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The Mittelfrank Opera is everything Dorothea and Manuela said it would be, and Byleth feels more than a little awful that part of her would rather be home in bed.
It's not that she isn't enjoying the show. She is. It's just that their trip to Enbarr has been nonstop meetings, and she'd mistakenly thought that this promised "afternoon of leisure" meant they'd finally be free to spend some time as they pleased—right up until Ferdinand had presented them with a carefully planned itinerary of entertainment and dining designed to show that the new monarchs were willing to engage with Adrestian culture.
And he was right. It was important. It's just...
She and Dimitri have been married for less than three months, and part of that was a month-long stint where Byleth was off at Garreg Mach organizing the church. For reasons she still doesn't fully understand, Dimitri was a stickler about saving everything for the wedding—not just knotting, but even kissing. Everything is still so new they can barely keep their hands off each other. Left to their own devices, she's sure the two of them would hole up in their quarters for days, but the amount of post-war stabilization work means that personal time is scarce. It's made their work lives so far...interesting.
Dimitri's libido comes and goes, muted on his melancholy days and ravenous on his good days like it's making up for the time off. So far Byleth has given hurried hand jobs in the royal archives, had her cunt eaten in a carriage, and been bent over the freshly-deserted council table for a reaming that ended with Dimitri's half-inflated knot wrangled back into his pants just in time for the next meeting to start.
She's sure—well, it would be more accurate to say she hopes—they'll discover more restraint once the newness wears off, but that's going to take a while at the current pace. Since their wedding there have only been a few times that the stars have aligned for Dimitri to knot her. They rarely have enough time, and when they do...well, with everything Dimitri's been through it's little wonder that he needs to be in the right mood before his body feels safe enough to knot, but just because Byleth understands doesn't mean her body craves it any less.
She'd been hoping they could make another go of it today, though Enbarr was never the most promising location to begin with. There was a time when Dimitri's only goal was to make his last stand in this city, to storm its gates with no plans for his own survival. It must be hard to ever let your guard down in a place like that. But like it or not, they're here—in an opera house, in Enbarr—and she might as well enjoy the afternoon for what it is. Their walk along the promenade was lovely, dinner was fantastic, and she's been wanting to see the opera ever since she heard about it back at the academy.
The Imperial box—well, the royal box now—is at the back of the opera house, positioned to have a perfectly head-on view of the stage. Dimitri tells her that the location is also meant to let people see when royalty is attending: their chairs are on a raised platform, even if the box has elaborate drapes and carved walls to keep the adjacent boxes from being able to look inside. However, the unobstructed view comes at the cost of being far away from the actors. Byleth rises from her chair and leans over the edge of the balcony, trying to make out the actors' faces as the titular lovers come together for a clandestine meeting in the woods.
"Here." Coming up behind her, Dimitri offers a tiny looking glass—an invention she dug out of the Archbishop's records after ascending to the role. As Byleth brings it to her eye, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, leaning on the rail beside her.
Byleth is pretty sure that he's looking for assassins as much as he's watching the stage, but she doesn't point out that there are a dozen knights distributed throughout the opera house. She won't pretend she didn't do a scan of her own.
The soprano's clear voice lifts up, her face twisted with emotion even as her mouth forms each note perfectly. It's pretty. Byleth relaxes into Dimitri, thinking maybe she's glad to be here after all.
Dimitri seems satisfied with his assessment of the room, because he relaxes himself, his hand dropping from her shoulder to rub little circles on her lower back.
Byleth squirms a little, trying not to get aroused from the innocent touch.
As the song continues Dimitri's hand dips lower, fingers skimming across the curve of her ass. Maybe not such an innocent touch after all. "Have I told you how utterly distracting your rear looks in this dress?" he murmurs just behind her ear.
Byleth shivers. Yes, he has, and it might have been a factor in why she left her cloak hung up behind them. She nods ever so slightly, arching her back to encourage his hand lower.
