[For as many years they've spent alongside one another, one would think that Felix would be used to this by now! That Felix would think twice before trying to get smart with Sylvain, because Felix knows—knows—how sharp this man is. He can beat Sylvain in a spar nine times out of ten; like, he's quite sure of that, but winning a battle of wits? A war of words? Hmm.
Or: Felix done fucked up, even if it's hard to view it as a true loss when Sylvain just up and kisses his hand in such a tender manner. That is—well! Sylvain decimating him with such a simple point while, say, pressing his lips to Felix's neck would have undoubtedly made Felix flush a darker shade of pink; Sylvain murmuring said point against his palm, however—such a surprisingly sensitive part of him!—makes Felix flush crimson, heat spreading right back to his (mercifully hidden) ears, because ah, that is... positively indecent. Who does that? Seriously, who does this sort of ridiculous thing without looking and feeling like an absolute idiot...
...Sylvain, of course. It's easy for Felix to forget just how charming he really is, but goddess, if it isn't blinding at times! Like right now, actually, which is why Felix glances off to the side, hand twitching oh-so lightly against Sylvain's stomach as he tries to think. Let him scowl over at the wall, like this is a totally normal thing to do.]
Only because you wouldn't stop talking, [is the best retort he has to offer, and judging by the quick way he says it, he's well aware that it's stupid. Did he keep going because Sylvain wouldn't stop talking? No, and they both fucking know it, hence his quieter, somewhat sullen addition of:] I didn't hear you complaining.
It's probably for the best that Felix turns away when he does, because seeing the color spread over his cheeks, a distractingly obvious shade that creeps its way even beneath the dark contrast of his hair as he glances to the side, throws Sylvain's mental faculties well enough that for a moment all he can do is stare. He wants to tease him for it... but he also wants to try for probably the thousandth time to convey in words how unfairly fucking gorgeous he is?? Two great wants in conflict with one another... especially when there's as high a chance of getting told to shut up for both, the former for pushing his luck, and the latter because it would probably sound, like, immensely cheesy, even for him. Plus, he's pretty sure Felix doesn't actually believe him when he tries.
So yeah, he ends up just staring again, like the lovestruck fool he really IS, with that hand still held (looser now, distracted as he is) against his lips. At least until Felix tacks that last bit on, anyway, at which point he snaps back to reality ope there goes gravity as a fresh flood of fondness washes through him and renews that aching desire to be closer he's felt since... well, since well before he'd even left Gautier territory, honestly. Since they were allowed to get closer than they already were to begin with.
One short laugh does escape him, slightly muffled against the other man's wrist, and then he's bringing the hand that had fallen from his hair to Felix's chin, while he sort of like... tosses-but-in-a-guiding-sort-of-way Felix's hand over his own shoulder? Kind of a pointed suggestion to wrap it around his shoulders as he leans down to wrap his own newly freed arm around him again in turn, taking a second to just hold their faces close.
"You don't actually think I'd complain, do you? I haven't wanted to stop kissing you since I got here, Felix."
Soft, incredulous, as if he can't possibly believe that a time in which he'd want anything else would exist, even in the realm of Felix's habitual taunts. But he's quick to continue, softer still:
"If talking's the issue..." Then... well! The time for talking has officially passed! He trails off only so he can bring their lips together, slow at first but again: purposeful. Especially when he lets both arms fall, fitting themselves to hold Felix tightly to him, because... listen. The desk wins, he is absolutely going to lift him up so he can turn them towards it. His first priority is to get Felix safely on it, his arms bracketing his hips as he leans into him; his second, then, is to breathe into the space between their lips, however short-lived he hopes it to be, "How's this for a solution?"
[Felix isn't quite sure what he's expecting as he stands there, feeling Sylvain's eyes on him as he stubbornly refuses to look back the other man's way. He's red enough as it is! He'd like to let at least a bit of that fade before he finds another way to make a fool of himself—but that's an impossible wish, apparently, because as Sylvain leans right back in, sliding his arms around him while saying the sweetest thing Felix has heard in weeks, Felix knows that the warmth in his cheeks is here to stay. Unfortunate.
...But just barely, really. There are certainly worse states to be in, worse places to be, and so Felix chooses to focus on winding both arms around Sylvain's neck, eyes fluttering closed as he's kissed. It's... a different type of hunger he's feeling low in his stomach now? Deeper, somehow. Mellower, in a way, because while he certainly wants this idiot, he's once again aware that he absolutely, positively loves this idiot; it's why he bites back a complaint when he's lifted off his feet, even though they both know that he's never been good at relinquishing any sort of control. There usually has to be a fight for such a thing, and if it just so happens to be, um, short and somewhat staged, that's fine; it's for his pride more than it is anything else.
Sylvain, however, just so happens to be landing critical hit after critical hit? Felix is left defenseless when he's placed atop his desk, too caught up in love and lust and keeping this kiss going—until, you know, Sylvain feels the need to break apart just to drop a cheesy line. It takes Felix a second to register this; like, he's sitting there, watching Sylvain through half-lidded eyes as he dazedly works out what to do with his legs and what in the world to say. "You're still talking," perhaps, or the much ruder, "You still haven't asked for anything," or what if he chooses to say nothing at all... what if he just shifts around for a second, making sure the papers he's sitting on aren't going to lead to him, like, slipping right off the—
—wait? Wait, wait, wait. He's suddenly very, very aware that his ass is sitting on hard (and slightly uncomfortable) wood? Wood that hasn't seen the light of day in, like, months, so give him a second to turn his head, to blink down at the stretch of desk beside him before he jerks with surprise. 3... 2... 1...]
...You. [YOU!] You cleaned.
[There's surprise in his voice, yes, but there's an edge to it that marks it clearly as what it is: an accusation. You fucked with his stuff, Gautier??? You moved his shit around??? You deserve this look he's leveling your way, because ah, flustered Felix is quickly fading away... better do something to recapture that Mood...]
Is Sylvain patting himself on the back as soon as that look lands on him? Maybe so! The desk was definitely the Correct choice, and in the silence, it's easy to let his thoughts wander, even as Felix's attention starts to do the same. And then...
