Work Text:
The scruff has got to go.
Felix likes to think that he’s a man of compromise. Nearly everything aggravates the ever-loving shit out of him, but he puts up with it all with an only mildly acerbic complaint. And even with his complaints, he never does much about it in the end. The effort is a little too much and Felix is lazy about things that aren’t training. Even if war is long gone, and peace has long since settled across the horizon.
Still, there’s only so much that he can take and he’s hit his limit.
Felix is sharpening a blade when Sylvain walks into their parlor. It’s a cold morning, the fireplace ablaze. Felix sits at the edge of a settee, carefully oiling up the knife before scraping it along the sharpening block.
Sylvain’s eyes narrow slightly at the sight. “Felix, the sun is barely up and you’re already working.”
“This isn’t work,” says Felix. Finally, he looks up and his eyes sweep across Sylvain’s face. Across the utter eyesore that is his beard, thin and patchy in places because it’s still growing in. It’s not that Felix is against facial hair-- there was a time during the war where Sylvain forgot entirely about shaving and sported a beard for nearly a year-- but he’s never grown it easily.
Felix is impatient and the scruff is only irritating him.
Sylvain blinks and says, “So, if not work, then for what?”
“You,” says Felix simply. He pauses to brandish the knife, showing off an antique shaving blade.
“Oh, no,” says Sylvain, a hand immediately going to his chin. “Felix, don’t--”
“There are only two options,” cuts in Felix, moving to sharpen the blade once more. “Keep the beard, or keep me.”
Sylvain frowns. “Of all the ridiculous things, this is where you draw the line? My facial hair?”
“It’s itchy. It’s scratchy. It leaves behind rashes.”
“Leaves behind rashes--” Sylvain falls quiet when he realizes exactly what Felix is implying, face pinking the slightest bit. Then, he massages at his cheeks, thinking.
“So, it’s the beard or me in your bed.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” says Sylvain, even though they both know that Felix won’t leave him over something so trivial. They’ve been through too much and overcame everything to get to this point. Sylvain’s been couched for less, though.
Felix pauses and looks at Sylvain once more. Then, he motions to a chair set before the fireplace. “Sit.”
“Are you planning on giving me a shave?”
“An easy remedy.”
And that’s how Felix found Sylvain pressed into the chair before him, entirely vulnerable underneath his touch and the blade in his hand. Sylvain doesn’t trust anyone, but he’ll always let Felix close. Even if it’s with a weapon.
“Wait,” says Sylvain, and Felix stops. Sylvain reaches out and pulls at him, and Felix falls to straddle his lap. “You truly hate it so much?”
“I don’t,” says Felix honestly. Sylvain wears it well, even when it’s sparse and patchy. He just has preferences like seeing Sylvain’s handsome jawline and reducing beard burn as much as possible.
“And yet, you want to remove it?”
“I distinctly remember you complaining about the lack of shared intimacy as of late.”
“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind,” says Sylvain. “I was thinking things like midnight walks and picnics with a nice wine.” He spreads his hands wide across Felix’s hips, trying to slot their legs together into a more favorable position. As much as Felix wants to fight it, he’s so easily goaded along.
“You’re distracting me.”
“That’s the intention,” says Sylvain.
Felix doesn’t like the knowing smirk that spreads across Sylvain’s face, so utterly attuned to him in every way. It’s from years of watching and years of practice, and it always irritates Felix who tries to keep a tight hold on himself. Sylvain’s infuriating on even his best of days, and not because Felix dislikes their dynamic, it’s because he craves it.
There isn’t a word to describe the feeling of someone else knowing you better than you know yourself, but Felix can’t deny that it’s one of the things that’s saved him. Sylvain, too.
“It won’t stop me,” warns Felix.
“No? Then you should get one last good look.”
Felix blinks back at him, blade held aloft between them. “A good look at the scruff that I want to remove from your face?”
“I think you’re more fond of it than you’d care to admit.” Sylvain is, as always, on the nose, but Felix refuses to give him the satisfaction of being right. With a deft twirl between his fingers, the straight blade finds itself nestled against the hollow of his throat, tipped at the perfect angle to shear the beard off.
