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The Mad Dinner Party	By : WonderMint Category: Final Fantasy XIV > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 3345 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: Final Fantasy XIV: ARR is owned by Square Enix and based on the creation of Hironobu Sakaguchi. May they ever walk in the light of the crystal. I own no right to the characters and settings herein and seek no profit therefrom.

Chapter List
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- 3
A/N: The problem with writing about the Warrior of Light is that I know very well how much I would hate to read this fic and find some other person's character in it. So I am trying to walk the line between imagining my own character with enough personality and feeling to be enjoyable, and leaving her vague and blank enough for others to project on. I hate writing like this, but I wouldn't be able to live with the story otherwise.
That being said, that thing with the belt? Totally works, if you're crafty. Just don't try it at home, it is a seriously dick thing to do in just about any context ever. I am not responsible for the aftermath of your friends pantsless in public and no longer your friends.
Asami: Nope! Not abandoned, just slow. I have FOUR segments of the scene planned in total. I would have sent you immediate help, only you did not leave an email. Interesting that you should ask about Estinien! I count him as one of my Sad Boys In Snow, aka Three Sad Boys and an Angry Boy. I have not thought of pairing him with the player (and unfortunately writing about the Warrior of Light feels like pulling my own teeth out and carving them into typesettings, so unlikely). Officially, I ship him with Iceheart, but het is boring so I've been considering a fic with him and Alphinaud. Would I consider him for other pairings? I'll have to finish the story and see what strikes my fancy. Wait, which one is YOUR favorite Elezen to pair him with? Aymeric, Haurchefant, Alphinaud, Jandelaine, Beatin?
Wait, het... is... boring... I'VE BEEN TRICKED.
Quest Accepted, Duty Commenced, cue cutscene three of four.

Lord Haurchefant had other plans, it seemed. Aymeric had wilted into the pillows, seeming to shrink from the lord's gaze, and so he returned to his previous source of amusement. He let his lips caress your thigh, meeting your eyes alone with a look that spoke of nothing but sex. He wanted to finish pleasing you, of course. His honor would not allow him to abandon the task, not with how deeply his fingers had moved you, how delicious the caress of his tongue.
But you had made your decision. Before he could sweep closer and claim his prize, you reached out to grab his hair, ruffling the wiry blue locks like a chocobo's feathers and holding him as firmly as he had held Aymeric. His eyes widened, uncomprehending, though he held still by your unspoken command.
Until he realized that you meant for him to stop. “But, dulcet! Please!” He was good at pleading, too, candy-blue eyes wide and almost teary with the horror of the idea that he might not get to lick you again. You almost felt sorry for him, almost regretted stopping him, almost gave in to his tongue. But then Aymeric shifted around to look at you, peeking out sideways from his nest of protective cushions to chuckle at Haurchefant's foolishness. Deeply and quietly, like rocks tumbling in the bottom of a well, not enough energy to make it truly a laugh. His amusement was enough to fortify you, remind you that you were all here to enjoy yourselves. And so you smirked, wickedly enough to deserve the mark of unbeliever, enough to call the whole inquisition down upon the three of you. And you crooked your finger in invitation, beckoning your lord to come to you even as you tugged on his storm-tossed hair.
Evidently, he could not resist so direct a command. He seemed almost as if he might want to, peering back at you with a stricken expression, as though he could not divine the reason or if he could, did not approve. But he complied, crawling up beside you like a chastised dog, looking down upon you wonderingly as he sat uncertainly to your right. Chewing his lip, peering at you uncertainly with eyes full of innocence and candy floss, puzzling through the implications of your demand.
He was shy. It was adorable, if incongruous, and you sat up to join him, bracing yourself on your hands and knees as you stretched upwards. He began to murmur an objection, his brows furrowed in thought and concern, but you captured his lips with yours to silence him with a kiss.
Truly, it was an impossible task. Rather than silence, you seemed only to encourage him, to whimper and squeak as you invaded his mouth, though he allowed it. He tasted different now, subtly so. A quiet flavor, perched lightly on his tongue, like lemon cake washed down with afternoon tea.
Finally he drew back, panting slightly and gazing at you with the most wanton confusion you had ever seen. “He tastes nice,” he nearly whispered, a distant echo of your own thoughts. You had forgotten that you, too, carried a flavor for him to sample, more bitter and rich, like black tea with bergamot.
