(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]

"Unfortunate, but necessary. I'd say we'd have to do so for dragon attacks as well, but it seems you were intent on turning me into a gentleman of leisure in my absence," he quips, a little breathless. It's followed with a soft, half-gasped moan a moment later as she draws her fingers down his ear with greater purpose and then a lower, pleased noise when the jerk of his hips upwards meets the deliberate roll of hers.

She can feel the way it throws him completely, pithy commentary reduced instantly to soft sighs and the grip of his hand on her leg, pulling her down just a little bit in his lap. It's more helpful than it is clutching but there's still something intensely wanting about it, needy and unafraid of showing it.

He abandons conversation entirely, kissing a slow path down her neck instead, careful to pick the side that will not dislodge her from his ear.

[likeyouknow]

Pahja didn't walk into Ishgard looking to end the Dragonsong war, it had just slowly become her goal the longer she sought to help where she could. The peace they had was fragile, yes, but it was something more than they'd ever had. If that meant that Haurchefant would have more time to spend kissing her, well. An unexpected but not unwelcome turn of events.

As is her newfound ability to rob him of words. No small feat in her mind, and Pahja grins -- a flash of canines -- before her mouth forms a small 'o' of want at his moans, the way he encourages the movement of her hips. His lips feel hot on her skin, as if they're burning marks into it, but even the heat of his mouth can't distract her completely.

There's nothing to muffle her gasps, the way they twist into groans when she shifts down again -- seeking friction and another chance to hear him moan so. Her fingers are no less busy, stroking up and down the length of his ear -- their height difference doesn't bother her much except for now, when what she wants to do is just out of reach --

Pahja settles for the next best thing, and the next time she rolls her hips down against his, tweaks the point of his ear slightly.

[suitsahero]

She can feel his control fray slightly at the edges, the way the encouraging motion of his hands finally gives way to a bit of pawing at her thighs, dragging her down just that little bit harder as he huffs a gasp into the skin of her neck. He holds her there, the next time, turns everything to delicious friction, and works a bruise into her neck, can't seem to help himself.

"Pahja..." he breathes out, and it's something like a warning, except it also sounds like he wants nothing else in the entire world but her, when he moans her name like that. There's a sharp gasp to the tweak of her fingers against his ear and then a soft chuckle, "They're sensitive..." It begs the question why he wears those ear cuffs, if he finds his ears so responsive to touch.

Or perhaps it doesn't. He's still Haurchefant, after all.

[likeyouknow]

Pahja wants to dig her fingers into his control, pull and tug until he unravels under her hands. The urge is strange, overpowering, but absolutely brought about by how much she adores the way he says her name -- that she is the one thing in this world that he absolutely needs, suddenly and urgently. Her laugh at his explanation -- that they're sensitive, the own rumbling of his amusement -- falls away as the friction, the bite, overwhelms her.

The moan that escapes her might be shameful, but she doesn't care. He's warm and solid beneath her in a way she never thought she'd have; he can drag her down to wherever he wants and she'll go willingly, rolling her hips against his in a promise. It won't be like last time, there's no way she'll let anyone interrupt them now.

"Are they?" She teases, and slides up him slightly (misses the weight of his erection against her already) so that she can finally, finally run her tongue down the top of one, nipping at the tip before pressing her fingers against the cuff of one experimentally. "Could you-- I mean, just by this?"

If she could make him come just by touching her ears, Pahja would be delighted.