He takes the invitation, sliding his hand down to give her ass a slow squeeze. The auditorium lights have been dimmed for the show, and no one should be able to see what's going on below the railing with how the box is positioned, but Byleth holds her breath anyway, biting back the urge to encourage Dimitri with a moan.
Tonight is Mittelfrank's twelfth performance of this opera, but all the seats are packed. Dorothea told her that most of the audience would have seen it already, and would be coming tonight so they could say they attended a performance with the king and queen. From the number of heads they've been turning, Byleth can tell she was right: some of these people are here to get a look at her and Dimitri, not to watch the show. At least the local etiquette means they're being sneaky about it, peeking over in little glances while they maintain a pretense of watching the opera.
Dimitri continues to fondle her rear, his hand taking more liberties as the lovers' clandestine meeting turns into a passionate argument. The lead tenor is sure his status is too lowly to win her father's approval and wants to try for knighthood before asking for her hand, while the soprano sings of how noble and clever her family would find him if he'd only introduce himself.
Looking out over the audience, Byleth spots a noblewoman staring at them from one of the boxes along the sides of the opera house. The woman taps the arm of her partner, gesturing to the royal box, and Byleth's stomach jumps. This is not the impression she wanted to make on the Imperial nobility.
But the women's body language looks more like they're cooing over something precious than witnessing a salacious exchange. They must just see an affectionate couple cuddled against each other. Byleth does her best to look placid and doting. Fortunately she's good at keeping a level face, because Dimitri's finger is now rubbing the cleft of her slit through her gown. He's pushed the seam at the back of her skirt up against it, using it as an anchor to rub his finger from her entrance to her clit.
That's just cruel. Does he want her to spend the rest of the show squirming in her seat with slimy underwear?
Rather than shift away, Byleth takes her revenge by reaching under the railing to palm the bulge forming in his pants.
Dimitri's hand twitches, squeezing her tight. The seams of her gown are delicate things, sewn to be subtle rather than sturdy, and Byleth really shouldn't be surprised to hear the rip of the fabric releasing, followed by a draft on her thigh.
Dimitri yanks away his hand, looking at her in horror. "I—forgive me. I should never have–"
"I've got a cloak," Byleth whispers back. "Now are you going to finger me or not?"
He strokes a lock of hair behind her ear, leaning in as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. "You are a terrible influence, my dear," he murmurs as he plunges two fingers through the new hole in the seat of her gown.
Byleth bites the inside of her lip, giving him another squeeze as his fingers push aside her underwear and delve into the slick that's gathered at her entrance. The lovers' argument onstage is reaching a climax, so she gives into the urge to moan—quietly, under her breath.
Dimitri thrusts knuckle-deep into her pussy, and it's twice as sweet from the taboo thrill of being breeched in a place like this, two thick fingers stretching out her cunt as she looks out onto the performance. As the music swells and the lovers part Dimitri's fingers curl into her walls, seeking out the sensitive spots buried under them.
By the time the lead tenor's attempts to secure a knighthood have ended with him getting sent off to the front lines of an invasion, Dimitri is fucking his fingers in and out of her channel—slower than she can tell he wants to, his wrist working while his arm stays still. His thumb is hooked in her underwear, pushing it out of the way to give his fingers access to her hole in a way that's probably cramping up his hand. Selfishly, Byleth hopes he holds out long enough to bring her over the edge.
She gives his shaft an encouraging squeeze, trying to think of a way she could bring him off. The balcony doesn't even reach the top of his hips, and his erection would pop right over it if it weren't tucked in to point sideways in his trousers. Maybe if they pulled the chairs down to the lowered section of floor that they're standing on—but no, then she wouldn't be able to see the performance well, and the audience wouldn't be able to see them. She curls her fingers around the soft bulge of Dimitri's balls, fondling them apologetically at her conclusion that he'll have to endure until they leave. It's the prudent thing to do regardless.
Dimitri makes a soft, frustrated noise. The thumb that's holding her panties out of the way fumbles—or Byleth thinks it's a fumble until Dimitri pulls out to give her underwear a sharp tug, then another. In three tugs her panties plummet to the floor, hanging around her ankles under the shelter of her gown. Dimitri's fingers plunge back in, taking advantage of their now-unobstructed access to her pussy.