Oh yes, it was nice. You smiled lecherously as you moved in to kiss him again, rocking forward on your palms and spreading your knees, lifting your ass in the air to corner him like a coeurl on the hunt. You hadn't really thought about it, but evidently you had a spectator. Behind you, a deep voice grunted with surprise, then grumbled in appreciation. Evidently Aymeric was enjoying the sight that Haurchefant had been keeping to himself, and you were taken off-guard enough that the thought made you blush, and you had to check the sudden instinct to cover yourself.
But Haurchefant was not so cavalier. He squeaked into your mouth, flailing away from you to register his outrage. “Aymeric, you shameless heathen! Avert your eyes at once!” And he lurched forward to wrap you up in his arms and tumble after you, as though to save you from a rampaging chocobo. Together you rolled backwards in a tangle of arms and legs and silliness.
The laughter was supplied by said heathen, a disbelieving snicker that managed to convey your own thoughts as well as his.
You looked up to the knight, not so difficult now that you lay by his side, mere fulms away from the pillows and chains of his gaol. “My apologies,” he said, still grinning peevishly. “I hadn't realized that I was denied mine eyes as well as hands. Are there any other faculties you wish to deny me? I suppose mine tongue is off-limits as well, as you are doing a fair job of starving me.”
Lord Haurchefant had sorted himself, now sitting over you on hands and knees, not unlike your position moments ago but with slightly less shameless nudity and one-hundred percent more trousers than you would have liked. He blinked slowly, considering the knight's complaint as if it had surprised him, and he needed to give it serious thought.
“Forgive me, my pet,” he said finally, flashing the man a quick cutting grin before returning to his serious facade. “I should have offered you a taste.” You weren't quite sure what he meant by that, but it became clear enough when he crawled gingerly over you, kneeling above your chest as he faced the captive knight and pretending, for all the world, that the two of them were alone.
“Promise you won't bite,” he admonished gently, raising his left hand to Aymeric's lips. The hand whose fingers had burrowed so gently within you, a little pruned and still sticky.
The knight almost didn't seem to consider the offer, looking at Haurchefant in insult and disbelief as though he'd been offered an empty teacup and a party hat. For a moment you thought you'd be saved the embarrassment, that he would do the rational thing, but this was not the night for rationality. After only a moment's indecision, his own eyes narrowed to mischief, and he darted out his tongue to taste.
You had thought yourself beyond shame. But it was not so. Your face heated and your breath stilled and burned like a hot stone dropped in a soup, nearly boiling over with embarrassment at the notion. Sure, Haurchefant had tasted you, but it was a natural consequence of the objective he was trying to accomplish. Certainly, you had tasted Aymeric, and... the thought certainly did keep you warm and moist, but that's because tongues were necessarily involved in oral sex, and you could not be disgusted by something that signified so much pleasure for him. Surely it was a different matter for him to taste your fluids on a whim, for no other reason than to sample the flavor?
Or maybe it wasn't, because slowly his eyes slid closed and he hummed a warm note of satisfaction. And then he leaned forward to take more, gasping wetly as he opened his mouth, drawing the lord's fingers further inward as he watched Haurchefant beneath eyelids that fought against his desire to see.
Unconsciously you pressed your hand over your mouth to contain your mortification. But it wasn't about you, you realized. It was about them. No objection of yours could stop Haurchefant from drawing his fingers slowly back, then leaning in for an open-mouthed kiss. And you didn't want them to stop, didn't want them to hold back. It wasn't just for show. You had wondered how much of their earlier play had been directed at each-other and how much had been for you, but for the moment that captive knight seemed to register nothing but his captor. As with you, Haurchefant took his time, letting the other man lick and bite gently at his lips, purring in contentment as their tongues danced, a hand nestled in raven-black hair to secure them both.
Perhaps it was less a kiss and more a meal.
It wasn't the best angle from which to see it, but that was fine, too. Because with Haurchefant's knees astride your chest, you could see the rippling of his abdominal muscles as he moved, the unsteady movement of his chest as he breathed, and most importantly, the tight fit of his trousers. In fact, he was positioned just where you wanted him, and distracted, to boot. So with an eye on his activities and another on him, you went to work.
