(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

[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.

[likeyouknow]

That look does not escape her -- she turns red at it, and squeezes his hand in both an apology and a promise. She'll see to it that they have the chance, and that they'll both get what they want soon enough. It's strange to see him so formal, especially after the events of five minutes ago, but if he must needs feel as if it's required, then so be it.

"I am certain they will. To say nothing of Tataru and Alphinaud." A pause, and Pahja decides to hell with it, the chirurgeon already knows what they've been up to, and leans in to cup the side of his face as she kisses him -- chaste, but lingering.

"Rest, Haurchefant. Gods willing, I will be back in short order."

[suitsahero]

It's clear that the kiss catches him off-guard, the way his eyes go just a little wide as she leans in, but there is plenty of time to stop her and he does not, melting into the kiss a moment later with a soft, sweet sigh of contentment. There's a light dusting of pink on the tops of his cheeks when she pulls back and the look he gives her is as soft as the sigh a moment before.

"The Fury speed your return," the tone is over-warm, but not completely outside the realm of propriety. The chirurgeon has raised an eyebrow, but she seems at least somewhat pleased that Haurchefant isn't immediately leaping out of bed to go running off gods knew where. It's a pleasant enough change.

[likeyouknow]

Why would she not want to kiss him as much as possible? Perish the thought -- she'd wanted to kiss him before he died, and given the chance to do so simply means she must make up for lost time.

Except there is no rest for the Warrior of Light, and Pahja finds herself called away e're long after she'd returned with the news. Peace, it would seem, is not so easily won. In the time it takes her to have a few hours with no pending demands, Haurchefant had already returned to his family, taking up residence in the Fortemps estate for the time being. Whether it was out of his own desire, the desire of his father, or at the orders of his chirurgeons that he rest, Pahja doesn't know. What she does know is that it's easier to visit him there -- as welcome as she is.

The count is, as ever, a gracious host -- for a moment she feels a twinge of guilt, does he know what she and Haurchefant had gotten up to in Camp Dragonhead? And if he does, does he approve? Pahja's certain her own parents would only care about if they were happy, but Ishgard has proven to be far different when it came to things like that, and Haurchefant himself was ample proof of that. But they manage to keep things as low-key as possible while most of the family is there, although she is certain to sit next to him while they all catch up -- greetings from members of the other houses stationed in places she's been, an update on the building of the New Nest, and other idle conversation until one by one they drift away and it's simply her and Haurchefant.

Which is just fine.

There's a fire in the hearth, and for once Pahja hasn't seen fit to bury herself in furs; there's still a warmth that seeps into every part of her when she's here, leaning into the corner of the couch. For a while she didn't dare touch Haurchefant (not because she didn't want to, but because she feared that if she started, she wouldn't stop) but now she gently prods his leg with her foot, as if to jostle him from his thoughts.

"Remember when you first brought me here? You told me that I didn't need to say what I thought about this estate, that it was awesome." He'd been so excited, and even freezing to her bones, it had been infectious. "I have come to my own conclusion, if you would like to hear it."

[suitsahero]

He's spent so long wishing she would, that to suddenly have her leaning in and kissing him (and in front of someone else, no less) is still something unbelievable. Logically, he does know that right now he is the more unbelievable thing, but then, he hasn't been mourning himself for some lost months, either.

At any rate, there are plenty of things for him to do as well. He seems to be in generally good health once he recovers from being out in the snow for so long, but he tires easily, cannot do nearly the amount he is used to in a day. The chirurgeons say that his aether is damaged, moreso than they have ever seen in a living man, but that it is slowly repairing itself. The only thing he is forbidden from is aetheryte travel, but he almost gleefully rides his chocobo back to the Fortemps manor to stay there for a bit as he recovers-- and as they figure out what to do with his post at Camp Dragonhead at this point. There seems little doubt he will be allowed to remain Commander there, if he wishes, but there's paperwork and so he finds himself with some rare moments of leisure to spend in his childhood home.

The day and the conversation have been excellent, but while he's a while out from wanting to sleep, he does find himself lulled by the fire, typical enthusiasm curbed a bit by creature comforts, though he still keeps interjecting things, expressions of alternate delight and dismay that make it clear he's paying perfect attention, even though he looks more and more like he's becoming one with his side of the couch. He does, perhaps, drift for just a moment, right before there's a prodding foot on his leg, but the heavy-lidded look he gives Pahja doesn't look irritated in the slightest, just soft, comfortable.

"I think the word I used was splendid," he teases, though whether he's teasing her or making a lighthearted jab at himself is unclear. "But I would love to know." His lips quirk slightly, "Though I'm sorry to say, if you have a different opinion, I don't think you can escape it. I'm fairly certain father has just presumed you're a Fortemps now."

