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A Flexible Approach

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Sylvain’s irksome at his best moments and downright infuriating at his worst. 

Felix just wants to get off. They’ve been too busy with war; slogging it through marshy battlefields, days on end in tents, and no privacy. Barely enough time to wash up with dirt-tinged water and pass out before being up at dawn to march off again. 

And it isn’t that he wants to hurry. No, no, he wants to enjoy this, as he should. As they both should. There’s been little more than a few quick jerk-offs when no one was looking. 

Sylvain won’t shut up, though, and it’s not in the good kind of way where he croons praise close to Felix’s ear, breath ghosting the shell of it and warming the skin there. 

The tent is cramped, not really meant for two people. Byleth was mildly amused when Felix proclaimed he’d be sharing one with Sylvain, one of the few cracks of genuine emotion they’ve ever seen from him. And no one’s ever said anything even though Felix knows that they want to. 

They aren’t exactly subtle or quiet for that matter. Try as they might. 

Tonight’s one of those nights when they’re feeling extra frisky, blood pumping where it’s probably the worst. Straight into the gut and below. Felix wanted to sleep but then Sylvain slotted behind him, grinding their hips together, and-- well, he’s a simple man in the end. 

Still, they don’t usually indulge to this point while out on the field. For a lot of reasons. It’s hot and sticky. It’s dirty and muddy. They’re covered in who knows what even after a quick rinse. Their tent is directly in the middle of the camp, strategically placed by their dear Professor because the more people they’re around, the less likely it is that he and Sylvain will be up to no good.

It’s turning out to be more work than anticipated, though, and part of Felix wishes that they’d just committed to the quick handjobs that they usually manage. The other part of him just wants to get railed. Preferably sooner than later.

“You’re a lot more flexible than I thought,” says Sylvain, a hand on the back of Felix’s thigh as he pushes at it. 

“Shut up,” says Felix, annoyed. 

“I’m just saying,” says Sylvain, fingers hooking underneath Felix’s knee and lifting it slightly. 

“Ugh, this is too awkward--”

“Are you saying that you want to stop?”

“No!” Felix says it a little too quickly and a little too loudly, something that greatly amuses Sylvain. 

He reaches out with his other hand to cover Felix’s mouth. Then he leans over, smirking. “Quiet, Felix. Weren’t you the one who said we’d have to keep it down?”

“You’re one to talk,” says Felix, quieter than before, barely above a hiss. 

“Okay, okay.” Sylvain’s quiet for a touch too long, just looking at him. “Would you say that you’re Felixable?”  

“That’s it,” says Felix immediately. He still has his own tent. It’s rolled up and tied up tight, hanging off his camping pack. “I’ll just handle this on my own-” 

Felix’s words dissolve into an embarrassing squawk as Sylvain rubs the palm of his hand over his crotch, squeezing at his half-hard cock through the rough fabric of his smalls. It annoys him, how easily he turns to mush under such a simple touch. How little it takes for him to crumble at the behest of Sylvain. 

“Bastard,” hisses Felix. 

Sylvain laughs at Felix’s ornery temperament, and how his hips chase after when Sylvain pulls away, desperate for more friction, for a longer touch. “But I’m your bastard,” says Sylvain affectionately, leaning over to plant a sloppy kiss against Felix’s face. “And you love it.”

Felix pushes Sylvain’s face away roughly. Then presses his hips closer, trying to get as much friction as possible, vexed at how desperate he’s become. His cock was already burning with need; Sylvain’s hot-handed touch only made it worse. 

And Sylvain knows it, evident in the devious smirk that’s plastered across his face. Sylvain can read Felix like that well-worn copy of war tactics Byleth’s passed around to them all, so there isn’t a point in trying to hide it. Felix doesn’t. Sylvain’s hand still rests on the back of his thigh, thumbing across the smooth skin there. 

“Lazy,” says Felix. “Are you going to just sit there or are you going to fuck me?”

Sylvain hums at that, amused. “Impatient,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to the inside of Felix’s knee, his lips lingering there. Felix groans in aggravation. “It’s been a while so I want to enjoy this.”

“There isn’t time,” says Felix. Never enough time, he thinks like always. Sylvain’s right, though; it’s been too long since they’ve indulged in anything other than brief touches that are barely satisfying. 