You had always had deft hands. It was a requirement for a successful adventurer, the ability to pick up any manner of weapon or tool and have it singing for you within a few minutes of practice. Of course practice always made perfect, and one thing you were well practiced at was the art of getting into a man's pants, even if he didn't want to be out of them. And so, your quarry preoccupied, you made your assault. Your left hand traveled down the length of his erection, nudging the buttons open with a mere suggestion, almost a caress. As expected, he pulled back the moment he felt your touch, eyes wide with shock and darting for your hand as though you were an assassin, not a lover. He held your wrist between both of his, blinking his surprise for the fluttering of a breath, wondering what to do with you now that he held you so securely.
It had been a ruse.
Your right hand was your true weapon, lashing out quickly for his belt. He had believed you incapable of inflicting more damage without recourse to both hands, but he hadn't time to notice he was wrong. You struck like a cobra, pulling the extra length of his belt out of its securing loop, yanking hard in the opposite direction of the buckle's tongue, and then releasing it the second you felt the mechanism relax. His resistance only aided you, his startled backwards flail only ensuring that the clasp came undone. And then you let go, let him believe for one brief moment that he had won, that he could risk a dart for your other hand to contain the threat.
But even though his strong fingers closed around your right wrist, you were still close enough to grab his buckle and pull, and before he knew what had happened you held it triumphantly in your hand as it was pinned to the bed beside you. And as the belt was in your hand, it was no longer fulfilling its duty, leaving his trousers to sag around his hips, singing of what lay beneath.
It had perhaps not occurred to him that you, too, could wrestle.
Aymeric laughed musically, warm and rich with surprise and appreciation. “Well done, my Lady,” he said with a feral grin. “Mayhap he has misjudged which of us is the true threat.”
Haurchefant could only ignore him, falling backwards to sit astride your stomach, leaning over you to hold your wrists though the damage had been done. He held you securely, but he was not in command. His shock had turned to a blush, deep scarlet extending all the way to his long ears as he breathed from the tense moment's exertion. To your dismay, you could only see a peek of his smallclothes, loose black silk shorts concealing your true prize. But it was only a matter of time before you reached what you so fervently sought.
“What?” you asked, raising your eyebrows and shining a dazzling smile. “Am I to be denied a taste as well?” Your smile soon turned to giggling as he could gather no retort, merely frowning in puzzlement and moving his lips as though he wanted to speak, but had run out of words.
Finally he seemed to give in, his too-blue eyes locking with your own, finally seeming to see you for what you were. The woman he wanted, naked beneath him, asking for his touch. And so he released your wrists, slowly transferring his weight to his hands. Sitting atop you but looking still for all the world as though you held him captive instead, and he feared he might never win free.
He looked so vulnerable you almost feared you would break him. So you touched him carefully, running your hands along his chest and feeling the solid rise and fall of his breath, the slight give of his skin as it slid over bone and sinew. Gradually his nervousness melted like snow in the spring, turning to desire and affection, a soft look with an equally-soft blush as your hands made their way down to slip beneath the folds of fabric and touch him through his fine silk shorts.
And beneath his teeth you heard a high, hollow moan, rolling with the movement of his hips as he pressed against your hand and closed his eyes, surrendering to the feeling. Surrendering to your touch, and nearly sorry for disobeying it.
“My dear, sweet lady,” he said through his haze, voice pillow-soft and unsure. “Are you certain that...” but his words melted away like an icicle on his tongue as you slipped your hand further into the maze of fabric and wrapped it around his girth. He staggered, nearly failing to hold himself up with his hands, groaning deeply and furrowing his brows as you stroked him. He was gratifyingly large, slightly bigger around than Aymeric and fully hard. You wondered how much torture he had been putting himself through while he had pleased you both. Enough, certainly, to deserve some pleasure himself.
Coyly, you looked up to the captive knight, unsure of where his boundaries lay. But he was watching avidly, eyes locked to the ministrations of your hand and the skin that peeked out from beneath Haurchefant's smallclothes, glittering now with pearly fluid as you stroked him. “Aymeric?” you asked, not sure how to phrase your question but feeling it needed to be asked. As if the name had reminded Haurchefant of his audience, he too looked up, cheeks still flushed but no longer ashamed, merely wanton.
The knight startled, looking down in a mild panic, as though he'd been caught peeping at the bathhouse. But he had permission to look, here, because Haurchefant had seen to it that he could do naught otherwise. Perhaps realizing this, he scowled at you briefly, the same look he cast upon you every time you questioned him.
You wondered then if he had preferred not to admit his complicity, even to himself.
