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get pretty for me

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The delivery arrives at 2:27 p.m., exactly one hour and thirty-three minutes before the earliest delivery estimate. It’s also, unfortunately, one hour and eighteen minutes before Felix is scheduled to leave for a workout, and therefore one hour and fifteen minutes before Sylvain wants the package to arrive. Answering the door, he feels something drop like lead into the pit of his stomach, something that tastes rotten and sour, flavored not with regret but worry all the same.

It’s not that he’s ashamed. Shame is for guys who aren’t him, right? For guys who have it all and then some, for guys who know who they are and what they like… but this insecurity is hot and prickly and makes him want to crawl out of his skin, claw his way out like someone buried alive claws for fresh air.

It’s really not that big of a deal, and he knows it. After all, Felix isn’t going to hover over him and demand to know what he’s getting in the mail, but then again… this isn’t something he should have to keep secret. It isn’t something he wants to keep secret.

(God, he almost longs for the days when he could approach everything with a level of flippant insincerity. It would probably make this easier, would make this box feel more like cardboard and fabric and less like a ton of bricks.)

He’ll carry it into the bedroom and put it in the closet, and if Felix asks… then he asks, and Sylvain will tell him. If he doesn’t, then Sylvain will wait until the next time he’s alone, open the package and examine his new purchases, and decide if he feels comfortable enough in them to let his most important person see him quite possibly make a fool out of himself.

When Sylvain walks in their expansive bedroom, Felix looks up from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the bed and thumbing through a magazine.

“What did we get?” he asks, tilting his head cutely. Like a cat, inquisitive but unwilling to let you know how curious he really is. He asks, just like Sylvain knew he would. He could play it off. He could tell him it was a gift for him, a surprise (even though Felix hates surprises) and they could drop the topic then, but Felix is already unfolding his legs from beneath him and rising to his feet and crossing the room and inspecting the package and -

Sylvain moves to cover up the shipping label. The company prided itself on discreet, unmarked outer packaging, but still - there is still his name, and their address next to a company that is very much known for lingerie. Felix pushes his hand out of the way, eyes scanning the label and (blissfully) showing no recognition. “What is it?”

Sylvain sets it down and sighs. Sliding his finger beneath the flaps and severing the packing tape with a jagged ripping sound, he pushes aside delicate black and white tissue paper to reveal his purchases. Lying there, looking up at him, out in the open for Felix to see: lingerie, in his size, carefully chosen, with a charmingly impersonal printed postcard tucked in amongst the paper that says Hey sexy! We hope you enjoy your purchase, here’s a code for 15% off your next order… that’s right, we know you’ll be back! ;)

There’s a lacy black garter belt juxtaposed with lacy red panties and a matching bralette with scalloped lace cups, and beneath them, Sylvain is sure, lurk the pair of sheer black stockings he’d tossed in when he’d placed the order, because why not?

“You ordered this…?” Felix asks, looking at him, eyes cold and flinty as he searches for any sign of insincerity. Sylvain knows how it looks: he’s buying lingerie, he could be cheating, but he knows Felix and he knows that Felix knows him, and also that Felix isn’t stupid and he can tell those panties are meant for a man.

Sylvain dunks some of the tissue paper into the trash and laughs, “Yeah. You weren’t supposed to be here when it got here… so hey, let’s just forget about it! I’ll just tuck it in the closet… and, hey -!”

Sylvain moves to close the box’s flaps and Felix stops him, expression so much softer than it had been as he looks from Sylvain’s bright red face to the box’s contents. “Try it on,” he says softly, so softly.

“No way, I kind of wanted to… I don’t know. See it on myself first. You know, to make sure I don’t look like a total idiot.”

Felix is insistent, though. “Please. You’re gorgeous, and you know it. You should… I wanna see it.”

“What if you don’t?” Sylvain laughs, and Felix doesn’t look mad, or annoyed, or… anything but heartbroken, really. Sylvain could sweep him into his arms and kiss him right then and there, because he knows what he’s doing, knows he’s trying to be understanding and open in a way he hadn’t let himself be for so long, and gods he loves him for it.

