(no subject)

[suitsahero]

By the time the word reaches Foundation, surely it has been blown out of proportion. The original teller of the tale must be mistaken, the resemblance merely slight, something. The dead do not rise from their graves unprompted and wander dressed in white linen through the snows. They must not be true.

But there's word sent all the same that a young man precisely matching Haurchefant's description had been seen stumbling, half-frozen, down the hill from his memorial towards Dragonhead. Were it not for a timely patrol, he might have died (again?) before reaching it but, as it was, he was recuperating in the infirmary there. Reports say he was disoriented, didn't answer to his name or any other, and had not yet regained consciousness. It couldn't be him. It couldn't.

But Tataru is good at catching the rumors flying and she knows to let you know right away. Artoriel finds out shortly after, whether from overhearing you or more official communication, but stops the word from reaching the Count, and begs you to go ascertain the truth before he does. It's impossible and he'd rather keep the hope from just being dashed.

Surely it isn't true. And yet...

Comments

[suitsahero]

His words are disjointed, clear that he's half fallen asleep already, may not even be aware of what he's saying,

"Nay... give me no such promises, lest I... hmm... turn villain and keep you for myself..." Surely it is just that his voice is rough from the cold, that he is nearly asleep... there's not even really a tone to it, so much as the timbre makes it sound like a lover's tease, like he might also say it about to roll her down to the sheets and make sure she goes nowhere for a time.

But whether it's intentional, something that's been let slip, or something entirely from her imagination and his ordeal, there's nothing that follows it other than him dropping back off to sleep, body still exhausted and in need of rest.

[likeyouknow]

The instant his voice takes on that particular timber is the moment that Pahja completely gives up on the idea of easy sleep. Knowing that she was upping the anti, giving him an in to make some pass at her, she certainly wasn't expecting that.

Now what was she supposed to do, when nothing follows it but the rhythm of his heart and the soft sound of his breathing? Pahja swallows, dismissing it as nothing he meant, of course, because that's how he's always been.

Not that it makes it easy to ignore. It's a long time before Pahja can think of sleeping, her mind conjuring images of what-ifs involving Haurchefant and his flirting. Of what kissing him might be like, of what it might take for her to run her hands down his bare chest -- masked as an attempt at checking for herself that he is hale and breathing. Of his weight settled over her, hair falling into his eyes only for them both to vainly try and push it aside.

The sleep she falls into is restless, although she can't argue with the dreams that only continue her train of thought. If Haurchefant should wake before her and disturb her rest, he may find that rather than rousing her into consciousness, it elicits small sounds from her that might be more akin to those made from want rather than any protest of movement.

[suitsahero]

He wakes slowly and without stirring her from her spot. He's surprised to still find her here, surprised that she's been able to lay back down and sleep, but grateful for both. He just lays there for what feels like a long time, though he has nothing to mark the passage but their breaths, enjoying the weight of her next to him. He thinks to pray for more time right here, just like this, but then figures that perhaps that's selfish of him, to ask for more when he's already been given so much.

Still, this is the closest they've ever been and he doesn't know why she's chosen now to alight so close to him, to let him hold her, but he can't help but feel giddy and reckless about it all the same. He knows that they will need to get back to the serious business of informing everyone he is alive. He should wake her, they should go. But he truly does want to stretch this as long as fate will allow, doesn't know when she might decide to grace him with something like this again...

Pahja shifts a bit in her sleep and Haurchefant mistakes the sound, initially, for a nightmare. His fingers smooth soothingly through her hair to calm her and he draws her closer, shifting to bring his arms more fully around her, thinking a more protective embrace might help hold whatever it is at bay.

"Shh... wake up. You're dreaming..."

All of it is truly intended as something innocent, if not perhaps a bit presumptuous in the level of friendly intimacy. Whether her dream reads it that way or not, however, is another story.

[likeyouknow]

Watching someone die in front of you because they could not bear to exist in a world without you does funny things to a person. Mainly, in Pahja's case, regret everything she hadn't said, hadn't done -- words caught in her throat and feelings trapped in her chest. Haurchefant's return is a second chance.

