Logs:No Moms for the Wicked
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| RL Date: 22 November, 2013 |
| Who: I'zech, Telavi |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Two AWLMs have a (not so) heart-to-heart late at night. |
| Where: Weyrlingmaster's Office, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 1, Month 5, Turn 33 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: J'vain/Mentions, K'zin/Mentions, N'gan/Mentions, Quielle/Mentions, Quinlys/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Adult stuff. |
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| It's late. Telavi eases into the office, backward, as though if she were any noisier than she already is, it might wake someone. "I think they're out," she murmurs, tempting fate. I'zech is in Quinlys' chair, his boots up on her desk, a book in his lap, which he appears to be reading with another interest to delay looking up when Telavi sneaks in so very very quietly. But he does look up, wrinkling his brow. "They aren't actually babies, you know." "They might as well be," Tela breathes on a sigh, nearly as quiet as the slide of the door to its jamb. Only then she peeks over one shoulder and has to ask, "Do you know more of the wing-free type? I don't." It's a different create on his forehead as his brows lower and press together, eyes back on his book. "Wing-free what?" I'zech may not actually have read enough to turn the page, but he turns it anyway with a slip of his finger along the paper, fitting in place as he opts instead to close the book around it. His head lolls around, neck stretching. "Babies." There's an amused quality to how Telavi enunciates the syllables, lighter than the shadows still about her eyes, though those at least have eased somewhat from the earliest days. She turns the rest of the way, pulling herself out a chair if only so she can lean across it and dangle her fingertips across the table's smooth surface. "Hah." It's a mirthless sort of sound, even if I'zech cracks a twist of a smile for what is surely a joke. "You should sleep. You look like shit." Even if that's less shitty than she did during early days, or probably during her own weyrlinghood. But twist is gone from his face as he watches her stretch herself out over chair and table. A thumbnail scratches at the lower line of his lip. "Do I?" Her light voice plays at perturbation, and she rubs the table with the side of her hand, now, as though to de-smudge it into a mirror. It doesn't work, of course, not even when she stares at it cross-eyed. "I will sleep. It's just it seems like as soon as I do, someone will wake me up again," is her wistful plaint. "I guess you're doing it wrong," he points out. Of course, she is trying to see her reflection in a worn old table, so the chances are pretty good he's on to something. "What's going to wake them up? A bad dream? They can handle it. I walked out on you guys plenty. You all survived." And now I'zech jerks his chin for her to come. Or maybe to get the hell out of there. Who knows. "A bad dream, each other," and Telavi turns greeny-blue eyes on I'zech, pointedly, before pointing out, "I could recite a longer list, you know. But I'm being kind," or at least that's what she's calling it. She flattens her hand in a manner that would leave visible prints if the table weren't so worn, but then she's not looking at it when she uses it a prop to straighten so obediently up. "Meara didn't walk out on us." "That you know of," I'zech reminds, a dark smirk drawing at his mouth. Not that Telavi herself was always so good about following the rules of lights-out. "Do that stretching over here," comes the next instruction, a tip of his head toward the desk, despite a few papers still strewn across it, a pen holder, things like that -- and also his legs still propped up. "You're just making excuses. You suck at sleeping, weyrlings or not." "That I know of," Telavi repeats with a roll of her eyes, a singsong ugh-why-me quality worthy of any weyrling, though a dimple escapes just enough to reveal the pose as she saunters over towards the other assistant. Not that she stretches there, just rounds the wood so she can sit there by his ankles. "Maybe I need to practice more often. Tell me, I'zech, how did you develop your expertise?" There's a narrowing at his eye as she takes her seat just out of easy reach, watching something in the set of her shoulders. Rather than answer her question, he asks his own. "What's that about?" her tendency to skip the sleep and wind up with bags under her eyes. "Nightmares? Restless legs?" He'll spare a glance for her knees down to her feet. Those shoulders are curved forward rather than squared, corresponding to how she loosely laces her fingers over one glanced-at knee; her legs cross there, the soft caramel of her flight leathers unscuffed, her boots polished and high in the instep. "Not so restless," Tela says, only to belie the comment by making to poke him lightly with one boot-toe. And since the last question worked so well, "Tell me, I'zech..." what, this time? "What was your last nightmare? I'll tell you mine." Heedless that it means he loses his place, I'zech