Changing his tune, Sylvain acquiesces, “Okay, okay… I get it! I’ll try it on.”

“Get pretty for me, Syl.” Felix urges, flush high on his cheeks. “You bought it because it must make you feel good, so… you should feel good.”

“I always feel good when I’m with you, baby,” Sylvain starts, moving to pull Felix into his arms, but Felix twists out of it and stomps his foot. Like, literally stomps his foot, which is just about the cutest thing ever.

Frowning, he says, “You’ve always been so good about me when it comes to… I don’t know, the gender stuff. That’s what this is about, isn’t it? Isn’t it your turn?”

Felix scoops pile of sinfully soft lingerie out from its box and presses it into Sylvain’s grasp, steering him towards the door and urging, “Get in there! Don’t come out until you try it on.”

And so Sylvain is here, with arms full of lacy lingerie and orders to put it on. He strips down to his boxers for starters and reaches for his cosmetics, dumping them out and sending them rolling across the counter and into the sink. Gods, he’s a mess. Concealers, color correctors, lipsticks and eyeliners roll in every direction and his cosmetics bag snorts its displeasure in the form of a plume of spilled setting powder belched up from inside of it. His eyeshadow palettes are tucked at the sides: the Born to Run and the Venus XL cozied up together, Prism and some cheap drugstore palette he actually really adored falling over as the bag was emptied of its contents.

He washes his face, moisturizes, primes and puts on a layer of the lightest coverage foundation he has, enough that his freckles (totally a charm point) still show through, but enough to give him a canvas to build on. He dabs on the tiniest hint of warm peach blush, the barest brush of cream highlighter on his cheeks. Rifling through his lipsticks, he bypasses the long tube with the cracked Anastasia Beverly Hills logo and the peeling sticker proclaiming Potion (too formal) and the white tube half-filled with matte black liquid lipstick with ZERO stamped on the bottom (too goth) and realizes he has no idea what the hell to wear. The lipstick might not be the most important part of the look, but it’s his favorite, dammit.

He briefly contemplates Sub-Zero just because it’s teal, Felix teal with a hint of glitter for spice, but it just doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel organic. None of his NYX matte lip cremes will work even though they’re dreamy and soft, and he considers briefly the Bruised Plum in its black and gold barrel and even the pointed taper of the Fenty Vino Noir, but they seem too… vampire. Too crimson, like blood, metallic or not.

That, and they’re completely smudge-proof. Kiss-proof, blowjob proof, and as much as he normally likes that, the idea of lipstick all over Felix’s neck and chest and thighs is a little too nice. And maybe has been a thing he’s fantasized about.

Fine, he’ll come back to the lipstick. For his eyes, he blends a warm, coppery shadow into the crease and then cuts it, dabbing on an deep, rich teal on the lid and dotting the tiniest dab of glitter with the tip of his little finger. He lines his eyes with an expert precision and fans his lashes, upper and lower, with ink-back volumizing mascara. For his brows, he does almost nothing but line their basic shape and drag a brush through them, a light pomade that makes them the perfect blend of natural and dramatic.

He’s procrastinating. He knows it. He’s a little nervous, okay, and he’ll admit it.

Face fully made up, he shifts his attention back to his lingerie. Divested of his boxers, he slips into the panties first and gods, they feel good. The lace doesn’t itch and he’s glad for it, has heard one too many girls complain uncomfortable lace panties to damn near scare him away from the stuff if it wasn’t just so perfect.

The bralette goes on next, fastened with four hooks in the back (no worries, he’s an expert at this part) and when it’s on, it cups his chest sweetly, the lace soft like whispered breaths over his already sensitive nipples. Sure, he might be nervous as hell that Felix knows that he likes wearing lingerie, nervous as hell that Felix is just outside the bathroom door waiting to see him, but just the feel of the lace against his skin is turning him on.

