[There's no real reason to rush? It's only, what, the middle of the afternoon; they've certainly earned a rest, and yet there is, as ever, a hunger where Sylvain is concerned. Iris adds an element of necessity to it, sure, but the simple truth of the matter is that Felix always wants Sylvain in some way, shape, or form. Sometimes that want is quieted by Sylvain shooting him a quick, fond grin, letting him know that everything is fine, and other times it's quieted like this: Sylvain's hands slotting into place so, so easily as he tilts his head back, granting Felix easier access to this most vulnerable part of him.
Which Felix, Iris-addled though he may be, takes full advantage of, ducking down a bit farther to suck a fresh bruise to the (mottled) surface of Sylvain's throat. No teeth, this time; just Felix splaying his hand against the opposite side of Sylvain's neck, intent on adding a new color to this collage he's been working on for the past few days. It's art.
And focusing on something prevents him from losing himself entirely. The timbre of Sylvain's voice sent his head spinning, so stupidly, but as he swipes his tongue over this new mark, he's recovered enough of himself to hum before offering the ever-helpful:]
Figure it out yourself.
[A challenge, of course. A weak one, given that they're pressed so close together—and that Felix is half-hard against Sylvain's stomach, a fact made all the more obvious by both the experimental twitch of Felix's hips and the quiet sigh it produces. Hardly ideal, but, like, hardly terrible.]
no subject
Which Felix, Iris-addled though he may be, takes full advantage of, ducking down a bit farther to suck a fresh bruise to the (mottled) surface of Sylvain's throat. No teeth, this time; just Felix splaying his hand against the opposite side of Sylvain's neck, intent on adding a new color to this collage he's been working on for the past few days. It's art.
And focusing on something prevents him from losing himself entirely. The timbre of Sylvain's voice sent his head spinning, so stupidly, but as he swipes his tongue over this new mark, he's recovered enough of himself to hum before offering the ever-helpful:]
Figure it out yourself.
[A challenge, of course. A weak one, given that they're pressed so close together—and that Felix is half-hard against Sylvain's stomach, a fact made all the more obvious by both the experimental twitch of Felix's hips and the quiet sigh it produces. Hardly ideal, but, like, hardly terrible.]