Mmn. [—is the only sounds he makes at first, his mouth preoccupied by her skin, his tongue passing across her nipple. She tugs at his cloak, and he shifts, allowing it to be shrugged off with relative ease, without needing to interrupt his ministrations against her skin.
When she moves her legs, only slightly, it’s still enough to present a small amount of friction to his groin (already he can feel the space in his trousers running too tight, Goddess, how is she able to make him react in this way?) and Dimitri hums pleasurably again. It elicits a small squeak from Byleth, a noise he never knew he could garner from her — it makes him wonder what else he may discover tonight.
Still, Dimitri isn’t so cruel as to deny her his own exposure. He pulls away, feeling his shirt tug upwards, detaching himself from her just enough to remove the article of clothing by pulling it over his head. Blond strands of hair go askew after he does, and he lets it drop over the side of the bed.
His skin, perhaps unsurprisingly, is heavily scarred by those five years of wandering. Some old and healed pale, some fresher and still a sheen to their texture. Sword cuts, the starburst of an arrowhead being torn out of his muscle. Places where lances had just missed vital parts of his body. A history written against his skin, and an ugly one, he would say, to match the scar plastered angrily across his eye.]
no subject
When she moves her legs, only slightly, it’s still enough to present a small amount of friction to his groin (already he can feel the space in his trousers running too tight, Goddess, how is she able to make him react in this way?) and Dimitri hums pleasurably again. It elicits a small squeak from Byleth, a noise he never knew he could garner from her — it makes him wonder what else he may discover tonight.
Still, Dimitri isn’t so cruel as to deny her his own exposure. He pulls away, feeling his shirt tug upwards, detaching himself from her just enough to remove the article of clothing by pulling it over his head. Blond strands of hair go askew after he does, and he lets it drop over the side of the bed.
His skin, perhaps unsurprisingly, is heavily scarred by those five years of wandering. Some old and healed pale, some fresher and still a sheen to their texture. Sword cuts, the starburst of an arrowhead being torn out of his muscle. Places where lances had just missed vital parts of his body. A history written against his skin, and an ugly one, he would say, to match the scar plastered angrily across his eye.]
I would like for you to touch me, too.