It’s… way different than it used to be. Sure, there was something to be said about how good it felt to get your hand in someone’s pants and feel soft, pretty lace under your fingertips but it’s nothing compared to how it feels on him.

The garter belt goes on after that, and he has to shimmy just a bit to get that one over the v of his hips; it’s got nothing to write home of in the stretch department. It clings to his waist, not digging in but hugging tightly enough that it’s not going anywhere. The straps hang down the front and outer sides of his thighs, awaiting the tops of the stockings. He pulls the stockings on last, tugs the soft, sheer fabric up his legs and thighs. The band settles snugly enough on his muscular thighs, but he clasps the straps of the garter belt to their bands just to be safe.

For a second, he can’t even look at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t know what he’s more scared of - absolutely loving the him that he sees there, or hating him. He doesn’t even know why he’s worried so much about it. It’s not like gender presentation is new territory for either of them, not as if Felix is some macho cis manly man, but he guesses it’s different for him.

Ugh… fuck, Sylvain is more insecure than he had previously thought.

Back to the lipstick. He digs through the clicking plastic tubes, passing over his lip crayons and matte pencils, the few glittery glosses he keeps on hand when just needs a little bit of sparkke. He’s just about to give up and say fuck it to the lipstick when he unearths one last tube out of the bottom of his bag, a Colourpop lipstick he’d ordered on a whim online and decided not to wear because -

Wait. Because it smudged too much.

Oh, that’s perfect.

He lines his lips with a dull pencil and paints his lips with the candy apple lipstick, halfway between a matte and a gloss and making his lips look full and, quite honestly, irresistibly kissable.

He takes a deep breath and exhales what he hopes is the last of his doubts before opening the door and he’s rewarded with his favorite sight in the world: Felix, waiting in their bed. He’s hidden the lube, his bullet vibe, and Sylvain’s favorite wand beneath the pillow and stripped to a tight, sleeveless turtleneck and black briefs. His hair is up in a high bun and as he waits, he’s scrubbing through Man at Arms: Reforged videos on YouTube. When he hears the door click open, though, he looks up gods, Sylvain is both proud and just plain happy (absolutely elated, even) to note that Felix Hugo Fraldarius drops his phone in surprise at the sight of him. His dick twitches in his lace panties at the look Felix gives him, pupils blown wide and eyes full of fire, and it’s that validation that spurs him forward.

“Damn, you look… “ Felix begins, voice devoid of it’s usual sharpness, a butter knife instead of a dagger. Sylvain tenses, waiting for the insult, waiting for the loud, guffaw of a laugh that Felix is sure to let out any minute, but instead all that Felix says is, “fucking incredible.”

Sylvain knows he’s pretty easily impressed, all things considered, but the way that compliment feels warm is… fuck, it’s amazing. “Yeah…?” he asks, incredulous.

Felix looks him over: the intricate design of the cups covering his pecs, dark nipples visible through the black lace, the garter belt that sits around his waist that snaps onto the thigh-high stockings he’s gotten into.

“Yeah. Wow,” Felix says, and then, “c’mere.”

Sylvain clambers onto the bed, crawling up until he’s between Felix’s the easy, relaxed spread of Felix’s legs. Gently, he rests his head on Felix’s thigh, really just a puppy waiting to be pet, to be praised. Felix looks down at him, brown eyes smoked out with matte black and shimmery, gunmetal gray looking up at him from beneath feathery eyelashes. His brows are a soft smudge of auburn on his soft-focus face, blurred like a dream. Felix’s eyes travel down the length of his back, sculpted and gorgeous with muscles rippling as he moves, taking in greedily the sight of his lover in his lap. Felix knows nothing about lingerie, but he’s willing to die on the hill that no one’s ever looked better in it than Sylvain… not when his round ass and his gorgeously-shaped thighs are accentuated by these tiny lace shorts, not when the black of the garter belt stands out so starkly against his fair, freckled skin, not when the garter belt’s straps frame his thighs like the works of art that they are. Felix’s eyes pause on the one pretty mole that’s just visible on the back of his thigh before the sheer black stockings obscure his legs, the one that makes him go crazy if Felix kisses.