Sylvain doesn’t even flinch, entirely at ease. “Go on, then,” he says.
Felix sighs, letting up and pulling his hand back. His fingers return, lathered up, smearing cold soap across the underside of Sylvain’s jawline. A few flicks of the blade and Sylvain’s skin is smooth, his throat bobbing as he swallows. Felix wipes the blade on a small towel sitting in his lap.
“Much better,” says Felix, smoothing his hand across the soft skin of his neck. “Preferable to that pitiful thing you call a beard.”
“Rude,” says Sylvain, but he falls quiet when Felix resumes his task. He sits in Sylvain’s lap, blade scraping across Sylvain’s face with practiced accuracy. Lather-up, shave, and then rinse. Wiping the blade on the small cloth, only to repeat everything over again. One half of the face followed closely by the other.
Sylvain doesn’t complain; he only watches Felix with a searing gaze. Felix does his best to ignore it and the heat that burns right through him. Sylvain’s fingers still hold him by the hipbone, thumbing first at Felix’s linen shirt, but then slipping underneath to circle across the smooth skin there, and sharp jut of his hips.
“Done?” asks Sylvain when Felix swipes a second towel across his face. Felix takes him by the chin, turning his face from side to side, surveying his work. “Pleased?”
More than so, Felix thinks, moving his hand to slide down Sylvain’s neck and across his collarbone. “It’ll do,” says Felix. And then Felix’s hand finds the open collar of Sylvain’s shirt, just barely slipping in, fingers scratching through his chest hair.
“No, that’s where I draw the line,” says Sylvain, but it’s with humor.
“I would never,” says Felix, quietly.
“Just my face, then,” says Sylvain.
“I do prefer to see it.” Felix sets the blade and towels aside. But he doesn’t move away from him now that his task is done.
Sylvain hesitates, head cocking to the side. “Prefer to see it,” repeats Sylvain. “I would have thought otherwise--”
“I can’t see your face when it’s all covered up.”
There’s a beat, a soft half-moment of silence that stretches between them before Sylvain smiles wide with a shit-eating grin. “Oh, so like my face, do you?”
Felix hates being teased, despises it, even when it comes from Sylvain. Probably most of all, when it comes from Sylvain. “You aren’t unhandsome,” says Felix, curtly. They both know exactly how he feels about Sylvain’s looks, but he can’t help but make a jab right back.
“You seem rather obsessed,” says Sylvain when Felix slides his hand back up his neck, petting the soft skin at the juncture of his jaw.
“I have my predilections,” says Felix, entirely unashamed. “I prefer it when you don’t look like an animal has made its home on your face.”
Sylvain frowns. “Felix, it wasn’t that bad--”
“Wrong,” cuts in Felix, “it was far worse.” He thumbs the line of Sylvain’s face before leaning closer, pressing his nose into his neck. “Nearly as bad as depriving me of this.”
“Of this?” Sylvain asks, his voice suddenly breathy. Felix pulls back again, regarding him through a narrowed gaze. “Oh right, of this,” says Sylvain, dropping the coy act. Felix doesn’t often voice his opinions so overtly, so Sylvain makes the correct choice in just indulging.
“A crime,” says Felix, “to hide such a sharp jaw.”
“Are you saying that I’m perfect?”
“No, you’re an idiot, but one that I quite like to look at.”
Sylvain smiles then, leaning back slightly in the chair, fingers grasping Felix’s hips tighter to pull him closer. Felix doesn’t fight it, pressing against Sylvain’s incredibly apparent need. It only stokes that slow-burning fire in Felix’s core.
“Rare, for you to be like this,” says Sylvain.
“If that’s a complaint, I can easily stop.” It won’t be easy, but Felix will absolutely have the last word if necessary.
“No,” says Sylvain with such absurd immediacy that Felix shares a rare, genuine smile.
“Then let me do as I want,” says Felix.
“Absolutely. Yes. Please.”
Felix pauses at that, regarding Sylvain’s already slightly wrecked expression. “Incredible,” he says, “how little it takes for you to become like this.”