...Ah. You know, he can actually pinpoint the exact moment that realization hits, and it's almost comical? Like, in literally any other instance, he might laugh outright and shrug it off... point out how it never would be cleaned if he didn't step in... Just, essentially, really drive home the point that Felix should be grateful, because one day that stack of papers might end up taller than he is (not that that would take much) and they might not be able to fish him out of it in time.
But in this instance, for all the tension between them threatens to snap under the weight of that dumb accusation, while he does lean back just enough to give Felix the space he needs to inspect his surroundings--he even ducks his head to snort a soft laugh at how drastic the shift in his expression is--he doesn't feel like bickering right now?? Not about this, anyway, when there are so many other things they could be focusing on. So that You only gets a flash of an unapologetic smirk before Sylvain is leaning right back in, one hand sliding up from its place beside Felix to brace itself flat against the top of one thigh instead. Can't wait for some unwitting servant to come by in like five minutes with a proper, dry set of clothes for the evening, only to walk in on this hot mess.
"You're welcome," he teases, because don't worry, Felix: he can hear that unspoken, unintended 'thank you' as loudly as anything. But hey?? As much as he loves Felix as he is, no matter what, EVEN when he's being a stubborn shit... he'd really like if he went back to giving him that first Look, instead of the one that says he should probably sleep with his eyes open...? It was a good look!! And as luck would have it, Sylvain is all too happy to brave the oncoming storm to get it back, especially if all it takes is for him to kiss him just breathless enough to convince him that anything else can fucking wait.
[Those are incredibly important documents, Sylvain. Felix needs to know where they are at a moment's notice—which is why this new System will definitely come in handy, once Sylvain finds the time to actually explain its ins and outs, but for now Felix is allowed to be this... this righteously indignant!
But the hand settling atop his thigh... helps? A bit? Sylvain coming in for a kiss helps infinitely more, because really, it's hard for Felix to feel anything but satisfied when he's being kissed so very thoroughly. That isn't to say that he doesn't try; like, he spends the first few seconds biting at Sylvain's lips, worrying them to tenderness out of sheer, stubborn spite. Suffer...
...Not for long, though. Not for long at all, in the grand scheme of things—and perhaps Felix should be somewhat embarrassed by how quickly he snakes a leg around Sylvain's, ensuring that the other man remains close as he tilts his head back and allows this kiss to soften, to deepen? There's certainly no excuse for the way he pulls one arm free from atop Sylvain's shoulders, allowing his hand to drift down Sylvain's cheek, the side of his neck, his chest. It's easy to remain annoyed by the world and everyone in it; it's so, so difficult to remain annoyed at Sylvain. He cheats.
Well, whatever! Felix will take what little victories he can, hence the way his fingers once again find their way to the hem of Sylvain's shirt—but rather than slip beneath it, he grabs a handful of fabric and tugs it upward. Take this... off? Take this off, because it's been a month and he'd like to touch as much skin as he possibly can.
His shirt, however? He's in no real hurry to take it off at this point, even if it is blocking his neck. Alas...]
Edited 2019-10-18 05:38 (UTC)
It's been a month for Felix but now it's been longer than than for us, we're all fucking parched
If this is what suffering is like, then Sylvain is so fucking ready for hell. He'd brave eternal flames without question for more chances to kiss Felix like this, so braving those teeth is nothing in comparison--especially not when they finally ease back to where they'd left off and he can feel the other man relax again against him. Felix might be the one to draw him in, but like, realistically? He should know Sylvain is all too eager to follow. He's certainly shameless enough to voice his approval of even this much, a low moan caught between them as he presses forward as much as the desk will allow.
It's easy for him to get caught up in moments like this, all but basking in the warmth that every gentle touch leaves in its wake. He's known how lucky he is his whole life, and yet it's only ever with Felix that it feels real, because what else could it be if not luck? Lucky to be born where he was--when he was--born at all, so he could have his whole life to promise him; lucky to have a Crest (and this one's thought without even a single ounce of bitterness despite it all) because fuck knows his father wouldn't have bothered sending him to the monastery if he didn't; lucky to have survived an entire war at his side, so the rest of their years can (he hopes, anyway) be spent together in relative peace; lucky to be the one to know that those hands, as stained as his own and easily twice as deadly, are just as capable of drawing fire from a man's veins with just his fingertips as they are of blood with a blade--and if he continues to be so lucky, he'll be the only one to know it, as well.
He could go on, honestly. But for the time being, his attention shifts to that insistent tug, and the only time he thinks he would agree more would be if it was that damn turtleneck he was tugging at.
At some point his hand must have migrated from its place on the desk beside him to curl against the underside of a knee, as if he might convince Felix to shift himself closer still, while his other has decided to slide upwards to grip (a bit greedily, he'll admit) at the other man's hip; to lose those points of contact, however briefly, seems like a much larger sacrifice than it should, although, hey?? Bonus of wearing shirts with buttons: he doesn't have to immediately break away to make progress! It doesn't even take any extra thought, really, to brush Felix's hand away and undo the remaining few. Just, like... give him a second to actually take it off!
He might not have to wait, but (1.) kissing him is distracting, okay, and Sylvain will absolutely wait until they do need to separate before he shrugs it off the rest of the way if given the chance, because (2.) Felix may or may not still be mad ("""mad""") that he fucked with his desk?? And potentially shifting that frustration towards something more productive--like the fact he's 'taking too long'--sounds like it would have a much better outcome.
"longer than than"... the dehydration is serious, i see
[Well, see, here's the thing: Felix does want that shirt taken off as soon as possible, but that moan more than makes up for the mess (re: the wonderfully organized system) Sylvain made of his desk? Felix is content to sit right here for the foreseeable future, fabric caught tightly in one hand as he seeks new ways to provoke another moan, another noise, another something. Sylvain may be, ah, much more generous with such things than he, himself, is, but that doesn't make them any less exciting to hear. Felix enjoys knowing that the things he does can—do—affect the person he loves most...
But Felix also enjoys remaining conscious enough to pick up on such things, so when Sylvain finally does pull away just far enough to remove his shirt—ah. Hmm. Time to lean back, take full fuckin' breaths, and do yet another thing he enjoys: watch that shirt give way to skin, because Goddess, but is there a more attractive person in this world of theirs? Felix doesn't think so. Felix hasn't thought so since their Academy days, when seeing a girl step close to Sylvain, hand resting lightly atop his chest as she giggled at his stupid jokes, was all that it took to send a burst of jealousy racing through him. He didn't understand it then; he told himself it was nothing more than annoyance with Sylvain's philandering ways, even as he wondered what, exactly, it would be like lay his own hand atop Sylvain's chest and feel the heart beating beneath the surface.