Felix wants to tell Sylvain everything about how pretty he looks, but he doesn’t know where to start. This is new territory, but it’s not scary. What does Sylvain like? What does he want to hear, need to hear? This is probably something they should have talked about beforehand, but it’s too late now: Sylvain’s in lingerie that makes him look like a model and he’s in Felix’s lap, and the sight of him, the weight of him, makes Felix ache with want. It makes him want to take Sylvain in his arms and hug him, hold him, have him.

“What do you want?” he asks dumbly, kicking himself after he asks it. He should know what he wants, what he needs. Sylvain has always been so good, always been so in tune with every inadequacy Felix feels and ready to go toe-to-toe with each self-doubt with an affirmation that denies it.

“Wanna be yours,” Sylvain answers. “Wanna be your man, wanna fuck you, wanna get fucked by you, want anything you’ll give me. Just wanna wear lingerie when I do it.”

Satisfied with his answer, Felix hums, “You’re so pretty,” and his voice is tempered with genuine awe, genuine appreciation and so much love that Sylvain could cry from it.

“Are you gonna be my good, pretty boy?” Felix asks, gaining his footing in this uncharted territory on coltish legs. He grips Sylvain’s chin between thumb and forefinger, turning his face this way and that to watch the way their bedside table lamps catch his highlighter and make his cheeks glimmer like starshine. “Do you want me to fuck you, ‘vain? Should I fuck my good, pretty boy?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain keens, “fuck me and tell me I’m pretty, Felix.”

Felix glides his hands up Sylvain’s arms as he murmurs, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re like a painting, one that I paid thousands of dollars for, one that I’ll hang in my bedroom and get off to every day. You’re like one of those dirty magazines you weren’t supposed to have, with all this skin exposed but all of the good parts hidden. You’re like a present, and I wanna unwrap you, wanna unmake you. Wanna see you come undone, Sylvain.”

Desire lances through Sylvain, white-hot in his blood, heat pooling in his belly and rushing to his cock. Felix doesn’t pull his punches, it’s true. He never has, and never will. But the thing about Felix is that his insults sting like hell, but like a blessed, double-edged sword, his compliments are… phenomenal. Sylvain’s dick is truly hard now, pressed against the bed and he can tell Felix’s underwear is damp with his own desire, can smell the heavy scent of his own arousal.

“Unwrap me, baby, get me out of as much or as little as you want,” he moans, hands gliding up Felix’s thighs until they’re around his waist, babbling like he’s already been fucked stupid, “wanna feel you fuck me open, wanna come on your cock, wanna hear you tell me more nice things…”

“I will,” Felix vows, smoothing Sylvain’s artfully mussed hair back from his face as he looks down at him. “You want to be my man, right? Wanna make me feel good and make yourself feel good, too? Want to be a pretty boy who gets a treat?”

Pleasure ripples through Sylvain like a current, laced with pure simple relief. It bubbles like a healing spring; soothing, calming, so grateful and in love with Felix for knowing him, for indulging him, for affirming him, for making sure he’s okay even in the midst of… all this.

“Yeah, Fe,” Sylvain nods, nuzzling against Felix’s stomach and lower. There’s a bare sliver of skin between his tank and his briefs, a chasm between fabrics that Sylvain widens with his tongue, licking a stripe across his belly as he coos, “yeah, gonna be your good, pretty boy.”

“Then be a good boy,” Felix says, fingers tangled in Sylvain’s hair and nudging his head lower still, “and let me see how you suck me.