Sylvain lets out a laugh that dissolves into a moan because Felix chooses the perfect moment to change the angle of their hips and grind against his lap. Felix leans forward again, pressing his nose against the skin of Sylvain’s neck. He smells like the sandalwood soap he hoards like a Wyvern, and Felix drinks it up, sinking deep into it.
It’s easy, to lose himself in Sylvain, he thinks. Not because Sylvain’s handsome or preferenced, but because of the way that he’s so easily undone with such a soft touch. Felix doesn’t have to do much to have his way with him; Sylvain’s eager to respond, always at the ready.
And not because he’s a rake, but because he’s so utterly, irrevocably tied to Felix. And it’d be a lie to say that it isn’t the same for Felix. He might wear his affection differently; it might show through a more subdued lens, but it’s there and it’s real.
Felix moves to kiss Sylvain properly, one hand cradling the back of his neck while the other slips back to the open collar of his shirt. Fingers press against Sylvain’s skin there, grounding himself. The kiss isn’t gentle, but it isn’t fire either. Sylvain responds eagerly, tipping his head back for better access, but keeps the touch frustratingly chaste.
When Felix pulls back, he grabs Sylvain’s chin, thumb sweeping across his lip in a possessive manner. Watching and waiting. Then, Felix dips back down, kissing Sylvain again, coaxing his mouth open and licking into him with wild abandon.
Sylvain’s hands move from his hips, smoothing over his ass, squeezing and pulling Felix forward, and this time, it’s his turn to let out a groan against Sylvain’s mouth.
“Insatiable,” bites Felix, as if he’s not the one who’s grinding against Sylvain’s lap, seeking out that delicious friction. Sylvain tries to slow Felix down, tries to hold him still above him and stay the pace, but Felix is far too impatient to give in.
Far too impatient for anything, really, other than the feeling of Sylvain tightly coiled underneath him, losing a little more of himself with every kiss. It’s a sight that Felix would happily die for, not that he’d ever admit it aloud.
Felix stops and pulls off Sylvain’s lap, shucking his pants off with little ceremony. Sylvain watches quietly with eyes bright and swallows thickly, cheeks already flushed with want. It’s moments like this that Felix feels a little bit of pride.
“Felix,” says Sylvain, when Felix settles over his lap again. “Felix, I didn’t get to--” A hiss cuts off his words as Felix’s hand drops between them, caressing over Sylvain’s tented pants. “Unfair,” whines Sylvain, bucking his hips slightly.
“Unfair?” asks Felix, as he pulls his hand away.
“No, shit, Felix, that isn’t what I meant--”
Felix is in a teasing mood, so he raises an eyebrow as he smooths a hand along Sylvain’s shirt. “Then what did you mean?”
“Let me get my pants off,” pleads Sylvain. And then, for good measure, he adds, “Please.”
Felix pretends to think about it before rejecting the idea. “Not yet,” he says rather cruelly, leaning forward again. “I prefer this at the moment.”
“Prefer this--”
Felix swallows his words with another kiss, tongue snaking out to lick across his lips before dipping into his mouth. Sylvain responds readily, lifting a hand to Felix’s head, fingers curling into his hair and pulling at it. Not hard enough to hurt, but just the perfect amount to tug at his hairline, and Felix returns the favor, nails biting into the back of Sylvain’s neck as he grips tighter.
He moves then, pressing his mouth against the side of Sylvain’s jaw, pressing featherlight kisses along the length of it, tongue dipping out and trailing behind. Savoring the taste of Sylvain’s soft skin and devouring the sounds that come as a result.
Sylvain’s an easy man to please when it comes down to things, and Felix absorbs his eager response like it’s his lifeblood.
Then, Felix’s hand is between them again, fingers curling around the delicious hardness that’s hidden by Sylvain’s trousers. Sylvain’s head falls back and he groans, trying to get as much friction as possible.
Felix’s lips find his neck this time, worrying the skin there as he laps at it, marking him up with a deep-seated sort of possessiveness. He knows that Sylvain isn’t going anywhere, he knows that there isn’t anyone else-- that there wasn’t really ever-- but old habits die hard, and Felix wants to claim him as his own.
