There are only so many things an old man such as him can take in their lives before they just give up, and this might not be one of them.
Here he is, his son’s door open before him, blinking at the scene in the room. He had wanted to discuss their latest, ah, guest, with Felix, who had been worrying a little too much about the thing who could easily kill a man with a single swipe of a foot, but when he knocked on the door he had gotten no answer. Worried, he had opened the door, ready to call the guards if needed, only to find… this.
Whatever this might be.
There is Felix. He is on his bed, visible naked from the waist up and probably below as well, sitting up near the pillows. His hair has come undone, falling over his shoulders, but Rodrigue can barely see tiny red marks peeking from under it, very obvious, very telling.
And then there is… that thing. The beast.
It is supposed to be Sylvain. Sylvain Jose Gautier, the heir of Gautier, of the border, an eighth Srengese with a love for storms. And, well, the thing is more intelligent than most demonic beasts they have encountered, by quite a lot, so it might be, but it is still… a beast. Huge, though smaller than most, yet by far more dangerous, clawed feet stained in red and thick black scales covered in scratches.
And it is laying on the bed.
It is laying on Felix, to be more precise. Its- his? head is hovering just above Felix’s chest, Rodrigue’s son’s hands holding it tenderly -tenderly-, one under its chin, the other around its first head spike (oh Goddess it looks so suggestive why would Lambert ever put such ideas in his head-). One of its- hands? is curled up protectively around Felix’s hip, claws carefully laid flat on their side as to not damage the bedding. The rest of its body is everywhere, probably everywhere on the floor as well, and it looks heavy enough to just break the frame if it continues leaning on like that.
It is also purring. Or cooing? It is making some soft, delighted sound, and it is creepy as all hells.
Now, maybe they are just playing, except Felix’s leg is folded in a way clearly meant to bring the beast’s head closer, in such an intimate way too, and if his wide eyes are anything to go by Rodrigue knows exactly what is going on here.
(Goddess, it is Lambert all over again, except Lambert only ever spoke about it, Rodrigue never had to see him doing anything like this-)
“I will le-“
He doesn’t get to finish his apology before an amalgamation of different magics hits the spot he was standing on, fading on contact. He can hear Felix mutter reassuring, comforting words to the beast who is now growling, can see Felix lean in to kiss its ugly scales and-
He is done here. He is leaving.
“Sylvain-“ A lower growl, claw folding tighter around him, not enough to hurt but enough to trigger the sense of excitementdangerwantfightwant. Felix rubs his chin once more, hushing him like he would do a child -except this is no child, and he knows it, he knows it very well. “Sylvain, he is gone, look at me.”
Sylvain huffs, a sharp short whine in his throat as he drops his whole weight on the bed. He is heavy and cold, made of rough scales and spikes and who knows what else, and when his eyes (shielded past two, maybe three layers of lids, it looks so weird) look at Felix they are bright, pupils blown wide.
“I wasn’t expecting him either,” Felix says, wrapping both his arms around Sylvain’s head so he can nuzzle him. He smells weirdly of old furs and warm wool and ancient ice (Sylvain’s room and Sylvain’s home, never the most welcoming of places, and Sylvain himself, when not covered in some perfume he got who knows where), with a layer of blood and snow and metal on too, and it alone is enough to send all his senses into overdrive.
Everything is so warm.
He wonders if it is something about the demonic beasts’ nature, or if it is just him. If it is Felix the one sick in the mind, the one who would feel pleasure from laying with some thing that could kill him with one bite. Surely it is not normal, because even if this is Sylvain (and he is, he has to be, he could not bear the idea that he is not, please let him be-) and Felix had maybe been looking a little more closely since a few months before his supposed death, he is still-
Well, to start with, Felix still does not know if Sylvain is fully sentient in there.
He is crooning right now, a soft rumble in his throat, his head laid on Felix’s stomach as he looks up at him as if Felix is everything and that, that is the most dangerous part of this… situation. That Sylvain would do anything Felix asks of him -has already done some things Felix has asked of him, even if they were really… small (it was like training a dog: don’t sit on the couch, don’t kill that guy, can you barrier around us. And then it was definitely not like training a dog: get over here, your claw, put it here, can I touch you? please, let me hold you, Sylvain, Sylvain Syl-), and he would continue doing things Felix asks of him because he had, apparently, decided to not turn back into a human. Sylvain had seen a chance for his life, took it, then seen a chance for home and took that too, and that is all he has.
And he will do anything.
So, again, he doesn’t know if the weird feelings are because Felix is a freak of nature who is into monsters (of all things, when in twenty years of his life he had shown interest for one person, who is now a monster, so maybe that has to do with it), or if it is because the demonic beast nature of Sylvain is saying, ‘hey, this swordsman, we need to keep him to survive, so, do that’.
