[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.]
You know what? Sylvain wouldn't have given a thought to the wellbeing of his shirt, the longevity of its use to them, or how comfortable it might be, because when it comes down to it, 1. Both it and Felix can be washed, and 2. He only has one, single brain cell, and Felix paints a very distracting picture. So like, good on Felix for having some sense regarding that whole matter, and Sylvain will watch him, because the chances of Felix putting those on after that particular repurposing are blessedly slim, and he would kick himself for days if he didn't take advantage of every second he's allowed this kind of view.
Especially once his shirt settles loose against the other man's shoulders... He's always understood the appeal in theory, but the thought of it had never done anything but make his skin crawl, before; he'd known he would want to throw whatever shirt or jacket had been borrowed away, just so he'd never have to wear it again. But just like Felix is the exception in just about everything else, there is definitely something... mmm, enticing about seeing him like this. The marks over his collar put on display... the fact it only provides the absolute barest means of coverage, so little left to the imagination... the silent declaration, if perhaps only for his own sake, that Felix is his--paired with the knowledge of why he's wearing it in the first place, the memory still fresh and vivid in his mind. It's... oof. BIG fuckin' oof, and for the second time in this very, embarrassingly short period, Sylvain considers their odds or the night.
He doesn't even notice the way Felix looks him over, too busy doing the same damn thing in turn, but he does cross the short distance at that well. He lifts his hands to feign fixing the collar for him, only so he can lift his chin to steal a kiss; it's short, but it's definitely not chaste.
"You're making it really hard to want to go anywhere, you know." He is... a horny teenager! He will BE a horny teenager until he's 95. Felix, this is what you chose, and what you chose is someone who needs to be dragged to the damn tub before he really does have to sleep in the guest room.
[Their odds are good? Their odds are very good, so long as they don't fall asleep mid-cuddle—which will probably be a difficult thing to avoid, given that early mornings typically mean early evenings. Felix even finds himself searching Sylvain's face as he approaches, looking for any traces of weariness...
...And there are some, of course. Just as there are some to be found on Felix's face, but he brushes that from his mind as he allows Sylvain to tilt his head back, to kiss him so briefly, yet so thoroughly. He is... content, more or less. He will never get enough of Sylvain, he knows, but their encounter atop his (family's) desk sated his hunger—or so it seemed. This kiss, however, sparks that familiar heat low in his stomach, and though it's dull for now, he knows—knows—that it could light back up in a few short minutes. If they take it slow? Keep it soft.
Hmm. Something to consider, he supposes, as he cracks open his eyes, offers Sylvain a small smirk. It's fine. They have time.]
I'm not doing anything.
[Other than wear a shirt, he means, but far be it from him to point that out. It's easier to just reach up and curl his fingers around one of Sylvain's wrists, taking a moment to appreciate something as simple as touching Sylvain before he tries to turn them both toward the door.]
Besides, [he continues, so casually,] you found what I hid in this room.
[Felix doesn't like horses, but he knows that sometimes you just have to dangle a carrot in front of them if you want them to move? And even if they don't do anything else tonight, so help him, he is not climbing back on top of that desk.]
Early mornings and long rides in Faerghus weather are two very Real, Legitimate reasons for weariness between the two of them, and Sylvain is very, very aware of that fact. Sure, he had some downtime while he was waiting for Felix, but Felix more or less came home from Duke Duties to... this! So as Sylvain hovers close, he traces his thumb high over one cheekbone, mindful enough to be slow in the event he may be more tired than he lets on.
And it's a good thing that Felix turns to guide him when he does, really, because Sylvain very nearly points out that he doesn't have to be doing anything when he looks like this, but hey! If he wants to be doing something, then Sylvain will volunteer in a heartbeat.
Instead, he absolutely follows that carrot--because listen, it's a very tempting carrot, okay?--and trails after him, humming a vague noise in acknowledgement. He's going to look at every damn room with the most critical eye his entire stay now, just you wait.
"You really won't give me any hints, huh...?" Like... none none? "When did you even have the time?"
It's not important, and yet it is, because he knows how busy Felix is!! He knows how often he travels! This is not a simple plan, by any means, or even a relatively quick one... He has to at least ask!
