Don't mind Mikhail as he begins to fondle Niklaus's chest. He's much more carefree and intimate about it now since they were behind closed doors, and he was free to do what he wanted. He would massage and knead the other's pecs, finding satisfaction by how the muscled moved with his hand. While he was doing that, his thumbs would rub Nik's nipples, and he would occasionally pinch or twist them before continuing to play with his pecs. ( here you go simon ;* )
Spending time with Mikhail, alone, was always interesting. Perhaps it was because the two could be far more intimate in private rather than public. Or perhaps it was because Mikhail’s hands liked to wander more and being in a more... personal space, those hands of the archer’s were perhaps ten times more touchy. Not that Niklaus minded. Usually.
“Ah–” The sound leaves his lips, single eye fluttering as his head tilts back against Mikhail’s shoulder. He can’t help the way his back arches, shoulders pushing into Mikhail’s own, while his chest presses into those invasive hands. He can feel the way his thumbs push against him, feel the way his muscle gives under the pressure of the touch. How his fingers squeeze gently, palms pressing into his pectorals almost as if he were trying to press them further together. The wyvern rider can’t help how his teeth click together when his jaw clenches, or how his hips push down into Mikhail’s lap in an attempt to grind.
There’s a gasped sound, teeth pulling his bottom lip to gnaw at it as the archer’s thumbs drag over his nipples. Pressing against the sensitive buds on his chest with each movement before they’re being pinched and Niklaus’ thighs press tight together, feet kicking against the floor in an attempt to find support to stay upright in Mikhail’s lap. But the man behind him was enough support to begin with, his arms keeping the rider perched in his lap, keeping him from sliding off as he played with his chest.
That single burgundy eye of the wyvern rider’s chances a glance down, watches Mikhail’s fingers as they roll and twist his nipples with ease and he can’t help how his mouth falls open. How a choked moan leaves his lips at the pleasurable sensation. There’s a tight feeling in his pants ( he knows why, his chest has always been more receptive to touch ) and he wants to touch himself but refrains from doing so. His breath is shaky, lip trembling when Mikhail moves back to simply massage his chest and Niklaus can’t help the whine that leaves his throat as his hips rock upwards, grinding against nothing ( but the fabric of his pants is excellent friction ).
“Mikhail– Mikhail,” His name is a mantra on his lips, burgundy eye glancing up to look at the archer’s face, “Please... touch me more.”
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