hey
any o' y'all want this bit of smut
well *tosses* woe, it be upon ye regardless
She has never been good at locking doors -- something about having grown up in tents and yurts, perhaps -- but most Eorzeans knocked at closed doors, so it has rarely been an issue. Rarely.
"We're down to the last bottle of arak and Lyse seems determined to empty it before sunrise, so I brought you--" Haurchefant is already talking as he walks through the cabin door and only Dayir's little oh! of surprise stops him. Frozen in place, she watches him take in the scene before him, his expression progressing smoothly from stunned to speculative to amused (yet still speculative).
Oh, what a sight she must appear! Knelt on the bed, robe loosely tied and slipping off one shoulder, the end of a cylindrical pillow peeking out from between her thighs. One hand on the mattress, stabilising her, the other shoved down beneath the robe at the point where groin met pillow. Her hair unfettered and tumbling, a fair amount of it tangled about her horns, her startled-doe eyes peeking out from between snow-white locks. For a moment, there is no sound but the creaking of the ship and the ceaseless roar of the sea.
"Oh-ho," Haurchefant murmurs after a beat, pleased as punch. "Did you leave that door open on purpose?"
"Most Eorzeans knock first," Dayir retorts haughtily, but the tremulous quality of her voice ruins her opportunity to take the high ground. Haurchefant doesn't miss it, and his cheeky grin spreads.
"Fortunately for me, I was raised by wolves," he says breezily as he perches in a nearby chair, the cup of arak he'd brought her still dangling from his fingers. "Thinking of me, perhaps?"
Dayir sighs ruefully, settling back on her haunches. "Would that I was." She taps the pillow between her legs. "But I saw this and thought of…" She winces. "Hauchefant, you have to promise not to judge me."
He laughs, but sobers some at the pleading expression on her face. "My love, you could tell me you were thinking of… of Nidhogg and I would still not judge you. You know this."
"Oh, that doesn't count. We are both too enamoured of our dear dragoon for that to be the strangest of concepts," Dayir replies pointedly, and they both laugh then, wickedly.
"It's only… I know he is terrible. He struck down our allies, our friends, without a thought! He would have done the same to me, I'm sure. But… something else happened, that awful day in Rhalgr's Reach. When he saw me. When we saw each other…"
"Oh, surely not, Dayir! Him?" Haurchefant's brows furrow, his eyes darting as he processes. "Surely not!"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Haurchefant, but you know me! You know me well! I can no more ignore this than I can… than I can cease breath!" The memory of locking eyes with the crown prince of Garlemald across a landscape dyed red with the blood of her allies and friends haunts her, but more than that, it stirs her. She had seen something, a glimmer of something, in that impassive gaze. And perhaps he had seen something in her, too, because he'd left. He'd flinched, imperceptibly, he'd sheathed his sword, and he'd departed as swiftly as he'd arrived. It'd seemed an utterly random choice to the others, but…
"Why did the pillow remind you of him?" Haurchefant's question snaps her back to the present, and then confuses her. He seemed to have recovered himself, and some of the old humour is glittering in his eyes again. "You think he's that big, then?"
This drops her jaw for a second, disarming her. "Gods, no-- No! But he is so formidable, and his… his thighs…"
"Ah, the great Primal-Queller, the hallowed Saviour of Ishgard, rutting against the leg of Garlemald's least finest like a drooling hound…"
"Haurchefant!"
"I jest, my love." Wickedness has suffused his expression entire, his gaze locked somewhere near the center of her. He licks his lips, leans forward. "And I have so rudely interrupted you. Please… continue."
The intensity of his gaze is warming her, quickening her. Haurchefant Greystone, avid worshipper of her body and its endless capacity for delight, who thinks nothing of diving deep into indulgence when it is offered to him, who is curious and ravenous and wholly without shame. They had been perfect for each other from the beginning, and here, now, she is again reminded of why.
"Give me that," she commands, gesturing to the cup almost-forgotten in his hand.
He approaches, leans close. She can scent the heat and hunger rising off him, the heady excitement of restraining himself. It makes her indescribably hot for him; her hips flex, her muscles loose and liquid as she undulates against the pillow. He tips her chin up and she obediently parts her lips. He pours the liquorice-flavoured spirit into her mouth, slowly, with practised ease -- giving her time to swallow, not spilling a drop. His breath is quick against her forehead and his free hand twitches towards his swelling groin, but he does not lose focus, not even when she begins to grind in earnest, her hand massaging her cocksheath in tight circles, the pressure of both her cockhead and cunt tight against the pillow making her dizzy with sensation.
The arak spent, he steps back, never taking his eyes off her, his cheeks bright with colour. She tries to watch him in return but her eyes keep rolling back, waves of liquid warmth radiating from her core so quickly now that she can barely remain upright. She leans forward, bracing against the mattress, her hips rolling, her hair tumbling. "Haurche… please. Please…"
She is so close she can hardly stand it, and here is Haurchefant, wicked Haurchefant, replying with such insouciant innocence, "Please, what?"
Dayir turns her face up to him, lips parted and slick with spit and spirits, and Haurchefant can keep up the ruse no longer. He lunges forward, shoves his hands into her hair and his tongue into her mouth, and groans in pleasure. Every time she's come for him, it's been like this, with his mouth tight against hers and his fingers pressing against that oh-so-sensitive spot under her horns, his deep-throated sounds spilling into her. Today is no different -- a muffled scream, her hand clawing desperately at him, catching in his shirt, tearing it, her body tensing like a lute string pulled too tight before collapsing in a progression of shudders that Haurchefant feels in every cell in his body.
"Good girl," he whispers raggedly against her cheek as she trembles in his embrace, almost sobbing in relief, "good girl."
"What if it does happen?" Dayir asks, later, as he is drawing her bath. "What if, against all odds, against everyone's wishes, Zenos yae Galvus… and I…"
Haurchefant rocks back on his heels next to the tub, trailing his fingers lazily in the water, and considers.
"I think there is something irreparably broken about that man. But I saw what Ysayle did for you. I see what you do for Estinien. My home is beginning to heal from a thousand years of agony and death because of you. Every day I am so grateful to wake up and see how you will once again completely upend everything I know about life.
"I imagine no one else has ever and will ever regard Zenos the way you do -- as someone you could love. And that is what makes you singular. That is what makes you powerful. That is what makes you the saviour of our star. So… we shall see what we shall see. For now… a bath, a drink, and us. Together. Against all odds."
