no subject

[she thinks it's good that dimitri sounds more confident — moves more confidently — as he removes his shirt and presents himself scarred and anything but, objectively, perfect. the years byleth had been asleep are traced on his skin, a thing she had never seen before until now. some of the scars are deeper than others, on his shoulder, on his chest, cutting onto his ribs. her hands cover all these ridges on his skin before she's sitting up on her knees and sitting right on his lap, feeling the generous pressure of his trousers against her underwear and sending new sparks of arousal through her.]

[swallowing thickly, she breathes out, a hand on his cheek and the other pushing down, between them, pressing into him.]

This— [softly, as she moves her hips, her hand a tight hold. she presses a kiss to his lips, raw and needy.] Do I do this to you?