[ Sylvain doesn't take Wriothesley's shirt off, but he does slide his hands up underneath it, fingertips remembering just where to touch to elicit a reaction, a sound, a shiver of pleasure. Teases against the man's nipples, tracing down over his ribs, a whisper of a caress along the line of his spine.
His mouth is heated on Wriothesley's own, the kiss slow, but deep, and there's a hit of possessiveness there. Protectiveness. Almost like Sylvain was reassuring himself that Wriothesley was still here, too.
Not everyone had been gone when he'd woken back up. ]
no subject
His mouth is heated on Wriothesley's own, the kiss slow, but deep, and there's a hit of possessiveness there. Protectiveness. Almost like Sylvain was reassuring himself that Wriothesley was still here, too.
Not everyone had been gone when he'd woken back up. ]