Difference between revisions of "Logs:Golden End of a Drought"

In the last month or so, Io's made herself at home in K'del's weyr, the bloodied one. The murder-filled one. The one that carries with it Seani's ghost; a ghost unable to be set free because her body wasn't disposed in the islander way. Iolene's made her peace with all this, despite some not so off-handed remarks earlier. "I brought you a slice of pie. I think the stores are down to their last can of apple preserves though." The blonde makes her way across the room, setting the tray she carries on the 'new' antique desk.

K'del's, "Hmm?" is a distracted one, though a moment later he's running an ink-stained hand through his in-need-of-a-trim curls, and aiming a cheerful, grateful smile at Iolene. In another time, and another place, he might use this opportunity to gently remind her that apples - even in pie form - are not exactly his favourite, but he's been careful, these weeks. Reaching for the pie, he says, "Thanks, Io. Just what I need. Reckon... well, at least it'll be spring, soon. Fresh food'll be a nice change, when we can get it."

Did she really forget? It's been hit or miss just what Iolene absorbs in the last month, and that smile of hers, the one that's too rare these days, surfaces for a brief flickering moment: he might reach for the plate, but she has the fork and reaches forward to stab a piece off for herself before she'll wave it around in front of him in lazy little arcs. "Will there be a problem in getting it?" There's actual interest in her voice, a quick glance cast to the hides in front of the Weyrleader - the ones causing those ink-stained hands. "I've never... had vested interest in how tithing works and if it will work well for us this year."

It may, in fact, never have come up. Or perhaps it has; who can say. At least her smile seems to please him, his own brightening for it, no matter how flickering and brief. Her lazy arcs make his own hands withdraw, brows raising to watch. In answer, "No, I don't think so. Lord Aughan and Lord Braeden are, hm. Not in our debt, but certainly working closely with us at the moment. Lady Edeline is not thrilled with us, but it didn't impact last turn's tithes, and..." His shrug is a light one. "Unless Lord Ustelan dies, shouldn't be problems there, either. For once, I'm not worried. Not," and he smiles, "yet, anyway."

A little dollop of whipped cream. That's what the tip of the fork she holds lifts to leave a small smear on K'del's nose. It doesn't stay there very long, for she leans forward to lick it away gently with her tongue and then licks again, just to make sure. Her head tips forward and her forehead seeks his. "I've missed you." Not that he's gone anywhere, or she's gone anywhere, but there's longing, however riddled with sadness, earthy in her rich voice. The world isn't about to end and tithes of fresh foods will be (most likely) definitely coming soon.

K'del's mouth twists in reply to that whipped cream - and more, when she licks it up. As her forehead leans against his, he reaches out to wrap his arms around her, squeezing gently. "I've missed you too," he tells her, his voice uncharacteristically quiet and restrained, not as sad as hers, but with a heavier note than might often be found there. "But I'm here. We're here. I've got you."

She's pliable in those arms, the wrap of them drawing her in close so she can straddle him in his seat. The spread of her legs hikes up her sea-green skirt. Not that that really matters, at least not to her. Even if it exposes the winter cream of her skin up and up and up those legs of hers. "You've got me," she agrees without hesitation, "Cadejoth has you. Ysavaeth has me. We have each other." The earthiness deepens as her voice lowers into a husky whisper; her words syncopated between soft kisses trailing across his face, but deliberately avoiding his mouth. "Will you have me on the beaches down south? Tomorrow?" Is this seduction to bend him to her will, or just a timely coincidence in inner desires and worldy wants?

One of his arms withdraws so that K'del can trace a path up that creamy skin of her leg with idle fingertips; the other holds her in snugly. "And they have each other," he adds to her litany, though his eyes have closed and his breath caught just briefly under the distracting ministrations of her kisses. "Tomorrow," he breathes-more-than-says, swallowing hard: how quickly he can be distracted. "Yes, yes, of course. Warm and quiet, just us. An escape." A hideaway.

Outside her own weyr, Ysavaeth stirs, her ungrayed hide attempting to melt into the side of the green-washed bronze; her sun and stars coming down to his earth. A recent oiling has set her hide glittering. Today, is her touch merely a projection, magnified on a draconic scale, of Iolene's needs? In his weyr, the skin of Io's leg warms to his touch and a timely shift makes it all the easier to discern that Iolene, at least today, has no garments on beneath her skirt. Io's hand falls to his, seeking to help it up under her skirt and around the curve of her bottom. "K'del." One word, her kisses pausing so she might sit back to look at him with those shiny, dark blue eyes that more often these days look like they'll threaten tears than some delightful game beneath the sheets.

Cadejoth is on the edge of sleep, but even in that he welcomes Ysavaeth's presence, twining his tail around hers and draping his wing atop them both. There's contentedness and pleasure adrift in his thoughts, wound in and between the chains that have, in turn, wound themselves around his queen. There's a shiver in them, a trickling of metal against metal; if it's just a reflection of their riders, so be it. He seems to like it. "Io?" K'del seems loathe to draw back, but there's sudden concern in his voice as though he really is expecting a return of the tears-- an end to the fun that has had his hand seek out her bottom under instruction, fingertips engaged in pleasantly exploratory activities.

Only recently not a teenager by age, at least, if not emotional maturity, Iolene exhales, on the heels of one of her small, half-curved smiles, "I love you." See, she has to look at him eye-to-eye, in order to say it. To mean it. The hand not atop his, guiding and most definitely helping with those explorations, lifts to twine in the curls that need a trim. Her fingers grip even as her body scoots closer, as if that's even possible. And then there's that smile, that wistful smile that waits, hopefully entreating: please, will you say it back?