“There’s enough,” says Sylvain. “Certainly enough to enjoy ourselves.”

Handjobs are enjoyable, thinks Felix. Even their quick fucks in the dark, down and dirty when they’re too exhausted to do much more than pull their pants half-down. Felix understands what Sylvain means because even he misses those long nights where they pull apart each other slowly, fucking lazily as they burrow into the bedsheets. Sweet touches that Felix would never admit to and the soft kiss marks that he leaves behind to stake his claim.

It’s been too long. 

Still, they’re in the middle of the camp and there are prying ears. “Sylvain,” hisses Felix lowly. “I just want to--”

“I know what you want,” says Sylvain, his hand finding Felix’s side, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Doubtful,” says Felix even though it’s a lie. Sylvain can play him like a lyre, plucking the perfect chords that will melt him right into a puddle. 

Sylvain chuckles against Felix’s skin as he leans over, pressing his nose into the side of his neck. Their positioning was already awkward but it only gets worse as Sylvain dips lower, fingers ghosting along Felix’s ribcage. Felix doesn’t fight him when he tugs his shirt higher to suck a soft little bruise into his sternum. 

“Never,” says Sylvain, insufferably confident. 

Felix is about to retort when Sylvain’s mouth finds his nipple, tongue swirling around it before flicking the little nub there. Felix moans softly instead, arching into the touch, biting at his lip as Sylvain lavishes him with attention. 

Damn him, thinks Felix. Damn this stupid dolt and his perfect mouth.  

Sylvain thumbs over his other nipple, rolling it between his fingers gently. “So easy,” he murmurs against Felix’s skin, his breath ghosting his other nipple before tonguing it again. 

“Fuck off,” says Felix.

“Fuck you,” says Sylvain, pulling back to look at Felix. He runs a hand down his chest, fingers trailing along well-honed abs before stopping right at the edge of Felix’s smalls. Waiting with infuriating patience. This is where Sylvain always has the upper hand-- he’s someone who can wait. Forever if need be. 

Felix can’t. “Get to it, then,” he says, impatient as he ruts against Sylvain the best that he can, legs wrapped tightly around Sylvain’s hips. The tight space of their tent makes it damn near impossible and the lack of relief is making him irate. 

“Alright, alright.” Sylvain tugs at Felix’s underthings, and after a series of awkward movements they’re off, Felix bared to the world. His cock is hard, already wet at the tip and dripping. Waiting for the good shit to start happening, to finally be sated.

“What if I’m on top?” asks Felix. He’s already moving when Sylvain grabs him by the legs and holds him there. And, he’s still mostly dressed, only the collar of his shirt undone. Felix can barely see his collarbone, just a peek of skin there. 


“No,” says Sylvain, his hands warm against the backs of his thighs. “Like earlier,” he continues, pushing Felix’s legs upwards, expecting resistance. There is none and Felix’s knees wind up near his ears, almost pressed into the thin mattress. “Shit.” It’s a soft little swear into the night, and Sylvain looks at Felix like he’s seeing him anew, far too delighted in this revelation.

Felix forgets entirely about his discomfort the moment he sees the unbridled lust that’s bloomed across Sylvain’s face. “You’re too slow,” he says, keeping up the annoyed facade he’s spent years perfecting.

Sylvain’s still dressed when he dips lower. Felix knows it isn’t comfortable for him either, it’s hell on his knees and there’s a high possibility that Sylvain’s feet are probably sticking right out the tent flap because he’s got absurdly long legs. 

The moment that Sylvain presses a thumb against the skin just under his balls, Felix stops giving a shit about the embarrassment of getting caught. Fucking isn’t against the rules and everyone knows that they don’t share a tent because they’re close friends.  

Sylvain’s touch is soft and sweet, far too slow for Felix’s liking, of course. He cants his hips up, trying to get his point across, trying to remind Sylvain that there’s a reason to all of this. “Hurry up,” says Felix, nodding to his pack. “There’s oil in there.”

Because of course there is. He’s learned to always be prepared. 