It isn't a nightmare that plagues her, but dreams so close to reality that it is hard to separate the two. What he intends to be friendly, her mind and body decide otherwise: his fingers cord through her hair as they kiss (and Pahja can't remember a time recently when she'd been this happy, this at ease) and his arms pull her further into his thankfully bare chest.

What the new position does is trap her legs in an awkward position; her dream-self registering it as feeling wrong, though she can't name why. That's easily fixed, however, and in Haurchefant's arms she slides one of her legs between his.

Much better, all of her decides, as Haurchefant is solid and real and warm and surrounding her. He says something, she's not sure what, and her brain supplies a happy, pleased response. "Haurchefant," Pahja sighs, and it trails off into something that is far more pleasure than it is fear.

If that is not enough to give insight into her dreams, then perhaps the way she moves against his leg is -- pressing in with a soft exhale that gives way to a sleepy moan of approval.

[suitsahero]

He cannot help but make a noise, not quite a moan but something soft and hitched and pleased, when she shifts closer and slides one of her legs between his. He's fully awake, but everything here is dreamlike and quiet and he's shifting, hand sliding down her back to rest at her hip, before he really considers the consequences. He doesn't quite tug her in, has enough sanity left to not make that kind of presumption even now, but the touch can be nothing but encouraging, a wish for her to be closer still.

The way she says his name makes him dizzy; the noises she's making, breathless, and he's got his mouth pressed against her shoulder before he can stop himself,

"Pahja, please dear, wake up," his voice is low and a little breathy, "This is too much everything I desire for me to push you away."

[likeyouknow]

The drag of his hand pulls an encouraging noise from her, as surrounded by Haurchefant as she is -- would he give her more if she asked for it? Pahja hopes, aches, both in body and in heart, for him. He's here, alive, and what better way to celebrate than by finally giving into that shelved desire? She thought they had time -- that one day she'd find that there wasn't yet another thing to do, and maybe then she could pull him aside and, and--

Something within Pahja's head catches on his words, a slow-dawning recognition that it isn't Haurchefant encouraging her on, but a plea for her to cease. The cognitive dissonance is enough to make her pause -- "Mm?" She stills, fighting her way to some semblance of wakefulness as her mind catches up with reality.

Oh. Oh.

A flush rises on her cheeks, embarrassment crashing over her suddenly that startles her out of the hazy remnants of her dream. "I'm sorry, I--" Wait. His lips are hot against her shoulder, he hasn't pushed her away, and his words finally register with her in their totality. A hand reaches for him, to slide into the hair at the nape of his neck with only a sliver of hesitation.

She is the Warrior of Light. Pahja has faced harder challenges than this.

"Then don't."

[suitsahero]

He shudders at the feel of her fingers sliding into his hair, a soft gasp parting his lips against her skin. He surrenders to her touch immediately, only barely able to keep himself in check with her asleep, there's no hope with her awake, touching him, giving him permission...

He twines them closer and the sheets in the way tangle and frustrate the motion, but he hardly notices. She is already closer than she's ever been to him and he'll think to want more in a moment, but right now he gluts himself on what he has, every touch new and heated. He is not an inexperienced lover in the slightest, Halone knows he's got a reputation for it, even. But this is something wholly different and he finds himself more needy, clumsy, honest.

He draws back slightly but it's only so he can kiss her finally, finally, and it would be sweet, chaste, if it weren't also more than a little desperate.

[likeyouknow]

The sound that bubbles up from Pahja's throat is a mix of laughter and of want as he finally, finally kisses her. Haurchefant, kissing her! It would have all been unbelievable, impossible, a day or two ago. Now, instead, she falls into it with an enthusiastic zeal only tempered by the sleepiness that tugs at her still.

He pulls her into him and Pahja follows, happily obliging him as her tail flicks back and forth. The hand in his hair stays there, fingers pressed against the nape of his neck when they aren't carding through it, desperate to see if she can pull the same sound from him again. Her other hand fumbles with the sheets, attempting to move them enough that she can touch him. Solid and real and alive, and kissing her.