[Duke duties... duketies, if you will... take up so much of Felix's time, it's true, but as he huffs out an amused breath:]
I made time.
[For Sylvain. Always—and that means that Sylvain can find the time to bang him in as many rooms as possible, The End. Anyway, though this is Felix's house! He is the lord and master of all that he sees—but does he slowly crack open the door? Does he peek his head out and make sure absolutely no one is in sight before finally dragging Sylvain out into the hallway? Yes. The last thing he needs is one of his servants seeing him wandering about half-naked, not because it's embarrassing but because they'd probably try to bring him, like, fifty unnecessary things. The rest of their night should be peaceful.
Their bath, at least, is... mostly peaceful. Sylvain definitely does The Most, as Sylvain is wont to do, but Felix is nothing if not disciplined; he ensures the focus is getting clean, scrubs both himself and Sylvain with ruthless efficiency even as Sylvain looks for any excuse to pull him closer. He's not opposed to affection, even after the afterglow really and truly fades, but! Time and place, you know... time and place.
And the time is now, and the place is Felix's bedroom. He's still wearing Sylvain's shirt when they enter, having put it back on the moment he was clean, and he makes no attempt to remove it; instead, he pads right over to the wide bed, pulls back the heavy furs, and slips beneath them, still damp enough from their bath to be chilled. Maybe Sylvain wants to, like, throw on a shirt, or exchange his pants for smallclothes? Felix doesn't know—but he still shoots Sylvain a Look over the covers, clearly impatient. It must be nice to be so warm all the time, sir! So nice.]
Of course he made time. That's a lot of what their relationship thus far has been, isn't it? Making time for each other during war, during peace, during work, and so on. Which, naturally, means that yes: Sylvain will, true to form, make the time to bang Felix in as many rooms as possible. That's love!!
And so is showing, like, at least a little restraint when it comes to the temptation that is bathing with the man he plans to bang in as many rooms as possible... A little. He said he would take responsibility for the mess he helped make, after all--and he does--but there's also something to be said about the calmness that moments like these bring with them. That glowing ember stuck right in-between his ribs, new sparks of fondness bursting within him with every grumbled complaint or exasperated sigh. His wandering hands eventually agree to compromise by busying themselves with Felix's hair instead, teasing through the strands until they're soft and smooth and easily gathered in one hand when he leaves careful kisses along the other man's nape.
In other words: by the time they reach Felix's room, the coil of heat in Sylvain's stomach has simmered into a tender sort of warmth that absolutely threatens to return full force at how unfairly fucking attractive this scene he's found himself in really is. So like, forgive him for taking an extra, like... five seconds to just take in the sight presented to him before he graces that order with a response.
"You could say please," he suggests, pleasantly, as if he isn't actively stripping down to join him even without. Honestly, he'll match whatever state of undress Felix is in, sans the shirt?? The man has no shame and is also a functional space heater in bed, so like, the fewer layers the better. But once he does climb under the covers, he won't waste any time before he's pressing up close, one arm sliding around Felix's waist to slip beneath his shirt--just to rest his palm flat against the skin beneath, nothing more and nothing less. "And you should definitely wear this more often."
Or like, any of his shirts, probably? This one is just convenient.
[Ask nicely? Why in the world would Felix ever do such a thing? Sylvain is as easygoing as Felix is not, and thus Felix remains exactly where he is, mouth hidden under the covers as he watches and waits. Maybe it's selfish to—no, no. It's definitely selfish to make demand after demand, but that's how things work with them. Sylvain is... too good to him by half, Felix sometimes thinks. Too selfless.
But in this moment, at least, it's perfect. Sylvain is perfect as he strips off his clothing, as he slips in beside him and easily pulls him just that much closer—and Felix is struck, as always, by how easily they seem to fit together. Even lying face-to-face like this isn't as awkward as it should be? He brings a hand to curl against Sylvain's bare chest, unable to keep himself from shivering as Sylvain's hand slithers beneath his (well, Sylvain's) shirt to press against his lower back. Warm, so warm. Absolutely everything about Sylvain is warm, including the expression on his face when Felix finally tilts his head just far enough back to look.]
