Logs:Flight Comfort, aka Two In One Night
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| RL Date: 1 April, 2015 |
| Who: Irianke, R'oan |
| Involves: Fort Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Etrevth loses Solith's flight and his rider seeks comfort in Irianke's familiar arms. |
| Where: Irianke's Weyr, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 27, Month 5, Turn 37 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Telavi/Mentions, Lycinea/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: NSFW. Immediately following Logs:U + Ur Hand |
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| With summer just around the corner, neither hearth nor candles need to be lit. The light rain outside means the clouds obscure evening's rosy light, but summer being just around the corner is evident in the still light seeming night, clouds be damned. Irianke is in her weyr, singing a lighthearted trader melody, her voice not being terrible, and waltzing about her weyr in a silken robe with a glass of something bubbly in one hand and a hair brush in the other. A sundress and woven heeled shoes have been shed on the ground, marring the typically pristine weyr's tidiness. It is into this picture of lightness and cleanliness storms R'oan, hair plastered damply and mud clinging to boots. His jacket has been shed outside on her ledge, not even waiting to step inside the weyr, and instead leaving him in a white tunic. The flesh of his knuckles on his right hand is raw and open, blood already beginning to swell against them as he steps out of the drizzle of rain that has previously washed it away. He stops there, even, in the entrance of her weyr, his narrowed gaze finding Irianke and-- waiting for a tense second as if the dam might break at any moment. Without a dragon to tell her when people trespass her weyr, Irianke continues floating about the room, her light steps and twirls carrying her from one end to the other, though in one of the pivots, she must spy R'oan. She must. Else, why would her lazy spins bring her right up to the Fortian rider where he waits. She has a delicate smile for him, just the tiniest lift to her mouth and a very obviously faux demure set to her lashes. Then she sees the knuckles and it all disappears in an instant, the tableau broken by the sound of a shattering glass on the floor. Never mind that, "Follow me." "No," is the only answer that can possibly meet that, the brownrider ignoring glass and command to step forward and claim that delicate smile with hungry lips. That same hand lifts to bury fingers in her curls and pull her closer, into the kiss, with R'oan oblivious to the blood and numb to any pain, there. What matters now is only her mouth and that kiss. Startled out of her mother henning, her intended pivot towards her baths being realigned towards him, Irianke lets out an unseemly, champagne-tasting squawk into his mouth, that's then smothered by her instinct to kiss in return. She's just aware enough to step up onto his boots rather than risk glass in her feet, and one arm reaches up to sink into his hair and the other finds his bloodied hand and grips it. "You're hurt," she manages to say in between being kissed and trying to kiss back. She might be the one hurting him. Sobering him? The words she says doesn't match the way her well-versed body reacts and desires though. A hiss of breath escapes as she grabs his hand, but R'oan's lips only crush against hers in a punishing roughness for it, seeking more from her even as she tries to distract him to his own pain. "I don't fucking care," he manages to answer, before his other arm curves around her waist, enough to pin her against him as he starts towards a chaise rather than the bedroom. Flight. It's the one word running through her head, a gift from Niahvth, that releases any inhibitions Irianke might have had. Flight rearranges the priorities from tending his injured hand to fulfilling other, more animalistic needs. The lithe Igen woman becomes supple in his arms, drawing her legs up to aid that need to touch, be touched, and find release, a backward one-two shrug of her shoulders causing the robe to slip and hang off his arms about her waist than her body. Once released to do what he wants, what he needs, that injured hand draws a caress of his thumb against her jaw, slipping against her lips to trace them even as R'oan's lips move from her mouth to her neck, tracing tongue and teeth against her pulse there. And for the moment, he seems satisfied with this until they get to the chaise, where he can draw away long enough without losing her to tear his own shirt off before pulling at that robe until none of her skin remains obscured. Her pulse is quickened beneath his lips and her willingness in all this is quickly evident, if it hadn't been before. The descent to the chaise and the loss of her robe leaves her nude beneath him, and while he has to pull away to pick his shirt off, she moves, by instinct, to pull his pants down and reach within, with one expert hand to claim her prize. Her other arm reaches up around his shoulders to pull him down atop her so they can feel, skin to skin, mouth claiming mouth, her body his for the night. There is only so much control that R'oan has over himself in the wake of the flight, and that is all lost when she pulls him down, drowning beneath that. He doesn't worry about her, nor does he try specifically to please her, only driving away that need of his in the body that she offers him. Later, that side of gentlemanliness that Irianke saw briefly will return, a gentleness in the way the brownrider carries her back to her bed and joins her there to sleep with her in the protection of his arms. The hand isn't seen to, unless the goldrider remembers sometime in the night. She doesn't fall asleep quickly, though held as she is. Irianke plays light fingers in his hair with a fondness that would speak of other encounters than just two, though, as many are prone to saying: Flight fallouts don't count. She watches him sleep, and when his breathing has evened, slips away to tend to that hand. Cleaning it gently, pausing only if he should react, then some ointment, numbweed, and a scarf repurposed as a tight bandage. Duty-bound to the end. She'll clean up the glass too, it really isn't fair for Lycinea to deal with it after all, but all the other telltale signs that Irianke has a guest remain in place: clothes shed, a bottle of bubbles out, mussed pillows. Lucky Lya. |
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