Logs:Happy Twenty-Ninth, N'thei
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 31 January, 2009 |
| Who: N'thei, Satiet |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: They don't fight. It's amazing. |
| Where: Weyrleader's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 25, Month 11, Turn 18 (Interval 10) |
  |
| N'thei's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr Rank certainly has its privileges; among them are amply appointed apartments. Two chambers connect to form a large weyr, the outer cavern larger and better decorated. Here are impersonal furnishings: a seating arrangement of sofa and chairs in front of a large, tiled fireplace with a blue-and-black rug before it; an antique-looking desk, dinged and dented in a few places but polished and well-kept for its obvious age; a tall cupboard with tack-hooks beside it, gear for dragonriding neatly arranged inside. Two tapestries hung from the high walls depict overdone splendor for High Reaches Weyr, one a long view of the snow-covered bowl and the other a hazy impressionist piece of dragons flaming over a springtime countryside. The inner weyr, a sleeping cavern and a bathtub, is smaller and cozier and less ostentatious. The furniture is sturdy but plain, bed and wardrobe and nightstand. A folding screen half-shields the sunken bathtub, usually with a towel slung over it and soap and wash rags within reach. The relics of a man's life are found here and there, large boots often kicked off carelessly in front of the smaller inner hearth, a rumpled tunic left where it fell, shaving kit by a washbasin. It is an autumn night, 21:27 of day 25, month 11, turn 18 of Interval 10. The way into a man's heart is through his stomach, but that presumes the man has a heart to begin with. And that a woman might want to worm her way in. With perhaps this in mind, Satiet's taken another tack in helping celebrate N'thei's turnday and rather than the romance of candles, chocolates, and a dinner for two, a keg of beer's found its way into his front room along with two bottles of whiskey. Draped over the curvature of the keg is a filmy blue scarf. The scene thus set, she begins the night standing before the hearth, inspecting his things with an ill-concealed nervous agitation: leaning in close to study the tapestries, drifting to run fingers across the grooves in the antique table, straightening what papers might be there... And should it get later and the night sky darker, eventually she'll sit, then curl in a corner to rest. Around her, a blue sisal robe flutters, the loosely tied waist band not enough to conceal the fact that tonight, just tonight, Satiet's dressed the part of a coquettish whore. Not so very late... not so very drunk... The chances that many people understand the monumental significance of the day are pretty slim; N'thei's not exactly the type to broadcast his getting-older-days, after all. But an early night for N'thei is still disreputably late for most, and he finally comes in after midnight, starting across the outer weyr, emptying his pockets in a habitual way when he passes a table. There, he pauses to shed his jacket, to start on his boots, to realize that he's not all-by-himself. The last time Satiet was here, it did not go well, so it's lucky that his eyes land on the keg and whiskey first, that it brightens his expression to a downright honest smile. So reverent, so jubilant, so (dare we say it?!) touched is he that he fails to notice scantily clad Satiet all curled up-- which is kind of sad, because it really would be just about the happiest moment of his life. And god knows he's going to need it to fall back on, thanks. In a time when sleep is hard to come by, the /sheer/ exhaustion (or just plain boredom) of just waiting around for hours on end have sent Satiet into a light slumber, her head dropping to rest against the armrest. A few minutes? An hour? How long she's slept doesn't matter as even the footfalls of a large man fail to wake the slight, curled up woman. It does, however, stir her, a little muffled sound exhaling as she shifts to a more comfortable position, thin legs stretching across the couch and her arm lifting to wipe at the drool about her mouth and then to tuck beneath her head. But beyond that, in sleep is one of the few times her manipulative, sharpish features are at peace. Let's be glad that N'thei realizes he has company before he gets down on the floor and hugs his birthday present, because that's how tickled he is by the time he's picked up one of the whiskey bottles, corked it, got it to his mouth, and heard the sound of someone stretching out on his couch. Side-stepping, leaning cartoonishly far to one side so he can see around the back of the sofa, he