Hm, [is all that he initially has to offer. A soft hum as his eyes skim Sylvain's face, as his fingers absently trace a scar that he remembers the story behind.] And yet you never leave them lying around. You're too neat.
[Is there a hint of a tease to be found in that sentence? Yes. Another difference between them: Felix is as messy as Sylvain is orderly, and thus his room is littered with hair ties, and half-empty bottles of sword oil, and various reports that he's allowed to pile up. Sylvain probably shakes his head about this every time he visits, but that's how Felix be, baybee.]
Fucking sword oil in the bedroom... lord. The reality of it is just that Sylvain tries Very Hard to not look too closely in any one direction, lest he be consumed by the overwhelming need to at least, like, straighten some things?? At least Felix is just messy and not dirty. There's only so much he can handle...
Anyway: Sylvain is also just immensely lucky that he has something--someone--so precious to keep his eye from wandering very far. Like, who cares about the abundance of scattered hair ties or papers when he can focus instead on the warm, gentle press of Felix's body against his own--comfortably cool in comparison to himself, but when have they ever not balanced each other out in just the right ways?--or when he can busy himself by tracing his eyes along the other man's features, strikingly beautiful in their familiarity.
"Is that all it'll take?" A small price to pay if this is what comes of it... but still a price nonetheless, in the end. He shifts to bring the arm not currently wrapped around Felix up, bent at the elbow near his head so he can trail his fingers down and not-so-subtly tug the shirt's collar to the side, better exposing the marks still lingering beneath. He looks them over with a low hum. "...I'll have to consider it, then."
As long as they don't get lost in all the mess Felix leaves behind!!
[He'll have to consider it, huh? Please. Felix huffs out a quiet breath, doing his best to look unimpressed even as the weight of Sylvain's gaze sends a blush creeping up the back of his neck. He knows that Sylvain is, ah, admiring his handiwork, and that's—it's fine, it's nothing new, and yet his heart still speeds up the slightest bit. It's one part Felix's dislike of being stared at, three parts Felix's very, very fresh memories of their office escapade...
...Hmm. It's lust, yes, but mostly love. A frankly overwhelming amount of love that would more than likely send his head spinning, were they not safely lying in bed.]
Did I say that was all?
[He did not. There's so much more to this than a certain someone leaving the occasional shirt draped over the back of a chair, and Felix considers it all as he slips a calf between Sylvain's.]
You'll need to visit more often, [he says, but not as archly as he intends; there is, in fact, a hint of a plea to be heard, and he hates it even as he continues on with:] Stay longer.
[Selfish, selfish, selfish—and almost impossible, until this Sreng business is sorted out, but? But. Felix wants what he wants, and what he wants... is Sylvain. Always.]
Hmm. That blush is definitely worth note, and were Sylvain a weaker man, he would give in to the urge to roll over him just to see what it would take for it to spread over his cheeks, down his chest... but Sylvain is not a weaker man, or at least he's no weaker to this than he always is, and so he settles for simply letting his hand slip from Felix's lower back, down to his ass instead. He brings his other hand up to Felix's face as well, brushing loose hair behind an ear with a feather-light touch as his eyes lift and linger at his lips.
He snorts a silent laugh at first, expecting some outlandish demand (cute) or a request more immediate (hot), but even as he pulls Felix in more tightly against him, what he does say... it gives him pause, as that hand at his face freezes where it is, because that request... that tone, subtle and yet so, so loud... Sylvain isn't sure he's ever been so aware of his heart before; he wonders if this is what it feels like when it bursts, or when it shatters.
"Felix..."
It's hardly more than a breath, tenuous and wavering and too full of emotion to condense into just a word. These visits are never long enough, haven't ever been long enough, and what he wouldn't give to stay... Sreng pulls him north, and Fhirdiad pulls Felix south, and responsibility chokes them both--but these fleeting trips are the breath of air their shared lungs ache for, time and time again.