“Another thing that a beard hides,” says Felix, pulling back to look at the pink marks blooming across Sylvain’s neck and collarbone.
“I can’t always be wearing high collars,” says Sylvain.
“Then don’t,” says Felix.
It’s a clear challenge, one that lights up Sylvain’s face with desperate hunger. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he says, one hand sliding down the rough linen of Felix’s shirt before finding the bare skin of his hip and backside. Then, his hand dips lower, between Felix’s cheeks, a finger ghosting his entrance.
If Felix weren’t so annoyed from the get-go, he’d burn red with embarrassment. Instead, he says, “Everyone already knows it, so why not make it apparent. The rake of a Margrave, bending a knee to the Duke.”
“To my husband,” says Sylvain instead.
“There hasn’t been a ceremony yet,” says Felix, testily. These things take time, Dimitri said about three years back, and still, little has come of it.
“The papers are signed,” says Sylvain, matter-of-factly. “Ceremony be damned.”
Ceremony be damned indeed, Felix thinks, when Sylvain’s hand dips against his backside again, this time having been slicked during his distraction.
“That better not be my blade oil.”
“I’ve heard rumor that it works well,” says Sylvain, cheekily.
Felix knows from years of shared experience that Sylvain’s correct. “On with it, then,” he says, pressing back against Sylvain’s hand.
“Impatient,” Sylvain chides.
“Efficient,” replies Felix, letting out a sigh when Sylvain finally slips a finger in with practiced ease. And then one finger becomes two, the sort of well-ordered and stinging pace that Felix craves. Sylvain knows him inside and out, has memorized everything that Felix wants and needs, and it isn’t long until a distraction is needed.
Felix unbuttons Sylvain’s pants and slips a hand in, palming at his hot length. They work in tandem, Sylvain’s fingers stretching and pulling slightly at his rim, trying to prep him with the speed that Felix wants.
“Felix--”
“Soon enough,” says Felix, pulling Sylvain’s cock out from his trousers properly, pressing it against his own, wrapping his hand around the both of them tightly. Sylvain bites out a curse, his fingers pausing, prompting Felix to let out an aggravated sigh. He presses back his hand, craving that burn and friction, and the pull of Sylvain’s touch.
Then, Sylvain’s hand bats away Felix’s. He makes a tight fist around the both of them, precome slicking the motion and making the slide of his fingers easier. His grip tightens around them both and Felix ruts into his fist, their cocks sliding against each other with a delightful rasp.
Felix eventually hits a point where he just can’t anymore, pulling away and surprising Sylvain. He slicks his hand with the oil, raises his hips, and reaches behind him, grasping at Sylvain’s cock to line him up where he wants him most.
And, because Felix is efficient in his lovemaking like he is with anything else, he sinks down onto Sylvain with little ceremony, muscles relaxing as he just goes and goes and goes. Sylvain holds Felix’s hips tight, white-knuckled and bruising, face red with heady lust.
This is what he loves most, Felix thinks as he settles, his ass against Sylvain’s thighs as he’s fully seated onto him. Sylvain looking so terribly debauched underneath him, responding to his touch almost instinctually. They know what the other wants before it happens, anticipating their needs and adjusting accordingly.
Felix already feels so full and satisfied, as he gently grinds against Sylvain. He reaches out, slipping his hand back into the collar of Sylvain’s shirt, nails scratching lightly against the skin there.
“Felix,” says Sylvain, “this is definitely not going to last long.”
“I wasn’t planning on dragging it out,” says Felix, raising his hips only a fraction before dropping them back down. It’s not a full and fluid motion, more like a frenzied rolling of the hips. He pulls Sylvain closer, an arm around his neck and chests flush against each other.
“Your shirt is still on,” breathes Sylvain, rucking the fabric up to nuzzle at Felix’s breastbone. He tugs at the linen impatiently.
Felix halts his movements and pulls back. “Is that a complaint?”
Sylvain halts as well, wide-eyed and slightly incredulous. “What? No--”
“It sounded like one,” says Felix, dragging his hips up slowly.
“Felix,” sighs Sylvain, “Please.”
