A bloom of not-quite-pain, when Dedue bites down -- a ground, an anchor, holding Dimitri in place so he can feel everything Dedue does to him. He hooks his free hand into his belt and twists, jerks, ripping the buckle clear through the leather. It thuds to the floor along with his trousers, freeing his dick. Cold air makes contact with feverish skin; Dedue feels so much warmer by comparison. It's steadying enough to draw Dimitri into an attempt at rhythm -- Dedue grinds against him, a definite bulge presses against Dimitri's hip, and Dimitri grinds back, shoulders against the wall for leverage.

Carefully -- featherlight, almost limp, because he's not really capable of being careful right now -- he rests his hand on Dedue's waist, brushing up beneath the hem of his shirt.