damn near drops the bottle when he gets an eyeful of Satiet. Asleep. In lingerie. On his couch. Bumbling, he catches it by the neck, splashes himself, utters a quiet bit of profanity. While he wipes his hand on his pants, while he tries to steady his breathing so it doesn't come marathon-quick, he approaches that couch all but on tiptoe, now as riveted to Satiet-in-repose as he was bunch-of-booze mere moments ago. The way to a man's heart indeed. Peaceful. But not particularly elegant when sleeping, especially on someone else's couch, her mouth hangs open and shortly something that's half-way between a snore and a snort escapes her nose, which combined with the shadow that falls over her frame seems to do more in stirring the resting goldrider than anything else thus far, and so she shifts again, turning so one arm drapes over her abdomen and her head tosses to the other side, before returning again. Fluttering lashes and an unconcealed yawn end in narrowed slits that only just begins to make out shapes about her. Who else but N'thei would be in N'thei's weyr? Her, "I waited for you," is spoken in the low, mumble of interrupted slumber and in that unthinking haze, a slim hand reaches out to catch the fabric of his pants at his knee. "Mmm. Happy turnday." But N'thei's in love, so he's happier watching Satiet snore than he really ought to be. That she starts to wake up prompts the drink-- going to need that-- before he jams the cork back in the bottle, nowhere to set it just yet so it dangles by the neck from his fingers. As such, he tastes just like whiskey, a fact that becomes important in a moment. Her fingers only have purchase so long, for he hits his knees quickly when she wakes up, butts them against the base of the couch, a bottle-holding hand to brace his arm across her on the back of the sofa. Even if she hadn't woken up just then, he'd still be kissing her by now, but consciousness makes it less violate-y. Oh yeah; "Getting there." To a happy turnday, that is. Oh, that it's N'thei and not some random passerby is a good thing. His voice and the familiarity of his whiskey-heavy scent drawn suddenly close and upon her mouth, sketches a tepid, tired smile across Satiet's mouth, stretching up far enough to crinkle her still mostly-closed eyes' corners. It's likely as tender of a moment as they've had in the past months, year even. Once holding his pants and now bereft, the hand lifts to pull at his waist band; not that he seems to need much help in falling halfway onto the couch, the other arm lifting to drape heavily over his shoulder. And in between all this movement, the smile freezes mid-kiss and her body shifts, her overtly slender frame shrinking into the couch. It's only a split-second, but is enough to jolt her awake further. "It's been a long day." Though spoken without acidity, it serves as an excuse for her temporary niceness, her momentary vulnerability, but not for her state of dress. "Pleased?" If this is for his twenty-ninth birthday, it only builds up anticipation for his momentous thirtieth, no? Shrinking? Satiet? Considering all the... things... they've done with/to each other, that she shrinks from kissing strikes N'thei and raises questioning eyebrows, creases confusion into his forehead. "Doesn't bode well for a long night, does it," is the half-laughed response, levity sought to conceal the very notion that he'd be /concerned/ about her well-being. And it flows right into the brightness of his expression when he leans back slightly onto his heels, his bottle-free hand traveling from her wrist to her arm to chin and throat and collarbones and so forth. "Surprised. Can never keep straight whether or not we're on speaking terms. But you look..." There's no 'like Christmas morning' comparison on Pern, but that's the look on N'thei's face. More awake now, it's easier for Satiet to school her features and to smile that crooked, sly little smile she's so good at. It's easier to do this than to make excuses for the shrinking or ruin further what might become a nice moment. "Like a bottle of whiskey all to yourself," concludes the alto, withheld laughter thrumming in the low undercurrents of her words. As his fingers travel her body, from the thin bones about her wrist, up along slender arms to the sharp point of her chin and down the slope of her throat, hers lifts to trace his face, along his jaw, down his neck to rest at his shoulder. Using it as a brace, she attempts to bring herself up enough so she's less prone and more seated. "Can we be nice to each other tonight? I'd like to just pretend we're not us. That we're just- just people. I'd like that to be my present to you." The smile pauses, waiting, as pale eyes turn upwards, oddly luminous in the lighting, "Please?" Can they just be nice to each other? There's time enough for doubt to cross N'thei's face, gone by the time he's left looking right back to Satiet with a last crackling of cold-hard-veneer. It'd be a nice moment to lay it all out there, wouldn't it, and he thinks about it while he stuffs the bottle into the corner of the couch-- where it won't spill!