Hi bbs! This is a crazy overdue continuation of Felix and his incompetent girlfriend! Allusions to smut!! 18+
He carries you so effortlessly, bundles you up in his arms and has your feet dangling in the air. It’s a giggly affair, the route back to your shared hotel apartment. with the large double doors now locked closed, the blinds and balcony doors wide open, it didn’t take more than five seconds for felix to scoop you up. Your nimble hands work hard to catch either side of his face, trying with all your might to get him to keep still, and pushing your own lips against his. It’s so tantalisingly familiar, the taste on his tongue. Cigarettes, champagne. You hum into him, suddenly deeply aware of the fact that you would melt into his skin if you could.
He breaks away first, lets you huff and catch your breath, his kisses dip into your neck once more, basking in the familiar warmth of your chanel perfume. “Just… perfect.” He groans into you, “my own aphrodite. M’in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, and all i want to do is look at you.” He suddenly pulls back, his warm palms around the boning of your dress at your hips, practically groaning at the sight of you. You smile bashfully as he places you at the end of your bed — Felix looks at you like this every time, even when you’re in a day-old shirt of his and oversized joggers.
Even in your heels, he’s heads taller than you. your head is quirked upwards, bright eyes watching his own as they travel against every square inch of your skin. A quiet sigh falls from your lips, taking him in, in all of his mighty glory. “Feels..” You murmur with a whiny lilt.
“‘ve got you.” He replies, pushing another mesmerising kiss upon your lips. And then his hands begin to drop lower, but so does he. Felix kneels down in front of you, his head as tall as your chest. “Sit down for me.” he instructs, watching as your dress puffs out against the egyptian cotton of your bedding. You watch as his suit trousers crease, the black fabric upon his knees digging into the age-old wood flooring. He’s an angel below you, submitting himself to you despite his all-encompassing nature.
You’ve never loved anything more.
Those hands you adore reach for your ankle, fingers dancing across the new gold that adorns the bone. You see his lips twitch upwards. the golden jewellery had been his gift to you on your special day, complete with a tiny heart charm with an F in the centre. He’s branded you, much alike the other present that he gifted you today; your initials tattooed upon his chest, just above his heart.
“Looks perfect on you, bambi.” You can hear the smile in his voice, the pretty sigh that latched onto the end of his sentence.
“I love it.” you muse, twisting your ankle slightly in his hold. Felix’s thumb skirts across the strap of your heels, soothing circles into your skin. “I love you, Feels, so much.”
You always get like this after white wine, all soppy and sweet, even more so than when you’re sober. He can see the glaze in your eyes, all wide and bright, so overcome by love and happiness and the celebration of the day.
How could he not love you?
“Love you too, sweet girl. S’alright.” He can see just how watery your eyes are getting at the saccharine of it all. Too soft, too delicate. He shows you a love that was so absent growing up, something you didn’t even know that you were missing. So alone in a big home, felix fills the void without even trying. “Don’t cry, sweet thing. ‘S your birthday, can’t let you cry on your birthday.” He watches the saccharine skin of your delicate shoulders meet the pudgy skin of your warm cheek, long lashes fluttering. His heart skips at the sight of you, a little glistening tear falling down your blush coated cheeks, your hair falling from its perfected curls, the rise and fall of your chest, the flicker in your shadow from the candlelight feet away. Your eyes flutter once more, opening only to look at him, always to look at him.
“‘M just so happy.” You sniffle slightly, bracelets jingling as you reach out for his hair. Manicured fingers smooth through his hair like butter, an act you’ve committed millions of times before. His reaction is instant, basking in the warmth of your sweetness. You barely notice his hands working the straps off your heels at the same time, far too focussed on those pretty chocolate curls, his broad shoulders, how he worships you from the floor as though he is not a god himself. “Make me feel so safe, Felix. S-so warm and comfy. Love feeling you.”
