask, nicely
...But. Sylvain's release comes as swiftly as his own, and Felix feels, mmm, stupidly smug as Sylvain sinks against him? Content as Sylvain showers him with slow, soft affection, because all is comfortable, all is right; he doesn't even mind the hoarseness of his own breathing, choosing instead to focus all of his (limited) attention on snaking the hand atop Sylvain's shoulder a bit higher up, fingers blindly smoothing down the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. Mine, he foggily thinks, warmth welling within. Exactly as it should be.
The afterglow, however, can't cover up everything. It only takes a minute for the comfortable weight of Sylvain to become an uncomfortable weight, all heat and, ah, uncomfortably sticky skin. Sweat and spend, drying between them—and isn't there more all over Sylvain's hand? The hand pressing somewhere against him, Goddess above. Even though he's been covered in worse things—thanks, battle—he can't keep himself from shifting, humming ever so quietly when he's reminded that Sylvain has yet to pull out. Another unfortunate realization: everything that's going to trickle down his thighs the moment he stands.
Ah, well. The things he suffers ("suffers") through for the man he continues to pet, even as he grumbles:]
You're disgusting.
[And so is he, he knows. What of it! He wouldn't be Felix if he didn't grumble about something the second he's back to himself—and besides, it's so fond, so full of obvious affection.]
Send me sources and I will!!
Until then, he'll simply enjoy the feeling of that hand in his hair, and at least it's his not gross hand rubbing slow, absent circles at the center of the other man's back... Little victories, Felix.
"Mm." It's the vaguest noise possible, a hum that's set decidedly at the center overlap of affection, agreement, and amusement right against Felix's throat; he breathes in a deep, contented sigh as he nuzzles into the skin there. "You liked it... and you needed a bath, anyway."
He could've taken one earlier with him, but nooo, someone had to be responsible! And someone will have to be responsible still, because that shift is enough of a hint that he probably should, like... move... which brings its own set of inconveniences to his attention. Not just in the 'but he really still wants to cuddle' kind of ways, either, but rather the fact that when he moves to actually pull out, it is his gross hand that he presses to the surface of this poor, old desk... and all at once he comes back to himself enough to wince at the feeling of the wood beneath his touch.
He just cleaned this desk...? He just cleaned this desk...
...And he will clean it again, because the Goddess herself might as well smite him down before he asks any of the staff to do it (not because he's embarrassed, but because he just isn't that much of an asshole), but first, here: have this like, half-apologetic smile as he pushes back just enough to survey the damage? Which actually only lasts all of like, two seconds before it falters and turns into more of an appreciative once-over than intended, because... look. Look... Mess be damned, it's like Felix just stumbled right out of one of his goddamn fantasies, all messy hair and warm, lovebitten skin, lazy and spent atop the desk, all because of him...
Hm. Absolutely fucking tragic--looks like Sylvain's going to duck his face right back down to Felix's shoulder after all.
"Goddess, please let me go with you this time..." Don't judge him, just love him.
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And just, you know. Nice to think about as Sylvain pulls away, because there's always that emptiness to contend with... which is ridiculous, really. They can't remain entwined together forever, and even if they could, it isn't as though Felix would want to—but there's still that brief sensation of loss, which he's made all the more aware of when Sylvain, like, gazes down at him for a moment. Just looks at him, as though he hasn't seen him in this state hundreds of times, and Felix feels his face heating up once more. Is there anything worse than being stared at! The cold air hitting the mess on his stomach, perhaps, but other than that...
Listen: Thank the Goddess Sylvain comes back down when he does. Felix isn't sure how long he could stand the softness of that stare, given how open, how vulnerable he still feels. He will gladly accept another thirty or so seconds of this.]
Disgusting and incorrigible, [Felix amends even as he noses into his hair, taking in the smell of him. Sex and sweat and Sylvain.] Although I suppose it's only fair you clean the mess you helped make.
[Yeah!! Suffer the very real consequences, which soon includes a gentle kiss pressed just above Sylvain's ear. Shh. Just enjoy this moment, please, until Felix winds up shifting yet again. He's never been very good at sitting still, so:]
Give me your shirt. [Mmm—] And my pants.
[Sylvain doesn't need his shirt, you see. Duh. Just listen to him.]
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He loves when Felix is rough with him too, of course--probably more than he should. But when it comes down to it, he really just loves Felix, in every way he can have him, so... you know, forgive him if he responds by mumbling something about making an even bigger mess of him first, which is a threat just a little too ambitious after the long, long day they've each had, and he knows it. They BOTH know it?? But even that isn't enough to temper the quiet heat behind it anyway, because who would he even be otherwise.
But... ah. A shirt? His shirt, which--hey?? That's foul PLAY! Doesn't Sylvain have enough to tempt him! And yet here he is, pushing back again to
see where it even ended up, because lord fucking knows I've forgotten by nowpick it up off the floor beside him, because he isn't a heathen who throws his clothes around, unlike SOME."Do you need the pants?" As if that's any sort of question worth asking? As if Felix doesn't have like, at least two Very Obvious reasons to put pants on just at a glance, but even as Sylvain hands over the shirt and goes to pull his own pants back on, he doesn't sound like he's kidding. "The bath isn't that far..."
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Until, you know. Sylvain pulls away, so rudely, and Felix is left with no choice but to drop to his feet with the quietest of huffs. The real world is a cold, cold place; the shirt he's soon handed promises a modicum of warmth (and the lingering scent of a wonderfully clean Sylvain), and yet he isn't desperate enough to put it on in his... current state. That, you see, is why Felix needs his pants, and that is why he shoots Sylvain a flat Look as he bends down to collect them. No, he isn't going to wear them—but between the two of them, they only have two functional pieces of clothing? These pants are unnecessary, and thus they are now... a towel. Watch him wordlessly scrub himself off, Sylvain.
And then watch him toss those pants atop the desk, just so he can swiftly slip this much-too-big shirt right over his head—and muss up his hair even more in the process. Ah, well. There are, in Felix's opinion, so many positives to Sylvain's size? Not that he thinks about them on the regular, but as he glances down at the sleeves hanging past his fingertips, considers that the hem hits just low enough to cover the, ah, important things...
Once, perhaps, it would have sent him straightening to his full height, trying his damnedest to seem more than he is; now, however, he's old enough to enjoy this for what it is, which is why he gives no thought to the open collar exposing his marked collar bones. There are better things to focus on, anyway? Like, say, a shirtless Sylvain. Hmm.]
It's far enough, [is his pointed—and delayed—response.] But your shirt will do.
[If he brazenly drags his eyes down Sylvain's torso when he falls silent? Well? He's tired, yes, but he's only human; let him live. Let him cant his head, savoring this sight even as he attempts to gauge Sylvain's reaction.]
Well?
[It's that impatient sort of well that implies he's ready to leave, but go ahead, Sylvain. Say something cheesy. He's honestly waiting for it, because while Felix isn't vain, Felix is well aware of the effect he has on one particular person.]
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this icon is felix forcing sylvain to accept his love
This one's Sylvain accepting it, bc I need to make more soft icons dammit
you have two whole days off!!!
I have time to make so many icons... whoa
will you make them, though... will you...
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