eiattu_pride | (no subject)

(no subject)

Do you know what's boring?

TRACC is boring. And by TRACC, Rial means the interplanetary Trade Relations And Commerce Conference, held annually and basically an excuse for a bunch of stuffy old people to sit around and brag about how rich they are over tiny biscuits and fine brandy. Rial, drinking a lomin ale and telling amusing tales about his wife shooting things during crucial diplomatic moments, has a sneaking feeling that he doesn't exactly belong.

He's also, possibly, exceedingly proud of this fact.

Proud or not, though, it means that the whole thing (a whole week long, ughhhh) is exceptionally boring and by the time he's stepping cheerfully through the corridors of his own familiar palace, where the servants smile and greet him, he's so ready to be home. So very ready, small child and slightly volatile wife noTwithstanding.

He doesn't even bother with a knock, just goes straight in and chucks his bag in the vague direction of the couch, already looking around for Plourr.

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He grins at her, letting his fingers brush down her cheek for just a moment before resting in her hair and giving it a quick, affectionate tug. "Few minutes ago. Someone tried to accost me in the corridor and whisk me off to a press conference, so I told them I had someone who desperately, life-or-death need to see me."

Well, it's true. Sort of. Anyhow.

He shoves her over, not unkindly, in an attempt to make a little room for himself. "And I notice you're sleeping on my side of the bed."

"I was a single mother for a week," she says, as she rolls over. "I'm allowed to take up as many sides of the bed as I damn well please. Too busy to settle for just one."

With the help of the hand on his leg, Plourr tiredly levers herself up, winding up with a broad hand on his opposite shoulder and letting it remain there. The other hand comes to rest on his neck. "If you ever use the word 'loins' in a communication between us ever again," she murmurs, her face close to his, "I'll kill you."

She kisses him, slow and sleepy and warm, because he's weird and a little crazy but he's her weird and a little crazy, and this is the longest they've been apart since -- well, since she flew with the Rogues. Since long before Ianna was born. Since long enough.

Rial doesn't break the kiss for a long time and when he does, it's just to thoughtfully nuzzle his nose down into her neck and mutter "Loins" into her skin, grin bright and wide where she can't see it.

And then he's hiking his legs up onto the bed that they ended up having custom-made just because of the height thing. It fits Rial nicely, now, fits him and Plourr both without any possibility of them rolling off easily and he makes a little noise of satisfaction, arm going over her waist to draw her back down to the bed and in close.

"Missed you. In case you hadn't figured it out."

She punches his shoulder. (What? He knew he was coming when he said it.)

"Oof," she says, but she doesn't complain, otherwise, or draw away. In fact, she throws a leg over his hip, settling in on her side with her face just a few inches from his on the pillow. "Mmm." She closes those couple of inches for a brief kiss.

Consideringly, after drawing back: "I didn't miss you at all."

(It's a lie, and they both know it.)

"Ow," he says, because what else does she expect? They've got this routine down pat by now.

And then he pulls an exaggerated sadface, flicking a finger against her back (the closest he'll come to smacking her, there's no way he's going to even think about physically fighting with Plourr) and looking put out.

"Oh, that's nice. I could probably use that as grounds for divorce." An arm still snuggled over her hips should take any sting out of the words.

"Mmhmm," Plourr agrees complacently. "Well, the line of succession was through me, so I'll get -- the thaks, the fleet, the palace, and the planet. If you're lucky," she brushes his hair out of his eyes with gentle fingers, "maybe you can have the tea set. The one from Deicno with all the naked people on it."

Rial considers this for a long moment, weighing pros and cons in his head. Finally, in a carefully bargaining tone, "The tea set, the holocam, and my X-wing model I made for Ianna?"

He could live without the palace, clearly.

"You've been away for a week. I just gave you a perfectly good opening. I mentioned nudity and everything." Plourr sighs, and swats his arm. "What kind of man are you?"

"A gentleman," he points out happily, but carefully maneuvers a hand around to tug lightly at her tunic.

"I may be too comfortable to move, you realize."

"Even gentlemen get it on occasionally," Plourr says bluntly.

"And this particular gentleman hasn't gotten any on a really regular basis since he knocked you up."

Plourr's totally rubbing off on him.

"Oh, that is not a card you're allowed to play," says Plourr, but she's laughing and rolling on top of him.

Rawr.

Rial joins in the laughter, shoving lightly at Plourr but not really protesting too much, more interested with his hands slip-sliding over the skin under her tunic.

"Shhhh," she murmurs, easily riding out the shove. She jerks her chin toward the bassinet. "If we wake her--" There are no words in any tongues she knows that will suffice for the threat; she only shakes her head, and lowers her lips to the point where his jaw meets his neck.

Rial quiets himself instantly. Much as he loves his daughter, he needs a little time with his wife right now, and she's a touch too young to understand.

He does, however, let his hands skate over the back of her bra, plucking impatiently as they draw little nonsense patterns over her skin.

"You know," Plourr says (quietly) against his skin, "there's this thing called a clasp for a reason. I know it's a crazy concept."

"I don't wear one, how would I know?" Kidding, yes, but his fingers do fumble with the clasp for a little too long before it springs free and he makes a contented noise against her skin.

"You are so slow," she grumbles against his neck, and she pushes herself off of him enough that she can pull the trick where you take off your bra without taking off your shirt.

Problem is, Rial wants the shirt off. And he's not afraid to tug at it, trying to get it up and over her head. "Only when it counts."

"You've been away for a week," she says, impatiently brushing off his attempts at tugging and just yanking the tunic over her head herself. She drops it over the side of the bed. "It doesn't count now.

"Besides." She glances to the bassinet, where Ianna is still dead to the world and oblivious to her parents. "Someone is going to be awake and hungry in 45 minutes."

In other words: Step it up, Pernon.

"You asked for it," Rial says, voice catching on a stifled laugh as he reaches long arms up to wrap around her waist and yank her back down.

But before anything else he nestles his nose into her hair and breathes "Love you" into her ear.

"Damn right I did, handsome," Plourr drawls, but she's grinning at him, wide and wild and pleased -- and quite determined that her husband is wearing far too much in the way of clothing.

In the process of fixing that, there may or may not be a low murmur returning Rial's sentiment. Only Plourr and Rial know for sure, and they're not telling.

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