Logs:U + Ur Hand
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| RL Date: 31 March, 2015 |
| Who: H'vier, Irianke |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Irianke comes to apologize for the cake incident. She ends up horizontal and H'vier ends up becoming friends with his hand. |
| Where: H'vier's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: light rain |
| OOC Notes: NSFW. Log theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YUtHjOvPKT0 |
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>---< Spinner's Haunt Weyr, High Reaches Weyr >------------------------------<
Even inside, the wind plays with sound, the rooms murmuring and wailing
with a sad cascade of noise. Thick canvas hangings separating the dragon's
couch from the rider's quarters only muffle the sound; they haven't even
kept out the debris from outside. Socks, scarves, sheets of music and
pages of writing have been whisked into the back of the room, if one can
even get that far; for spinners have cobwebbed the entry, web after web of
gossamer thread clinging at the touch, as thick across the weyr's interior
as its doorway. Glimpsed through the webbing, the weyr seems decent
enough: the rooms are average-sized, neither cold nor stuffy despite the
season. There's a curved hearth of grey stone and even well-made furniture
already in place beneath the dust and spinners.
-----------------------------< Active Players >-----------------------------
H'vier M 39 6'5 big, dark hair, brown eyes 17s
Irianke F 37 5'7" slender, dark curly hair, stone blue eyes 0s
----------------------------------< Exits >---------------------------------
Ledge
>-----------------------------------------< 27D 5M 37T I10, spring night >---< Reisoth may be an almost constant fixture of the sands, but H'vier has spent much less time in the galleries. And as his usual evening routine goes, he's in his weyr, going over wing reports and drinking to some extent that ranges from just a few to quite heavily. He's somewhere in between just now, wing reports still stuffed in a folder beside him on the couch. The hearth is across from him, but it's currently quite dead, so not particularly interesting to stare at even if he's doing as much anyway. With a Sands-bound queen, Irianke relies on the generosity of others, or just those who are on elevator duty, to bring her to Reisoth's ledge. She's convinced, beguiled really, some unsuspecting bluerider and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek once deposited. He departs, leaving the goldrider to step across the ledge, ducking past the curtain and stepping into H'vier's weyr, unannounced. Until, with a hand to her hip, she asks, "Are you done sulking?" "I don't think I like having Reisoth away from his ledge so much," is his not-really-an-answer. At least with the bronze there, he's sometimes warned of his visitors. H'vier doesn't sound surprised, though. Or angry. There has probably been enough alcohol that acceptance is pretty much just his default right now. "Anyway, I haven't been sulking." Except that he has. "What do you want, woman?" "Here after hours. Another green flight down there somewhere." Irianke's voice is infused with all sorts of implied delights. She's even smiling in that amused, chiding way of hers. "Let's say sorry and make up. I'll even start. I'm sorry for pushing cake into your face. I hope it was, at the very least, delicious." The bronzerider finally turns his head to look at Irianke, gaze wandering down and then back up like anyone would expect from him. "I'm supposed to write you an apology, you know." Did she know? "You and Azaylia and K'del. You're the only one I could come up with anything to be sorry for at all." It's really kind of sweet coming from H'vier, isn't it? The awwww' doesn't have to be said. It's written all over her teasing face. Irianke stretches out a hand to the wingleader, "Quit sulking. Quit sitting. Come over here and let me feel you." Now that he's looking, her face is made up, the dark kohl that rims her eyes set off even more with a subtle sheen of glitter from some crushed mineral or other. She's dressed for summer in spring in a sundress that's only slightly damp from the rain outside. "You owe me a dance for our ruined clutch party and a better apology than anything you could write." It's a difficult request for a man to turn down and H'vier, predictably, does not. He rises, almost obediently, and makes his way toward the goldrider, enjoying the view very much. One arm wraps around Irianke's waist when he reaches her and he holds out the other for her to take with her hand in proper dancing form. "I am sorry I ruined your party," he tells her. "It was quite lovely up until that point." Never mind he was only there a few minutes up until that point. "I don't blame you for punching K'zin," says Irianke, for once being honest without being asked to do so. "If you hadn't, I might have." This admission is also given freely. Her body melts against his, familiarity molding her against him, even as her fingers wrap about his, drawing her elbow in so she can press a chaste kiss to his knuckles. "That almost makes me wish I hadn't done it myself," says H'vier, sounding more amused than maybe he ought to. "I would've liked to have seen that. Very much." It's almost as exciting as her body against his. Surely she won't mind if a hand wanders further down her backside to check whether she's wearing anything underneath. The short answer: she's come prepared, she isn't. The long answer is one that involves her arching her back away from that hand into his body, a delighted smile turning those rouged lips up from his lipstick reddened knuckles to his chin. "You would never dare to do this at the party, so it all worked out for the best, didn't it?" Irianke's hand in his tightens and with a sudden motion, she's drifting away from his body, first her legs unmold themselves, and then her chest, her torso, and eventually, her waist away from his other hand. "Tell me you've missed me." This is certainly not the way to dissuade