Sylvain, the obstinate bastard, has other plans. He leans close to press a kiss to the tip of Felix’s cock instead. Felix groans in frustration, moans in pleasure, and nearly smacks him upside the head. And then Sylvain dips lower, tongue trailing across his balls, over the soft, sensitive skin there and--

Felix damn near kicks down one side of their tent when Sylvain licks right across his hole. The sound that Felix looses is unholy, a breathy little moan punctuated by a whine that he tries his damndest to hide. He fails miserably.

“Too loud,” murmurs Sylvain against him. But he doesn’t stop, tongue swirling around Felix’s entrance slowly, sinfully, and with perfected intent. 

They don’t often do this; it’s always the wrong time and place. The goal is always to get off quickly and enjoy what they can when they can. Sylvain seems to want to indulge despite where they are, despite their early call time, even though he knows this kind of thing turns Felix into a mewling mess and that there are prying ears all around. 

Sylvain’s thumbs at his asscheeks, spreading them wide, tongue soft and warm as he licks across the entirety of his hole. 

“Fuck,” says Felix, unable to stop himself. 

“Not yet,” says Sylvain, cheeky in that insufferable way of his. 

“Shut up--” Felix’s voice pitches high when Sylvain presses his tongue inside, just enough to get a taste of what he truly wants. He can feel the way that Sylvain smiles against him, tongue writhing as he licks into him, everything so very precise. 

Sylvain’s perfection in bed. Even Felix can recognize it. Eager to please, patient in return, willing to change things up and do the unexpected; a winning combination as far as Felix is concerned. 

A finger traces Felix’s rim, already slicked and ready to go. Sylvain hesitates, pressing in only with his tongue, and Felix sighs in frustration. He drops a hand to his groin to curl a hand around his straining cock, but Sylvain grabs his wrist. And holds him there with surprising strength. 

“Not yet,” he says against Felix’s ass, tracing after the words with the tip of his tongue. 

Felix’s head drops back into the shitty camping pillow, eyes closing tight with a crabbed grunt. Normally, he’d tell Sylvain to fuck off. Normally, he’d push his hand off, flip them around and take whatever he wants. 

And Sylvain likes it when he does that, when Felix takes control. Felix also likes it like this, where Sylvain pulls him apart and puts him right back together, boneless and satiated. 

Even if he has to bite at his lip to keep the edge off. 

Sylvain pauses and looks at him, waiting patiently. 

“Dolt,” says Felix, wiggling his hips. Ignoring the dark, sultry look that covers Sylvain’s face, and the way that his lips are slick with spit, glistening in the low light of the small oil lamp. “Back to work, you imbecile.” 

To anyone else, it’d be an insult, but with Sylvain, it’s an endearment. He soaks it up heartily with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to the swell of his ass before swooping lower once more. This time, Sylvain slips a finger in next to his tongue, a slick and neat maneuver all at once. Just the way that Felix likes it. 

Felix bites his moan off just in time and cants his hips down, pressing closer to Sylvain’s hand. Sylvain makes good use of his finger alongside his mouth. His tongue is wet and warm as it licks into him. His finger is insistent as he presses against his walls, avoiding exactly where Felix wants it. 

Utterly infuriating. He feels the slow burn in his gut, the way that his pleasure coils just barely. Sylvain’s playing hard to get, trying to drag out his pleasure and make him beg. Felix won’t give in, refuses to. 

“Useless,” murmurs Felix. “Good for nothing. I barely feel a thing.”

Sylvain hums at that as he adds a second finger, knowing that Felix is goading him. Sylvain plays right into his hand. 

The burning stretch is exquisite, despite the generous amount of oil. Sylvain is always careful, always dutiful in his care. He also knows that Felix likes it fast and rough, the pull and tug at his rim. The way that he can feel it all in the aftermath, a reminder of what Sylvain’s done. 

He’s only talked about it once and Sylvain’s never forgotten. He’s always been dutiful in his attentions after that, with touches that just barely sting in the best kind of way. Felix grinds his hips against his hand, his face.

Sylvain’s no longer tonguing at him, he’s watching, eyes blissed out as his fingers gently scissor in and out, pulling at Felix’s rim in a delicious stretch. Staring, entirely engrossed, pupils blown wide as his hand moves, thumb tucked against the skin just underneath his balls. He licks his lips, wanting to taste again. 

Felix is too impatient for that. 