[likeyouknow]

Having the space, the time, to simply breathe is a rare thing for her these days. She'd wanted to adventure when she left home, yes, but part of her wishes that things would just stop happening for a moment or two. Just every so often, so that she could find moments like this more. Where she could be in a warm, hazy state of contentment with Haurchefant for something longer than the few hours they will doubtless have.

Stretching, Pahja curls further into the warm cushions of the seat, expression content and overly fond as she holds his gaze. Their attempted tryst still looms large in her imagination and idle thoughts, but the memory of his touch, the fondness and desire amidst the desperation serves only to warm her cheeks further rather than have her shy away in embarrassment.

As does the idea that perhaps his father considers her one of his family. "Pahja de Fortemps?" She hazards, ears flicking as she tests it out. It's not bad, as far as jokingly given names go, and she grins at him. "Don't you think that there are too many de titles to go around de Isghard?" She'll never understand their fondness for 'de'.

"But I was going to say that it is rather lovely, but best enjoyed in your company." Pahja knows it's a bit forward, but again: he'd had his tongue in her mouth in the near past, so she thinks she's allowed to be such. That, and he may just finally be rubbing off on her.

[suitsahero]

There is a book full of things that he doesn't say. That it is one thing when he jokes about his father making her a member of the family but he cannot joke lightly about how really wants her in this house, which has nothing to do with her taking the name Fortemps at all. It dries up even the light-hearted reminder that there's no such affectation in his own name, the seriousness lying underneath, and he's glad when she moves on and he can be no less earnest perhaps, but entirely less serious.

"A house is the walls, a home is what's within it," perhaps he's a bit more serious than normal for all of that, but he doesn't particularly linger there. "If I had known I was the difference, perhaps I would have made more of an effort to be here while you found yourself here more often," he grins at her, "All I can do now is endeavor to be here when you arrive back from distant lands, I think. But I have been ordered to rest more often for the foreseeable future. I am certain I could make time away from my post." And then, because that's sweet and all, but he's also still Haurchefant, the grin deepens a touch,

"Perhaps it might be better enjoyed if my company were not so far away." As though she's malms away and not just across a sofa cushion.

[likeyouknow]

Fortemps is not Greystone, and she would gladly pick the second at a moment's notice -- it matters not to her that Haurchefant is a bastard of a noble house, doomed never to have the full recognition that his brothers do, even with his father's love. She doesn't need to take any name to call this place home, so long as Haurchefant is there. She is grateful for all that his family has done for her, make no mistake, and there is the warmth and tenderness and care for all of them in turn. But none rival that fire she holds, however poorly of a secret it might be, for him.

As such, there's a thrill of the thought of Haurchefant being here, waiting for her, whenever she can step away from the demands Eorzia keeps throwing at her. Someone to come back to, warm and safe and ready with that smile. And his deeper, more obvious flirtations.

"I would like that," she admits with a smile that might not be as lascivious as his, but no less full of heart and affection for it. "No matter how far away I go, if you're here--" She'll always come back.

But he is right about how his company might be best enjoyed in the moment, and Pahja pushes herself up with a mischievous look of her own. Which means she resettles close, but not as close as he'd like, as she wants. "Is this better, then?"

[suitsahero]

"Still too far," he teases, though he actually leans back a bit, until it's blatantly obvious that he's really offering her not so much into his arms as into his lap. The motion is made even more blatant by the way he reaches for her and he's always so very careful to not actually use his strength for anything undesired, but if she seems to be going with the motion, he's definitely helping to lift her, pull her in closer.

Whether she settles against his side or takes the assistance to climb into his lap, the warm smile he gives her is the same,

"There. Now it feels more like home," he is both joking and not, ever open about his feelings for her, unashamed, but also with that same lilt to his voice that makes him difficult to take entirely seriously.

[likeyouknow]

She's about to make another joke, move only an ilm or two closer -- teasing him in return for all those times she's wondered how sincere he might be with his flirting, but gives up entirely when he offers to help her onto his lap.

And, well. She certainly won't deny herself the opportunity once it's presented. Pahja giggles softly, a bit girlishly, as he easily lifts her weight and pulls her in -- she's not unaffected by it, cheeks already going pink. It isn't her fault! Really! It's just a side effect of Haurchefant being, well. Haurchefant in her direction.

One day she's going to make him be honest with her. No, that's not right -- Haurchefant is ever honest, ever open -- some would say too open. And Pahja can't stand being too serious herself, not if she wants to stay sane, but serious in his affections. She wants to know that he is, that when he says such grandiose things she knows that, as humorous as they might be, he means them as seriously as he does any oath.

She settles easily on his lap, easily resting against his chest -- although she still has to look up at him. "You may be right, Haurchefant-- this is better. But I think I know one way to improve it."