But then his scowl slid sideways, into a small affectionate smile, gilded with mischief. “Just... pretend I'm not here,” he said softly, letting his eyes travel along the length of your body and to Haurchefant's own, lingering indecently all along the way.
The remark seemed to rouse the lord, prompting him to pull on his mask and forget his shyness. He stared back like a ruffled owl, feigning hurt and insult. “Certainly not! I think I shall rather pretend you are here, even when you are not. Or,” he trailed off, letting his eyes fall half-closed and seeming once again to feel the heat of your touch, “perhaps I shall never let you go.”
The answer seemed to please Aymeric, as little sense as it made. The other man growled in approval, almost purring as he relaxed in his chains to watch with shrewd attention. And it finally occurred to you that you had what you wanted. Haurchefant in your grasp, literally and figuratively, and nothing to stop you from claiming him. So, quite naturally, you wound your free hand into his hair, ruffling it slightly as you moved and then gripping him solidly behind his neck. He stared down at you with trembling breath, with wonder and not a little need. Before his lips could form another objection, you pulled him down for a kiss.
It was different, somehow, than kisses previous. He was liquid in your grasp, melted from the scalding heat between you and flowing out over your skin. He lowered himself to one elbow and set his other hand free, touching wherever he could reach with fluttering caresses that turned to firm and needy. And his tongue! It was not an aggressive kiss, merely assertive, answering your challenge with no more hesitation. He pressed firmly against your lips, no longer afraid of you, but meeting your searching tongue as an equal, as a lover. His mouth would have set you on fire, if the molten iron beneath your hand hadn't already. He had finally accepted that you wanted him, and answered the request, sealing the arrangement with the occasional deep, rumbling moan that seemed to echo through his entire body and induce waves of delight in yours.
Oh, but it was music, sweet music.
But you needed more of him, far more. You released his hair to make another assault on his clothing, this time with his cooperation. He straightened to help, fixing you with a wistful look that bordered on regret. He was no longer playing with you, no longer in control of his mask. It seemed you had drilled to the bottom of his facade and shattered it apart, and now you saw all his insecurity and ardor all at once. He was a tempest of emotion, swirling beneath crystal-blue eyes and storm-tossed hair, an innocent blush and a wide mouth that seemed to gasp just from the effort of holding himself together. But still he cooperated, shyly slipping out of his pants and then pausing, letting you guide his shorts down his hips with a teasing caress before he kicked them away to kneel between your legs as though he didn't know what he was doing there.
You helped him out with that, easily spreading your legs around his knees, and trailing a hand to part your labia for him to see. To remind him how fascinated he had been before, and that you still required his attention. To remind him of the precise reason he was so fully erect, flushed redder than his face and wet himself. He groaned at the action, not even looking more than a moment but appreciating the forwardness anyway, looking instead at the whole picture before him through lids lowered halfway to sin as he moved over you.
Then he seemed to startle for a moment, blinking wide awake as from a dream and regarding you with concern. “Is it... is it truly wise?” You weren't sure what he was talking about until he brushed a tender hand over your belly, and you realized he feared the consequences of indiscretion. It seemed odd until you remembered what he and his mother had no-doubt endured when he was young. He was caring to the last, even in the throes of lust.
You smiled sweetly, touched by his concern and silliness both. “Alchemy is a beautiful thing,” you declared. An adventurer was always prepared, after all. You had already taken the potion some hours previous, having hoped that the night might turn out well. You could not have possibly guessed how well.
There was a vague snort of approval somewhere behind you, but it was of no concern, you were too preoccupied with the man before you. You simply embedded all ten of your fingers in his cheerful blue hair, already tangled from your meddling but still just soft enough to need your touch. And you pulled, denying him the option of hesitance, guiding him to the correct decision and to your waiting body. He accepted your judgment, your touch, your demands. He accepted your lips, too, willingly losing himself in your arms, sinking into your embrace and allowing himself to rub sensuously between your legs.
You had him. You had his tongue, insistent now, unfocused and needy. You had his body, the delightful expanse of his skin pressed fully to yours, his hand caressing one breast restlessly. And you had his cock, his glorious cock, pressing firming against your vulva as though it knew its destination, skin soft but hot like a brand. You let your hands travel to his waist, to hold him as you spread your knees and lifted your hips, to grind against him brazenly. You could feel him everywhere it mattered, the long sensitive slide between your labia and the frantic star of intensity of your clitoris. Everywhere but where you needed him.