Now, however, he knows. Has known, actually. For years, but that doesn't stop him from bringing his hand back to Sylvain's bare chest as soon as that shirt hits the floor, savoring the feeling of warm skin beneath his splayed fingers—and that heartbeat he can just barely feel. Mine, he thinks, dimly, as he brings his other hand down from Sylvain's shoulder. Mine, mine, mine, he repeats, allowing his fingertips to languidly trace every familiar muscle and dip into every familiar divot as they drift lower and lower. He doesn't always know what to say; he doesn't always know what to do, compared to Sylvain "Frustratingly Smooth" Gautier, but there's a clear reverence to be found in the way he's touching Sylvain—and soaking in the (shirtless) sight of him. He loves this man. He's so incredibly weak for this man, and he wants...]
Sylvain—
[There's something almost needy about his tone, because he wants? One thing? One person? And everything else along with it, but he can't think of how to articulate it. That is, unfortunately, beyond him at this point in time, so he settles for something simpler: allowing one hand to sink even lower, fingers pressing against the shape of him (through his pants, and really, why are they still on?) even as the other hand seeks out an arm. It's not like Sylvain's hands are doing anything important on their own; surely Felix is free to grab one, to bring that broad palm to the side of his face so that he can lean his cheek right into it.]
...Sylvain.
[And this time that name is spoken so softly it's almost a sigh, because it's been so very long since he was able to be nothing more than Himself... so just love him, please? Just love him.]
*Than THAT... Listen!! At least I wasn't the one who wrote shits!
Staying conscious is an absolutely crucial first step here, it's true, but it's followed almost immediately by showing levels of restraint between the two of them that have been rapidly dwindling ever since Sylvain first crossed the threshold.
He can't help but laugh a little breathlessly at the attention though, the flush of color he can feel warming his face brought on more by the way Felix looks at him more than the fact he's looking at all. He's never been especially self-conscious about his appearance--it's hard to be, when he's had girls throwing themselves at him one right after the other (and, too often, before there was even an 'after' at all) for most of his life--but although he's long since learned the difference between love and lust, and how it feels when the two come together, he'll still catch himself marveling at how profoundly bare he feels under the weight of it all. Stripped of more than just clothes, but of title, of Crest, of everything he'd once believed himself to be, down to the innermost layers of himself... he's certain Felix could just as easily look further, could reach in and touch his very core, and somehow, impossibly, be just as satisfied with what he sees.
His eyes had fallen to follow those hands while he focused on breathing more evenly, but at the sound of his name they dart up; his fingers twitch where they'd briefly settled against the fabric over Felix's thighs. Really, he only has enough time to think of how he'd like to hear more of that tone before that hand wanders low enough for his breath to catch. He swears softly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he presses into it... maybe a little too eagerly? Let him live, alright, it's been a MONTH and he's like, the least sexually repressed man in all of Faerghus--but he'll let Felix lift his hand, savoring the warmth of his skin against his palm, the curl of the other's fingers over his own, and this time when he hears his name, he's collected himself enough to speak, leaning down to press their foreheads together.
"I know," he breathes, as if he's actually said something more meaningful than just his name, "I know... Goddess, Felix--"
He interrupts himself with a kiss, brief though it is, before he slides the fingers of his free hand beneath the hem of his turtleneck, hooking it with his thumb to sort of slip it upwards in a silent request to get it the hell out of the way.
...Or maybe a not-so-silent request, because as Sylvain moves to press his lips to the space beside his ear:
"Let me see you," he murmurs, more of a soft, needy request of his own than any sort of command. "Missed you so much, you have no idea."
me almost a month later: we will not speak of that ever! again!
[Is there such a thing as "too eagerly?" Absolutely not. Sylvain pressing into his hand is Sylvain wanting him, desperately, and Felix's head is swimming as Sylvain leans down to catch his lips in a disappointingly short kiss. He could whine when Sylvain breaks it; truth be told, he almost does, but then there are fingers slipping beneath his shirt, words whispered so close to his ear, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to bring everything back into somewhat sharper focus. He doesn't know? He doesn't know?]
I do, [he murmurs back, a trace of his typical stubbornness creeping back into his voice.] Idiot.
[He missed Sylvain every hour of every day, even if he's, ah, loath to openly admit it. But he doesn't need to, obviously; Sylvain knows him just as well as he knows Sylvain—which means that Sylvain is well aware of how Felix feels about his request. Being seen is... well! You know! Even in the heat of the moment—even after all these years!—there is still something, mmm, mildly uncomfortable about stripping away the last few layers, about laying himself bare...
...And that is stupid, because Sylvain has seen more of him than anyone else? In many ways, really, which is why, after taking a moment to firmly push the heel of his hand against Sylvain's obvious arousal, he leans back. He needs both hands, you see, to grab the hem of his turtleneck and pull it over his head in one smooth, almost impatient motion, and then that poor article of clothing is sent sailing halfway across the room. It doesn't matter where it lands; he'll just steal Sylvain's shirt when everything is said and done with, both because Sylvain's shirt is dry and because Sylvain's shirt undoubtedly smells just like him. He's sleeping in it. It's law.
But without his sweater... hmm. He feels vulnerable, in a weird way; it's why he lifts his chin as he looks back up at Sylvain, going for defiant as he tries to ignore how warm every inch of him feels. He's pink all over, he just knows it. Damn.]
Don't stare.
[He's the same as he's always been, thanks, so allow him to reach up, hands settling atop Sylvain's shoulders as he tries to pull him back down into another kiss.]
I'd forgotten until exactly this moment, and now it's the funniest thing all over again, thank you
Were Sylvain feeling particularly difficult, he might try to suggest that Felix only thinks he knows... that, although it's true that Felix knows him better than anyone, and really always HAS, there's no way that he could ever truly imagine how deeply he's missed when they're apart. He might laugh as he scatters too-light kisses over familiar features, words steeped in honey as he compares how much he misses Felix to the farthest reaches of the ocean floor, deep enough to drown in--because even if he's learned to rein in his habitual use of such flowery language over the years, he can't resist the endearingly irritated fluster it still sometimes earns him, all too apparent in the flush he can watch bloom beneath the other's skin.