And Felix knows how badly he wishes he could stay. They both know it isn't something so easily fixed. Sylvain knows, and Sylvain hates it, and yet with little else to be done--not now, not when Felix is here and warm in his arms--he can only let his hand relax against the side of Felix's face, looking with an open adoration and reverence that could suggest it's the world itself cradled against his palm. He leans in, not quite to close the distance between them, not yet, but significantly lessening it all the same as if he can't stand to leave it there at all.
"...Is that all?" he asks, quiet, because he will. He will until a day comes where he doesn't need to leave again at all, one way or another, and he'll promise that to Felix as many times as he needs to hear.
[It is... a childish request, at best. Felix understands this—even feels somewhat ashamed of himself, when Sylvain falls silent—but he can't help it? Once he thought he was better on his own; now he knows that is patently untrue, because he's better, at his best, when Sylvain is by his side.
And Faerghus is at its best when Sylvain is minding its border and Felix is minding its king. The things they do for the kingdom that took so much from them! Not that Felix allows himself to think about that; it is... so much better to savor the feeling of Sylvain's hands on his bare skin. The look Sylvain is giving him, as intense as it is.]
For now.
[He can't even pretend to be wholly unaffected. His walls are down, down, down, as they usually are when Sylvain is involved; all he can do is swallow, pull his hand away from Sylvain's chest just to curl his fingers around the wrist of the hand cupping his cheek. He wants this... to stay, please, as he takes a moment to consider his words.]
What I said in— [The office? The throes of passion? Take your pick, Sylvain, but—ah, there it is! There's the color finding its way to Felix's face at last, and Felix feels the heat as he holds Sylvain's stare for a few more (agonizing) seconds. It is, he supposes, the least he can do. The best way to prove he's being serious when he finally wills himself to say:] ...I meant it, you know. All of it.
[He would like... to duck his head, thanks! To press his face into Sylvain's chest as he waits for whatever response Sylvain will give him, but—no, no. He still has hold of Sylvain's wrist; it's easy to keep that hand in place as he turns his head to the side, just far enough for him to brush the lightest of kisses across Sylvain's lance-roughened palm. This is Payback (and totally not an excuse to look away before he combusts, thanks).]
If Felix wants his hand there, then he'll never take it back. If he ever truly asked him to stay--if there ever came a day where he chose a different path, regardless of why or where it might lead--then Sylvain could only ever follow. The rest of the world could come falling down around them, and he would be satisfied just as long as he could be at Felix's side until they breathed their very last. Being in love is a dangerous thing for a man like him, but then, he's always been a little bit reckless.
It's worth it to see that blush, honestly? To witness that pause (Sylvain's glad he was already smiling, although it does widen just a teensy bit as he tries not to laugh) and to hear that continuation--as if he had to clarify. As if Sylvain hadn't believed him.
Or, as he finally looks away: as if he's to embarrassed to say what he means properly. And like... the thing is, Sylvain knows Felix. He loves Felix. More than the world and life itself.
He just also loves to tease Felix. So, even if he remembers exactly what was said... and even if the reminder (of both the words and the context) has his heart skipping into a much faster pace than before... the soft look on his face only lasts a moment more before he hums, sliding his unoccupied hand lower still to the back of one thigh so he can hitch that leg up.
"I'm not sure I remember," he murmurs, pushed up just enough to like, almost lean over him as he shifts to tangle their legs more properly together. "Say it again for me...?"
[Listen: Felix isn't the least bit embarrassed by the many, many things that he feels, but expressing them? While Sylvain is staring at him? That is... difficult—and of course Sylvain has to go and make it more difficult by pulling him even closer. It's an onslaught and Felix is, mmm, unprepared, as evidenced by the way he attempts to use Sylvain's broad hand as a sort of shield. This level of contact is good; it's great, actually, thanks to the thigh slotting so easily between his own, but something, something, Felix's poor pride...]
I won't, [he grumbles, knowing full well that he will soon enough. It's why he presses Sylvain's hand back against his too-warm cheek.] I know that you remember.
