[He is not a green youth, new to the ways of pleasure, but — oh, it has been such a long time since his last real indulgence. His encounters in the Temple Knights had always been brisk, purposeful things: a hurried fumbling swive in whatever few spare moments alone he could grasp with another, more concerned with immediate relief than drawn-out luxuriating.

But Haurchefant is having none of such things, and telegraphs his sweet intentions with slow kisses and languid drags of his tongue, and it is — it will take Aymeric apart, he will fall to pieces here on this infirmary cot, and let it happen he shall if only because Haurchefant is present and able to stitch him back together again.]

Smug...

[So he accuses, and correctly so, even as his breathing turns ragged; the rise and fall of his chest neatly delivers his sensitive nub to the caress of Haurchefant's mouth, as if inviting him to play as he likes.

At length, Aymeric seems to remember he both has hands and is capable of using them, and drifts one to bury its fingers in Haurchefant's hair, halfway between petting and holding him in place.]

Only...have care. There are.

[He swallows, soft.]

Hurts about my body, I think, that have yet to begin to show. Truly, I do not mind, but I would not have you — [He swallows again.] — cross with me, for leaving you to discover them by touch alone.