tosses the book on the desk, palm lazily upturned toward Telavi, waiting. "Let's see," he begins, unhurried musing, a wiggle of his finges to coax for hers. "I don't remember a lot of them. Maybe it was something like... The bottle is half full, but whenever I go to pour a drink, it's empty." And the quirk at his mouth suggests this is probably not a dream he's ever had at all. Her brows' turn to curve up, now, one more than the other; Telavi considers his hand and then, after a moment, leans forward enough to set her fingertips into his palm, as though they were beginning some formal dance instead of staying up too late in a little stone room. "I don't buy it," she says. "That's far too much like saying, 'the thread keeps slipping out of my needle.'" "Thread never slips out of my needle," I'zech says with quiet certainty as his hand closes on her fingers. It's only a beat before his grip pulls at her, a steady drawn likely meant to tug her from her seat and toward him. "Maybe it was more like... It was a dark and stormy night and strange noises kept coming out of the mist." And that does get a broad smirk. Can't imagine where he might get that sort of imagery from. "No?" That deepens the arch of that one brow, and her tone with it; Telavi acquiesces with that pulling, forward, forward-- until all at once she balks, eyes narrowing, and of course he would have had to wait until she's just barely, ingloriously perched at all. "I can't imagine what you could possibly mean," she claims, thumb curving around to try and squeeze his hand hard. I'zech gives her a look when she balks, not at all fooled. With the tightening squeeze of her hand, his steady pull becomes a more determined yank to tip her into his lap, an arm ready to catch around her. "Help me remember," he tells her, a chuckle rolling under his words. "Was I running really slow? Were their knives involved? A room in flames?" That does tip Tela over the edge, even though a sharp bend of her wrist lets her elbow precede her-- if aimed towards his chest rather than his lap as such. In the next moment, though, even that collapses and she leans against him. "A room in flames," she says darkly. "I like that idea. But," still without looking up, "I'd believe the slow-running part." Her breath catches short of adding more. There's a grunt for the elbow, but I'zech takes it like a man, and maybe it makes the wrap of his arm a little more firm than it might have been, closing over the slim curve of her back. "It's happened," he tells her, probably the slow-running, or maybe the room in flames. "Not sure it was the last one, though." His hand releases hers to move instead toward her thigh, where he might be able to hitch her a bit further against his chest. "What about you? Screaming but no one can hear you?" "I don't think the door's that solid," Telavi bestirs herself enough to half-tease. She doesn't speak of Solith and listening, or not-listening; she does shift enough after his movement to tuck her legs more comfortably, even if her feet dangle off the edge. It's not like she's trying to kick him at the moment. With his chest as a pillow for her cheek, in a different tone, "I do wish... you'd stop teasing me about that. It was a long time ago." "About which?" I'zech wonders at a mumble, chin tipped low and his eyes drifting closed. "I didn't say anything about your bucket of horrors. Or about you groping on K'zin in the baths -- talk about nightmares." The empty laugh jerks at his chest beneath her cheek, but otherwise he seems rather comfortably immobile, at least for the moment. Despite that he adds: "The door's solid enough." There's something between a shudder and a flinch to disturb all that would-be restfulness. "I'd rather you talk about the bucket, if you had to," Telavi says with feeling. "Well, not in front of the-- well, maybe some weyrlings. Who would deserve it." Almost she falls silent, even his comfortable near-immobility perhaps comforting in its way if it stays that way, but she can't seem to resist a lazy, "Good. Then they won't hear your snores." "Rather that than what?" Actually dense, just playing dense, or maybe he's just lulled sleepily by her weight on him. I'zech makes no apologies either way, and it would all stay rather quietly cozy but for the flex of his hand on her thigh, fingers splayed and firm. "You weren't exactly all blushing innocence when it was you in the barracks. Any of you." So he's hardly concerned about his snores, and not about to refute that they happen. "Isn't there anyone you miss even though you know better?" It's such a soft voice, a quiet voice, it might be hard to hear. Her hand's fled to his, pausing there atop; it's light enough to be indecisive about being there, anywhere at all. She doesn't speak of innocence or otherwise. "K'zin? How are we talking about K'zin? Forget him." His hand, his arm, they both firm a little more as hie weight shifts to drop his legs down from the desk, holding onto her to keep her in his lap, at least for now. And if his hand sweeps a bit over her back, perhaps that part wasn't really necessary for trapping her in place. "What the fuck, Tel." There's little venom