He decides not to think about it anymore and, with a sigh, lets himself fall on his back. The hand, arm curled around him shifts to accommodate him -they have become awfully good at this… dance, in these last weeks- and he tilts his head so he can rest on the hand and look down at Sylvain. He is a beast, ugly and deformed, still very much his, still too willing to please, docile even when he is… like this, still too open. It is like he regressed, like he went back to the time his defenses were not perfected just yet, and it worries Felix.
It is already too late, but he wishes he could tell Sylvain he doesn't need to do this. That Felix is not going to kick him out anytime soon, unexpected weird sexual awakening for gigantic murder monsters or not. That him being alive is more than enough, that Felix just wanted him home, that he will be safe here. It is already too late, but he really wants to say he is not like everyone else, not like his countless girlfriends and boyfriends and one-night stands, that he doesn’t want him, not this way.
But he cannot do that, he can’t lie like that, because while the first time might have been an embarrassing accident (of relieved tears and tendersweethome cooing and fangsclosingonhimwarmwantneedyou), the second had definitely been not (cuddling into a huge body of black scales and a softsoftsoft underside and muffled cries and low rumbling growls). And then when he had tried to make sense of, well, everything, and Sylvain, and his feelings, he had already been trapped in Sylvain’s oddly cold and warm embrace, uncaring of morality and humanity and getting awfully bothered when his beast would bite a head clean off some soldier’s body.
Wasn’t he supposed to not think about this?
“Hey.” Felix reaches for Sylvain, shuddering at the sharp teeth scraping against his chest when he moves closer. So sharp and deadly, and yet here he is, naked and unafraid. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.”
Just to prove his point he thrusts his hips against Sylvain’s (huge, gigantic) body, toes curling on the bed sheets as he gasps. With the tiniest of growls, Sylvain lifts himself over Felix, looming menacingly (thrilldangerseekwantneedwant ), almost as if looking for any hint of hesitation or disgust or fear or anything else a normal person might have felt.
Felix is not normal, not really. Maybe he was once, but definitely not anymore. He meets his beast eye to eye, weight of unsaid words and guilty realizations washing over him like the hot breath in his face, jagged lightning and cracked ice. He tilts his head, a challenge.
Sylvain growls once more and rolls his massive tongue out.
It is rough and wet and warm and sharppainfangsonskinsylvain , a messy act that should be labeled as deadly just from how ecstatic it is. With each slowslowslow lick on him, up his thighs between his legs on his chest he arches into the touch, back bent like a bow so far he feels he will break -he might be, he wants to be, he needsitsylvainplease-, hands clutching at soft silk sheets or hard scales or soft inhuman flesh; with each slow lick he fades and gasps and curses.
The moment he feels the heat inside of him coiling tighter, wilder, he lunges, quick as in battle, lets both his hands rest besides one of the metal spikes. Sylvain growls, some low and constant threatening sound that breaks into a keen, so high pitched it goes unheard, when Felix sends his strongest Thoron straight into the metal. It makes a show of pretty lights as it bounces between each of them, back and forth across Sylvain’s back, but that is not important even if it is nice to look at.
What is important are the sharpdeadlydanger teeth closing on his throat, tiny pinpricks of pain digging into skin only just enough to hurt, not to tear, yet enough to be a threat, enough for Felix to just give in.
It is over far too soon for his liking.
He stays there, still clinging to Sylvain for dear life, heavy pants and a steady half-purr-half-hum the only sounds in the room. He feels as if a cloud, giddy and light and unsteady, years of forcing himself to not indulge in the smallest form of self-pleasure finally coming back to tell him ‘wow, you’re an idiot, deal with it this way’. And, well, he will deal with it this way, sure, but it is still so… weird.
And also exhilarating. A laugh bubbles from his chest, bright and clear as he finally uncurls from around the huge and monstrous head of the- his beast, his Sylvain. He feels sticky, but this is fine. Sylvain is looking at him with those eyes again, and that is not fine.
“I’m okay, you don’t need to be so careful.” Felix kisses his eyelid, then under it, a trail of soft kisses on hard armored skin until he can finally nudge Sylvain’s mouth open. He closes his teeth around the tip of his tongue, pulling it out so he can suck on it. It is the oddest of kisses, thick and fat rough tongue carefully twisting and thrusting into his mouth, and Felix wonders if Sylvain gets to keep these skills when he turns back.
(He hopes he does, he really does, shit-)
He can finally breathe again after a few minutes, and he leans back against Sylvain’s arm once again to watch as he gets cleaned. That should be illegal- he is pretty sure it is illegal, but who cares? The Church? The Kingdom? Screw authorities, this is Sylvain, even if he is a little beastly, a little ugly right now.
“Should we sleep?” He doesn’t bother asking about Sylvain’s own release, as selfish as it is. He knows what the answer will be anyways. His precious ugly beast looks at him, then at the door like it personally offended him. “No one comes here, but I wake up early unlike some-“
Sylvain growls at him some more, and Felix laughs again.