Felix yanks at his collar slightly, his other hand curling around to grab at Sylvain’s neck. He holds on tightly, pulling at the fine baby hairs there, scratching along the bottom of Sylvain’s scalp.
Sylvain’s always been loud in bed, be it breathy sighs or loud moans. He’s quieter today, trying to hold on and keep from tipping over that edge too quickly. Felix understands; it’s been a while, a little bit too long. They’ve been too busy with work and post-war reconstruction to reliably have any time to themselves.
Felix told himself to be better about it, to be better to Sylvain, so this is the least that he can do. He sets a hurried pace, sliding along Sylvain with precise movements, circling his hips ever so slightly on the downstroke.
“Fuck,” breathes Sylvain, still gripping at his hips, helping to ease the motion. Lifting Felix before letting him fall. He’s taut underneath him, wound tight like a bowstring, doing his best.
Always doing his best for Felix, be it here in moments like this, or anywhere else. Felix presses their foreheads together as he moves, eyes slipping closed as he just thinks and feels and loves. He loves this man and everything that he is.
And right now, he’s perfect, filling him so utterly full, matching his movements with practiced grace. “Perfect,” says Felix, dropping those carefully erected walls in the haze of pleasure.
Sylvain shifts slightly underneath him, jerking his hips upwards, meeting Felix with frenzied thrusts. Felix wants to lean back and take him the best he can, rolling against him with a sinful grind, to savor this for as long as possible, but he doesn’t want to pull away from their shared closeness.
A hand from his hip moves to press against Felix’s lower back, holding him there, helping him slide along Sylvain’s cock. “Made for me,” says Felix aloud, prompting Sylvain to let loose a groan in response. “So perfect, so deep, so--”
“No,” says Sylvain, wincing from the pleasure. “I mean, yes, but no, I’m so close--”
“I haven’t got all day,” says Felix, remembering that he’s supposed to be teasing Sylvain, that this entire thing had started with lighthearted banter and that damned, hideously attractive beard. Felix’s hand finds his cock, jerking himself with long and languid strokes, palm curling around the crown when his motions come full circle.
Surprisingly, it’s Felix who falls first, tipping over into that well-sought fire as he chases his own pleasure. He moans as he clenches tight around Sylvain, hips stuttering against the jerky thrusting from below and he comes into his hand.
Sylvain thrusts once, twice, a third time, and topples over with him, watching as Felix heaves and twitches above him, overly sensitive and coming down from that high. Sylvain presses deep, holding Felix there, hands splayed wide across his waist with a warm touch.
The room is quiet, save for their heavy breaths. It’s unbearably hot near the fire, but Felix is suddenly too tired to do much other than sit there above Sylvain, holding him close. Unwilling to let go.
Eventually, he has to, clean-up inevitable.
“A bath, then,” is the first thing that Sylvain says. It’s nearly comical, the way that he regards Felix with a soft and warm smile, dazed by the afterglow of their lovemaking.
Felix hates that he loves it. “I thought it was a picnic that you wanted,” he says, remembering what Sylvain had complained about earlier.
“A bath and then a picnic,” says Sylvain. “Either way is a win.”
Felix considers this for a moment, fingers sweeping across Sylvain’s face once more. “I don’t hate the beard,” he says instead.
“You’ve said that.”
“I just prefer to see you instead.”
“It’s still me,” says Sylvain with a soft little sigh.
Felix hums at that before pulling off of him. The loss of Sylvain’s cock is immediate and distracting. “A bath then,” he says, wiping at himself with a towel.
“And then a picnic?” Sylvain’s cute at the worst of times, but it’s endearing.
“I suppose it’s inevitable,” says Felix.
Then, Sylvain smirks. “The beard is too, you know. Give it a few years.”
Felix is waiting for him by the door of the bedroom, resting against the frame. He lets out a sigh at the thought. “Better you than me, I suppose.”
“You’d look dashing with one,” says Sylvain, sidling up next to him. Then, he pinches at Felix’s ass. “Terribly handsome.”
“I’d look like my father,” says Felix, pushing Sylvain away. Then, there’s a pause. “That isn’t a good look.”
Sylvain laughs the entire way to their bath.