Sylvain licks a stripe up the crotch of Felix’s underwear, tasting the salty bite of him through thin fabric, feeling Felix’s body jerk as his hot breath teases him. He could tease him, has teased him, has run one finger or two so lightly over his clit, his hole, stroked him until he’s open and shaking, but he doesn’t want to do that today. He wants to see him, taste him, wants to hear the compliments Felix has in store for him, and so as his fingers slide beneath the edges of Felix’s briefs to separate their clinging embrace from his milky, scarred skin like a jealous lover, he moans out, “Wanna taste you, baby.”

Felix lifts up, allowing Sylvain to tug his briefs down and off his legs. Bared below the waist for him, Felix tugs the hem of his tank up to show off his perfect, sculpted stomach and Sylvain nuzzles against it again, kissing down the tempting line of dark hair down from his navel. Back against the headboard, Felix settles in with his legs spread and glides his practiced hands along Sylvain’s neck, his shoulders, over his bra straps and down the line of his spine before it presses gently against his tailbone, the proximity of his fingers teasing the possibility of trailing down between his ass cheeks to press against the empty space he wants filled hidden there.

The way Felix is touching him is different, and it’s good. It’s confident hands on familiar planes of his body, but the paths are different: these are trails less traveled, over bra latches, the subtle squeeze of a garter belt into his waist, the lacy, barely-there thin waistband of panties and the satiny bows atop his stockings. Felix arches his hips and offers his pussy to him, lifting a leg to nudge at Sylvain’s butt with his foot, tugging him ever-so-gently forward. “I hope that lipstick is blowjob-proof,” he teases, but Sylvain knows it is not.

With Felix spread so invitingly for him Sylvain goes to work in earnest, licking up Felix’s folds as they open for him. He crooks Felix’s leg over his shoulder, drawing his cunt to his face, sucking sharply on his cock before he delves his tongue into the wet heat of him,. The weight of Felix’s leg on his shoulder presses the lacy strap against his skin in a way that makes his nerves sing, a reminder of what he’s wearing, of what he’s doing. He pulls back for breath and to plant reassuring kisses to Felix’s thighs, and the full magnitude of the sight that greets him is… jaw-dropping. Felix is smeared with his lipstick, from his navel and over his hips, along the slick, sloppy folds of his pussy and his thighs. It’s a dark transfer in some areas, a light smudge in others, but the point is that Felix is smudged with his own slickness and Sylvain’s spit and Sylvain’s lipstick. It’s… a good look.

“Look what you did, pretty thing,” Felix murmurs, and his voice is like velvet, like damask, like something luxurious and sexy brushing over Sylvain’s naked body. Felix has the sexiest voice and he doesn’t even realize it. “You made a mess of me. Guess I’ll have to make a mess of you.”

Felix reaches for the lube he’d tucked under his pillow, guiding Sylvain up into a kneel and pulling him against his own body. Sylvain’s bulk dwarfs him, hands gripping the headboard as he leans over him, but it’s Felix who’s in control, Felix who has always had the ability to make him feel like a toy in his hands. A doll, or maybe putty, moldable under Felix’s fingertips. Felix nuzzles at Sylvain’s chest, dips down to nip where the garter belt’s band meets skin, and all the while his hand is snaking behind him to tease Sylvain’s hole through the lace of his panties. It’s almost too much to bear; a teasing, tickling drag as Felix takes his sweet time stroking up and down the cleft of his ass.

When he drizzles lube from the half-empty bottle onto his fingers and slides them into Sylvain’s panties, Sylvain feels nothing but relief. When Felix’s fingertip circles his rim once, twice, thrice and slicks him before sinking his finger in up the knuckle, Sylvain could cry. Felix lets hin adjust to it, that unique, tender burn as his body is stretched, forehead pressed to Sylvain’s pretty tits in their delicate bra.

Draped over Felix, Sylvain gets the pleasure of his hungry, bitey mouth on his nipples, the pleasure of Felix licking and sucking until they’re stiff peaks beneath the lace, and only then does he bite, rolling them between his teeth and teasing them with his tongue. He’s crooking his finger inside of him as he’s leaving a series of kisses that will bruise across his chest. Some are through his bra, some not, but each one makes him shiver all the same; Felix’s teeth close to breaking skin, Felix’s tongue soothing the ache.

