Logs:Not Completely Awful
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| RL Date: 4 September, 2014 |
| Who: G'laer, Quinlys |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: After their explosive last encounter, Olveraeth catching Teisyth in her sixth flights makes fireworks of a whole other kind. |
| Where: Flight Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 20, Month 9, Turn 35 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: H'vier/Mentions, Oliwer/Mentions, Rh'mis/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Back-dated. |
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| At least this time, it was a nice evening flight. As dusk falls, late in the day now that summer is ending, Teisyth bloods and rises into the crisp wind that's heralding the oncoming fall. It's not one of her longer flights, perhaps a reaction to how unusually long it was between flights for her, but that doesn't mean it doesn't take skill for Olveraeth to eventually entangle her, beating out the handful of suitors that rose. G'laer sat impassively on the edge of the bed, boots removed and eye ranging over the chasers. The proportion is weighted in his favor this time: more women than men, but it's almost certainly not a pleasant surprise to find himself under Quinlys of all women, no matter how pleasant the act must have been. Olveraeth's generally the kind of blue who chases selectively, and in consultation with his rider. He likes the greens, he likes them a lot, but he can be picky. Perhaps it's that crisp wind, or the fact that the weyrlings have kept him - them - busy enough to keep him away from the greens, of late; whatever the reason, he's one of the first to take off after Teisyth, and the chase is a good one. Quinlys' curses followed her all the way across the bowl, but died out once she was within the guest weyr. Now, drenched in sweat, she comes back to herself while still astride, and if her expression darkens in the immediate sense, it rather quickly turns to a smirk; she makes no move to disengage, and instead, simply sits there - waiting. Well, this is awkward. G'laer's expectant look up at the redhead turns confused, and here in this vulnerable state there's no ready mask to hide that from her smirking face. His hands slide slowly off her hips and down her thighs to the bed. Then after another awkward moment, he clears his throat. This is where he should say something. All he manages is an entirely too formal, "Quinlys," as greeting, with a very slight nod. The mask is struggling to make it back onto his face though he's still flushed and relatively breathless. Quinlys stretches, cat-like, entirely at ease with her present position (and state of undress). "G'laer," she says in return, entirely too cheerful; too smug. "Fancy running into you like this." He may have withdrawn his hands, but she stays right where she is, peering down at the greenrider with interest. The polite thing to do would be to roll away - to get up, get dressed, get gone. Clearly, she's not in a polite kind of mood. "Ha." It escapes him before he can control it. Running into him. It takes him a moment to school his face. He's a red-blooded man and for all that he has a male weyrmate, there's soon enough proof that G'laer doesn't need a flight to enjoy being where he is. That makes it hard to think, even for G'laer. "Fancy." He agrees after a moment. "Fancy getting off me or are you aiming more for getting me off... again?" There's still a flush and this time it's probably a little embarrassment. He's probably bluffing about the latter. He must be. Mustn't he? His body doesn't think so. "Is that what you're into? Hate sex?" Quinlys gives an experimental little wiggle, just because, well, she can. She's not flushing; she's not even remotely uncomfortable, angry, or otherwise bothered. "Haven't I always said you're hot when you're angry?" The greenrider shifts his hips in purposeful response to that wiggle. Double dare. Then G'laer yawns and lifts a hand to run over his face. There are no knives, no death threats, this is downright relaxing. Besides, she'd never go through with it, so there's no trace of hopefulness on his part. "Except," points out Quinlys, "I'm not angry." This is somewhat less fun, if he's not going to react, though not so much that she's going to be petulant about it. The shift of his hips does have her answering with a movement of her own, hands lifting so that she can trail her fingertips down his chest a couple of times, nails just barely running over his skin. "So let's face it: you just think I'm hot. You're glad Olly chased." G'laer lets a finger scratch his jaw a moment before his eyes flick down toward her fingers. "Alright." He's easy. "You're hot and I'm glad Olly chased." Is she done with her game yet? He seems to be trying to wait her out, which doesn't mean his hips don't shift again. "And hey, you haven't threatened to kill me, or injured me. Shells, this is downright romantic, Quinlys. You want to go again? Let's go." Clearly, he's ready. Nose wrinkling, Quinlys says, "I'm not usually interested in violence. Or death. Not even yours. It'd be messy." It's hard to tell, now, whether the movements of her body are instinctual, given their positioning, or a deliberate attempt to, uh, encourage the situation. Except; "No, no, I don't think so." She rolls away, flopping back onto the mussed sheets not far from the greenrider. "I'd say 'fuck you,' but... no." Which is not to say that she's unaffected by this encounter; teasing, after all, goes both ways. "I'd say 'have it your way,' but you always do, don't you." It's not really a question, G'laer yawns again before sitting up and sliding off the bed. There's even a bounce in his step because, for once, he's not sore. That she doesn't want a round two apparently doesn't break his heart. If he has one. Quinlys is pretty sure he doesn't. Mind you, the jury is still out on whether she does, too. "I do," she agrees, lounging, those blue eyes flicking after G'laer in a lazy kind of way. She's not checking him out... well, okay, she may be, but it's all pretty casual. "Throw me my pants?" "Sure." G'laer does as is asked of him in the process of finding his own and shaking them out. His manner is equally casual. Maybe the answer was to have awesome sex all along? No, probably not. Still, there doesn't seem to be any brewing discord as he pulls on his pants and shirt, followed by belt, boots, and jacket. Once he's put himself back together, he'll offer a lazy sort of salute that might be motivated by last vestige of proddiness showing or simply the afterglow of great sex before he's heading for the bowl. Despite having her pants - and the rest of her clothes - close at hand, Quinlys is in no rush to be dressed. "Mm," is all she says, in answer to that salute; the back of one hand comes to rest atop her eyes, then, and there she stays... for a few more minutes at least. See? That wasn't so bad! |
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