in it. "You aren't gonna cry, are you?" At least the words are gentled to a dull mumble rather than sounding disgusted. She wasn't-- was she? is she? --and yet there's an odd little hiccup in her voice when she claims, "No. None of that. I refuse to." Not gonna. Telavi sniffs, surely at the mere thought of it, and belatedly retrieves her nails from the back of his hand where she'd clutched on with all that movement. "You should talk about yourself. That would be a good distraction." I'zech lets out sigh -- how could he not. Beleaguered, instead of rambling off as she'd like, he asks more directly, "What's up?" Since clearly someone here has some feels to process. The spread of his knees tenses and relaxes under weight with a little shift of his heels on the stone, but his hands remain just has they have been. He makes no effort to catch her eye. It's better that way, or easier, anyway. Telavi certainly doesn't look up, though she has to do something with her hand, so she curls it in what passes for folds of his shirt: loosely, for now. It was just a little shift, after all. "Nothing new," is what she says. It's almost like she's quoting. "What's your mother like?" Out of the blue. "So tell me the old stuff," I'zech sighs, settling his shoulders back as if he expect to be here for a while. As for his mother, there's another huff of laugh, more a feeling in his lungs, in the blow of breath on her hair, than any real sound. There's only a faint whiff of liquor about him, from the drink he took when all the kids were first tucked off to bed, and otherwise it's the leather and dragon so prevalent among riders, and more oil soap than mustiness, despite the wrinkles of his clothes or his habitually messy hair. "You keep doing that," Telavi protests, though more with resignation than a great deal of fervor. "Nobody had better say you're not stubborn." She sets her jaw, but it doesn't last, and she rubs her forehead against his chest-- since he doesn't smell awful-- as though to rearrange her own hair all over again. Finally, quietly again, "I wouldn't have thought you'd want to hear. I don't know why you do." It's not ducking; it isn't even distraction. This time it's a bigger inhale, a heavier heave of breath. "I don't have one -- better?" Don't say I'zech never gave her anything. "I wouldn't have thought you'd cry over some whiny, self-important..." You know that thing where you aren't supposed to bad-mouth the ex because they might get back together? Yeah, that doesn't stop him. "Manchild. But here we are. With you ruining an otherwise excellent opportunity to bounce up and down on me." No hard feelings, though. "You don't? You do so! Everyone has--" well, not everyone, Telavi. She shuts up. Only then she can't help a watery sort of giggle at that description, which would make any bouncing she might be tempted to do on his lap just a little too childish... so she only does it once, for emphasis, and doesn't lean back down even if she also doesn't look up. "I know. It's silly. I try not to. But really, you never got to see," and here she sighs. "And the weyrlings are-- well, I blame it on not enough sleep, really, and not in the fun way." Mostly. "It just reminds me. Even after Qui and No-good-'gan dropped. You know?" I'zech tilts his head, maybe this time actually thinking he might catch a glance at her expression, since she's pulled back a bit for that bounce -- which he answers with a press of hips that is hardly childish at all. "Do you and I have a lot of heart to hearts I don't know about? No, I don't know. I don't know half of what you're talking about. And no, it's not a matter of me not seeing. Call him convenient, call him familiar. But if K'zin is the great fucking love of your life, well, I'm sorry." And he doesn't bother to hide that he rolls his eyes. That glance catches downcast eyes, an indeterminate curve of mouth that's heavy on the lower lip-- at least, before the surprised, pleased sound that escapes at his less-verbal reply. She might have done more, except I'zech keeps talking and greeny-blue eyes flick up at him-- sharp, for all their residual liquid brightness-- and then away-- more like sulky. "Nooo." Telavi can roll her eyes too, and does, putting that much more drama into it; but then, she's a girl. "I don't do that," likely rings genuine. "I can't believe you forgot about our heart-to-hearts, I'zech, especially after we did each other's hair," considerably less so. Did she seem pleased? Because I'zech can stop talking. And when she answers his rolling eyes with her own, so much more expertly executed, the grip of his hand on her leg might pull her a little more firmly into a repeat press of hips. "You don't do what? Talk using complete thoughts? Yeah, I've noticed. Your mouth moves, noise comes out..." That's all he's got. The grumbles in his voice, in the shape of his lips, might be somewhat eased by the fact that his eyes shift lower to what how her reaction might play out said noisy mouth. This time noise doesn't escape her, even before he talks about it, if only because those lips are quick to not part further but to press together. Though her eyes close too, it's more