[Because Sylvain was hanging onto Felix's every word, reacting to Felix's every move. More memories spring to mind, which is why Felix pointedly does not make eye contact with the man rudely hovering above him. Let him live!]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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Especially once his shirt settles loose against the other man's shoulders... He's always understood the appeal in theory, but the thought of it had never done anything but make his skin crawl, before; he'd known he would want to throw whatever shirt or jacket had been borrowed away, just so he'd never have to wear it again. But just like Felix is the exception in just about everything else, there is definitely something... mmm, enticing about seeing him like this. The marks over his collar put on display... the fact it only provides the absolute barest means of coverage, so little left to the imagination... the silent declaration, if perhaps only for his own sake, that Felix is his--paired with the knowledge of why he's wearing it in the first place, the memory still fresh and vivid in his mind. It's... oof. BIG fuckin' oof, and for the second time in this very, embarrassingly short period, Sylvain considers their odds or the night.
He doesn't even notice the way Felix looks him over, too busy doing the same damn thing in turn, but he does cross the short distance at that well. He lifts his hands to feign fixing the collar for him, only so he can lift his chin to steal a kiss; it's short, but it's definitely not chaste.
"You're making it really hard to want to go anywhere, you know." He is... a horny teenager! He will BE a horny teenager until he's 95. Felix, this is what you chose, and what you chose is someone who needs to be dragged to the damn tub before he really does have to sleep in the guest room.
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...And there are some, of course. Just as there are some to be found on Felix's face, but he brushes that from his mind as he allows Sylvain to tilt his head back, to kiss him so briefly, yet so thoroughly. He is... content, more or less. He will never get enough of Sylvain, he knows, but their encounter atop his (family's) desk sated his hunger—or so it seemed. This kiss, however, sparks that familiar heat low in his stomach, and though it's dull for now, he knows—knows—that it could light back up in a few short minutes. If they take it slow? Keep it soft.
Hmm. Something to consider, he supposes, as he cracks open his eyes, offers Sylvain a small smirk. It's fine. They have time.]
I'm not doing anything.
[Other than wear a shirt, he means, but far be it from him to point that out. It's easier to just reach up and curl his fingers around one of Sylvain's wrists, taking a moment to appreciate something as simple as touching Sylvain before he tries to turn them both toward the door.]
Besides, [he continues, so casually,] you found what I hid in this room.
[Felix doesn't like horses, but he knows that sometimes you just have to dangle a carrot in front of them if you want them to move? And even if they don't do anything else tonight, so help him, he is not climbing back on top of that desk.]
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And it's a good thing that Felix turns to guide him when he does, really, because Sylvain very nearly points out that he doesn't have to be doing anything when he looks like this, but hey! If he wants to be doing something, then Sylvain will volunteer in a heartbeat.
Instead, he absolutely follows that carrot--because listen, it's a very tempting carrot, okay?--and trails after him, humming a vague noise in acknowledgement. He's going to look at every damn room with the most critical eye his entire stay now, just you wait.
"You really won't give me any hints, huh...?" Like... none none? "When did you even have the time?"
It's not important, and yet it is, because he knows how busy Felix is!! He knows how often he travels! This is not a simple plan, by any means, or even a relatively quick one... He has to at least ask!
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I made time.
[For Sylvain. Always—and that means that Sylvain can find the time to bang him in as many rooms as possible, The End. Anyway, though this is Felix's house! He is the lord and master of all that he sees—but does he slowly crack open the door? Does he peek his head out and make sure absolutely no one is in sight before finally dragging Sylvain out into the hallway? Yes. The last thing he needs is one of his servants seeing him wandering about half-naked, not because it's embarrassing but because they'd probably try to bring him, like, fifty unnecessary things. The rest of their night should be peaceful.
Their bath, at least, is... mostly peaceful. Sylvain definitely does The Most, as Sylvain is wont to do, but Felix is nothing if not disciplined; he ensures the focus is getting clean, scrubs both himself and Sylvain with ruthless efficiency even as Sylvain looks for any excuse to pull him closer. He's not opposed to affection, even after the afterglow really and truly fades, but! Time and place, you know... time and place.