“Enough of that,” he says with a huff. 

“Never enough of that,” says Sylvain.

“For tonight it is,” says Felix. 

Sylvain pauses and their gazes meet once more. Sylvain sweeps the length of Felix’s body, taking in the way that he’s curled tightly into himself, knees near his ears. The ruddy pink of his face, the red strain of his hard cock against his belly. The annoyed look on Felix’s face as he waits for him to just get to the point.

“Fuck,” says Sylvain, completely enamored.

“About time,” says Felix obstinately. “Been waiting too long.” Sylvain doesn’t answer, only sits up between Felix’s legs. Then Felix shifts, a hand dropping to Sylvain’s crotch, squeezing. Sylvain punches out a long breath, eyes slipping closed as he tries to keep his composure.

Sylvain’s easy to please, getting off on doing all the hard work. Felix rewards him by running his fingers over his still-clothed cock, gripping him tightly. The resulting whine is worth ten thousand wars.

“Good boy,” whispers Felix into the quiet of their tent. Sylvain’s cock twitches at the praise. 

It’s too hard to pull his pants entirely off, so Sylvain settles on yanking them half-down around his knees. Felix looks, taking in the peek of his collarbone where it meets his shirt, and then the cut of his hips, then the swell of his well-honed thighs and ass from years of riding. 

And then there’s his cock, hard and waiting, perfectly formed. It always sits well in Felix’s hand or throat, and there isn’t a thing better to fill him. 

Sylvain lifts Felix’s legs, pulling Felix’s ass to his groin. Felix groans when Sylvain teases his hole with the tip of his cock, just barely pressing in. Already flushed and wanting, itching to fill that void left behind by his fingers. Then Felix curses as Sylvain presses in and slides straight home. 

Annoying, how easily Felix loses himself in the feel of it; the stinging burn and pressure of Sylvain’s cock, how perfect he feels. Nothing else can compare. Not Felix’s fingers on lonely nights, or well-crafted toys bought from the coy Anna, each to the burning memory of Sylvain’s touch.

The answer is always Sylvain. Felix always runs right back to him, even when it’s against his better judgment, like now. Sylvain insists on leaning back as much as possible despite the cramped space. Insists on looking between them, to see where they’re connected, even in the low lamplight. 

Felix knows they’ve made too much noise, that the entire camp is privy to what they’re up to. 

Sylvain groans at the sight, hand slipping between them, thumbing over where Felix is stretched tight around him. “Perfect,” says Sylvain, pressing in again, far slower than Felix would like. And Sylvain knows it, that Felix is impatient and wants it dirty and fast and rough. 

“Dolt,” says Felix in a hush, the word pinched as Sylvain executes a perfect grind. An expletive shortly follows as Felix’s head falls back against the shitty cot pillow. 

Sylvain laughs and leans over again, pressing his nose into Felix’s neck. “So pliable,” he says, tongue sneaking out from his lips to lap at Felix’s sweaty skin. “Supple, malleable--”

“Intolerable,” cuts in Felix, earning just a bit of his bite back. He clenches tight around Sylvain who moans in response, biting at his lip to keep from calling out. Felix can’t help the smirk, desperate to gain the upper hand band. 

But then Sylvain changes the angle, raising his hips slightly and plunging back in, relentless. A perfect assault against his prostate, a smooth and calculated motion that hits the target every time. Felix’s voice hitches and he curses again, nearly going slack. His legs tighten as they settle around Sylvain’s waist as he tries to move against him, tries to meet the thrusts.

“Supine,” says Sylvain, his breath ghosting his skin before biting at it. He sucks a bruise that’ll last for days. Everyone will see and Felix won’t care. 

Supine indeed, thinks Felix. Lost in the feel of it, craving more. Gone is his decorum and carefully controlled demeanor in favor of sinking into the feel of Sylvain’s body heat, and the filthy glide of his cock. 

Felix wouldn’t trade Sylvain for anyone else, not that he’d ever voice it aloud. Sylvain knows; he sees it in the moments like this even if Felix isn’t vocal about it. War is difficult, impossible even, but this one small thing they share is enough to keep them hanging on, if only for another day.

That, and Sylvain’s cock is utter perfection, snug within him, hitting all the right spots. 

