Logs:Strangers with Benefits
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| RL Date: 19 February, 2015 |
| Who: H'vier, Irianke |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Irianke objectifies and uses H'vier. He has no complaints. |
| Where: Snowasis & H'vier's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 16, Month 1, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: J'zar/Mentions |
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The Snowasis is rarely quiet, and even then, the high-ceilinged former
weyr is kept from echoing by the fantastical booths tucked into its
convoluted perimeter. The secluded seating spaces have been shaped from
the truncated stalagmites that escaped the smoothing of the main floor,
and are both softened and separated by colorful hangings that are thick
and opaque enough to make each corner its own private nook.
Some of the smaller stalactites still roam the ceiling, their jagged teeth
tracing a bumpy, inverted spine to the hearth. There, a thick rug with a
low klah table and comfortable armchairs and couches sit, their upholstery
and cushions changed sporadically to match the season: bright, light
colors in the summer, fresh greens and yellows in the spring, warm
autumnals in fall, and clear, rich hues for winter. Small tables litter
the rest of the cavern, enough to fit up to four people each, while stools
stand along the smooth wooden bar behind which is the passthrough window
to the kitchen. Glass-paneled cabinetry behind the bar provides a clear
view of the available liquors, the many colors reflecting the soft light
of glows tucked into strategic niches around the cavern. There's a group of Iceberg riders at one of the larger tables in the Snowasis. H'vier has been there with them for awhile now and they've all seemed to be having a good time, bantering and drinking like a wing spending quality time together off duty ought to be doing. At some point they need more drinks, though, and no server is free right then, so H'vier rises and heads to the bar to order his riders another round while he gets himself something a little bit harder than ale. Considering the bantering doesn't die down, he must not have been particularly important to its survival. Irianke stands behind the bar, dressed for the part in an exceedingly short skirt, midriff shirt and her hair pulled messily out of her face, and mixing drinks like an old hand. She even banters with folk, though doesn't stay long with one person. "You sure you can handle that?" she teases, hearing the orders but not seeing the face, so when she looks up and finds H'vier there, the goldrider seems to stop breathing. Reanimation is as quick as the smile on her face is bright. "Hey you. Got a broken heart you're drinking away?" Considering that H'vier's attention is on her breasts when she looks at him, the upward flicker of his eyes to her face is surprised when the bronzerider realizes just who this woman is. The short pause is followed by a grin, though. "I think we'd probably better not give too much thought to my heart," he tells her. "You tend bar?" Excuse him if he sounds a little dubious. Maybe more than a little. "He," the goldrider waves vaguely somewhere over there, "Went to the latrines? I don't think the tender on duty knows who I am," Irianke leans in to confess, the scent of liquor heavy on her breath and an uncharacteristic giggle bubbles. "I said I could manage for him if he gave me a moment to go change so I felt more bartendery, and he hasn't come back yet. It must have been the oysters at dinner. I avoided them." "Does that mean you're stuck being responsible?" He might assume not considering the obvious consumption of liquor. "Or might I buy you a drink, too, while I'm at it?" H'vier's brows arch up in a way that can be nothing but hopeful. It's a somewhat feigned hope, granted, the sort that won't sting so much in the case of rejection. "I have to admit. I like the whole get up," he says with a gesture to her person. There's a smug little smile at his compliment. "I'm surprised he let me run off to get changed. He looked." Irianke waves vaguely again. How else does someone look when they're probably stuck on the toilet for a few minutes more. "Miserable," the rider decides, starting to fill up some glasses of ale for H'vier's order and then looks at the mess of drinks in front of her and shakes her head. "You'll have to wait for him to get back for that other thing you wanted. All I know how to pour is whisky with a sour cherry garnish." Which is what everyone else on the bar is drinking now, some happily, some not. "Lucky for me," says H'vier of the bartender's misery. With a grin and everything. He watches as she fills up the ale, her body mroe than her face. But he asks, so very graciously, "Could you maybe pour a whisky without the garnish? Or is this an all or nothing sort of deal?" He's quite willing to take the whisky without the sour cherry. "J'zar, come get these drinks," he calls over his shoulder so he doesn't have to, you know, leave just yet. "Lucky for you," repeats Irianke, those dark bluish-grey eyes of