With one finger two knuckles deep in Sylvain’s ass, Felix leans, reaches blindly behind Sylvain’s back to uncap the bottle of lube and slick up the rest of his fingers. He slides a finger in beside the first, smirking through the slick squelch as Sylvain’s body swallows up the digits.

“You want me to fuck you, Syl?” Felix asks again, repeating a question he’s asked already, and Sylvain nods enthusiastically. Felix spreads his fingers until Sylvain’s keening, crooks them until his body arches and only when he starts mumbling felixfelixfelix does he add another finger, slick as the first and stretching his rim as it sinks in.

Felix leans to retrieve his strap-on from beneath the pillow, living for the way Sylvain watches it hungrily - it’s his favorite dildo, and Sylvain knows Felix knows that. Felix knows that he knows it, too. Felix

As tempting as it is to get Sylvain down on his knees like the puppy he is, to watch his muscular back bend as he pushes him onto his elbows and tugs the tiny strip of lace away from his hole before plunging inside, Felix wants to see him. Sylvain has taken so much of his time getting his makeup so perfect, and Felix assumes he doesn’t want to ruin it.

(At least, not more than Sylvain’s lipstick had been ruined by the enthusiastic head he’d given him. Honestly? Felix doesn’t think there’d be any other time he’d be grateful to wear lipstick.)

Sylvain’s face... damn, his pretty face. He has a shine to his cheeks that Felix isn’t sure is his intentional highlighter or his own dewy slick, a flushed, pretty pink to his cheeks that is part blush and part arousal. His warm eyes are every shade of brown at once, hot whiskey and flecked hazel, pupils blown wide and ink-black. He really does look beautiful, but in a different way than normal, in a way Felix had never stopped to consider possible, and he’d meant what he said - he wants to make Sylvain his.

Strap-on tightened and bullet vibe positioned against his clit for extra stimulation, he pushes Sylvain onto his back and bends his legs back, climbing over him as his fingers skitter along the garter straps straining against his thighs as they stretch. He’s gorgeous like this, cock and balls visible through the lace panties, looking up at Felix like he needs it.

This is Sylvain, open and bare as never before. This is Sylvain, honest and unguarded, and Felix will have it.

“You want this, ‘vain?” he asks. Sylvain nods, no hint of his bravado in sight.

Felix pushes Sylvain’s sticky panties to the side, tucking the almost-nothing strip of fabric between Sylvain’s balls and the sticky inside of his thigh. It exposes his slack, slicked-up hole just waiting to be stretched, and Felix positions himself at it, rocks his hips to soak in the slow, steady vibrations of the vibrator as presses forward enough to let Sylvain feel the blunt head of the dick. It’s just enough to make him moan, just enough to make his hole flutter for more.

Sylvain’s moan is a candid, broken thing when Felix pushes the cock in, fingers spreading Sylvain open to ease the slide. Sylvain’s a bit of a size queen if he’s taking dick (they have that in common) and it’s not small, but it’s average thickness and a little on the long side, just enough to penetrate him deep.

Felix tugs the panties so the lace stretches over Sylvain’s cock, still encased in the delicate fabric and he arches off the bed to chase that pleasure, arches off the bed to meet Felix’s thrusts with his own.

“Felix,” he pants, “tell me ‘m pretty…”

“What, have you not heard it enough?” Felix laughs, focusing on feeding more of the dildo into Sylvain’s asshole, inch by inch, and with a snap of his hips he mutters, “insatiable…”

He has no room to talk, but like hell he’ll say it. He loves fucking Sylvain, loves the hungry, desperate way he takes dick and he loves it even more now that Sylvain seems so at home in this lingerie. He wants to touch everywhere, all at once. Sylvain’s cock dribbles precum through the delicate lace and onto his belly as Felix stretches him, and Felix rewards him with a hand between them, a sure, steady grip on his cock. He’s just as insatiable as Sylvain is; hands unable to stay for longer than a moment on Sylvain’s thighs, his throbbing cock, his balls, his chest, the v of his hips.