H'vier from behaving badly in the future, but he'd be a fool to point that out and he's not going to complain. Not until she starts shifting away from him, anyway. That earns a sound of protest, but only a small attempt to keep her closer by force. "My bed has been much colder without you in it." That's the same thing, right? She laughs, a lovely, sultry sound, even with its dubious edge. "Much colder? Don't lie when I can imagine a bevy of girls in here in and out over the last few weeks." She shrugs a shoulder strap off, leaning forward to expose cleavage, and then back in an unsubtle tease. "Come here and do things to me and I will consider that apology enough, Ha-vee-air." Each syllable is enunciated and punctuated with the weight shifting in her hips in an exaggerated side to side sway. "Show me," she adds with a saucy half-turn of her body away towards his couch, "What new things the other women in your life have taught you." There's something quite intoxicating about a willing woman who knows precisely what she wants. H'vier follows her with all the obvious signs that he's quite interested in showing her everything he knows. But for some reason, once she's sitting and he's knelt himself before the couch, he has to wonder, "Were all of your other playthings busy tonight? Or did you actually come here to settle our... tensions?" What he says gives Irianke a moment's pause. She needs a moment to consider before leaning forward, that second strap falling artfully, and though the dress holds on by virtue of being fitted about the torso it does get visibly looser about her chest. She cups his face in between two hands, her fingers caressing all his age lines, his stress lines, pressing firmly enough to feel bone. "Does it bother you?" she whispers almost directly into his mouth. At least she's sucked on a candy or brushed her teeth before coming. Her breath smells pleasantly of mint. She must have bathed too; her skin is petal soft and smells of some vanilla and sandalwood. His hands look for a way under the skirt of her summer dress, settling onto her knees and lingering there as she whispers against his lips. "I don't like to share," H'vier tells her before he's pressing toward her with every intention of capturing her lips with his. His hands attempt a similar venture up her thighs because subtlety isn't really his thing. Skirts are easy enough to navigate. There's one giant opening at the bottom and it's a flirty, flaring skirt so traveling up them, when her legs are obligingly parted isn't terribly difficult. So his hands sliding against her thighs and finding something paired with his lips claiming hers before she can respond sends all good thoughts out her hedonistic mind. A small cry into his kiss is his reward for successful ventures from his fingers, and Irianke's body lurches, shifting to try and help make that small cry louder, longer, more satisfied. The sounds she makes, along with the way her body moves, are terribly arousing. And H'vier can still put that mouth of his to even better use, hands shifting around her thighs to jerk her toward the edge of the couch before his head is ducking down to show her just how talented and eagerly selfless a lover he can be. Never mind that he seems to be enjoying himself very much. Being jerked forward sends her backwards, her hands immediately diving into her hair and burying them there. For each of his actions, a touch, a kiss, a flick and all the talents a man like H'vier must have, there's an equal reaction, a twist of her body when something is particularly well done or sensitive, a spasm, or the ultimate, when she's floating along for the ride and moving rhythmically to the way his mouth and fingers carry her up and down and up and down. It evokes in the cries and repeated words of, "Don't stop. No," which means a deeply pleasured yes, and then more don't stops, that echo in his weyr and those poor wing reports on his couch might get put into disarray. Eventually, a hand drifts from her hair, to his, stretching the length of her torso to hold on and give herself the leverage she needs to press forward harder, deeper, something more, until she's rigid, her thighs tightening about his head and the entire world goes on pause. There's isn't much delay in his motion once that tell-tale tension has started to relax. H'vier tilts his head to kiss the inside of Irianke's thigh, tickling with the soft hair of his beard, but his hands are moving away from her, reaching down so he can unfasten his pants in a quick, incredibly well-practiced fashion. He's pushing them down past his hips even as he starts to rise up and over her, very much prepared to take his turn at releasing the pressure she's built up since she got here. Maybe even since before she got here. Irianke takes a moment to surrender to the relaxation, an easy, indolent smile softening her expression. Except, there's a sound out there on his ledge, a flutter of wings and the thunk of a heavy footed landing the telltale signs someone else is suddenly present. "Oh, darling," the goldrider leans up on her elbows to kiss the bulge at his pants, her hands to his hips. Then she's sliding in between his legs as he looms over her. Out of reach. "I wish... I'm not a one man kind of girl. Which I might have told you before..." All that. All that really agreeable loveliness. She's certainly flushed. "Come find me when you stop thinking I'm something to be shared and accept me as I am. I'll be waiting." And out she turns to go, shrugging her shoulder straps back up. H'vier is too surprised at first to speak, let alone to try to keep her where he wants her. He stares after her, utterly baffled, before finally growling with a certain measure of indignation, "You can't be fucking serious." Can she? She's leaving, in any case, and H'vier only starts after her once he has very little chance of being able to stop her. "Sharding woman!" will follow her off the ledge, anyway. At least he's got those big, strong hands to keep him company. |
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