her lingering on H'vier. They scrutinize, dance, look, fall, and then back up. The smile returns, minus the smugness, the goldrider leaning herself back onto a shelf behind her and lounging in that sort of way. "I didn't think you were interested." Then there's a, "Miss, I need some ale." "We're out. Want some cheap wine instead?" She makes no moves to pour out that cheap wine. "There's nothing like a woman judging a man's work that will put him on edge," explains H'vier in that sort of slightly self-deprecating way that sometimes gets said man laid. J'zar earns only a glance as H'vier pulls over the glasses for him to take back to the table. He might need to make more than one trip because the bronzerider doesn't look as though he has any intention of helping. "You're a natural behind the bar, I see." "I know how to work my... charms." Irianke lounges there a moment longer before pushing herself off to fill that man's request. "People don't expect to see a goldrider behind the bar so they don't actually see me. I'm inclined to think you only recognized me from my breasts. Tell me true." All of this is thrown casually over her shoulder as she passes the wine glass to the customer. She's about to return to the center when the bartender arrives, pale, sweaty, but no longer running. His, "Thanks," is met with her, "Hey, no problem. You owe me and my date a few drinks." At date, the gesture she makes at H'vier has the bartender raising a brow, his mouth set a little uneasily. "Oh, and you're out of ale and whiskey now. Sorry." Date. No doubt H'vier likes the sound of that, a fan of where dates tend to lead. "Really, I buy so much here, you probably owe me more than a few anyway, yeah?" he adds to the 'tender. Especially since he hasn't gotten into a fight or broken anything here in quite some time now. But he's more interested in the short skirt and midriff shirt just now, so he probably doesn't care how the bartender feels about any of that. "I don't know your breasts that well. But I'd love to become much better acquainted with them." His hope is a little more genuine now. The bartender looks like he wants to say something, anything to stop Irianke from making bad decisions, but there's customers and he'll have to explain why the ale was not rationed to his boss. Understandably distracted, he leaves the goldrider to come up to H'vier. "Really. What changed your mind?" Now that she's on the right side of the bar, she leans in and says, "Two triple rums and we'll be sitting over there." She gestures to one of the alcove seats, then turns to actually walk over there with just enough sass to her hips that it must be a deliberate show. "This feels more natural," is what H'vier will say about his change of mind once he's following after her. Now that he hasn't just spent sweeps with her and they're both on neutralish ground. Now that her hips are moving like that and he's staring at her ass while she walks ahead of him to those seats. "Are you sure you don't want to go somewhere so you can introduce them to me?" Her breasts, he probably means. Though he might also be including her rear end now. "Do you want the truth or do you want the not so truth?" Irianke slides into the seat far deep enough so they can be one of those nauseating couples that sit on the same side if H'vier so chose. "Pick your poison, wingleader, and hope it's the right one." H'vier slides in beside her, body tilted just so toward her like he might put his arm around her, but so far hasn't followed through. "I don't know that I like either of those being options together in the first place," he admits. "I'm generally a fan of the truth, I suppose." Never mind that his gaze has fallen to the thigh her short skirt in showing off. "For someone with such a reputation, you're fascinatingly polite." Irianke's laughter trembles all her words before it bursts forth at the end. "You look like a starved sailor but you don't touch. I think," she leans forward so her chin rests on his shoulder. So she can murmur sweet nothings in his ear. A hand slips up to twine a finger through that dark, unruly hair. "I think you're afraid of me." His eyes close when she touches him. H'vier likes it, that much is obvious, though that's probably to be expected. Few men of his reputation dislike being touched, after all. "You might be on to something," he admits after a few moments of consideration, his voice lower and more heated. "You could be dangerous." Their drinks arrive, triple shots of rum in one glass times two, all the while Irianke doesn't shift her position, chin to his shoulder hand in his hair and the other hand moving to take his and put it on her inner thigh. "I am dangerous," she concedes, finally drawing her face back and leaning into that back wall. Her tease is thick with amusement, "I'll break your heart and you'll weep and curse me after I leave the Reaches." She lifts a glass. "To strangers with benefits." While his far hand reaches for one of those drinks, his other is settled somewhere entirely more distracting. H'vier tilts his head just so toward Irianke's and his hand is still for several