For the time being, however, he decides to keep those thoughts to himself. There's a time and a place for Bickering (But With Love), and that time is not now and that place is not here!! He lets that mild insult sink in as the endearment it's become instead, following the line of his fingers to leave a trail of soft, lingering kisses over his cheek that only stutter to a stop when Felix's hand goes from being Distinctly There to Distinctly Not, and even as he takes the chance to even his own breaths, that loss is an absolute tragedy. Worse, even, than the tragedy that is flinging a soaked-through sweater Somewhere, which probably lands audibly and wetly enough against whatever bit of furniture or floor it hits first that Sylvain has to physically stop himself from glancing over at it like this, even despite their current, ah... situation... This is an office, sir...
Judgement aside, it's at least easy to go seamlessly back to ignoring everything but Felix when, conveniently, nothing matters except for Felix? Nothing matters except reclaiming the space he'd afforded him to remove his sweater, pressing just as close and reaching out to smooth his hands down Felix's sides with the same deliberate slowness as he would to soothe an anxious mare, which is a comparison he's certain would get him kicked, at the least. Especially since he's immediately going against that direction, staring with unhurried, open adoration as his eyes track his hands' movements before flickering back up to Felix's face as those hands reach his shoulders.
"I can't help it," he admits, letting himself be pulled as much as he is leaning in, himself. There's a soft smile on his face and in his voice when he adds, practically against the other's lips, "You're perfect."
It's almost quiet enough to miss, an intimate revelation of sorts that might've been lost had there been any more distance between them. He is perfect--or at least Sylvain kisses him like he is, because he's perfect for him, and damn what anyone else thinks. He's the same as he's always been, and that's exactly the point... but he'll convince him of that some day. For now, he just eases one hand back up to thread itself into Felix's hair, eventually giving it a gentle tug to tilt his head back so he can kiss his way down to his throat as well; he only pauses when he decides he's found a nice spot to suck a bruise to the surface, because you know what? Felix can wear another dumb turtleneck tomorrow for a reason other than the cold, and that's honestly just the price of having Sylvain come to visit.
[Telling Sylvain not to do something is the same as inviting him to do it, and on some level, Felix is aware of this; it's why he isn't the least bit surprised by Sylvain's open admiration, even if it is a struggle to resist the very real urge to bring a hand to Sylvain's chin and turn his face away. It's not that he's self-conscious? He's given little thought to his appearance over the years, always too focused on bettering himself in other, more important ways, but Sylvain studying him so intently is—there's a weight to it. A heaviness. The knowledge that Sylvain sees every last bit of him... and loves him, anyway.
Loves him more than anyone else, which leaves Felix feeling vulnerable even as those warm, reassuring hands remind him where he is and who he's with. Only Sylvain! The one person who knows just how he feels about hair-pulling, who knows that the feeling of lips against his neck sends his pulse racing and his breath hitching.]
And you're— [A beat, a swallow, as Sylvain decides to leave his mark, before Felix collects himself enough to spit out the rest of this short sentence.] —ridiculous.
[He's almost proud of the fact that he said a four-syllable word without any stuttering whatsoever, before he realizes, dimly, that it's a stupid thing to be proud of. But that's the true price of having Sylvain come to visit, isn't it? Good sense flies right out the window when they're together, leaving Felix with no reason not to do things like, say, claw (ineffectually, thanks to his blunted nails) at Sylvain's shoulders, urging to to come closer, to do more. He's been very patient thus far; he wants, however, what he wants, and as he digs a heel into the back of Sylvain's thigh, he's making his position clear.]
Sylvain.
[And that... is the third time he's said Sylvain's name in the past, what? Ten or so minutes? A victory in and of itself, for a certain redhead—but what makes it even better is that, beneath the clear impatience, that trace of neediness is back.]
Ridiculous... maybe! Maybe so, because only someone truly ridiculous would choose to hum in soft agreement to that accusation, rather than deny it or ignore it completely. But, again: Sylvain is a pushover when it comes to Felix? That's just a fact of life that's as integral to his person as Felix's preference for spicy foods is to his. It's why he keeps his focus where it is for a moment more, hand tightening briefly in his hair as he savors every reaction he can pull from him with the kind of lazy satisfaction that suggests he would be perfectly happy to ignore the heat pooling in his own stomach for a while longer if just to remind him of his touch. He'd burn it into every inch of his skin to last even long after they're forced apart again, if given the chance.
But Felix wants more--and if Felix wants more, then there's no reason for Sylvain not to--which is why he only makes it to the junction where neck meets shoulder before he yields, the sound of his name making for a surprisingly good argument that said pushover can't help but agree with as well.
He disentangles his fingers from Felix's hair when he pulls back, lifting his head to steal a quick kiss with a soft laugh of, "Sorry, sorry," that definitely doesn't sound sorry at all, even as he leans in for a more proper kiss and lets both hands fall to blindly undo the dumb straps at the tops of his boots, one at a time. And like, to be fair: Sylvain loves his boots! He's blessed that they've become a part of Felix's daily wardrobe. They're just also unfortunately In The Way, and okay, sure... is stripping down in the Duke's Official Office the best idea? Probably... not! It's probably at least a little bit frowned upon, but at least Felix has the excuse of needing to change into something dry. With assistance.
Once the buckles are loose though, he'll slide his one hand along the inside of Felix's thigh to make up for the wait, continuing until he can press and curve his hand around the shape of him.
"I missed you," he repeats, because there are precious few things able to keep this man quiet for very long. This time, at least, he busies his hands with something productive, working the front of Felix's pants open less than a full beat later. "I missed your voice," he adds as he slips his fingers past the fabric to wrap lightly around him--because letters aren't the same as having him here. And then quieter, as he tightens his grip just enough to offer the slow drag of his hand by way of some temporary relief: "I missed having you in my bed."
Because Gautier nights are cold, and few went by that he didn't want after the press of heated skin against his own, hot breaths panted into the dark of the room surrounding, but he's certain not a single one went by that he didn't think of how he would rather just be holding him in the first place.