Back home, the lead soprano is trying to stave off a pair of suitors while her lover proves himself at war. With the stage so far away, Byleth can't tell if either of them have shown up before. Speaking of pairs—Dimitri's fingers are getting more vigorous.
Fingers aren't enough to trigger the float Byleth would go into with a knot in her cunt, but Dimitri is trying his best, digging the broad pads of his fingers into the same place his knot would nestle, simultaneously soothing and inflaming the part of her that craves to be filled. She wants something bigger, thicker, wants to feel his hips mashing into her as it slides in and out. As soon as they get to the carriage Byleth is hiking up her skirts and riding him home, cobblestone roads be damned.
She palms the solid ridge of his cock, wanting, and he bucks into her hand, as hungry for the touch as she is to give it. As the soprano has a tense duet with some baritone whose name Byleth is probably supposed to have learned, Dimitri's hips get greedier and greedier, slowly rocking forward in a lewd echo of his fingers in her cunt.
He leans close to her ear. "Do you suppose we could get away with...?"
A wave of heat crashes through her and carries her prudence off in the undertow. "It's dark enough," Byleth whispers back. "Probably."
She can turn back time if they're caught. Maybe. Assuming she notices in time.
Dimitri inhales sharply. His fingers twist inside her, grinding into her one last time before they pull free.
"Wait a moment, then come sit on my lap," he whispers.
Dimitri is more skilled at artifice than people tend to assume. With smooth grace, he returns to his chair, adjusting his cloak as if to keep it from bunching up beneath him. The sides hang forward just enough to help shield his lap from view. Settling in with an air of royal detachment, he folds his hands in his lap, subtly plucking at the fall of his pants.
Byleth has to be more careful, folding her hands behind her back to conceal the hole as she turns around. When Dimitri lifts his hands ever-so-slightly, she steps up, turning her back to him.
The lead soprano's father is talking to the same baritone—maybe one of the suitors from before, but Byleth isn’t sure who he's supposed to be. All she can think about is the empty throb between her legs, and how this is a terrible plan, and how thrilling it is to be doing it anyway.
With the precision of a military maneuver, Dimitri uses the shield of her body to free his cock from his pants, aiming it straight for the hole in her skirt as she sits. The crown pushes up against her entrance, and Byleth struggles not to react as the head stretches her open.
Fuck, she's still not used to how big it is. Halfway seated, she halts, adjusting her skirts as a pretense. She fights to relax, taking deep slow breaths. Maybe this was a bad idea. She's never taken Dimitri's whole cock in one go before. But she can't just stand up and leave Dimitri's bare erection in the open. She needs to sit the rest of the way down, but she's so fucking full–
Dimitri's arm snakes around her waist, pulling her down firmly into his lap. His cock stuffs her in an overwhelming surge, forcing her cunt wide to make room for itself.
"You need to look more natural, love," he murmurs in her ear. Still pinning her, he rests his cheek against the side of her head, wrapping both arms around her in a perfect facade of a besotted husband going for a cuddle.
Byleth's voice escapes in a wordless croak. Her cunt is achingly full, a clamor of too much so good too much drowning out other thoughts. She knows her expression is dangerous—she needs to fix it. How do expressions work again? With immense effort, she corrects herself feature by feature—dragging her rolled-back eyes from the ceiling to the stage, relaxing her brow, closing her slack mouth. She can't do anything about the blush she can feel on her face, but the light is dim. Good enough.
Fuck.
Sitting still is harder than she expected. She wants to lift herself up on Dimitri's cock, to make it stroke her walls and feel it pulling gently at her entrance. She wants a moment of emptiness that would be half loss and half reprieve, a small respite before sinking back down at her own pace.