It might not have been the world's smoothest kiss, the kind that ranks in the stories, but for her it's far better than any she's ever had. Pajha allows him to deepen the kiss if he wishes, not waiting longer than she has to; the desperation is almost tangible, and she feels likewise.

[suitsahero]

She finds him, unsurprisingly, intensely reactive to her, as expressive here as he is anywhere else. He gives the impression that he might be louder, if he could so much as decide what noises he was going to make but breathlessness keeps him quieter, pleasure expressed in gasps and soft moans. She can practically feel him trying to retain some kind of sanity, to bring to bear any knowledge whatsoever about how to do this "properly", but she laughs in the kiss and he deepens it reflexively, like he wants nothing more than to know what the sound tastes like.

He's been dressed in some kind of loose sleeping shirt and pants, but with the way they've even just already moved around in the bed, it's tangled in the sheets and large enough that it's really hardly much of a shirt anymore, hanging open and off one shoulder. It's harder to find cloth than skin at this point and if there is a discordant note to any of this, it's that Hydaelyn has not returned him unscarred, his death wound healed over to pink but still new enough to be a bit angry yet around the edges. It's clear he can still feel the difference, too, because he moans into the kiss when she touches the edges of it and his hips shift, not quite a bid for more friction but definitely the start to that.

He is either gentleman enough or thoroughly distracted enough that he isn't trying to get underneath any of her clothing, but not so much so that the hand on her hip doesn't slide over to her ass, drawing her completely flush against him. It's only that he doesn't know whether he'd rather roll her down to the sheets or up on top of him that has him staying like this.

[likeyouknow]

Of all the things Pahja could care about in this moment, doing it right is too far down the list for her to give it much thought. Feeling Haurchefant attempt to think is liable to give her a headache and when she has to break the kiss to breathe, her hand cups the side of his face, fingers running through the hair at his temple to shove all thoughts aside. It doesn't matter to her, not like having him back does, not like having this chance, and she hopes that in some way, he can know that all she wants is him, and this, in whatever form it takes. It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be with him.

Her wandering hand stalls when it brushes the scar, takes note of the sound he makes -- eyes widening as she searches for for some sort of sign that she'd hurt him in his face. When none comes, when his hips move forward, Pahja relaxes. But only a little, because the pressure, the hint of friction, is enough to send her breath stuttering against his lips. Clothes -- both his and her's -- are of little thought when all she can think about is how thrilling it is to finally have this chance.

"Haurchefant--" It's all she manages to get out before she's kissing him again, more insistent and demanding than the sweetness of their first as her fingers tangle once more in his hair. And maybe it's a little underhanded to roll her hips against his the moment he pulls her flush but that doesn't stop her. Not does it stop her from running the tips of her fingers along the line of his scar as she does so -- that is surely unfair for him, but Pahja wants nothing more but to hear him moan again, cherishing every little sound she can get from him.

[suitsahero]

He doesn't waste more than a thought on being anything more than at least a conscientious lover (though really, he's struggling even with that with how riled this has him, how easily), gives up on anything more suave immediately in sheer, overwhelming desire. He moans more audibly into the kiss, greedy hands pulling her closer, and it feels like they both deepen the kiss at the same time, another moan voiced for the feel of her tongue against his.

There's a thought to spare that they're really more grinding against each other at this point than anything else and there's something juvenile and desperate and perfect about it, and he finally makes up his mind, rolling over her so that she can press up into friction and he can use gravity down. It's a little unfair, but he tries to make it up to her with a line of open-mouthed kisses down her neck. They start gentle, but by the time he's down into the crook of her neck there's a hint of teeth, something that might leave marks if they're not careful.

He is not being careful.

[likeyouknow]

If she were older -- wiser, maybe -- her response to being rolled over wouldn't be as thrilled as it is. There's a soft oof into his mouth of surprise, followed by a breathless, thrilled giggle. Euphoric in the sheer joy it contains at finally being able to have this, have him -- and, alright, a little juvenilely hormonal, too. Pahja is about to complain about not having his mouth on her's -- she hasn't gotten used to the way he tastes, but then his mouth is on her skin. It burns hotter than the desert she prefers, sharper in the chill air of Corenthas, and she moans with every kiss. Soft, but louder the less careful he is.