[Oh, of course Sylvain isn't the least bit apologetic—and the truth is that Felix doesn't want him to be? Doesn't really mind that Sylvain fumbling blindly with his boots means it's going to take the man, like, twice as long to loosen them, because Felix is free to bring his hands up, fingers settling lightly atop Sylvain's cheekbones as he focuses on little more than controlling this kiss. It's hot and hungry, all teeth and tongue, except for those brief moments Felix lifts a thigh to, ah, make Sylvain's noble endeavor just a tad easier. See that! He's helping.
And Sylvain's hand sliding up, up, up his thigh is a decent enough reward on its own. There's no reason for Felix to stifle his gasp as it presses against him; there's no way for him to bite back the quietest of moans when it's suddenly wrapped around him, and he instinctively jerks his hips upward, seeking more friction than that single pull provides. He is going to die here, on the desk he hates, and it is entirely Sylvain's fault. Goddess, he hates this man.
No, no. That's a lie, because this is the only man who would dare to tease him while saying such ridiculously cheesy things. Goddess, he loves this man, which is why he slides his hands back into that messy red hair, leaning forward to press the quickest of kisses to the corner of his mouth... and then another, just for good measure. For all that Felix claims to hate Sylvain's lines, they both know the truth: he's weak to them in moments precisely like this one. They shake him to his very core—and send him blushing to the very tips of his ears. Ugh.]
If you don't hurry up, [he attempts to snap, even as the breathy quality of his voice ruins it entirely,] I won't let you into mine.
[The threat of the guest chamber has returneth! And just to drive that point home, he (gently) tugs at Sylvain's hair. Don't give him more cheese... except do, absolutely do, he's too tsundere to deal with this.]
Is there any better time to tease Felix than while he's saying cheesy lines? Hmm. Tough call... like, on the one hand, there's the simple fact that Sylvain loves to run his mouth--more importantly, Sylvain loves to see what he can do to him with little more than his words alone, and so it's ridiculously satisfying to see that telltale flush rising in his face. On the other hand, he feels there's still something to be said about teasing Felix and saying nothing at all. It's satisfying in an entirely different way when he doesn't need to say anything--or can't, for one reason or another--and yet can still watch Felix fall apart for him, only for him...
In any case, that tug makes his breath catch, and that threat is REAL, but Sylvain is... undaunted! He brings his unoccupied hand around to pull Felix just a little nearer to the edge of the desk, while his occupied one determines a slow, lazy rhythm in contrast with his quickened pulse.
"What if I'd rather take my time with you...?" A bold question from someone so damn parched, but to his credit, his voice doesn't falter.
But hmm... what if, you know... What if he'd rather earn more of those breathless retorts and quiet moans? What if he wanted to take this chance to re-memorize how he sounds, and how he feels, and how he tastes, so that the next time one of them has to leave, he might survive until they're together again?
[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Or: Felix done fucked up, even if it's hard to view it as a true loss when Sylvain just up and kisses his hand in such a tender manner. That is—well! Sylvain decimating him with such a simple point while, say, pressing his lips to Felix's neck would have undoubtedly made Felix flush a darker shade of pink; Sylvain murmuring said point against his palm, however—such a surprisingly sensitive part of him!—makes Felix flush crimson, heat spreading right back to his (mercifully hidden) ears, because ah, that is... positively indecent. Who does that? Seriously, who does this sort of ridiculous thing without looking and feeling like an absolute idiot...
...Sylvain, of course. It's easy for Felix to forget just how charming he really is, but goddess, if it isn't blinding at times! Like right now, actually, which is why Felix glances off to the side, hand twitching oh-so lightly against Sylvain's stomach as he tries to think. Let him scowl over at the wall, like this is a totally normal thing to do.]
Only because you wouldn't stop talking, [is the best retort he has to offer, and judging by the quick way he says it, he's well aware that it's stupid. Did he keep going because Sylvain wouldn't stop talking? No, and they both fucking know it, hence his quieter, somewhat sullen addition of:] I didn't hear you complaining.
[Him... baby. Petty, obviously flustered baby.]
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So yeah, he ends up just staring again, like the lovestruck fool he really IS, with that hand still held (looser now, distracted as he is) against his lips. At least until Felix tacks that last bit on, anyway, at which point he snaps back to reality
ope there goes gravityas a fresh flood of fondness washes through him and renews that aching desire to be closer he's felt since... well, since well before he'd even left Gautier territory, honestly. Since they were allowed to get closer than they already were to begin with.One short laugh does escape him, slightly muffled against the other man's wrist, and then he's bringing the hand that had fallen from his hair to Felix's chin, while he sort of like... tosses-but-in-a-guiding-sort-of-way Felix's hand over his own shoulder? Kind of a pointed suggestion to wrap it around his shoulders as he leans down to wrap his own newly freed arm around him again in turn, taking a second to just hold their faces close.
"You don't actually think I'd complain, do you? I haven't wanted to stop kissing you since I got here, Felix."
Soft, incredulous, as if he can't possibly believe that a time in which he'd want anything else would exist, even in the realm of Felix's habitual taunts. But he's quick to continue, softer still:
"If talking's the issue..." Then... well! The time for talking has officially passed! He trails off only so he can bring their lips together, slow at first but again: purposeful. Especially when he lets both arms fall, fitting themselves to hold Felix tightly to him, because... listen. The desk wins, he is absolutely going to lift him up so he can turn them towards it. His first priority is to get Felix safely on it, his arms bracketing his hips as he leans into him; his second, then, is to breathe into the space between their lips, however short-lived he hopes it to be, "How's this for a solution?"
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...But just barely, really. There are certainly worse states to be in, worse places to be, and so Felix chooses to focus on winding both arms around Sylvain's neck, eyes fluttering closed as he's kissed. It's... a different type of hunger he's feeling low in his stomach now? Deeper, somehow. Mellower, in a way, because while he certainly wants this idiot, he's once again aware that he absolutely, positively loves this idiot; it's why he bites back a complaint when he's lifted off his feet, even though they both know that he's never been good at relinquishing any sort of control. There usually has to be a fight for such a thing, and if it just so happens to be, um, short and somewhat staged, that's fine; it's for his pride more than it is anything else.