But all she can do is sit still and watch the opera. It's a group piece—what was the word, ensemble? The lead tenor is off on a battlefield, his voice weaving in and out of unison with the other soldiers. As his comrades dramatically perish around him, he falls to a great clash of percussion. The music turns soft as he sings his regrets. Byleth can tell she's supposed to be moved, but it's hard to get into the scene when it's obvious that whoever directed this has never been on a battlefield.
Or maybe it's the giant shaft up her cunt that's distracting her.
She's had Dimitri inside her dozens of times now. This shouldn't feel new. But until now taking his full length has been a culmination, a brief taste of almost-too-much at the end of a thrust. Even when he's knotted her it's been after hours of fucking, her body loose and syrupy with climax. He arranged her carefully, fussing over angles and moving pillows to ease the strain on her muscles.
This is different.
His full length is planted up her cunt, immobile. With nowhere else to go it's pushing up on her womb, creating a strange pressure deep in her body. There's nowhere she can move to ease the intensity. No matter how she tilts her weight, she's hit with the heaviness of Dimitri's fat shaft rearranging her insides.
What did she get herself into? She can't just hop off and leave Dimitri with an erection spearing out of his pants. She has to keep him inside her until—she doesn't know. He comes? The rest of the audience leaves? It would have been smart of her to think further ahead. But she didn't, so all she can do is keep her eyes on the stage and try to look composed.
Onstage, the scene has changed. The lead soprano is shoving handkerchiefs into a suitcase, singing a desperate aria about how she needs to flee. The emotion in her voice is compelling, but Byleth has lost the thread of the plot. Did her father arrange a new betrothal or something?
She brings the looking glass to her eye, trying her best to look natural—and her strained cunt trembles as that tiny shift makes Dimitri's cock dig harder into a tender spot inside her. She shifts again, trying to ease it, but only succeeds in building up the craving between her thighs.
Dimitri groans under his breath, arms tightening around her. With a subtle readjustment of his hands, one of his fingers slides into the valley where her skirt dips between her thighs, pressing in against her mound. He finds the buried shaft of her clit. Works it with his finger. Oh. Oh, that's–
Byleth's body quivers with a miniature orgasm, waves of pleasure making her go dizzy. Her stuffed cunt can't make up its mind, simultaneously overwhelmed and yearning for a knot.
Dimitri kisses behind her ear. It must look tender from afar, but his lips are too hot and eager for tenderness. She can feel how hard he is, like having her squirming on his cock is scratching some primal alpha urge in his brain—whatever instinct wants to plug up his chosen omega's cunt and breed her. There's no way he can knot in a place like this—Byleth wouldn't have suggested it if there was any chance—but the base of his cock has plumped up like it's thinking about it, a little extra swell that teases her. She wants to lift up and down, feel that swell pumping in and out of her entrance--
Don't move. Focus on the stage.
For whatever reason, the lead soprano is disguising herself as a battlefield cleric. She's treating wounded soldiers. Byleth doesn't need to be paying attention to see where the story is going.
Dimitri's arms tighten to hold her against his torso. Taking full advantage of the lushly cushioned chair, he rocks his hips down slowly: the suggestion of a thrust, a tilt that draws his cock back just enough to grind that bottom swell against the ring of her entrance.
Byleth moans under her breath. Taking a cue from Dimitri, she leans forward like she's trying to see better, lifting up ever so slightly off his cock. Like that, they fuck, slow as honey—a series of nudges, clenches, grinds. Dimitri's cock never leaves her pussy, relentlessly rocking deep to deeper.
The soprano has been tasked with nursing a soldier who was seared by an enemy's Thoron. He's obviously her missing lover, but apparently the bandages covering half his face are enough to keep her from realizing that. Byleth is wondering if the character is supposed to be an idiot, or if they're all supposed to pretend this is harder to figure out than it is, and realizes that she hasn't been paying enough attention to the lyrics.
"Why isn't he telling her?" she whispers to Dimitri. "Did he lose his memory?"
Dimitri's voice is rough with something that isn't entirely lust. "He's—ashamed of his failure. Of the lives he took. He's doubting that she would still want him, damaged and scarred."