of a flicker, soon reopened; Telavi's watching for his reaction when she gives way to a restless shift, as though it's only that sitting sideways isn't as comfortable as it could be, as though it weren't so very deliberate on her part. "Very funny," she says to be saying something, something that's not going back to what she doesn't do. She could say something else. She doesn't. It's I'zech's turn to make the noise, a grunt breathed out for her 'uncomfortable' resettling. It shadows his gaze a little more, sharpens it to a dark glare of hazel eyes. No, she doesn't say anything else. And he doesn't say anything either. But his hand wraps further around her thigh, it braces at her back, and he starts to straighten up, ready to transfer her weight to the desk -- not that he has any intention to stop looming over her. It's as though he breathes it out for her pleasure, the way it brings sparkle to her eyes. Telavi's not glaring. Telavi's started to smile, a distinct curve that deepens for that glare. She doesn't protest this putative change, but neither does she help exactly: just a stretch towards encircling the bronzerider's neck with her arms. Perhaps she has doubts about his ability to traverse the great, great distance to the desk and needs to be able to catch herself; perhaps it's to play with his collar. No, no helping here. There's something darkly charged in the smirk that curls his lips, perhaps just from the hard way he looks at her, but there's a wicked touch of humor in it too. No thanks, I'zech doesn't need her help, tipping her onto the desk, onto the ink blotter and random papers, his weight leaned forward to ease her back as his hands rake slowly down her sides and grip at the waistband of her trousers. "You're so full of shit," he says, the laugh beneath it dark too. Telavi's leathers may hope the blotter's good and dry, the more so since Telavi herself doesn't seem to be spending a whole lot of thought for either them or the poor, poor papers; no, she's smiling up at I'zech with what's become a smirk to mirror his own, only to shape an oh to go with the ingenuous wiggle of her hips as his hands make it there. "And why do you say that?" she invites, giving his collar a tug, the graze of her nails for the moment light. "I'zech?" See, she knows his name. "You know why," I'zech huffs, hardly taken in by the coy expression or that wiggle that calls for a twist of his hips to nudge between her knees, to press hard and back off again. Because he's drawing away just enough for his hands to move to the fastening of her pants, quick and rough in the way he tugs them open, with his eyes avid on the flashes of her bare stomach. "No," says Telavi, only it's not no. It's no, "I really don't," and while she doesn't seek to forestall his pulling back that far-- call it an excuse to let those nails of hers mark the distance more sharply-- when he's busy with her trousers, that's when she reaches for his, only it's not to open them. No, it's to slide her fingers past the center of his waistband and stop there, crossed thumbs guarding the actual closure. "Well?" If he still doesn't answer, she can give a tug and then a push, as though he can give her what she really wants or go away. That's fine, she can guard his pants all she wants. I'zech's hands are undeterred, gripping at her trousers to peel them down past the curve of her backside, which is about as far as they can get before the fact that he's between her legs becomes a problem. He drags his gaze from the revealed skin to look at her, patient but barely so. "You gonna talk the whole time?" It's harder work than it would have been if she'd been helping, if she'd lifted up instead of pressing down; that he manages the job anyway-- well. "If there's going to be a whole time, maybe," Telavi says with a lift of her chin and a deliberate twiddle of her thumbs. She doesn't look down at that skin, partly hidden by the deep blue tails of her blouse, partly by the darker blue panties that nearly match, not that the latter cover a whole lot. "The full of shit thing, it's kind of unsexy, and you aren't doing a lot to change that." I'zech laughs outright. "Like you'd say no." A hand flattens over those blue drawers, sliding up beneath the shirt to rest on her stomach, warm and soft beneath his palm. "I could get you a job, you know. Fill the sleepless evenings and make a bit to spend." He punctuates it with a harder jerk of his hips between her thighs. And that does make him smirk. This is the part, surely, where a righteous girl would slap him for his assumptions. But no, Telavi cocks her brows at him, caught somewhere between shocked and-- entertained, maybe, smooth muscles tensing and then relaxing beneath his palm. Until her brows fly even higher, that is, and she drops her lashes to inquire through them, dulcetly, "And what kind of job would that be?" Why not; she even goes so far as to free one hand and try and slip it down past his waistband this time, the better to try and gauge what kind of goods he has to... spend. "Oh, I'm supposed to read between all the lines, but you-" And that pause there is for the hand that searches the goods, ready beneath