Sylvain, however, just so happens to be landing critical hit after critical hit? Felix is left defenseless when he's placed atop his desk, too caught up in love and lust and keeping this kiss going—until, you know, Sylvain feels the need to break apart just to drop a cheesy line. It takes Felix a second to register this; like, he's sitting there, watching Sylvain through half-lidded eyes as he dazedly works out what to do with his legs and what in the world to say. "You're still talking," perhaps, or the much ruder, "You still haven't asked for anything," or what if he chooses to say nothing at all... what if he just shifts around for a second, making sure the papers he's sitting on aren't going to lead to him, like, slipping right off the—
—wait? Wait, wait, wait. He's suddenly very, very aware that his ass is sitting on hard (and slightly uncomfortable) wood? Wood that hasn't seen the light of day in, like, months, so give him a second to turn his head, to blink down at the stretch of desk beside him before he jerks with surprise. 3... 2... 1...]
...You. [YOU!] You cleaned.
[There's surprise in his voice, yes, but there's an edge to it that marks it clearly as what it is: an accusation. You fucked with his stuff, Gautier??? You moved his shit around??? You deserve this look he's leveling your way, because ah, flustered Felix is quickly fading away... better do something to recapture that Mood...]
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...Ah. You know, he can actually pinpoint the exact moment that realization hits, and it's almost comical? Like, in literally any other instance, he might laugh outright and shrug it off... point out how it never would be cleaned if he didn't step in... Just, essentially, really drive home the point that Felix should be grateful, because one day that stack of papers might end up taller than he is (not that that would take much) and they might not be able to fish him out of it in time.
But in this instance, for all the tension between them threatens to snap under the weight of that dumb accusation, while he does lean back just enough to give Felix the space he needs to inspect his surroundings--he even ducks his head to snort a soft laugh at how drastic the shift in his expression is--he doesn't feel like bickering right now?? Not about this, anyway, when there are so many other things they could be focusing on. So that You only gets a flash of an unapologetic smirk before Sylvain is leaning right back in, one hand sliding up from its place beside Felix to brace itself flat against the top of one thigh instead. Can't wait for some unwitting servant to come by in like five minutes with a proper, dry set of clothes for the evening, only to walk in on this hot mess.
"You're welcome," he teases, because don't worry, Felix: he can hear that unspoken, unintended 'thank you' as loudly as anything. But hey?? As much as he loves Felix as he is, no matter what, EVEN when he's being a stubborn shit... he'd really like if he went back to giving him that first Look, instead of the one that says he should probably sleep with his eyes open...? It was a good look!! And as luck would have it, Sylvain is all too happy to brave the oncoming storm to get it back, especially if all it takes is for him to kiss him just breathless enough to convince him that anything else can fucking wait.
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But the hand settling atop his thigh... helps? A bit? Sylvain coming in for a kiss helps infinitely more, because really, it's hard for Felix to feel anything but satisfied when he's being kissed so very thoroughly. That isn't to say that he doesn't try; like, he spends the first few seconds biting at Sylvain's lips, worrying them to tenderness out of sheer, stubborn spite. Suffer...
...Not for long, though. Not for long at all, in the grand scheme of things—and perhaps Felix should be somewhat embarrassed by how quickly he snakes a leg around Sylvain's, ensuring that the other man remains close as he tilts his head back and allows this kiss to soften, to deepen? There's certainly no excuse for the way he pulls one arm free from atop Sylvain's shoulders, allowing his hand to drift down Sylvain's cheek, the side of his neck, his chest. It's easy to remain annoyed by the world and everyone in it; it's so, so difficult to remain annoyed at Sylvain. He cheats.
Well, whatever! Felix will take what little victories he can, hence the way his fingers once again find their way to the hem of Sylvain's shirt—but rather than slip beneath it, he grabs a handful of fabric and tugs it upward. Take this... off? Take this off, because it's been a month and he'd like to touch as much skin as he possibly can.
His shirt, however? He's in no real hurry to take it off at this point, even if it is blocking his neck. Alas...]
It's been a month for Felix but now it's been longer than than for us, we're all fucking parched
It's easy for him to get caught up in moments like this, all but basking in the warmth that every gentle touch leaves in its wake. He's known how lucky he is his whole life, and yet it's only ever with Felix that it feels real, because what else could it be if not luck? Lucky to be born where he was--when he was--born at all, so he could have his whole life to promise him; lucky to have a Crest (and this one's thought without even a single ounce of bitterness despite it all) because fuck knows his father wouldn't have bothered sending him to the monastery if he didn't; lucky to have survived an entire war at his side, so the rest of their years can (he hopes, anyway) be spent together in relative peace; lucky to be the one to know that those hands, as stained as his own and easily twice as deadly, are just as capable of drawing fire from a man's veins with just his fingertips as they are of blood with a blade--and if he continues to be so lucky, he'll be the only one to know it, as well.
He could go on, honestly. But for the time being, his attention shifts to that insistent tug, and the only time he thinks he would agree more would be if it was that damn turtleneck he was tugging at.
At some point his hand must have migrated from its place on the desk beside him to curl against the underside of a knee, as if he might convince Felix to shift himself closer still, while his other has decided to slide upwards to grip (a bit greedily, he'll admit) at the other man's hip; to lose those points of contact, however briefly, seems like a much larger sacrifice than it should, although, hey?? Bonus of wearing shirts with buttons: he doesn't have to immediately break away to make progress! It doesn't even take any extra thought, really, to brush Felix's hand away and undo the remaining few. Just, like... give him a second to actually take it off!
He might not have to wait, but (1.) kissing him is distracting, okay, and Sylvain will absolutely wait until they do need to separate before he shrugs it off the rest of the way if given the chance, because (2.) Felix may or may not still be mad ("""mad""") that he fucked with his desk?? And potentially shifting that frustration towards something more productive--like the fact he's 'taking too long'--sounds like it would have a much better outcome.