He seemed to think so too, groaning wantonly into your mouth and breaking away to gasp and pant. “Oh, my sweet,” he said, moaning low against your lips with a voice so husky and sensual you could not have thought to deny him his request. “Please do not tease me so, I fear I shall break...”
In that moment you forgot that it had been he who had done the teasing, behaving as if he intended to let you and Aymeric have all the fun for yourselves. You forgot it completely, moving immediately to satisfy him, to grasp him in your hands and guide him to you. You could feel his rib-cage still as the breath caught in his throat, the sudden silence nearly deafening and making you realize how needfully he had gasped and groaned with every exhale. And he waited, still as porcelain, eyes squeezed shut as though he feared the result. Waiting, not just for permission, but for you to perform the act yourself. Waiting for you to show him that you truly wanted him, so that he could know with certainty that it was by your will that you were his.
So you did.
It wasn't difficult at all. You were so wet, so sensitized, so ready for him. There was a space within you that you needed him to fill, and you were already clenching to feel him even as you rubbed his tip along the length of your vulva and pulled from him another tortured gasp. But he had stretched you already, and he was so, so hard. You merely had to push him into the right angle and lift your hips, and he was there, easily penetrating several ilms.
And then the puppet lost his strings, whimpering a long, gurgling sigh as he collapsed in your arms.
That was no good. He wasn't looking at you anymore, but laying his head on your shoulder. But he was not relaxed, not at all, the tension in his hips was strung tight as a bowstring. He was merely focused, either on the sensation or the need to keep still.
You turned your face toward him, nuzzling into the rowdy nest of hair that so beautifully reflected his thoughts. “Did you not expect that I would want you?” you whispered near his ear. That did the trick, because he turned around to look at you intently, his head still laying on your chest. It seemed to remind him of what else he lay near, because he returned one hand to touching you, not groping your breast but stroking lightly with the tips of his fingers. A ghostly sensation, reverent.
Still he looked at you, as though he had never seen you up close, as though he had only ever looked upon you from afar, a bystander or an admirer but never an equal. “I did not presume to think you would want more than supper,” he said. His voice was thin like the branch of a willow, strong because it could bend.
There may have been a noise, a snort of disbelief or derision or perchance merely desire, coming from someplace behind you. But you weren't paying attention. Instead you were focused on the sensations between your legs. There was little soreness, you wanted him too badly for that. He wasn't nearly deep enough, and your body seemed to be working to correct the error, your abdominal muscles fluttering and seizing around him as you moved your hips. Minute movements, not even conscious, but unable to be stilled.
Finally he had had enough. His eyes drooped closed and you knew you had broken him, because he let loose a long, agonizing sigh and began to whisper blindly against your neck. “Please, my love... have pity... oh... oh Goddess...” and his words took a precipitous drop into a deep moan as you wrapped your arms around his back and pulled.
He complied with your wordless request and slid home, buried deep within you and making you gasp sharply, feeling, just for a moment, complete. But it didn't last long, because he didn't stop. Small movements at first, gentle, without force. The force was in his lungs, a struggling, keening breath that he couldn't quite seem to draw fully. He was too unsteady, eyes half-closed and brow furrowed, as if to feel so much pleasure was an agony that he had never expected to endure. He still looked at you, though, struggling carefully onto his hands to hover above you, giving more definition to his sensuous movements.
He looked at you as if you were all that existed. The only thing he ever wanted to see again.
And it occurred to you that perhaps, just perhaps, you wanted him to keep looking at you like that, from now until the end of your adventure.
Your arms wound once again around his neck, less to guide and more to embrace, feeling now like every ilm of contact mattered in ways you couldn't quite express. And he seemed to agree, because he too drew you close, burrowing beneath you with one arm and clutching your shoulders to him. The simple action seemed to transform the way you moved together. Before, he had anchored himself securely to deliver small thrusts against hips eager to meet him, which were gradually becoming long and rolling. Now you moved as one unit, able to anticipate each thrust in advance and rise to press against him. He became more than a longed-for warmth within you, but something more. Tingling and hot, so very deep, touching places that you could only know existed because he set your nerves to rattling by brushing against them just... so.
And because he held you close, he seemed to be brushing against all the right places. Your embrace had seemed calm but now you could experience it as nothing but frantic, because he was grinding against your clit with every motion, and pleasure sparked to life within you like a coal that had never cooled.