“About time,” says Felix, ever contrary even when he’s given in. 

“Never enough, for you,” says Sylvain in a soft murmur, his hips pumping against Felix in a steady rhythm. 

“No,” agrees Felix unapologetically. “More,” he says. 

Sylvain grunts but pauses, pushing at Felix’s legs again, unwrapping them from where they rest around his waist. His hands find the back of Felix’s pale thighs and he says, “Hold them.”

Felix blinks and then smirks, lips crooked towards one side. “Oh, like that do you? That I’m flexible?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s obvious,” says Sylvain, looking between them as he slides in and out, pulling at Felix’s rim. Felix knows that he must look like a ruined mess; face flushed, hair mussed, his ass slick and stretched. 

Sylvain loves it, loves him, so it’s the least he can do when he grabs the backs of his thighs and pulls them towards his chest. 

“Fuck,” says Sylvain. 

“You could fuck me more,” says Felix. 

They both know that he can’t. The cadence of Sylvain’s hips is already losing its steady rhythm. Nearing his end, and Felix is too. He can feel the pressure mounting in his gut, that slow-stoking fire starting to set ablaze. 

Sylvain’s gaze is glued to him, sliding over his form from Felix’s legs, to where he holds them, to where Sylvain’s thrusting home. Sylvain bites at his lip, worrying it between his teeth as he tries not to make too much noise. 

They’re already too loud. There isn’t a chance in Ailell that the rest of the camp can’t hear the wet slap of slickened skin against slicker skin. The way that Sylvain pounds Felix into the mattress within an inch of his life.

Or so it feels. 

“Good boy,” says Felix quietly, and Sylvain whimpers, eyes slipping closed like he can’t bear to look at him. Like he’ll come right then and there if he does. “Always good for me, always giving me what I want,” continues Felix, goading him further. 

“What you need,” says Sylvain. He drops a hand to Felix’s stomach where it hesitates. “What else do you need?” His fingers twitch just above Felix’s aching cock where it’s hard and straining against his belly, bouncing slightly with every thrust Sylvain gives him. 

“Not that,” says Felix. Sylvain’s eyes snap open, looking back at him. They meet gazes and Felix can practically feel the heat that rolls off him. Sylvain’s nails dig into his stomach, just barely, trying to ground himself. 

“I want to come with only your cock,” says Felix, a dirty little whisper that fills the tent. “I bet that I could. You always do so well, know exactly how to push my buttons.”

Sylvain moans at the praise. He grabs Felix by the hips, anchoring him there. Felix still holds his legs up, still folded into himself, muscles burning with the strain. It’s worth the look on Sylvain’s face as he watches Felix like a starving man who’s finally getting a meal. 

Sylvain’s a simple man and loves to be praised, so Felix keeps at it, murmuring compliments to his ego that he knows will drop straight to Sylvain’s gut. His hips stutter slightly as he loses his grip and the steady slide. It’s good, it’s so good; Felix can feel his body coiling tighter and tighter. 

Felix comes first, a rarity in most cases. It’s usually Sylvain to fall with Felix shortly after, but this time his cock hits the right spot at the right time. Everything within him snaps-- his stress, his thoughts of the war, the idea of sleepless nights ahead. 

All he can think, hear, see and smell is Sylvain and the way that they’re connected. Felix tightens around him, bucking slightly as he lets go of a leg. Sylvain’s cock pulls so deliciously as he fucks him through his orgasm. 

“Sylvain,” says Felix, a scarce show of affection that he knows Sylvain will tuck away and keep the memory of as he often does. 

“Fuck,” Sylvain says, still rutting into him. One second and then another, and then he’s tumbling after, chasing that high as he comes deep inside Felix. 

“Shit,” murmurs Felix, “Sylvain, fuck.” His curse echoes Sylvain’s as he drops his legs. When Sylvain moves to pull away, Felix makes a pathetic little whine before squeezing his legs tight around him. “No.”

A gentle command that Sylvain ignores entirely. He smiles into Felix’s sweaty neck, pressing a soft little kiss there before untangling themselves. Felix doesn’t protest when Sylvain looks at his ass, thumb sweeping through his come and pulling lightly at his rim. 

“Sylvain,” he says, warningly. 

