Logs:Just Don't Talk
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| RL Date: 25 September, 2015 |
| Who: Ebeny, N'rov, Laurienth, Vhaeryth |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After Vhaeryth catches Laurienth, there is very little talking. |
| Where: Flight Weyr, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 28, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: E'dre/Mentions, C'sel/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Sex. Language. |
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| Laurienth is not terribly affectionate at the best of times, and given the nature of her flights the same might be said about the hours after, depending on who, but she's yet to move from Vhaeryth's side, her focus not on him but on anyone who gets too near. She cares not about any hurts she's inflicted, and likewise her rider hasn't had any opportunity to realise or apologise for any as of yet, for though Ebeny is at least hazily awake amongst the rumpled sheets, it's evident that her mind is not entirely quite hers for the moment simply from her stillness. She is long for a green dragon, but Vhaeryth is all too bronze, and has the privilege accordingly of looking Laurienth over; or, rather, looking over her for any intruders. Would she like any of them hissed at? Shown smug, sharp teeth? Or is that her privilege? The looking her over came earlier, cataloguing her hurts rather than his own, grooming here and there even if it did get him nipped at. It's worth it. It's all worth it. His rider isn't arguing with him, drowsy himself, his teeth right there near the back of her neck but closed behind a half-smile; he's got his greenrider, after all, one large hand shaped familiarly to her convex curve, his bent arm sheltering her side like Vhaeryth's wing. Nobody's stormed in yet; nobody's stolen their clothes; nobody's stormed out, but give them (more) time. If Laurienth should encourage hissing, at least she isn't encouraging it of the littler, younger ones, even if she's not exactly the model of good behaviour at the moment. She snaps her jaws when an older green merely looks at her (or at Vhaeryth), then twists to deliver another one of those sharp, too-telling nips beneath his bronze jaw before she nudges in closer and drops her head to his forepaws. Maybe it's that snap of anger that finally rouses Ebeny a little, for she slowly turns in N'rov's embrace and relaxes against him again, eyes closed, too trusting to be completely aware yet. She's pliant even as she moves to tangle her legs with his and softly sighs out something unintelligible. Beneath that jaw (his jaw) there's a rumble, and within that rumble there's warm indulgence, all amid earlier's residual heat. Vhaeryth bends his head and nibbles there, behind her headknobs; then he sighs warm breath before settling in. If the older green watches them, so be it. If N'rov's at all aware... perhaps he is and perhaps he isn't; it's instinctive to make room for her and her legs and especially her knees, steadying with a hand at the small of her back, all within the warm cocoon of their blankets. He doesn't ask after what she might be saying, if he even notices more than (after the internment, the frustration of recent days, the release of this one) her breath on his skin. While one half of the whole begins to drift, the other begins to surface to find reality, and this time it's Ben who bears her teeth and nips at a spot just beneath N'rov's collarbone, if more gently than the touch her lifemate has favoured his with. It's a moment later that she seems to cease even breathing, tensed, and then she finds herself completely unable to move at all, though she manages to lift her lips from skin and keep herself from biting or kissing another time or two. She doesn't - can't - look up, nor speak, yet she's still so close that the brush of her eyelashes might be felt, her eyes wide and staring. It's in the instant of that nip that he reacts, a reflexive tug closer, like he'd pull her in along with the breath he'll exhale into a near-silent rumble of a laugh. "You tickle, woman." Eyelashes or otherwise? His voice is low too, flight-gravelly. He might not even know who she is. Mightn't he? Her head's low; he hasn't looked so far as she can see. Even now he's looking... up, if anywhere, tipping his head back, exposing that much more throat beneath those lifted lips. Instinct tugs one way and what has been clawed back of sense tugs in another. His voice only furthers the confirmation that it isn't E'dre or C'sel that she's cuddling close to; that it is, in-fact, the column of N'rov's neck that she nearly begins to explore, only to pull away (and away) in the instant before her lips brush skin. Ebeny doesn't move fast, her co-ordination not yet restored enough for that, and not sharply enough to seem startled, but she moves as if it's a necessity, seeking the edge of the bed, somewhat hampered by blankets as well as the mental fog of being too pleased to care. But not by N'rov; or, rather, not by a demanding yank back to him, whether by hand (sliding from her back to round her rump before dropping away) or crook of leg (though his, again, don't exactly help). There's a muted groan that verges on wistful, and he rolls onto his back, crooking one arm behind him as a pillow and lying there quite unashamedly. Only, not only low but teasing, "Are you going to steal the blankets too?" "Just don't talk." It's not chastisement, or a demand, or a plea, or much of anything, really, the words delivered quietly and flatly. Ebeny manages to find the edge of the bed without taking the blankets with her, though she has to untangle herself as she goes, and swings her feet down to the floor to sit there hunched over and staring blankly for a moment or so, before she gets to her feet and sets about locating her clothes, without any concern about her state of undress. She finds her shirt first, but then has to go hunting for other items that should go on before it. His muted hmm may not be a word, precisely, but now he's opened gray eyes to watch her. N'rov doesn't talk when she untangles herself from those blankets. N'rov doesn't talk when she sits there the way she does, though he does shift back to his side once more, expression less contentedly open now. Nor does N'rov talk when Ebeny goes clothes-hunting, though he does bestir himself to help a little, rummaging amidst those blankets for