You melted in his arms, then, because you finally had him, and it felt like everything you had ever dreamed. It was not as intense as what he had done earlier, the biting pleasure of his tongue, but you were stretched and filled and so warm from it that it didn't matter. The only thing that would keep you from wanting to bathe in his grasp forever was the way you gasped for air at his quickening movements, and the way your breath caught in your throat as you looked back into his eyes. It was irrational, but you were beginning to fear that if he kept looking at you like that, like he was fighting to stay within a dream that eluded him as he too gasped at the warming air, you were afraid you might choke on the force of your own emotion. Or perhaps on his. Because you could see it, plain as day, reflected in his eyes. Crystal blue, but not deep, because that would have implied that their depths were hidden. No, you could see his thoughts so plainly that it was rather more like the frozen surface of a shallow puddle. Every little thing, every twig and pebble within, was laid out to trace with trembling fingertips.
You could not have doubted that he was yours, any more than you could have doubted the coldness of the ice or the heat of his body.
Or the pleasure that built, slowly and inexorably, within yours.
You were startled by it at first, startled by that sounds that escaped your breast, fighting their way through your throat though it had been quite occupied at the simple task of sustaining the breath of life. But it had indeed been you, gasping and keening not merely in encouragement but in simple joy, a warm simmering pleasure that you could not have resisted even if you had wanted to.
His eyes sharpened then, focusing on you even as his lashes fluttered wildly against the sensations in his own body. “Oh, yes,” he whispered, the words somehow becoming their own answering growl as he struggled to watch you. “Don't fight, my sweet. Pray, let me... let me...”
Let me please you, you had to finish for him, though he could have intended a different word. It did not matter, the meaning was unquestionable, as was his need. His eyes finally slid closed and you could no longer watch him, because his expressive lips were fluttering against your neck and shoulder, and he no longer seemed to be able to hold you close enough. He was grasping you as though he might drown if he let go, one arm beneath your back and the other holding solidly to your hip, guiding you and giving his movements shape, sharpness, definition. You could hear his every breath, panting abbreviated to short grunts and groans, sounding simultaneously helpless, distraught, and exultant.
Unlike Aymeric, he could not let himself go. He had resolved that if he could not bring you to ecstasy with his tongue, he would do so with his cock. He had a fairly good start at it, too, because the grinding of his pelvis against you was once again filling you with that warm bath of pleasure, that rich velvet flavor that wrapped around the space within you that was no longer empty but gloriously, sensuously, full of him. This time when your body seized and clenched in sympathy with the sparks of desire he stirred, you closed around Haurchefant, and you heard him whimper and groan as his movements faltered every time he felt it.
Perhaps he had not anticipated that you wanted him, though you would have to give consideration to whether you believed him once you were capable of cogent thought. But you had a habit of surprising him, of interrupting his plans and charging into the brink. You had slain Shiva and you had stolen his belt, and now you would fail once again to cooperate with his aims.
Not because he could not move you to pleasure, but because nothing would give you more.
The rich, ragged sounds of his own lust were enough to tell you as much. He was slipping, falling deep into the rhythm of the dance, and you were certain as the sun that he was no longer in control of the pace. His moans and whimpers and quiet pleas echoed in the sheltered space between your shoulder and neck, filling your ear with the proof of his undoing. His breath would rasp wet and loud even otherwise, but now even your own encouraging sighs could not drown him out. You had him, had him clenched tight in the deep space beneath your belly, and you would be his undoing.
You knew the precise moment at which he realized it, because pushed himself up to lean over you with an anguished groan, an exclamation of agony. He could not stop though, even as he once again locked eyes with you, glazed and a little wild, seeing perhaps not only his love but some strange fey world where reality had blended with madness. His hips would not still, his hands would not release you. Still he clutched you near, thrusting within and against you as though his heart would cease to beat otherwise. But his lips trembled as his eyes blinked unsteadily against the dim light, and vainly he plucked words from the air to rally against you.
“Please,” he said, or perhaps he merely moaned deliciously and you imagined his words painted against the night. “Please, my love, please, I need...”