Byleth swallows, realizing that the story that seemed silly to her has touched Dimitri deeply. Did he feel this way? She squeezes his hand, craning her head around so she can look him in the eye as she summons all the heartfelt sincerity she can. "Of course she does."
A tremor runs through Dimitri's body, as if her words hit with physical weight. His breath catches, pupil dilates, glazing over with something that neither of them recognizes until it's too late. In a sudden burst his knot balloons, cramming into her already-stuffed pussy.
Byleth chokes down a cry as her inner walls are shoved apart. Before either of them can react, the fat ball of Dimitri's knot wedges into the supple pocket just past her entrance and triggers her knotting reflex—Byleth's body goes limp, pleasure exploding as her pussy swells up and clamps down to help lock the knot in place.
This is bad. She knows it's bad, and that's as far as the thought gets before it's drowned out in a surge of pressure pleasure big fat big big. Her head is floating, and Dimitri's clutching her so tight she can hardly breathe, or maybe all the cock inside her is forcing the air out. She can feel the knot throbbing in her pussy, Dimitri's shaft twitching as it gears up to bathe her cervix with seed.
"S-sorry," he gasps into her hair, even as his arms ram her down to make sure his cock is planted good and firm. It's all Byleth can do to keep quiet, teeth sunk into her inner lip and her eyes rolling back in her head. Distantly she registers the looking glass falling from her hand.
Her muscles feel liquid. An omega's body is designed to go lax when knotted, which is great for keeping her from hurting herself pulling away too early and less great when she needs to sit up and look like she's watching an opera. As the first gush of warmth spreads inside her Byleth concentrates on keeping her neck muscles engaged, dropping against Dimitri's chest to support her back as his cock pumps her full.
It's locked deep, as deep as it will go, and she feels so stuffed, and—is anyone looking at them? She can't tell whether they're pulling off the act anymore. Not that she can do much about it if they aren't. They'll be stuck like this for at least half an hour.
...Shit, how much longer is the opera?
Dimitri nuzzles her temple and Byleth gratefully rests her head against his, letting her neck relax like it wants to. The main couple onstage seem to be getting closer again...did the soprano realize who he is? No, she's singing something about him feeling familiar. Being tied has Byleth's head all fuzzy, so the main thing she can appreciate right now is that the music is nice.
Searching for her looking glass, she finds it several feet away on the floor. She moves her foot to point it out with the notion of seeing if Dimitri can knock it towards them with his boot, but that little shift has her eyes crossing as it redirects the pressure of the knot. She can live without the looking glass, she decides.
As the soprano's imaginary love triangle deepens, Dimitri's cock pulses to push another gush of seed deep inside her.
"If I'm not mistaken..." he whispers against her temple, "today's not a safe day, is it?" His hand tightens over her abdomen: possessive, pleased with the thought of it.
"It's not," Byleth rasps, and Dimitri clearly knew already but his breath catches anyway—fingers sinking into the softness of her belly like he could come all over again at the thought of breeding her in an opera box. And she had known it wasn't a safe day—it was part of why she'd wanted to stay home—but now it hits her all over again, her pussy clenching at the knowledge of just how it's being used.
The clench turns into a spasm, then another, and soon she's coming on Dimitri's knot, every convulsion magnifying the luscious pressure even further. Byleth trembles, body hot and oversensitive, her thoughts caught in a feverish spiral. Dimitri's filling her up, he's going to breed her, right here while hundreds of people could just look over and see them. Fuck.
The convulsions intensify, building with the crescendo of music and voices. Byleth has never been one to stay still while she's coming and with the pressure to look normal all that motion is turned inwards. Her cunt twitches and spasms, milking Dimitri's knot like it's trying to squeeze out the rest of his load.
When the convulsions finally ebb Dimitri is trembling, every breath heavy and measured—and she's seen him fighting to restrain himself dozens of times, but he's never sounded this flavor of pained as he does it.
"Was that...good?" she pants. "Bad?"
