He loves the way she likes to nuzzle into his cheek and pepper kisses on his jaw. They're sweet, soft gestures that remind him of long sunsets or quiet afternoons with tea, comforting and magical but quiet. Hard to recreate. It's strange, too, to be starting to feel familiar with her touch. And he absolutely loves surprising her, grinning at her delighted laughter and the way she gasps his name. That he won't get tired of anytime soon, and he puts his thanks into steadily thrusting into her, his kisses full of smiles as he does.
Smiles that only widen at her compliment and the way she shifts to help him. They're -- a team, really. So much of this reminds him of how easily he and Fran work together, even if the work is so different. Not that he'd call this work. It's -- fun. Easy. Though he supposes so is thieving. There's something different, though, that he can't put his finger on, a different cadence as she draws back to look him in the eye, voice breathless and heavy as she praises him.
"I've never met anyone like you, Aerith. And I quite enjoy rare and beautiful things."
She's wildly beautiful, and more than a little feral taking him hungrily like this, one breast out, hair wild in the wind, skin flushed and lips parted in moans. Balthier has seen a lot in his time, gods and monsters and queens and legends, but there's something simultaneously otherworldly and utterly rooted about Aerith that makes it hard not to stare at her, trying to commit every bit of this to memory. She's so alive, so full of joy and playfulness, and it makes him want to be present too, to do whatever he can to make her gasp and moan and laugh. Except that...it's easy. He barely has to work at all.
"Kiss me," he murmurs, not that he couldn't initiate himself, but it's a little easier for her to maneuver and -- he likes seeing the joy she gets when he tells her to do something they'll both enjoy.
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Smiles that only widen at her compliment and the way she shifts to help him. They're -- a team, really. So much of this reminds him of how easily he and Fran work together, even if the work is so different. Not that he'd call this work. It's -- fun. Easy. Though he supposes so is thieving. There's something different, though, that he can't put his finger on, a different cadence as she draws back to look him in the eye, voice breathless and heavy as she praises him.
"I've never met anyone like you, Aerith. And I quite enjoy rare and beautiful things."
She's wildly beautiful, and more than a little feral taking him hungrily like this, one breast out, hair wild in the wind, skin flushed and lips parted in moans. Balthier has seen a lot in his time, gods and monsters and queens and legends, but there's something simultaneously otherworldly and utterly rooted about Aerith that makes it hard not to stare at her, trying to commit every bit of this to memory. She's so alive, so full of joy and playfulness, and it makes him want to be present too, to do whatever he can to make her gasp and moan and laugh. Except that...it's easy. He barely has to work at all.
"Kiss me," he murmurs, not that he couldn't initiate himself, but it's a little easier for her to maneuver and -- he likes seeing the joy she gets when he tells her to do something they'll both enjoy.