The deep, longing groan that filled the silence as he closed his eyes and surrendered to another moment of pleasure belonged, surprisingly, to neither of you. But he continued, undeterred, speaking through gritted teeth though you sought to break his focus with a will he would never have thought to oppose outside his bedroom. “I need you, I need... oh gods, my dearest, please, I need you to...” and then his words were lost, lost in a maze of deep pants and long, breathy moans. He gave up even trying to look at you, nuzzling against you instead, laying haphazard kisses against the soft skin of your throat and sensitizing it to the moisture of his deep exhalation.
In response, you arched against him, meeting his thrust with particular relish and squeezing the muscles beyond your thighs to embrace him tight. “No,” you said petulantly, though it rumbled deep like a purr.
Perhaps it was your denial, or perhaps it was the way you clenched your body around him, but he could only toss his head back like a chocobo prancing in a parade, and moan brazenly with eyes squeezed shut and mouth open to the night. You didn't even try to conceal your pleasure, answering him immediately with your throat and your hips, taking up the faltering of his rhythm with the force of your own, not letting him escape though it would be his undoing.
You counted yourself lucky that he was so expressive, because his voice told you everything you needed to know. It would be soon, very soon.
But he would not go quietly. Instead he pushed himself backward, releasing his secure hold on you and glaring as though you'd said you were out to slay a dozen primals with a teaspoon for a sword and a saucer for a shield. You regretted it immediately, only belatedly reaching for his shoulders with grasping fingers and finding no purchase. You were stronger in theory, but he had not neglected his training. There was no stopping him as he stilled his hips and grasped your own, repositioning you both. He pulled you against his lap as he sat upright and watched you with half-closed eyes, caressing his lips with the pointed tip of his tongue.
You had only enough time to think that he was beautiful like that, overcome with emotion and pleasure but defiant to the last. And then he gripped your left leg and pulled it over his shoulder again, clutching your calf to his neck with the same secure hold with which he had grasped your thigh earlier. You arched your back to keep in contact with him, only partially resting on his knees and straining to keep him from escaping. But instead of resuming his thrust he trailed one hand down the inside of your leg, down your thigh and to the wet space between.
He was well familiar with what lay between your legs, and he put his knowledge to use. He ghosted his palm over the soft pad of flesh below your stomach, and slowly stretched out his thumb. It slid into place, slowly, achingly rubbing against you, moving beyond labia that no longer covered you and eased by the desires he'd already stirred within. Finally he rubbed against your clitoris, hard and direct and dirty. It was all you could do to arch your back and squeeze your thighs around him, moaning throatily with delight.
So perhaps he would prove a challenge.
It was not as if he were in command, though. Because that was all it took to send him back into motion again, groaning raggedly and loudly as he leaned into the thrust. “Gods yes,” he hissed triumphantly as he moved, eyes squeezed almost shut, with the whites of his sclera just visible below his lids. If his thrusts were sensual before, they were savage now. Not painful, but deep and hard, raking against the whole length of your cunt and seeming to connect with every nerve. And as he moved, you moved beneath him, rocking beneath his hand as you met his thrusts with your hips, inadvertently at first but then deliberately, unable to refuse the pleasure that he offered from his hands or his cock.
You could feel it building within you. It had been simmering and velvety before, but now it was bright and loud. There was pressure there, like a boiling pot covered by a lid. By touching you he had turned up the heat to a roiling pitch, and your body had responded. You squeezed him now not because you wanted to please him, but because your body could not do otherwise. You needed to grasp and press and push against him, because the stroking of his thumb made you sensitive to him, made you gasp and shout for more. You could no longer still your breath or rest your throat, because you were no more in command of your body than he was of his.
In retrospect, if your goal had been for him to lose all semblance of control, that was all you needed to have done.
You became aware quite quickly that your own high-pitched moans were not the only sounds between you. He too was gasping against the ragged night air, mouth open and eyes tightly shut, brows furrowed in concentration and wrinkling the wide bridge of his nose. Like you he could barely find space to breathe, too busy plaintively moaning his pleasure in a voice twisted someplace between anguish and ecstasy. But as promised, it didn't last. Suddenly his eyes were upon you again, open and clear, and through your own haze you were glad you had not missed it.
“Goddess fucking damn it,” he hissed, following it up with an achingly deep groan. Then his eyes were closed again, his hips renewing their pace and you knew for certain that he had given up. “Oh gods... oh gods yes... oh my... oh my love...” His movements reached a crescendo and then, with one final violent thrust, he buried himself within you and held you close. “Oh... fuck!” He had not stilled though, a convulsion seeming to travel along his body as he groaned, long and low, gritting his teeth animalistically and tossing his head backwards to revel in the sensation.
