Help Me

Who: Isolwyn and C’aol
When: Month 7, 205 AT
Where: Stores, Fort Weyr
What: A firelizard flight means Isolwyn requires C’aol’s assistance.


It isn’t often that Isolwyn allows herself to appear agitated in any way in public, which may well be that first she seeks C’aol and then she seeks privacy, a bold hand secured around one of his wrists when she locates him so that she might tug him after her with no explanation whatsoever, only a flush to her features to give anything away. It might not be the most comfortable of environments, but a locked room is a locked room, even if it is an almost empty storeroom, explanation abruptly provided when she hooks her fingers into the fabric of his shirt and informs him, “Askvai,” her gold firelizard, “is flying.” And then: “And Nharkhava,” her bronze, “is chasing.” When she shoves him, it’s none too gentle, her intent only to press herself closer. “I know you hate them, but it might do my sanity some good if you had one that could chase her instead.”

As C’aol was doing his best to maintain a neutral expression when dealing with Fort’s Steward (whom he has been actively seeking ways to dismiss), he goes with Isolwyn without acknowledging the man in any sort of dismissal. He tolerates her grip as he goes, letting her drag him with a knowledge that she would not handle him in such a manner were the situation not requiring it. It’s the empty storeroom that begins to draw words from him, “Really, Isolwyn, I don’t want to go over inventory–,” for that has been the only reason why any woman who has associated with him long enough to want his company has dragged him. As he’s shoved back and he looks down at her with a lifted brow he huffs a laugh. “I would rather never own one,” he tells her as she hooks fingers into the fabric and her needs become so clear to him that he begins to delight in her required position of possibly having to //beg// him for release. “And this seems far more enjoyable to me in the first place. What would happen,” he wonders, drawing his finger along her lips with a wicked glint to his gaze, “if I told you no?”

“If you refuse to //help// me, I can promise you that you’ll be spending the foreseeable future sleeping in the wallow with Eosyth and Daeserath,” Isolwyn declares, parting her lips for her teeth to secure a hold on the tip of C’aol’s finger with a pressure that at first teases, then doesn’t, a sharpness there before she abruptly lets go. “Maybe I’ll completely revert to my Holder morals and decide I should be chaste until marriage. We might never share a bed again.” Though she must mean to tease him, the thought only seems to make her situation more pressing, for she reaches to start unbuttoning his shirt. “Or you could leave me to deal with it, but I thought we’d established that you don’t find that as enjoyable as the alternative.”

C’aol’s eyes sharpen at her bite and he allows her three buttons on his shirt before he’s grasping her wrists and twisting them enough to gain control – and offer a bite of pain. “You threaten me too much, Isolwyn,” he looks down at her, his eyes darkening. “We’ve had conversations about that before.” He tugs her sharply and turns, moving her against the wall. It is not hard for him to transfer both her wrists to one hand and twist them above her head. His other hand moves gently along her neck, lingering briefly to give a subtle squeeze before it moves on to roughly claim a breast. He doesn’t speak further as he uses his knees to spread her legs. His hand moves from her breast to his buckle and soon he’s freed himself of his pants. He presses himself close against her, eyes sharp on hers. “Painful can be fun,” he murmurs as he presses up and inside her roughly. “And one can be punished through pleasure as well.”

Isolwyn gasps and arches away from the wall, pressing her eyes tightly closed as her fingers flex beneath C’aol’s hold, yet she makes no effort to free herself. She has to take several breaths before she can speak or open her eyes again, but she holds his gaze when she manages it, her breathing almost mechanically steady while she tries to resist the urge to move. “Have you ever been with anyone for long enough that it’s playing and not a threat?” she questions, tipping her head forward just enough to nose along his jaw. “You might hurt me to please us both, but I know you won’t ever //hurt// me. Like you should know I wouldn’t hurt you. Or deny you without good reason.” She bares her teeth again, either unthinkingly or quite deliberately leaving a mark that will be difficult to conceal. “Maybe it’s you who should be punished for your assumptions,” she murmurs darkly.

C’aol doesn’t want to talk – though Isolwyn’s words register in the stillness of his movement as he lets them wash over him. He’s not //interested// in talk. She’s made a request known and that is all he is focusing on. He continues to grip her rear, hoisting her up and using the wall for leverage as he finds the movement a means of answering her dark murmurings. It is not slow and it is not kind, this release that she has requested. He goes hard and fast, losing all sense and reason to the sounds of flesh against flesh and the thunk of her back against the wall. He very well may find his release first and he grinds in deep, his fingers gripping tightly to flesh as his teeth mark her shoulder. He shudders against her and then lowers her down, his gaze finding hers to seek if she found a release as well. His fingers slick downwards as his lips grab hold of hers, in case she needs that final twist of release.

If anyone lingers outside the storeroom or happens to pass by it, they’ll be hard pressed to tell whether what’s happening within is an enjoyable experience for Isolwyn or not, for the sounds she makes are edged with a keening pain that don’t lend themselves well to clarity without context. Undoubtedly, more than one rumour will be making the rounds of the Weyr in the next few hours. She doesn’t fight C’aol, but she does plead when she can find the sense to, her vocabulary leaning towards most unladylike until her voice slides down into a low groan as his teeth sink into her shoulder. It’s then that she tries to get her hands free, too far gone to care what it might bring her, a still frantic edge to her gaze when his seeks hers. She has little care for how needy she is in moving her hips against his fingers, her lips wrenched from his as she cries out, dependent on him to keep her upright. When the world filters back in, she lifts the focus of her dark eyes back to his, silent and watchful.

C’aol’s fingers are knowing in the right ways to twist and tease against her, his arm prepared to brace her as Isolwyn loses herself to her release. He holds his fingers there and then eases them upwards, flicking gently at her skin before he removes his hand entirely from her skirts. He returns that silent and watchful stare with one that is a little too icy and a smirk that’s begging to overtake his features. “Are you settled now?” he asks her dryly, moving himself a step back so she may find a way to right herself and rearrange what items of her clothing he tugged free. He buckles his own pants in place and watches her, waiting for her answer. There have always been rumors about C’aol’s exploits everywhere he has ever lived. What rumors may reach him tomorrow about his interaction with the Weyrwoman will be brushed off and ignored.

Isolwyn brushes her skirts back down, then sets about adjusting the neckline of her dress, unable to do anything about hiding the bite mark at her shoulder and unwilling to make much effort to try and conceal it. She pays entirely too much attention to fabric, until she abruptly doesn’t, stepping right back into C’aol’s space to lift up onto her toes and snake a hand into his hair and tug, her teeth latching onto his earlobe fiercely enough to draw blood. “Don’t ever assume that I can be ‘settled’,” is a heated murmur, accompanied by a low, pleased hum of sound as her lips briefly explore the column of his throat. “You can help me with the scratches on my back later.” It doesn’t sound like a request and nor does it seem she’ll wait for an answer, turning from him to head for the door, her hair and the darker shades of fabric she favours doing much to keep the grazes across her skin from sight.

C’aol allows her to draw him down and inhales sharply at her nip to his ear. His eyes are dark and angry as she pulls back until her lips find his throat and her words register away from the pain and anger her ministrations have given him. He watches Isolwyn go, refusing to give her a verbal answer. He doesn’t hide the blood from his ear, letting the questions come so he can shrug them off and give enough of a glare to draw the focus to whatever task his people and he were at. Later that evening, he may or may not listen to Isolwyn’s request for aid. That battle will have to be weighed then. Facing the impasse of not winning the control he had so clearly tried for, C’aol’s mood may be volatile at best. And even then, Isolwyn has already proven herself capable to handle all of C’aol’s traits.

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