[ He'd be so, so flattered if the Duke ever told him that bit about not being able to stand after sex with him. Oh, what a feather in his cap that would be. Aether's never quite noticed it himself, though he is at least aware that he tends to leave Wriothesley a little breathless and boneless and starstruck after their coupling; Aether thinks that it's just because he might be slightly more demanding a lover than the Duke has ever had before, and also probably that Wriothesley is very, very attracted to him, which is sweet, and makes Aether happy to think about.

He feels a sudden urge to reward Wriothesley for this attention all the same, which is interrupted by Wriothesley abruptly welcoming him with a warm palm slipping into his pants to stroke his dick. Aether's breath stutters; for one rare moment, the Duke clearly has the upper hand. He urges Wriothesley in for one more kiss, full and hot and not too greedy, because he's always, always gentle and slow when it comes to his prison warden. He moves his fingers over Wriothesley's cock the way that Wriothesley moves his hand over his, pumpking and stroking and squeezing, but the difference in their sizes makes Aether shiver involuntarily when he finds himself suddenly conscious of it.

He should be the more mature one, the more experienced one, and yet, the way that those big palms feel cupping his cock — it's enough to make him jerk and buck into it — ]

Your hands feel so good...

[ It's breathed out, nearly worshipful, full of wonderment. He's glad he took Wriothesley out for this sort of thing; now, whenever he sees the snow, so impossible in rain-soaked, temperate Fontaine, he'll think of Aether. A selfish part of the traveler's heart longs to claim more of Wriothesley's firsts, more of his memories. ]

We'd make a pretty story together. The Duke and his fallen star, enjoying a night of romance on a snow-capped mountain...