Pahja writhes against the heavy, welcome, warm weight of him as she feels his teeth against her neck -- hips rolling up, needy. The Warrior of Light may have a reputation for quiet composure when there's battles to be won but all that is tossed aside here. There is a need, curled tightly, in her, and pushing up against him and the heat of his erection through his pants isn't enough.

The soft moans she'd been making trail off in a frustrated whine -- one of her hands still tangled in Haurchefant's hair while the other reaches for his ass, only to find that their height difference and position make that near impossible. No one said she wasn't a quick thinker, however, and her hand tugs up his shirt, runs over warm skin and fresh scar. Better, this was better, but--

"M'shirt," she manages between gasps, moans she is absolutely failing to attempt to stifle. "Off, please."

[suitsahero]

He's openly moaning, quiet but on nearly every exhale at this point, the noises encouraging more of her hip's motions and he can't seem to stop his own even as he's almost laughing at how completely ridiculous they both are, over-eager like teenagers. Each time she rolls her hips up he rolls his own down and,

"Gods, but I've wanted this so long. Fury, you're beautiful..." They seem to have the same thought because even as she's opening her mouth to demand him get her shirt off, he's untangling himself just enough to toss his up over his own head with what almost reads as violence, he's in such haste to be rid of it. He flings it somewhere to deal with later and wastes not a single moment getting his hands back on her at her plea.

If it's possible to just slide his hands up under her shirt without doing anything else, he will, desperate to touch her in a way that he would normally temper with more respect but holds no chance of doing so while she's pleading for it. If there are belts and clasps in the way, he falls to them with a vengeance instead, as desperate to obey her as she is in giving the demand.

[likeyouknow]

Praise isn't something that's foreign to her; every time it lands at her feet she feels as if it could be put towards something better, someone better. But coming from Haurchefaunt it feels different, causes warmth to bubble up in her chest apart from her desire. Something about it makes her smile up at him, warm and open -- even as she runs her hands down his bare chest, open appreciation and fondness in her eyes.

Talking is difficult, from the sounds that he pulls out from her -- her top is simple enough he can slide his hands below the hem and push it up as he goes, and whatever Pahja has started to say is cut off by a sharp gasp as she presses herself into his hands.

"Hot chocolate," she starts, before attempting to bring him in for a bruising kiss, continuing against his lips. "You brought me hot chocolate and since then, I--" She'd been lost and adrift and he had been there with a smile and a warm drink. It had meant more than anything anyone has ever done for her until then, since then.

Pahja is helpless to stop the giggle that escapes her at the warmth of his hands, the memory of that moment, the heat between them now as she doesn't stop rolling her hips up, desperate. Slides one leg up around his hips to pull him closer, arms tangling with his at his waist before she gives up and slides them around to the small of his back, slipping her fingers under the waistband.

[suitsahero]

He spares a moment to shift his attention to her leg as she pulls it up around him, setting his hand on her knee and sliding it slowly upwards until he can squeeze at the top of her thigh for a moment, fingertips so close and so far away from touching her between her legs. He hitches her closer like that, but he doesn't linger there. She's given him a order, after all, or at least a mission and he has every intention of following through on it, finishing the path he was originally taking until he can cup both of her breasts in his hands, thumbs rubbing just firmly enough to not quite be teasing over her nipples.

He moans when he does it, even though he couldn't fully say if it's the feel of her or her words that cause it.

"Since then? I had no idea..." he's shoving her shirt and her underclothes up together, perhaps a bit more roughly than he would normally, but he needs to see her, taste her, right now, or he's going to go mad with it. Even so, his mouth finds the space between her breasts before anything else, nibbling the skin there more softly than the almost frantic nature of their other touches calls for.

"I have never wanted anything like I have wanted you," he murmurs against her skin. It's not quite the words he wants to say, but this is still new and he is still shocked to find even this reciprocated.

