[Dimitri's face flushes with heat as, beneath his determined ministrations, Yuri shakes and wails and whines his way through his climax; even his alpha instincts, for a moment, don't mind taking a backseat to the way he just sort of stares awestruck at the fruits of his efforts: the vision beneath him, the slick clinging to his hand, the heady scent in the air.

He did this. What a dizzying thought. There's an omega beneath him, pretty and rosy and shaking-spent, and he made Yuri like this.

It's so much different to see it in person, than to hear about it in legends and secondhand stories. A touch of his own fever subsides while he processes his handiwork, and there's something of his instincts in that, too — a momentarily clear head to evaluate his efforts, to determine what must be done next to properly please and take and claim this treasure that is so obviously his.]

Oh...yes, of course. I'll take responsibility, I assure you.

[But whether he means that in a utilitarian sense or a sexier one is really anyone's guess — at least until he dutifully bends again and makes good on his promise from before, tonguing ever so gently at Yuri's flushed pink slit.]

I very much want to hold you, but...I still don't think letting myself close to your neck is a very good idea, at present.