You had never been so aroused as you had at that moment, feeling him come within you though he had tried to resist, helpless to prevent it.
So when he recovered enough to open his eyes again, gasping over teeth wet with saliva and desperation, you helped him out. You arched against him once more, squeezing him with your hips both inside and out, indicating to him that just because he had finished, he need not be done. He whimpered and winced at the sensation, a pleasure so overwhelming it was nearly painful, but he understood. He bit his lip, returned his hand to its sure caress, and leaned forward to resume his thrust.
He was not as hard as he had been, not as savage with his fury. But it did not matter. He touched you as if you were the only thing that mattered in all the world, looking at you earnestly as though you'd captured his soul in a jar. And because you had seen him come undone, and felt his helpless cries echo in the depths of your own breast, it was all that you needed. The pressure he had built was yet still within you, making you squeeze around his cock and moan in exultation at the feeling of being filled.
Before you knew what was happening, you too had come undone, bucking wildly against him and then squeezing him with your thighs hard enough to make him stop and merely twitch. Still he watched you, eyes wide with wonder and lips wet with sin. You didn't merely cry out for him, then. You screamed and yelled, and the space between your legs grew warm and wet as you convulsed around him.
Finally you relaxed, releasing the poor man. He withdrew slowly, wincing and making silly faces as he moved, and then flopped to the bed beside you to wrap an arm over your chest. He brushed the underside of your breasts rather purposefully with his arm, but it was not a lewd gesture. Perhaps merely appreciative, admiration wrapped in a protective impulse that was as innocent as his sigh of satiation and sleepiness.
It would have been lovely, then, to snuggle close to him and fall asleep. But there was other business on the agenda still. Slowly you tipped your head backwards to regard the man who watched you, struggling not to blush.
Aymeric had not succeeded at the same task, though it was hard to say if it was embarrassment or arousal that colored his winter-pale skin. He was breathing heavily as though winded, pulling short gasps of air through lips that he traced restlessly with his tongue. And he was watching you. Watching you both, as though he had never seen anything so singularly arresting, and might never chance to again.
You wanted to ask if he was alright. But you remembered that it had always seemed to annoy him, so you read the signs he readily gave. He was once again quite erect, and though some male instinct had led him to bend one leg in an attempt to block your view, it failed to do aught but render him more picturesque. He had watched you make love to Haurchefant, and the sight had only excited him, made him hum and gasp in pleasure and wish for the touch of love himself.
The question was, whose touch was it that he wanted?
As if in answer to the question, he finally found his voice, looking at the pair of you nestled close by his side as if to tuck in for a winter's sleep.
“I swear upon the Fury's very spear, if one of you doesn't fuck me right now I will chew through these chains and see to the problem mineself.” There was acid in his words but no anger, merely a cool veneer of threat melting over the rumble of his arousal.
Haurchefant convulsed to grip you yet tighter, holding you to his chest as he giggled shamelessly. It was quiet, easy laughter, tired and giddy, not the least concerned. “Can we watch?” he asked when the fit had subsided, and the thought was amusing enough that you didn't mind him speaking for you.
“Do it yourself if you want to see it so badly,” frowned the captive knight, but his glower did not last long under your lover's childlike glee. Once again his lips slid into a bemused grin, as though mischief and mayhem were their natural shape, and he was helpless to resist the impulse.
The arms that held you close twitched and shrugged. “Do you suppose we should keep him, my darling?” asked Haurchefant. “We could always spare his teeth and set him free if you do not want him. But I do so enjoy pets.” He kissed your temple and then laid his head at your shoulder to smile, full of gumdrops and sweetness and innocent fun, rainbows dancing behind his eyelashes.
As ever with the two of them, he left the decision up to you. To take the knight or leave him. To let your lord give him what he desired, or set the wolf free into the wild to spill the wine upon the ground like the blood of his prey, and feed upon popotoes gone cold and lifeless.
So you returned Lord Haurchefant's smile, perhaps a little more tart than his sugarplums and unable to pretend to his innocence with such thoughts in your mind. You didn't trust yourself to put them into words, so you fell back on your adventurer's instincts. You nodded your assent.
The beast was hungry, after all. It might very well take the both of you to satisfy his hunger.
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The Mad Dinner Party