"Exquisite," he rasps. "And torturous." Each word is a soft exhalation, like he doesn't trust his voice enough to use it. "Needing to remain silent when I want to cry out...having you clothed when I want you bare." He swallows. "I want to watch your face. I want to hear the sounds you make, stuck on my knot..."
"I want to make them," Byleth breathes back, squeezing his hip. "I want to wrap my legs around your waist and shove my face in your chest. Mouth it all red while you pump me full of come."
Dimitri groans under his breath, and wraps her tighter in his arms.
In front of them, the young baritone whose role Byleth never figured out is back onstage. He's wearing an officer's uniform, but doing a shit job of it. So far he's spent all his time pestering the lead soprano. Byleth doesn't like him, but she doesn't think she's supposed to. As the soprano seeks refuge with the patient she still doesn't know is her lover, Dimitri slowly massages her abdomen.
Alphas’ knotting orgasms are long and slow, waves of pleasure that build on each other to a slow peak. Dimitri is getting close to that peak now: his breath an endless string of moans, his knot pulsing with a steady beat inside her cunt. When they did this alone in their rooms he was voiceless with pleasure at this stage, eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, as unguarded as she's ever seen him. What face is he making right now?
Afraid of the answer even as she craves to see it, Byleth does her best to look normal enough for the both of them. Dimitri's cock is swelling even more inside her, somehow—stuffing her stretched pussy even fuller, like it wants to make sure the come it's pumping into her has no way to escape.
Exquisite and torturous. She gets what Dimitri meant. The knot is digging into her walls, right behind her clit, and her clit is spasming untouched—and she's being swept off again, stars dancing around the tiny figures onstage as she fights to keep her eyes forward.
Will she even be able to stand when it's time to get up?
There—there was a curtain drawn around the box when the director brought them here, giving them a private little room with snacks while the seats were filling up. It didn't get pulled back until just before the show started. Maybe they'll be lucky, and it will drop again when the performance is over.
"Will they drop the curtain again when the show's over?" she whispers to Dimitri, who has more experience with this being-royalty stuff.
Dimitri's response is a groan. There's a warble in there that might have been an expression of uncertainty, but might also just have been more pleasure. Byleth doesn't know his sex noises as well as she wants to yet.
She'll keep the curtain at a "maybe" for their exit tactics.
Onstage, things are getting tense between the wounded tenor and the baritone who's been bothering the soprano, who might also be his commanding officer. Under normal circumstances Byleth's mind would be picking apart the issues with his conduct as a commander—she knows there are a lot, but she can't grasp onto any at the moment. The throbbing of Dimitri's knot is creating a pleasurable echo in her pussy, her walls instinctively squeezing down to make sure she locks in every drop of come.
There was so much come when Dimitri knotted her before. What is she going to do? Will she just have to pull her panties back on and hope that keeps it contained long enough to make it to the carriage? Her gown is long enough to hide a lot as long as she can keep it from dripping on the floor. She thinks.
While the conflict between the lead tenor and baritone progresses, Dimitri is shifting his hips in little flexes, grinding his knot against her swollen walls—and by the time the still-wounded tenor is being sent out of the camp on an inexplicable solo mission to deliver a letter, she can't think about the poor command or apparent supply chain issues or anything beyond Dimitri's cock plugging her cunt and pumping her full.
The soprano follows her brooding patient, still singing about her confused, conflicted heart. And Byleth is building up to another peak, and she doesn't know if they're going to finish before the show does, and in her current state that's somehow more thrilling than alarming. All at once Dimitri's fingers press in above her clit, and a pleasured cry bursts from her throat before she can stop it.
An actor shouts in the same instant, drowning out the noise. There's a carriage besieged by bandits and the tenor is diving into the fray, fending off the bandits with inept swordplay (they should be embarrassed). Dimitri keeps massaging her groin, her clit trapped between the pressure of his knot and his fingers as the carriage conveniently turns out to contain the soprano's father, who offers his rescuer a knighthood.
