[ aemond reaches for the hand darting under his layers and presses it flat against his skin, drags it up and along the flexing muscles underneath. the touch warms, though not as quickly as aemond would've liked; still, it is a good touch, and he finds that he likes it. ]
Sand would get in my hair, and my colours would not agree to so much sun, but on a long shaded bench I might be persuaded.
[ he lets himself imagine it: a sunny afternoon with the summer breeze kissing their skin, the sunset painting everything an orange glow. they have proper glasses, clear and hand-blown with arbor gold poured into the crystal. and perhaps — shared kisses under the shade, stolen touches under watchful gazes, or an empty stretch of beach with vhagar watching the distance as aemond takes dorian against the waning afternoon sun.
[ It's been hard to feel much in the way of desire, these past weeks, between the bitter cold and the roaming dead. Aemond has a way of coaxing it out of him, nonetheless; with eyes closed, Dorian can focus on the scent of his hair, the natural way their bodies slot together even with layers between them. ]
Mm. Sand is better imagined than actually experienced, it's true.
[ He lets Aemond guide his hand, the heel of his palm sliding firm below his navel, down his pelvis. Dorian lazily undoes the fastenings of Aemond's pants one-handed, with an equally lazy roll of his hips. ]
Someone might walk in.
[ Funnily enough, he doesn't sound bothered by that. ]
[ there is no shame in him regarding this. here is a room, private by virtue of a door closed; if anyone should enter and make themselves known then aemond will remind them that the room is already taken up and made use of. their enemies have yet to learn how doors work, too - if that changes, then it will be a challenge to meet.
until then, until something happens worth worrying over, he will take this warmth and drink from it. he is a prince, son of a king, regent; doubting one's wants is a skill reserved for the smallfolk. ]
Here, [ he remarks, guiding dorian's hand to shape him in rough strokes. their hands are dry and cool, slow to warm, but it's coming along the more they touch. aemond rocks his hips back against dorian's own as he lets the heat of dorian's hand travel through him in waves. ] This is good.
Summer nights, [ he continues with the fantasy, ] on a balcony facing the sea. Low candlelights. The ocean breeze cooling the sweat on your back. The sky wide open above us, the stars watching as I open you up. I want to see you knelt before me as you kiss the wetness off my skin.
[ he misses the sun. he misses fire, how it burns. he misses the heat of the sky embracing him in flight.
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Sand would get in my hair, and my colours would not agree to so much sun, but on a long shaded bench I might be persuaded.
[ he lets himself imagine it: a sunny afternoon with the summer breeze kissing their skin, the sunset painting everything an orange glow. they have proper glasses, clear and hand-blown with arbor gold poured into the crystal. and perhaps — shared kisses under the shade, stolen touches under watchful gazes, or an empty stretch of beach with vhagar watching the distance as aemond takes dorian against the waning afternoon sun.
he pushes dorian's hand further, lower down. ]
no subject
Mm. Sand is better imagined than actually experienced, it's true.
[ He lets Aemond guide his hand, the heel of his palm sliding firm below his navel, down his pelvis. Dorian lazily undoes the fastenings of Aemond's pants one-handed, with an equally lazy roll of his hips. ]
Someone might walk in.
[ Funnily enough, he doesn't sound bothered by that. ]
no subject
[ there is no shame in him regarding this. here is a room, private by virtue of a door closed; if anyone should enter and make themselves known then aemond will remind them that the room is already taken up and made use of. their enemies have yet to learn how doors work, too - if that changes, then it will be a challenge to meet.
until then, until something happens worth worrying over, he will take this warmth and drink from it. he is a prince, son of a king, regent; doubting one's wants is a skill reserved for the smallfolk. ]
Here, [ he remarks, guiding dorian's hand to shape him in rough strokes. their hands are dry and cool, slow to warm, but it's coming along the more they touch. aemond rocks his hips back against dorian's own as he lets the heat of dorian's hand travel through him in waves. ] This is good.
Summer nights, [ he continues with the fantasy, ] on a balcony facing the sea. Low candlelights. The ocean breeze cooling the sweat on your back. The sky wide open above us, the stars watching as I open you up. I want to see you knelt before me as you kiss the wetness off my skin.
[ he misses the sun. he misses fire, how it burns. he misses the heat of the sky embracing him in flight.
this is a closest to it that he can get. ]