“You’re beautiful, Sylvain. I’m only going to say this once, so, ah, listen up. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen… look at you, you’re gorgeous. It wasn’t enough to just look pretty in this lingerie, you had to go and - ah, fuuuck - take my cock so pretty, too.”

“Love your cock, Fe,” Sylvain gasps, hands gliding up his stocking-clad legs like he’s in awe of himself.

He should be. Felix loves Sylvain like this, loves him broken and raw and begging for his cock, but something is different this time, something feels new, fragile and fresh but sure all the same. The base of dildo presses his vibrator against his clit every time he snaps his hips forward and he grinds against it, making Sylvain shudder and moan every time the tip brushes his prostate and powering through the quiver in his thighs as he draws ever closer to climax.

Felix leans forward enough to shove Sylvain’s bra up and over his tit, exposing his nipple and thumbing it greedily, arching a brow in expectation. It’s an instruction, a request that Sylvain won’t take lightly - his own hand comes to his chest and pinches his nipple greedily, rolling it between his fingers. He’s always loved his tits played with, always loved Felix’s hands, Felix’s mouth, Felix’s anything brushing against his nipples and this just makes it something else, something more. Sylvain can feel it building, can feel his balls drawn up tight and his shake in his thighs that tells him he’s going to come.

Felix knows it, too, knows it after years of fucking each other every which way, knows that when he grinds the heel of his palm against Sylvain’s cock and balls he’ll shoot his cum all over his stomach, knows that maybe even just the right string of words from his pretty, sharp tongue will make him fall apart… no hands required.

“Why don’t you come for me, pretty thing?” Felix pants, and Sylvain can’t take it. It snaps like a rubber band pulled too far, sends him reeling at breakneck speed into his own orgasm, coming in the pretty, red panties he was half-wearing.

Felix makes his own pleasure last, grinding against Sylvain to push the dick deeper, rocking against the vibrator seated snug inside of him until he comes with a a shudder, blunt nails digging into Sylvain’s thighs as he rides it out. When it’s over, when Sylvain is still panting beneath him and looking utterly debauched, he pulls out of him with a soft squelching sound, adjusting his panties and sparing a squeeze to his spent cock. The fabric sticks to his hole and the tip of his dick rubs against the lace, once soft but now just this side of too much and it feels a little amazing to have that tiny bit of almost-painful stimulation back. Sylvain wraps Felix in the cradle of his legs, cuddles in close to him and gets a hand between them: past the dildo, past the harness, until his fingers are gliding inside of Felix. He’s soft and wet and sticky and shaking, and Sylvain extracts the vibrator with the care Felix needs when he’s this not far out from an orgasm.

Licking his fingers clean, he says, “Thank you, baby,” and he means it. He means it for not making a deal out of it, means it for letting him wear lingerie and be pretty and get fucked, means it for being Felix and for being in love with him in the first place.

“Were you trying not to let me see?” Felix asks, and Sylvain knows better than to lie. They’ve made a lot of promises over their years together, but there’s one second only to their promise to stick together forever: don’t lie anymore. Not to themselves, not to each other, not about anything… and so, he answers honestly.

“Uh. Yeah, kind of? I was worried…”

“I thought you looked really good,” Felix says, a little shyly, a little petulantly. He pulls Sylvain into an embrace, fingers tracing the sign of infinity on his back. “Did you feel good?”

“Fe, you know I did,” Sylvain answers, and when Felix’s expression says you know damn well what I mean, he adds, “Yeah, baby. I really, really did. I think I really like it when you tell me ‘get pretty for me’...”

Felix buries his face in Sylvain’s shoulder fingers trailing up and down his back, playing curiously over the latches of the bra and garter belt he’s still wearing. “You can be pretty for me whenever you want, Sylvain, okay? Don’t forget it.”