But Sylvain, the handsome devil, only smiles in return before bending Felix back again and dropping to lap at his hole. It’s a rare indulgence. When Sylvain partakes, he does so enthusiastically. 

Felix is too sensitive, still thrumming from his orgasm. Still coming down from that high. The feel of Sylvain’s tongue, wet and probing as he licks up the mess that he made nearly sends Felix right back up. 

“I wanted to enjoy this,” says Sylvain against him, “I said as much earlier.” A finger finds Felix’s hole, and then two, pressing in with more care than not. Teasing his walls as Sylvain laps at him. 

Felix moans, falling back into the cot. His cock is filling out again; from the feel of it, from the intimacy of it, at the behest of Sylvain’s overt eagerness to eat him out. 

Sylvain directs Felix to hold his legs again. “Just once more, darling,” he says, “Just for a moment.” Felix complies wordlessly. 

Then, Sylvain spreads his asscheeks and dives right back in. Felix keens, not bothering to bite his lip, not bothering to hide it this time. Fuck the camp, he thinks, as Sylvain works his magic, doing his best to pull Felix right back apart a second time. 

His tongue swirls around his rim and his fingers spread wide before pushing back in and hooking against that perfect spot. Sylvain raises a hand, hovering it over Felix’s cock. Felix huffs in annoyance, knowing what it is that Sylvain wants to hear. 

“Please,” says Felix, “Again.”

Sylvain’s grip around his length is warm and tight as he jerks him expertly, perfectly timed with the thrust of his fingers against his ass. Felix can’t hold back the moan that escapes him, can’t help the way that he ruts against Sylvain’s face. 

The fiery pressure in his gut is wearing thin again, tightening more and more. Sylvain’s fingers curl around the head of his cock, smearing the come that’s already there, using it to ease the glide of his hand. 

The sounds are sinful, the way that Sylvain moans against him. Sylvain’s debauched, his face pressed against Felix’s ass like he won’t survive unless he laps up every last drop of his spend. Licking up to suck at his balls, before dropping right back to his prize. His fingers pump into him with a steady and gentle press, milking Felix’s prostate for all that it’s worth. 

Were this a different night, Felix might test his limits, might see just how long Sylvain can keep him going before pulling away. 

It’s already too late though, he’s already slipping over the edge again. The line of pleasure within him snaps and Felix is coming again, all over Sylvain’s hand, hips rising and falling with his overstimulation. Sylvain, mercifully, stops moving his hand, only cupping his cock. 

He pulls back and presses a kiss against the meat of Felix’s inner thigh. He’s red in the face, eyes hazed with pleasure, mouth and chin slick with come. His come. Felix etches the sight into his memory for lonely nights ahead. 

The cleanup is clinical, perfunctory even. They wipe themselves off silently and manage to pull on their pants, at least. They’ve been caught with them down, even in bed, a few too many times. 

When they lay in the cot once more, Felix is the one to spoon Sylvain, his preferred position. Wrapped around him like a clingy brat, nose pressed to the nape of Sylvain’s neck, smelling the sweat of their lovemaking. 

Remembering their lovemaking. The best thing to go to sleep to. 

“Tired,” says Sylvain quietly. He hasn’t blown out their tiny little oil lamp yet and his face is lit with a dingy orange glow. “But I bet the others will be too.”

“You are insufferably loud when you want to be,” says Felix, teasing. They both know that he was far louder. They also know that they won’t hear the end of it the next day.

“And you are divine,” says Sylvain. “Truly. I didn’t know that you could bend that way.”

“What do you think that I do when I train?”

There’s a brief silence and then Sylvain says, “Run things through with swords? Pointy-end goes that way, and all that?”

“I also stretch,” says Felix, scoffing. Sylvain’s thinking again, Felix can tell. Probably terribly dirty things like how and what he can bend Felix over. “Want to help me stretch next time?” 

A question tinged with innuendo, something usually brought forth by Sylvain, not Felix. 

“Depends. Will there be an audience?”

“That can be arranged, though I’d much prefer to have you all to myself. Perhaps late one night when the training pit is empty. The stars out and all that.” It’s about as romantic as Felix will ever get.

Sylvain only laughs before he leans over and blows out the candle.