the sturdy fabric of his trousers. "Can't?" That's what I'zech was saying. It's a glare that looks down at her hand, as though there's something offensive in the touch. "You have no idea what you're doing, do you. You just run from one cock to the next." When his hands move to her hips again, they curve around to tug at her weight, to turn her over. Telavi does like to create pauses like that, that smile of hers slipping back into existence-- but the way he looks at her like that, well. "I do like a man to be able to lay it out there," she murmurs right after he finishes that sentence, and that's all warm and suggestive for all that her eyes have cooled-- and are cooling further with no idea. One last, knowing squeeze for good measure and she's slipping her hand free as the first move to not turning around, to stealing her own waistband back and attempting to slide it back up. "Not tonight." A chuckle rumbles low in his chest, and though, for just a second, his hands grip sharply, as if her wiggles won't stop him, they relax again, and one hand catches his weight as he bows forward over her, the other skimming up to wrap about her ribs. There's no kiss to promise all is forgiven, no nuzzle when his face draws so close to hers, just the growl of a thoughtful hum. "There's your tender spot, hm?" Lashes flick low and he glances once more at the blue underwear disappearing from sight. Like there have been any such niceties to begin with. She'd tensed with that moment's refusal, but with the disappearing-- part her tug, part his angle-- doesn't struggle beneath him; blue eyes, dark blue with dilation, find dark hazel even if he's looking down. She keeps her own voice low, with the throaty quality that speaks of intimacy. "You think it's hot talk, offering to shop a girl out?" is what she gives him back. "Or that not caring whose-- cock-- is whose, that's the only way she'd take you on?" Except here, intimacy is a whole lot like challenge. "No," I'zech answers without hesitation. "It's business." And dull business, by his tone. More interesting is his hand moving up until the spread of his thumb stops just before the rise of her breast. "As for taking me on, 'she' has been considering it for a good long time, now. Despite all the cocks." A snort of a laugh follows with: "Maybe she's just getting warmed up." And then he's pulling back, and finding her wrist on the way to drag her upright on the desk. "Business before pleasure, apparently," Telavi murmurs, leaving out the critical verb. His hand may travel, but she stays all too calm, which is not in any way to say relaxed. She also doesn't say more, though she has to press her lips together against the rejoinder, and sit up; she'd planned to anyway, after all, and it lets her work on securing her pants one-handed. "Don't pout," I'zech says, hardly oblivious to her not-relaxed demeanor, though he doesn't appear particularly bothered by it, either. "You're not surprised." A hand slips warm around her nape, intending to meet her eye, at least for a moment, something imparted there as the glare ebbs. Some kind of certainty, or understanding perhaps? It's sometimes hard to tell with such looks. And a smirk tugs at his mouth. "You're still a pain in my ass - you know that." Not only does Telavi not retort, she doesn't even roll her eyes, so maybe she hit her head or got sick or something back there when he wasn't looking. What she does do is let him meet her gaze-- hers less readable, to the degree his is at all, but something more turbulent there-- and she even presses back briefly into his hand, but it's precursor to slipping off the table and reaching for his shirt to pointedly wipe that testing hand of hers off. Not that it's goopy, but it's the spirit of the thing. "What I'm trying to figure out is if you try for disappointing or if it just comes naturally." I'zech lets out a laugh, maybe for the wipe of her hand, maybe for her words. Okay, probably a bit of both. And even though her hand is at his shirt, lean hips do sling forward a bit, like maybe they aren't quite through. "You've never been disappointed in me. You're just pissed." He reaches past her to reclaim his book, tucking it into his back pocket before he turns to claim his jacket off the chair. "Don't stay here all night. The babies don't need you." "No." Which may not be in reply to what he actually said this time. Telavi does look taken aback when I'zech beats her to that last bit, that bit that was going to be her line about going off-duty, and has to settle for a frowny, "If the babies wake up, they're yours." And if Tela 'accidentally' wakes one-- or two-- up on her way out... well, oops. They can play chicken on the way out, if she's going to make a fuss, because I'zech does plan on leaving and it's going to take more than a blinking weyrling to stop him, but he will smile broadly at Telavi while his boots carry him out to the bowl and the bronze waiting in the shadows. Telavi? Telavi's fast. Telavi's gone. Poor weyrlings! Maybe J'vain will take up the slack... or maybe they'll just go back to sleep on their own. It could happen. |
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