[likeyouknow]

It is incredibly hard to think with his hands on her, let alone form anything close to words. Warmth radiates from him, it always has, and Pahja finds herself shuddering at the weight of his hand on her thigh, all of her jerking towards him in surprise and want when his fingers brush over her nipples and it's not teasing but it feels like it could be. Maybe later, much later, after they're done and started again.

If they were having this conversation anywhere else, perhaps she'd be able to speak clearly, plainly, but his mouth is on her skin and all she can think about is arching up into him, her hands curling in to drag him closer to her. She moans, giving up on sounding anything but wanton. Needy, desperate for him. "Felt silly," she confesses, her blush deepening, traveling down from her cheeks to the skin he's so eagerly got his mouth on. "A crush on a knight."

Her knight, who'd died for her and returned to her. Pahja can't kiss him as hard as she wants to to convey how much his words mean to her, how much she wants him, too. More than anything -- she thought she lost him, after all. "Me too," she says, voice rough and heavy with desire -- laced with something else weighed down with an emotion she doesn't know how to voice.

Haurchefant might be distracted by kissing her skin, but Pahja is doing her best to untie the fastening to his pants, the underclothes, palming him through the fabric as best she can in spite of the tangle of limbs and torsos. Something about that just makes it feel more real -- it doesn't have to be perfect if it's with him. They're practically knocking limbs against each other loud enough to be heard, but it's earnest and he's alive, so that's alright.

At least that's what she thinks, until something clicks inside her head that the knock she hears isn't from anything they're doing, but the door. Oh. Oh.

Oops.

[suitsahero]

"Your knight," he answers back, immediately, voice rough with emotion and need both, a tone to match hers. He can't seem to give up pieces of himself fast enough, never has been able to when it's her he's giving them to. He has to stop what he's doing with his mouth for a moment when she palms him, can only moan and rub his cheek against her skin for a moment and press a little harder into her hand. The angles are all wrong for him to really thrust against her grip, but he twitches a bit anyway, trying.

He loves her, more than anything, but it's lust he hisses her name in, and the rest of their clothes are just going to have to be mended later because he's going to tear the rest of them off to get to her if he has to and she can hear it in the way he moans for her, the low hint of a growl, teeth scraping a line against the underside of one breast--

He barely even hears the first knock, hand sliding down the curve of her waist to cup her hip, thumb rubbing a firm circle in the hollow of her hipbone, but the second, slightly louder one does grab his attention and he's not a man given to much in the way of outright cursing, tends to prefer quiet (though occasionally blistering) oaths, but if ever there was a time for a,

"Fuck," this was it.

He levers himself up off her her, but his mind doesn't want to switch gears, wants to pull her close again. He briefly entertains the idea of just pulling her under the covers, letting whoever it was talk to him while he keeps her close. But no. He doesn't know how she would feel about that and they probably need to do things like talk to him, examine him for injuries and to confirm his identity alike.

[likeyouknow]

Her's. The joy that erupts from hearing him say so is cut short by the fact that his warmth is replaced by cold air, rushing in to fill the hole made by the absence of him. Not that Pahja can blame him -- it's the wiser course of action.

Even if all she wants to do is pull him back in, shut out the world for a little while longer.

Still -- her head falls back with a soft thump against the pillow, hands dropping away from Haurchefant with great reluctance. "Agreed," is what she manages; it's a rare thing indeed for annoyance to creep into her tone, but she can't help it. Of all the times for an interruption, did it have to be now?

"I should--" Look presentable, most likely. Which is proving to be hard, considering she doesn't want to move any further away from Haurchefant than she is. "Shirt!" Both of them need that, and it sends her scurrying around in the sheets to find them before the person at the door takes it upon themselves to enter anyway.

She may, however, accidentally slam her head into his in the sudden wave of panic that hit her over the idea of someone other than him seeing her bare chest.

[suitsahero]

Well. They did always say that love hurts.

He ends up flat on his back in the bed, head smarting and the blankets yanked out from under his knees.

"A moment, if you would," he calls out and his voice sounds remarkably steady, but then, it's all he can concentrate on for a moment anyway, brain reduced to one moment at a time. He's no help at all in finding clothing, but he does set himself to rights after a moment, lacing up his loose sleeping pants (which may prove a distraction all on it's own) and shrugging into the shirt if Pahja finds and throws it at him.