whatever he can find. It's when he comes up short, not very long at all, that N'rov stops. "Why?" Ebeny doesn't even take a moment to consider a proper, better, more reasonable answer than, "Just don't," delivered in the same (lack of) tone as before, though her voice is far less steady this time. She finds her underwear hanging off the edge of one of the chairs and swipes at it to step into, then flings her shirt on regardless, not that it does much to really conceal or cover anything. At no point does she turn in a way that brings the bed or N'rov into view, though it surely cannot be a matter of modesty at this point. It's the unsteadiness that does it. There's no 'Fine,' no mutter of acquiescence even; at any moment, whether she's clothing herself in intimates or outside wear, N'rov could speak. It's just that he doesn't. Yet. And here's Ebeny without even a scythe. Maybe if she'd not made her request, he could tell her that her shirt is buttoned up all wrong. She straightens out the collar without bothering to check the rest, then picks up the nearest pair of trousers - which just happen to be hers - by the ankle of one leg and has to turn them about, inelegantly done, to step into them. Leaving her jacket where it lies, she goes after socks, finds one, then fails to locate the other. It leaves her with no other choice but to turn back to the bed, standing at its edge, to say, "I think you're lying on one of my socks." All this, and N'rov still doesn't say anything: not about her shirt, not when she's balancing on just one foot. Not that his gaze doesn't flick to its buttons and back up. When she turns to him, what he gives Ebeny is a loose shrug, ambiguous as his wry, doubtful smile. Still and all, he can oblige her by standing, slowly, and adopt parade rest right there in the middle of the bed, like he might have done as a weyrling and yet very much not. Then he tilts his chin, the better to suggest: she can look. (Or retreat.) Truth be told, Ebeny spends more than a few seconds trying not to look, either at the rumpled sheets or N'rov. She remains still and staring at the far wall until impassive gives way to anger, making no stops on the way, courtesy of her lifemate or lowered inhibitions, and she lunges forward to save her sock and step up onto the bed at the same time as she growls, "You're a fucking idiot." There's no warning of what else has risen out of that fury - and perhaps what she's been trying to avoid - until she reaches for him with the intention of kissing him, hard. N'rov, fucking idiot, reporting. Her seconds are long enough that his brows are drawing in slightly, and he's no longer standing quite so square on the less-certain footing of the mattress when all of a sudden she's literally stepping up to get it done. And him without a scythe! The bronzerider starts to step back to make room, the bed's not that big when... there's Ebeny oncoming, and that far wall that's suddenly not so far behind him, and Ebeny's mouth on his mouth. Which becomes his mouth on her mouth, demanding. Well, if he's not going to stop her, she's clearly just about given up on maintaining her self-control any longer. Demanding doesn't earn a surrender from Ebeny, who just about manages to keep her footing as she reaches to secure her grip on him with nails that seek to dig in not so distant from his shoulder blades; an echo of Laurienth's claws. It would be easier, perhaps, if her balance wasn't so precarious, though she appears to be aware of the risk of tumbling to the floor in her attempted use of both N'rov and the wall to keep the both of them upright. One more step and she can use him, but not to stay upright; N'rov braces against that wall now, reaching to haul her in and let the wall do the rest. He doesn't move to match her mark for mark, but his grip isn't inclined to relent just as long as she doesn't repent, one hand scouring up her spine towards the back of her neck. There's no repenting now, but there's something just a little bit vicious about Ebeny's responses, as if she could prove that this is why he needed to be quiet and to not be lying on her sock. Said sock is already lost amongst the sheets again, abandoned so that she might find better uses for her hands and press close and closer still, and provided that he doesn't stop her, she's not averse to showing him where he might best use his, first on the buttons of her shirt. How N'rov hadn't found it he may never know and, more likely, never care; nor does he object to her tone as, gray eyes glancing briefly to hers, he moves to address her sartorial asymmetry: first the buttons, and then what lies beneath them, comprehensively. This time, there's no sleepy affection in the aftermath, and after moment after moment of her head resting against his shoulder while she just tries to breathe, Ebeny looks up and moves to deliver another one of those nips against his neck, sharper now and designed to leave a mark. She doesn't let herself linger any longer than that, and tears herself away from N'rov to pick up her clothes and begin to fumble her way back into them. This time, it might even be as though there hadn't been an other time; except, that mark doesn't overwrite the rest, not even when N'rov rubs it, especially not when he regards its giver with a distinctly speculative air. But at least he doesn't say anything; only yawns in a way that the suspicious (or the correct) might find ostentatious and settle back into the covers to watch her go. It's not like he has anywhere better to be; she can thank her weyrmate for that one! Buttoned up wrong doesn't even begin to describe the way in which Ebeny ends up wearing her shirt, half the buttons not even dealt with before she slings her jacket on over it and tugs her trousers on. One sock, once more, only now she's not brave enough to go and look for the other one, and so she steps into her boots regardless and ties them with shaking hands. She doesn't make the same mistake twice; she doesn't look back at N'rov again, and instead repeats, "Just don't talk," in a far raspier fashion than before, though then she's retreating to the outside world. He certainly doesn't talk now, but a few days later, there's going to be a grey sock tossed surreptitiously into Laurienth's wallow as N'rov wanders by the ground weyr. (At least he won't get some caverns girl to deliver it to her... during a lesson.) |
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