The last minutes of the show are an orgasm-filled blur—the tenor's bandage falling dramatically away from his face, the soprano leaping into his arms, the letter being somehow important in a way Byleth lacks the pieces to assemble. An impressive reshuffling of the set into a wedding scene–
And then the curtain falls. The audience is clapping. And Byleth is still stuck on Dimitri's cock.
Dimitri and his impeccable etiquette don't miss a beat, pulling his hand from Byleth's crotch just in time to burst into applause with the rest of the audience. Byleth follows a moment behind, trying to regain her composure as the opera house staff start restoring light to the auditorium. She can already see some people in the audience glancing up at them. Some look startled, but she's pretty sure it's a "they're cuddling" level of startled and not a "they're fucking" level of startled. For now. Shit, how are they going to...
The curtains reopen for the actors to bow, blessedly drawing everyone's attention back to the stage. Dimitri's knot is still firm and bulging, giving no sign that it's done with her. "Any ideas?" she whispers.
"No," Dimitri whispers back, a note of panic in the pleasure.
Byleth keeps clapping, trying to convince her pussy to release its grip on Dimitri's knot. It ignores her, squeezing down contentedly with no regard for what being caught like this will do to her reputation. The lead couple are coming to the front again, going for what looks to be a final bow–
Together the pair wave, blowing kisses out to the audience. Each starting from one side of the auditorium, they meet in the center and throw their arms out in unison, ending in an elaborate bow that's clearly for one box and one box only.
As one, the audience turns to follow the gesture, and suddenly every eye in the theater is upon them.
Smile and wave, she can hear her royal etiquette tutor saying.
So she pastes on a smile, raises a hand, and waves to her subjects.
Remembering her training Byleth takes care not to slight any part of the auditorium, pausing to give every box its own special moment of eye contact so no one can claim slight or favor. She waves and waves, a beatific smile spread across her face as she greets the entirety of Enbarr's upper crust while fighting to ignore the sensation of another load of come pumping into her pussy.
It's fine. No one looks like they've noticed. Even if they realize later that she must have conceived on this visit, they won't figure out that she got knocked up right before their eyes. Shit, wrong thought, she's coming again–
Smile and pussy both trembling, Byleth manages to stay upright, and if she waves a little too vigorously to the last third of the auditorium, that's between her and Sothis. Dimitri seems to be faring all right too, as far as she can tell—he's managing to wave, at least, and that's all she can ask at the moment.
Everyone is still looking at the two of them when she runs out of auditorium to wave at. Is there something else they're expecting? Her grip on Dimitri's knot is finally beginning to release, and she can feel come starting to leak out of her overwhelmed pussy. Please, please, close the curtains.
Someone is listening, because the elaborate drapes that shielded the box when they arrived start to move. Their view of the audience slowly closes, until the drapes draw shut and they're finally shielded from view. Behind their velvet barricade the audience is clapping again, their attention back on the performers.
The knot of tension in her chest releases, and suddenly Byleth feels like she learned nothing at all from this experience.
"...That went well," she says.
Dimitri laughs until he's wheezing, muffling his face in her hair to block the sound. By the time he's done, they've relaxed enough that Byleth can pull off his knot—a messy affair that requires several cupped hands and a handkerchief to avoid leaking over the front of his trousers.
"I think a bath is in order when we return," he says, inspected the undoubtedly-ruined back of her gown before helping her settle her cloak over it.
Byleth nods, doing her best to hold the come in as she carefully wiggles into her underwear. The crotch is soaked in an instant, semen running down the inside of her thighs, but it might hold until they can get to the carriage. They came in through a private entrance, but they'll see the knights and the opera house director on the way out.
...On second thought, she folds up that handkerchief for another layer. Just in case.
Dimitri offers her his hand as she steps forward. "Shall we?" Seemingly unconsciously his gaze flicks to her abdomen, and he looks so giddy and pleased with himself that Byleth's stomach does some flippy sentimental thing she's still not quite used to.
"Let's." Byleth puts her hand in his, making for the door with careful steps.
The carriage ride back to their lodgings is at least half an hour, and she intends to make full use of it.