If she doesn't, he seems perfectly alright to go without, though he does fluff the blankets over himself more to hide how little being interrupted has hurt his erection than for warmth.

[likeyouknow]

How is he capable of doing that? Sounding completely normal in a moment that she's finding far more worrying than, say, facing down no small number of primals. Her gaze is caught by the motion of his hands, and she sighs with no small amount of longing.

It's just unfair.

She finds his but not her's, and in a desperate attempt to at least not be half naked, shrugs his on instead. "Sorry," she says, quietly, before pulling and tucking it in enough that it actually resembles something she might have worn anyway. If the marks on her neck weren't there, perhaps.

Pahja doesn't really want to give up her position on the side of his bed, and instead throws her jacket over his erection in a flimsy attempt to help. "Later," she says, still keeping her voice low. "We'll finish this later. I promise."

[suitsahero]

There's no time, not to set themselves properly to rights and not to say what he wants to say, but the way his eyes darken in undisguised lust when she pulls his shirt on, like he's seriously considering leaping out of bed and toppling them down to the floor all over again, probably speaks to what he thinks about her continuing to wear it quite clearly.

"Yes, we will," he manages, heated and soft, and he catches her lips in a short kiss before he props himself up at least a bit more serenely in bed. Whoever comes in is going to know, there's no way to miss literally any of the signs and it's not as though they were being quiet as they were coming up, either, but they can all just pretend to some sense of dignity.

Or at least try to.

"Come in," he calls out, looking to Pahja for confirmation for a moment first. The chirurgeon who comes in is pink-cheeked, but she's professional enough to not say anything (and has been in Haurchefant's employ long enough to see worse, more than likely). Instead, she's briskly professional as she crosses to his bedside,

"Are you feeling improved then," she manages to keep it from being wry, but it's clear it's only just barely.

[likeyouknow]

In that case, she's certain to wear his clothes more often in the future if she can get away with it. Her hand goes to his, intertwining their fingers just so she can touch him still. Sex aside, he's alive, he's here, and she doesn't mind the reminder of it.

Pahja coughs, quietly, at the chirurgeon's comment, and blushes a deeper red while pointedly not quite looking at her. She appreciates the professionalism, however, and attempts to compose herself once more.

"I believe he is, yes." Or at least that was the impression she got, what with the kissing and all. "Enough that, by your leave, I can return to Ishgard with confirmation. If.. that's alright with you, Haurchefant."

[suitsahero]

There's a brief tightening of his fingers with hers, like what he really wants is to keep her here, by his side,

"I believe so. And yes, my father and brothers need to be informed most of all, and I doubt they will believe anyone other than you," after a moment of thought, he adds, "And the Lord Commander as well, if it please you. I don't presume to think so highly of myself as to presume he would normally spare me much thought, but... circumstances being what they were..."

He'd died in the man's arms after all. It does seem like he might have more than a passing interest in knowing he was alive.

[likeyouknow]

If only she could. At least for a little while longer. But Pahja knows she's pushed both the bounds of respectability and as much time away as she can without doing some serious explaining as to why she didn't simply rush back.

"Ser Aymeric will be most glad to hear it, have no doubt." They didn't know each other well, perhaps, but they were comrades in arms against injustice and for a better future. Pahja's finding that to be a solid glue between them all.

Slipping off the bed, she leaves her jacket with him, although it is far too big for him to wear in turn. "If you need anything else from me?"

[suitsahero]

There's a quirk of his eyebrows and a wry twist to his mouth that says, quite plainly, precisely what he would like to request from her in response to that question, but he behaves himself.

"Nothing that should keep you from informing Count Edmond of my return with all due haste," he says, formally, instead. "Please let them know that I do not know if I will be given leave to travel for some time," he glances at the chirurgeon and she shakes her head, crossing her arms, "but that I should be well enough to receive visitors by the time they could arrange to, if they wished."

It's all very formal and she knew he could be such, of course, she'd seen it when they'd first met, but she's rarely seen it since then.