"longer than than"... the dehydration is serious, i see
But Felix also enjoys remaining conscious enough to pick up on such things, so when Sylvain finally does pull away just far enough to remove his shirt—ah. Hmm. Time to lean back, take full fuckin' breaths, and do yet another thing he enjoys: watch that shirt give way to skin, because Goddess, but is there a more attractive person in this world of theirs? Felix doesn't think so. Felix hasn't thought so since their Academy days, when seeing a girl step close to Sylvain, hand resting lightly atop his chest as she giggled at his stupid jokes, was all that it took to send a burst of jealousy racing through him. He didn't understand it then; he told himself it was nothing more than annoyance with Sylvain's philandering ways, even as he wondered what, exactly, it would be like lay his own hand atop Sylvain's chest and feel the heart beating beneath the surface.
Now, however, he knows. Has known, actually. For years, but that doesn't stop him from bringing his hand back to Sylvain's bare chest as soon as that shirt hits the floor, savoring the feeling of warm skin beneath his splayed fingers—and that heartbeat he can just barely feel. Mine, he thinks, dimly, as he brings his other hand down from Sylvain's shoulder. Mine, mine, mine, he repeats, allowing his fingertips to languidly trace every familiar muscle and dip into every familiar divot as they drift lower and lower. He doesn't always know what to say; he doesn't always know what to do, compared to Sylvain "Frustratingly Smooth" Gautier, but there's a clear reverence to be found in the way he's touching Sylvain—and soaking in the (shirtless) sight of him. He loves this man. He's so incredibly weak for this man, and he wants...]
Sylvain—
[There's something almost needy about his tone, because he wants? One thing? One person? And everything else along with it, but he can't think of how to articulate it. That is, unfortunately, beyond him at this point in time, so he settles for something simpler: allowing one hand to sink even lower, fingers pressing against the shape of him (through his pants, and really, why are they still on?) even as the other hand seeks out an arm. It's not like Sylvain's hands are doing anything important on their own; surely Felix is free to grab one, to bring that broad palm to the side of his face so that he can lean his cheek right into it.]
...Sylvain.
[And this time that name is spoken so softly it's almost a sigh, because it's been so very long since he was able to be nothing more than Himself... so just love him, please? Just love him.]
*Than THAT... Listen!! At least I wasn't the one who wrote shits!
He can't help but laugh a little breathlessly at the attention though, the flush of color he can feel warming his face brought on more by the way Felix looks at him more than the fact he's looking at all. He's never been especially self-conscious about his appearance--it's hard to be, when he's had girls throwing themselves at him one right after the other (and, too often, before there was even an 'after' at all) for most of his life--but although he's long since learned the difference between love and lust, and how it feels when the two come together, he'll still catch himself marveling at how profoundly bare he feels under the weight of it all. Stripped of more than just clothes, but of title, of Crest, of everything he'd once believed himself to be, down to the innermost layers of himself... he's certain Felix could just as easily look further, could reach in and touch his very core, and somehow, impossibly, be just as satisfied with what he sees.
His eyes had fallen to follow those hands while he focused on breathing more evenly, but at the sound of his name they dart up; his fingers twitch where they'd briefly settled against the fabric over Felix's thighs. Really, he only has enough time to think of how he'd like to hear more of that tone before that hand wanders low enough for his breath to catch. He swears softly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as he presses into it... maybe a little too eagerly? Let him live, alright, it's been a MONTH and he's like, the least sexually repressed man in all of Faerghus--but he'll let Felix lift his hand, savoring the warmth of his skin against his palm, the curl of the other's fingers over his own, and this time when he hears his name, he's collected himself enough to speak, leaning down to press their foreheads together.
"I know," he breathes, as if he's actually said something more meaningful than just his name, "I know... Goddess, Felix--"
He interrupts himself with a kiss, brief though it is, before he slides the fingers of his free hand beneath the hem of his turtleneck, hooking it with his thumb to sort of slip it upwards in a silent request to get it the hell out of the way.
...Or maybe a not-so-silent request, because as Sylvain moves to press his lips to the space beside his ear:
"Let me see you," he murmurs, more of a soft, needy request of his own than any sort of command. "Missed you so much, you have no idea."
me almost a month later: we will not speak of that ever! again!
I do, [he murmurs back, a trace of his typical stubbornness creeping back into his voice.] Idiot.
[He missed Sylvain every hour of every day, even if he's, ah, loath to openly admit it. But he doesn't need to, obviously; Sylvain knows him just as well as he knows Sylvain—which means that Sylvain is well aware of how Felix feels about his request. Being seen is... well! You know! Even in the heat of the moment—even after all these years!—there is still something, mmm, mildly uncomfortable about stripping away the last few layers, about laying himself bare...
...And that is stupid, because Sylvain has seen more of him than anyone else? In many ways, really, which is why, after taking a moment to firmly push the heel of his hand against Sylvain's obvious arousal, he leans back. He needs both hands, you see, to grab the hem of his turtleneck and pull it over his head in one smooth, almost impatient motion, and then that poor article of clothing is sent sailing halfway across the room. It doesn't matter where it lands; he'll just steal Sylvain's shirt when everything is said and done with, both because Sylvain's shirt is dry and because Sylvain's shirt undoubtedly smells just like him. He's sleeping in it. It's law.
But without his sweater... hmm. He feels vulnerable, in a weird way; it's why he lifts his chin as he looks back up at Sylvain, going for defiant as he tries to ignore how warm every inch of him feels. He's pink all over, he just knows it. Damn.]
Don't stare.
[He's the same as he's always been, thanks, so allow him to reach up, hands settling atop Sylvain's shoulders as he tries to pull him back down into another kiss.]
I'd forgotten until exactly this moment, and now it's the funniest thing all over again, thank you
For the time being, however, he decides to keep those thoughts to himself. There's a time and a place for Bickering (But With Love), and that time is not now and that place is not here!! He lets that mild insult sink in as the endearment it's become instead, following the line of his fingers to leave a trail of soft, lingering kisses over his cheek that only stutter to a stop when Felix's hand goes from being Distinctly There to Distinctly Not, and even as he takes the chance to even his own breaths, that loss is an absolute tragedy. Worse, even, than the tragedy that is flinging a soaked-through sweater Somewhere, which probably lands audibly and wetly enough against whatever bit of furniture or floor it hits first that Sylvain has to physically stop himself from glancing over at it like this, even despite their current, ah... situation... This is an office, sir...