-- and raises both hands to bracket the delicacy of her chin. "We can sure as hell try," is where he settles, that and a smile that is unguardedly besotted when he presses it from one cheek to another, smudging kisses to her skin. --This is so fucked up, just so you know. Seriously. It's just one night! Tomorrow, "Tomorrow, I promise. I won't hold this night against you." So how do they even start being nice to each other, besotted whiskey-laden kisses aside? For even one night. After having said it, Satiet is at a momentary loss of what to actually say or do to be nice. Her hands drop from his face and shoulders to rest ineffectually in her lap, and there, her thumbs twiddle, twining about the fabric of her all-too short robe that covers little. She ultimately ends up on an incredibly dry, self-mocking, "I've always liked your eyes." Ok, pale eyes turn up to N'thei. Now it's your turn. Struck, N'thei leans his head forward onto one of those thin shoulders and laughs into the ridiculously flimsy fabric that pretends to cover Satiet. "Don't think I can do this if you're going to keep on like that," he confesses amusedly, presented with the honest physiological problem of having absolutely no interest in Satiet if she's going to be a decent human being. His arms still coming heavily around her, though, and there's still the smell of her to keep him from getting bored, but he's not exactly climbing on top of her at the moment. "What if we just... don't say anything mean--" At all? "--instead of being. Y'know. Nice." Those light eyes fill with amusement, brightened for his proximity, what he says, and a once in a lifetime shot at laughter from Satiet exhales lowly. It's breathed into his hair, emanating further in the trembling of her shoulders beneath his face, and the slim arms that find themselves braced against his chest. Candid; "Or don't say anything at all. We're not good at this." Being nice. Not being mean. Same difference. With each other. With others. A few more words intersperse between hands that decide to become busier by traveling down his chest to pants, and from waist to beneath the band and lips that move from his hair to forehead, nudging his head upward to find something to do. "Don't let this," moment, the outfit, the liquor, whatever it is, "Go to waste." After all, she's prepared a lot for this night, swallowed down a lot of pride, pulled a Tiriana and thrown many a breakable ornament at her walls. But those are the last words she'll likely say; she's smart enough to know saying more will most decidedly kill the moment and she's going to get laid, damnit, and rock N'thei's world tonight. It's not hard-- wait. Best start that again. It's not /difficult/ for Satiet to get herself laid. The extra effort is nice and all, and N'thei will look back on this night some day and cling to the image of his woman in her sexy robe, but the poignancy of it won't hit him for a while yet. Right now, no offense to Wyaeth-and-Teonath, he's just a man having hand's down the best sex of his life, with no earthly idea how he got so damn lucky and no will to question it, either. Couch, floor, random pieces of furniture between the outer weyr and the inner weyr, eventually to bed. He's just fucking happy; literally. The L-word never slips out, but the number of breathlessly flattering things he has to say about Satiet kind of makes up for it-- and none of them are as cheesy as 'always liked your eyes,' fyi. So she's not good at being nice or complimenting! Sue her. At least she's good at other things. Things that matter more to a man, and the night, without further attempts at niceness, ends on a nice note nonetheless. Couch, floor, random pieces of furniture in between, and eventually the bed; scattered in between are pieces of her carefully pieced together, ridiculous little outfit. It's after they're in bed, spent and perspiring that Satiet curls into N'thei's side, arm slung possessively over his torso and burrows herself. There's still no words, but sometimes you don't need to talk or say the L-word to know that she's spending the night here. All you need is the cadence of slowed breathing and the tacit trust, however brief, placed in N'thei that allows her a moment of vulnerability. And hey, if he or she wakes up in the middle night, why not. He could get another chance to actually be violate-y. |
Leave A Comment