moments, like he expects her to take it back, before it shifts, kneading skin with noticeable restraint. Then it's pressing further up. "No need to worry about that. I have no heart to break." H'vier forgets to lift his glass, though, because his hand is still distracted by the heat of her skin. Perhaps he is starved. "Everyone has a heart that can be broken, a button that can be pushed, something that they hide away deep deep inside. You just protect yours like I protect mine." Irianke shifts so one leg can slide along the length of the booth seat, tucking a foot behind H'vier's back and riding that skirt up more. "Meaningless liaisons that stop us from feeling like we're alone in the world." Lounging thus, she sips from her drink, holding it up against her cheek afterwards. The look H'vier manages to offer Irianke, her face, even, instead of her lap, suggests he disagrees. But he's not going to argue because he's interested in what's under her skirt and he still must think he has a chance. So he offers a fairly generic, "We're dragonriders. We're never alone." His hand slides up her thigh, aiming to slip under her skirt, but toward her hip rather than between her legs as he says, "Meaningless liaisons are nice." Unless one would prefer a meaningful liaison. But that doesn't seem to be the case. "Ain't that the truth." Irianke's cheeks flush: from the liquor? From his hand? From the dragon in the bowl that's doing stretching exercises from neck to tail and wing tip to wing tip. Does it matter? "Finish your drink," she advises throatily, but doesn't stop that hand. "And not here. Your weyr." There can probably be no doubt that Reisoth is watching her lifemate from his ledge. He's a very observant creature and she's currently a rather interesting one. H'vier, as it happens, takes direction rather well when there's sex on the line. He finishes his drink in three deep gulps before he's starting to slide out of the booth with a hand catching her arm to try drawing her out along with him. "My weyr?" is his only question. Hers is closer and doesn't require a dragon for admittance, after all. She downs her drink in a succession of quick gulps and slides after him, straightening her skirt. "I want to go through your underwear drawer." How Irianke straight faces that is something else entirely. "And a girl doesn't bring a guy like you home the first time. Your weyr, and I can't change my mind." Which of those is the most compelling argument. Well, he can't really argue with that logic, so he doesn't try. Instead he leads Irianke through the bar toward the patio, ignoring the rowdy calls from his remaining riders after the pair of them. H'vier's jacket is offered to the woman before they're on their way to meet Reisoth near the bottom of the stairs. And it's definitely not his fault if she can feel certain parts of his interest more intimately than she'd like on the ride up. His weyr is a typical bachelors pad with a large, comfortable bed, a leather couch and a generous variety of liquor on a cabinet near the hearth. Sure, there are other necessities, but nobody cares about those. Except maybe his wardrobe. But she can look through that later. For all the lead up to the moment, when they arrive at his weyr, Irianke wastes no time leaving a trail of shed clothing from the ledge, where it must be quite cold, inside to the couch. The bed is foregone for now, though certainly not forgotten, as two relative strangers, one well on her way towards proddy, and well-versed in sex find a lot of interesting, creative ways to entertain each other for most of the night, until they're both soaked in sweat and end up somehow against the wall, spent. "Let's do it again in the morning," is Irianke's breathless murmur whispered into an ear that might have gotten bitten a few times. Her legs tighten reflexively about his waist and her hands travel up and down his back. "I could eat you up for days at this rate. But morning, and then I'll go and try not to objectify you for a short while at least. Maybe. Could you," she nudges upward to reposition herself against that wall and sighs appreciatively. "Yes, just like that." The only reason men like H'vier have relevant reputations at all is because they're good enough in bed (or wherever they happen to be) to keep women entertained and interested enough to put up with their shit. Granted, in his case, his face probably helps, too. And, all told, he's been on pretty damned good behavior, as she so kindly pointed out earlier. "As many times as possible," he pants back, head tilted against her shoulder until he's recovered enough to lift her up against him and carry her to his bed where they can rest much more comfortably than stone could ever afford. Whether or not he's usually the roll over and sleep kind of guy, in a manner of speaking, that's more or less what's going to happen once they're under covers. He can regret not building up a fire in the morning. But that will just be more reason to make their own heat. |
Comments
K'zin (16:09, 20 February 2015 (EST)) said...
<3
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