And the time is now, and the place is Felix's bedroom. He's still wearing Sylvain's shirt when they enter, having put it back on the moment he was clean, and he makes no attempt to remove it; instead, he pads right over to the wide bed, pulls back the heavy furs, and slips beneath them, still damp enough from their bath to be chilled. Maybe Sylvain wants to, like, throw on a shirt, or exchange his pants for smallclothes? Felix doesn't know—but he still shoots Sylvain a Look over the covers, clearly impatient. It must be nice to be so warm all the time, sir! So nice.]
Hurry up.
[Him! COLD! And as bossy as ever.]
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And so is showing, like, at least a little restraint when it comes to the temptation that is bathing with the man he plans to bang in as many rooms as possible... A little. He said he would take responsibility for the mess he helped make, after all--and he does--but there's also something to be said about the calmness that moments like these bring with them. That glowing ember stuck right in-between his ribs, new sparks of fondness bursting within him with every grumbled complaint or exasperated sigh. His wandering hands eventually agree to compromise by busying themselves with Felix's hair instead, teasing through the strands until they're soft and smooth and easily gathered in one hand when he leaves careful kisses along the other man's nape.
In other words: by the time they reach Felix's room, the coil of heat in Sylvain's stomach has simmered into a tender sort of warmth that absolutely threatens to return full force at how unfairly fucking attractive this scene he's found himself in really is. So like, forgive him for taking an extra, like... five seconds to just take in the sight presented to him before he graces that order with a response.
"You could say please," he suggests, pleasantly, as if he isn't actively stripping down to join him even without. Honestly, he'll match whatever state of undress Felix is in, sans the shirt?? The man has no shame and is also a functional space heater in bed, so like, the fewer layers the better. But once he does climb under the covers, he won't waste any time before he's pressing up close, one arm sliding around Felix's waist to slip beneath his shirt--just to rest his palm flat against the skin beneath, nothing more and nothing less. "And you should definitely wear this more often."
Or like, any of his shirts, probably? This one is just convenient.
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But in this moment, at least, it's perfect. Sylvain is perfect as he strips off his clothing, as he slips in beside him and easily pulls him just that much closer—and Felix is struck, as always, by how easily they seem to fit together. Even lying face-to-face like this isn't as awkward as it should be? He brings a hand to curl against Sylvain's bare chest, unable to keep himself from shivering as Sylvain's hand slithers beneath his (well, Sylvain's) shirt to press against his lower back. Warm, so warm. Absolutely everything about Sylvain is warm, including the expression on his face when Felix finally tilts his head just far enough back to look.]
Hm, [is all that he initially has to offer. A soft hum as his eyes skim Sylvain's face, as his fingers absently trace a scar that he remembers the story behind.] And yet you never leave them lying around. You're too neat.
[Is there a hint of a tease to be found in that sentence? Yes. Another difference between them: Felix is as messy as Sylvain is orderly, and thus his room is littered with hair ties, and half-empty bottles of sword oil, and various reports that he's allowed to pile up. Sylvain probably shakes his head about this every time he visits, but that's how Felix be, baybee.]
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Anyway: Sylvain is also just immensely lucky that he has something--someone--so precious to keep his eye from wandering very far. Like, who cares about the abundance of scattered hair ties or papers when he can focus instead on the warm, gentle press of Felix's body against his own--comfortably cool in comparison to himself, but when have they ever not balanced each other out in just the right ways?--or when he can busy himself by tracing his eyes along the other man's features, strikingly beautiful in their familiarity.
"Is that all it'll take?" A small price to pay if this is what comes of it... but still a price nonetheless, in the end. He shifts to bring the arm not currently wrapped around Felix up, bent at the elbow near his head so he can trail his fingers down and not-so-subtly tug the shirt's collar to the side, better exposing the marks still lingering beneath. He looks them over with a low hum. "...I'll have to consider it, then."
As long as they don't get lost in all the mess Felix leaves behind!!
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...Hmm. It's lust, yes, but mostly love. A frankly overwhelming amount of love that would more than likely send his head spinning, were they not safely lying in bed.]
Did I say that was all?
[He did not. There's so much more to this than a certain someone leaving the occasional shirt draped over the back of a chair, and Felix considers it all as he slips a calf between Sylvain's.]
You'll need to visit more often, [he says, but not as archly as he intends; there is, in fact, a hint of a plea to be heard, and he hates it even as he continues on with:] Stay longer.