K'del has been very present, over the past month: always there to remind Iolene that he cares, always sure to show his affection as much as he tells it in words. The l word, though-- that's not one he's used. And her declaration of it draws an obvious hesitation in the bronzerider, even as his fingers are twining about hers, explorations or no explorations. "Oh Io," he begins, though thankfully he's not so thoughtless as to leave it at that - a statement that could, so easily, draw an unhappy end to this little interlude. Does that make what comes next self-serving? Or is it genuine? He's smiling when he says it, already in the process of leaning his head back towards hers. "I love you too," he confirms, aiming to plant a kiss on her mouth.

Perhaps those thoughts occur to Iolene too, for as quickly as she is to succomb to that kiss and the smile he offers with the words he says, she also murmurs into his cheek when they part: "Really? Really?" As if, somehow, saying it twice makes it the truth.

It's a pleased kiss, and pretty heated given the fact that just minutes before, K'del was hard at work and (presumably) not thinking about sex at all. But then, it's been a lean month, and Iolene is a lovely weight on the bronzerider's lap. Her follow-up question draws another of those pauses, but this one is even shorter than the other, and the arm that's still wrapped around her shoulders reaches now to massage at her neck, comfortingly. "For really, really," he promises. He does seem to believe it, too.

Some girls could get upset at those pauses, construing from their length an uncertainty. Iolene isn't some girls, and what she takes from those pauses is voiced, "I'm glad you think about it for really real. I've been thinking about it a lot." But now? Now is so not the time for words, the decisive reassurance of his repetition causing her to try and resume their earlier activities. It has been a lean month and that apple pie will just have to wait for Iolene to eat it later, after she's somehow managed to shed her clothes and find his off too without moving too much from that chair. The chair? It gives her leverage and there may be notes of protest should he try to move them to more comfortable spots.

Maybe K'del has been thinking about it a lot, too, though a sensible review would suggest that that might be unlikely. In either case, he doesn't have anything to say on that front: if Iolene is going to resume those activities, he's not exactly going to stand in their way, or get bogged down in words. He will try and move her, somewhere down the line, but protest is protest, and he'll stop again. Right here, right now, Iolene can have it her way, comfort or no comfort. Leverage is good.

There are definite advantages to chair sex. Leverage being only one of them. Others might include a shift in height disparity with the curve of her chest within easy access of his lips. Her weight, however slight, being able to twist her body more easily and in far more pleasurable ways than he might. It also gives her that intangible: control. It is her show and her way, as evidenced further when she stays him from climaxing, deliberately holding her movement and turning ever so still sometime in the middle. She'll wait through ragged, expectant breaths until they slow enough before resuming. She'll slow or quicken her rhythm to the opposite of expectations. There's even a litany of soft-spoken words that beg him to be strong, to have her, to be with her, to wait. It's all a show of power, one that Ysavaeth is an all too willing partner to as she the emotions she washes in their sunlit hues waxes and wanes dependant on her rider.

For a man who has been getting a lot more exercise in his hand than he might prefer, this past month, Iolene's power games are almost too much - but this is K'del, and he is nothing if not determined. There are no doubt things he could do to try and wrest control away from the goldrider, but he refrains: his hands are active participants, and so is his mouth, but he makes no attempt to manhandle her into a position or rhythm of his preference... no matter how tempting. "Io, please," he begs, in a ragged voice, his words half lost against her breasts. In Cadejoth, the delicate metal links of his chains shiver against each other, as illustrative of his rider's lack of control and near-desperation as K'del's own words. Please.

It's with her head tipped backwards, her loose blonde hair spilling and clinging to the sweat of her back, and with those hands that don't seem to know what to do other than curl into his hair and keep him pressed into her breasts, that Iolene relents. Her hips move in forward gyrations with increased urgency, reflective of the desperation of his words and Cadejoth-through-Ysavaeth's entreaty, though ultimately, it's Ysavaeth that releases first, in a spiral of golden lights against a white bright background. Instinctively, she projects it upon her mate, drawing him into her world, one created by herself and Iolene. With more control, it's sent directly to K'del as well, though in the heat of the moment, it may be a blurred line between what she's sharing and what his dragon might. As those golden motes of light spiral in all their thoughts, Iolene holds for one last, very long measure of five seconds, before slowing herself just enough to make those last moments draw out, savoring each of her thrusts down onto him until he comes with her. And when she's done? When he's done? There's the drape of her slender, body against him, sudden dead weight pressed into his face, against his chest and shoulder, and a litany of mumbles that, indiscernible at first, sound more and more like a repetition of 'I love yous.'

In that moment, it's hard to believe that K'del could properly register Ysavaeth-and-not-Cadejoth, even if Cadejoth, too, weren't spilling that golden light through him too. K'del's gasp is breathless and gutteral; Cadejoth's mental exhale is exhilarated and jangles like bells, lost within Ysavaeth's landscape. When he's done, when she is, K'del has just enough sense left to wrap his arms around her as she droops against him - and cling, as if for dear life, as if he and she were all that were left in the entire (golden) world.

And it's done. The end of a lean month's drought. And now, she'll be ready to be moved somewhere else, but it doesn't appear either of them have the energy to. So they'll just sit there and cling and regain their breath until they can move. She might eat the apple pie tomorrow morning instead or in the middle of the night when the exercise has turned her stomach famished. But tonight? It's a promising precursor to tomorrow's day of relaxation. Beaches, sun, sand, and hours and hours of each other.