Judgement aside, it's at least easy to go seamlessly back to ignoring everything but Felix when, conveniently, nothing matters except for Felix? Nothing matters except reclaiming the space he'd afforded him to remove his sweater, pressing just as close and reaching out to smooth his hands down Felix's sides with the same deliberate slowness as he would to soothe an anxious mare, which is a comparison he's certain would get him kicked, at the least. Especially since he's immediately going against that direction, staring with unhurried, open adoration as his eyes track his hands' movements before flickering back up to Felix's face as those hands reach his shoulders.
"I can't help it," he admits, letting himself be pulled as much as he is leaning in, himself. There's a soft smile on his face and in his voice when he adds, practically against the other's lips, "You're perfect."
It's almost quiet enough to miss, an intimate revelation of sorts that might've been lost had there been any more distance between them. He is perfect--or at least Sylvain kisses him like he is, because he's perfect for him, and damn what anyone else thinks. He's the same as he's always been, and that's exactly the point... but he'll convince him of that some day. For now, he just eases one hand back up to thread itself into Felix's hair, eventually giving it a gentle tug to tilt his head back so he can kiss his way down to his throat as well; he only pauses when he decides he's found a nice spot to suck a bruise to the surface, because you know what? Felix can wear another dumb turtleneck tomorrow for a reason other than the cold, and that's honestly just the price of having Sylvain come to visit.
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Loves him more than anyone else, which leaves Felix feeling vulnerable even as those warm, reassuring hands remind him where he is and who he's with. Only Sylvain! The one person who knows just how he feels about hair-pulling, who knows that the feeling of lips against his neck sends his pulse racing and his breath hitching.]
And you're— [A beat, a swallow, as Sylvain decides to leave his mark, before Felix collects himself enough to spit out the rest of this short sentence.] —ridiculous.
[He's almost proud of the fact that he said a four-syllable word without any stuttering whatsoever, before he realizes, dimly, that it's a stupid thing to be proud of. But that's the true price of having Sylvain come to visit, isn't it? Good sense flies right out the window when they're together, leaving Felix with no reason not to do things like, say, claw (ineffectually, thanks to his blunted nails) at Sylvain's shoulders, urging to to come closer, to do more. He's been very patient thus far; he wants, however, what he wants, and as he digs a heel into the back of Sylvain's thigh, he's making his position clear.]
Sylvain.
[And that... is the third time he's said Sylvain's name in the past, what? Ten or so minutes? A victory in and of itself, for a certain redhead—but what makes it even better is that, beneath the clear impatience, that trace of neediness is back.]
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But Felix wants more--and if Felix wants more, then there's no reason for Sylvain not to--which is why he only makes it to the junction where neck meets shoulder before he yields, the sound of his name making for a surprisingly good argument that said pushover can't help but agree with as well.
He disentangles his fingers from Felix's hair when he pulls back, lifting his head to steal a quick kiss with a soft laugh of, "Sorry, sorry," that definitely doesn't sound sorry at all, even as he leans in for a more proper kiss and lets both hands fall to blindly undo the dumb straps at the tops of his boots, one at a time. And like, to be fair: Sylvain loves his boots! He's blessed that they've become a part of Felix's daily wardrobe. They're just also unfortunately In The Way, and okay, sure... is stripping down in the Duke's Official Office the best idea? Probably... not! It's probably at least a little bit frowned upon, but at least Felix has the excuse of needing to change into something dry. With assistance.
Once the buckles are loose though, he'll slide his one hand along the inside of Felix's thigh to make up for the wait, continuing until he can press and curve his hand around the shape of him.
"I missed you," he repeats, because there are precious few things able to keep this man quiet for very long. This time, at least, he busies his hands with something productive, working the front of Felix's pants open less than a full beat later. "I missed your voice," he adds as he slips his fingers past the fabric to wrap lightly around him--because letters aren't the same as having him here. And then quieter, as he tightens his grip just enough to offer the slow drag of his hand by way of some temporary relief: "I missed having you in my bed."
Because Gautier nights are cold, and few went by that he didn't want after the press of heated skin against his own, hot breaths panted into the dark of the room surrounding, but he's certain not a single one went by that he didn't think of how he would rather just be holding him in the first place.
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And Sylvain's hand sliding up, up, up his thigh is a decent enough reward on its own. There's no reason for Felix to stifle his gasp as it presses against him; there's no way for him to bite back the quietest of moans when it's suddenly wrapped around him, and he instinctively jerks his hips upward, seeking more friction than that single pull provides. He is going to die here, on the desk he hates, and it is entirely Sylvain's fault. Goddess, he hates this man.
No, no. That's a lie, because this is the only man who would dare to tease him while saying such ridiculously cheesy things. Goddess, he loves this man, which is why he slides his hands back into that messy red hair, leaning forward to press the quickest of kisses to the corner of his mouth... and then another, just for good measure. For all that Felix claims to hate Sylvain's lines, they both know the truth: he's weak to them in moments precisely like this one. They shake him to his very core—and send him blushing to the very tips of his ears. Ugh.]
If you don't hurry up, [he attempts to snap, even as the breathy quality of his voice ruins it entirely,] I won't let you into mine.
[The threat of the guest chamber has returneth! And just to drive that point home, he (gently) tugs at Sylvain's hair. Don't give him more cheese... except do, absolutely do, he's too tsundere to deal with this.]
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In any case, that tug makes his breath catch, and that threat is REAL, but Sylvain is... undaunted! He brings his unoccupied hand around to pull Felix just a little nearer to the edge of the desk, while his occupied one determines a slow, lazy rhythm in contrast with his quickened pulse.
"What if I'd rather take my time with you...?" A bold question from someone so damn parched, but to his credit, his voice doesn't falter.
But hmm... what if, you know... What if he'd rather earn more of those breathless retorts and quiet moans? What if he wanted to take this chance to re-memorize how he sounds, and how he feels, and how he tastes, so that the next time one of them has to leave, he might survive until they're together again?
"Will I just have to keep you here, instead?"
A desk is like a bed, anyway...
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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!!
taps my WATCH
The longer I go without fanart icons the more I suffer tbh
make! them!!!
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uses this icon forever ig
How the turns have tabled!!
make me more icons!!! i ask, nicely
Send me sources and I will!!
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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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