He chuckles lightly, the air skirting your thighs. He has that cadence, the same wealthy laugh as your father. People of your class, people of your money, they don’t get what you and Felix have. Many of them marry for money, for duty, for reasons you’d never understand. Half of them are deeply unhappy, wrinkles settled deep into their foreheads and chests aching for the missing parts of their heart. You — your heart was full since the day you met as children. Since your little schoolgirl crush on him — a year your senior, trying your best to flirt with him every Easter holiday your families met and vacationed. He’s made you glow since he first told you how pretty you were, to ignore your mother’s constant projections and since he first kissed you in the rainy fields of your estate, years ago.
“Sweetest girl, hm?” He mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to your calf. You shudder, fingers gripping tighter in his locks. “How’d I get so lucky?”
“I wished for you.” You whisper back, falling down onto the cotton sheets. His warm palms push back the fabric of your dress, bottom lip trails the surface of your skin upwards. His tongue peeks out occasionally, raising against your goosebumps. It’s an effort, but you continue to speak to him as best you can. “Wished for you every birthday, every shooting star, wrote you on my Christmas list.” The huff against your inner thigh is that of disbelief — both at your statement and the sweetness of your words. His ring clad fingers reach for the lace of your underwear, pads of his fingers dancing against your hips. The instinct to raise them is natural, something he’s taught you to do without meaning to programme it into you. “Never wanted something so bad, Feels. Always needed you.”
His eyes peek up for a moment, absentminded fingers pushing your underwear past your painted toes. Your eyes are closed once more, sweet breaths filtering into the still Parisian air. He still feels your gentle touch in his hair, and can’t help the way that his lips twitch upwards. With you, like this, just for his viewing, is his favourite place to be. Your lips, lipstick slightly smudged and lips puffy from his attack, part as his fingers lightly swipe over the wetness beneath your dress.
“Need you too, darling.” He murmurs, watching you twitch. His free hand pushes up the skirt of your dress, and his face lowers to the sickly-sweet part of you that he can’t wait to get lost in. “Let me show you, yeah?”
thinking about being felix’s incompetent little girlfriend 😩 tw: bruises and mentions of throwing up. r has long hair.
“‘ve got another bruise.” you mumble heedlessly, barely even thinking about the words that come out of your mouth as you apply lotion (which is probably enough to cover a months rent in a two-bed flat) to your calves. felix, hunched over his textbook with a blue ballpoint pen between his lips, turns swiftly towards you, following the sound of your sweet, airy voice.
he sighs at the pretty image of you, body covered by one of his old t-shirts, practically eating you whole, hair falling over your shoulders and delicately manicured fingers massaging into your supple skin. he’s sure that his eyes go soft, practically heart-shaped, watching you in your own little world. he can see the constellation of bruises that you’ve already accumulated, seemingly from nowhere. pulling the pen from between his lips, he chucks it down onto his desk and rises from his swivel chair.
it’s then that you look up at him, not a thought behind your pretty eyes. his heart flutters at the way your pupils double in size, the way your lips tilt upwards at the mere presence of him. he fills your space without hesitation, so big and full of life, so warm, so handsome. your smile widens as he sits down next to you, the depth of the shift of his mattress. bright brown eyes linger upon your legs, taking in the dark purple discolouration. felix hums, looking back at you.
“does it hurt?” he asks, reaching out towards you. his skin is warm and soft, hands of little manual labour but so much comfort and love.
you know this game, have played it a thousand times. a dramatic sigh falls from your glossed lips, pretty pout settling mere seconds afterwards. “terribly.”
“need to be more careful.” he says lowly, fingertips tracing the anklet with his initials on, a present you received during your 18th birthday in paris. the gold shimmers as he moves, raising your leg with a light yet dominant touch. felix leans down, dark strands of hair falling over his eyebrow piercing, and his lips kiss a trail upwards. he kisses you in a manner so achingly sweet, a way so felix, until he reaches the afflicted area. the kiss that he leaves there is bigger. “my little airhead, hm?”
or when you’re all drunk and sloppy :( he’s just watching you so carefully, so effortlessly your knight in shining armour. felix doesn’t stop you from downing your jägers, doesn’t stop you from sipping his stella, but his hand doesn’t leave your side the whole night, doesn’t let you out of his sight, even when you’re hunched over a group of bushes, chundering your guts up on the walk back to your accommodation.
those loving hands rub soothingly up and down your back, shushing your heaves. “that’s it. good girl, get it all out.” he doesn’t care for the violent smell, or the way that it splashes against his trainers. just cares about helping you, getting you tip-top again. his other hand gathers your hair, holding it up and away from your face.
