(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]

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.