[Selfish, selfish, selfish—and almost impossible, until this Sreng business is sorted out, but? But. Felix wants what he wants, and what he wants... is Sylvain. Always.]
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He snorts a silent laugh at first, expecting some outlandish demand (cute) or a request more immediate (hot), but even as he pulls Felix in more tightly against him, what he does say... it gives him pause, as that hand at his face freezes where it is, because that request... that tone, subtle and yet so, so loud... Sylvain isn't sure he's ever been so aware of his heart before; he wonders if this is what it feels like when it bursts, or when it shatters.
"Felix..."
It's hardly more than a breath, tenuous and wavering and too full of emotion to condense into just a word. These visits are never long enough, haven't ever been long enough, and what he wouldn't give to stay... Sreng pulls him north, and Fhirdiad pulls Felix south, and responsibility chokes them both--but these fleeting trips are the breath of air their shared lungs ache for, time and time again.
And Felix knows how badly he wishes he could stay. They both know it isn't something so easily fixed. Sylvain knows, and Sylvain hates it, and yet with little else to be done--not now, not when Felix is here and warm in his arms--he can only let his hand relax against the side of Felix's face, looking with an open adoration and reverence that could suggest it's the world itself cradled against his palm. He leans in, not quite to close the distance between them, not yet, but significantly lessening it all the same as if he can't stand to leave it there at all.
"...Is that all?" he asks, quiet, because he will. He will until a day comes where he doesn't need to leave again at all, one way or another, and he'll promise that to Felix as many times as he needs to hear.
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And Faerghus is at its best when Sylvain is minding its border and Felix is minding its king. The things they do for the kingdom that took so much from them! Not that Felix allows himself to think about that; it is... so much better to savor the feeling of Sylvain's hands on his bare skin. The look Sylvain is giving him, as intense as it is.]
For now.
[He can't even pretend to be wholly unaffected. His walls are down, down, down, as they usually are when Sylvain is involved; all he can do is swallow, pull his hand away from Sylvain's chest just to curl his fingers around the wrist of the hand cupping his cheek. He wants this... to stay, please, as he takes a moment to consider his words.]
What I said in— [The office? The throes of passion? Take your pick, Sylvain, but—ah, there it is! There's the color finding its way to Felix's face at last, and Felix feels the heat as he holds Sylvain's stare for a few more (agonizing) seconds. It is, he supposes, the least he can do. The best way to prove he's being serious when he finally wills himself to say:] ...I meant it, you know. All of it.
[He would like... to duck his head, thanks! To press his face into Sylvain's chest as he waits for whatever response Sylvain will give him, but—no, no. He still has hold of Sylvain's wrist; it's easy to keep that hand in place as he turns his head to the side, just far enough for him to brush the lightest of kisses across Sylvain's lance-roughened palm. This is Payback (and totally not an excuse to look away before he combusts, thanks).]
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It's worth it to see that blush, honestly? To witness that pause (Sylvain's glad he was already smiling, although it does widen just a teensy bit as he tries not to laugh) and to hear that continuation--as if he had to clarify. As if Sylvain hadn't believed him.
Or, as he finally looks away: as if he's to embarrassed to say what he means properly. And like... the thing is, Sylvain knows Felix. He loves Felix. More than the world and life itself.
He just also loves to tease Felix. So, even if he remembers exactly what was said... and even if the reminder (of both the words and the context) has his heart skipping into a much faster pace than before... the soft look on his face only lasts a moment more before he hums, sliding his unoccupied hand lower still to the back of one thigh so he can hitch that leg up.
"I'm not sure I remember," he murmurs, pushed up just enough to like, almost lean over him as he shifts to tangle their legs more properly together. "Say it again for me...?"
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I won't, [he grumbles, knowing full well that he will soon enough. It's why he presses Sylvain's hand back against his too-warm cheek.] I know that you remember.
[Because Sylvain was hanging onto Felix's every word, reacting to Felix's every move. More memories spring to mind, which is why Felix pointedly does not make eye contact with the man rudely hovering above him. Let him live!]
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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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