“she’s so fucked.” arabella, one of your friends from back at your all-girls private school slurs on her words, bumping into felix’s side. he resists the urge to roll his eyes — as if she wasn’t the one shoving shots down your throat. “just give her some fucking water or something. i want to get back.”
“no one’s stopping you.” he says, motioning with his head, pointing to the way back to college towards farleigh, subliminally trying to tell him to take the others and leave the two of you to yourselves. you, of course, miss this interaction, too busy with your tear streaked cheeks and spit coated lips. your little hand reaches back blindly for him, grasping onto his green polo. his hand resumes its gentle strokes.
farleigh groans behind the butt of his cigarette, dragging your friend away and motioning for the rest of your posse to come along.
“felix.” you sob pathetically, feeling far more than sorry for yourself. his poor baby, he thinks, doing so little to take care of yourself. your heaving stops for a moment and you fall to your knees. felix is quick to react, scooping you up from underneath your armpits and pulling you away from the pile of your own sick.
“i’m here, bambi. you’re alright.” he murmurs as you shove your head into his shoulder, undoubtedly staining his top. his hands still never once leave you, even as he gives you time to regulate your breathing and choked cries, pushes your hair back time and time again.
even then, nostrils stinging with the sour smell and shoulder dead from your limp limbs, he can’t help but smile. he smiles at the knowledge that only he gets you like this, all reliant and incompetent, so desperate for him and his, in your eyes, omnipotence.
“‘m never drinking again.”
“that’s not true.”
you whine, pushing your face further into his neck. “it’s not true.”
yeah, he thinks, he’s pretty lucky with his sweet, incompetent girl.
i cannot get this man out of my head i’m literally going feral
thinking about sitting down in front of one of the age-old couches in saltburn, chin settled sweetly upon your knee, bright eyes trained upon the illuminated tv screen. your lips twitch upwards at the green, groaning ogre complaining to a talking donkey. frilly sock clad toes dig in to the carpet, fidgeting with every minute movement of the boy above you.
you can feel him everywhere, his fingers, the warmth of his shins against your arms, his gorgeous mixture of cigarettes and aftershave. he’d abandoned a ciggy in favour of reaching out for your strands of hair in front of him, collecting them and twisting them idly. his movements are slow as to not catch the attention of any of his family, and he’s so gentle, domestic even. you welcome the light chill that the silver of his signet ring brings to the nape of your neck, bask in the way that he leans forwards in his seat behind you, loses himself in favour of your locks and ignores the family movie, despite it being the one that he picked out himself.
his movements begin to feel tighter, tickle your scalp in a way that only he makes you feel. lightheaded. small. sickly sweet. felix lets put a huff of breath, one that has your baby hairs dancing under his command, and his warm hand is suddenly on your shoulder. skin smooth, nails trimmed, he glides his way down your arm, all the way to your wrist. his large hand dwarfs the bone, elegant movements have his fingers slipping into the hair bobble that resides there and stealing it from you, but so softly you don’t even notice it happening. it’s the same way that he stole your heart, slowly, tenderly, summer over summer, christmas break over christmas break when you came to stay.
“oh, how darling!” his mother gushes as she notices the movements, watches with her ever observing eyes as felix ties off the end of the braid. “just look, pamela, look what he’s done. you look stunning, darling.” she smiles at you, a mother just as smitten with her son’s choice in love affairs as he is.
you turn your head, finally gazing up at him as his hold falls to nothingness. your eyes sparkle in the dim light of one of their many sitting rooms, and he admires the softness of you, just as he does every day. his chocolate eyes trace the softness of your cheeks, the chain of the necklace he gifted you upon your collarbones, the shape of your brow, the gloss upon your grinning lips.
“perfect.” he mutters, and he knows, as surely as he knows that he will die, that he loves you more than anything he has ever seen or imagined on earth.
