Loxley puts his hand in her hair, simply for the sake of it. A careful working through of loose waves, gentle strokes of his hand. She can feel, then, him lift his head to nudge a kiss against the crown of her skull, a lingering kind of nuzzle that seems less absent-minded or whimsical than it might usually be.
Relaxes again. Contemplates sleep, as an idea, as a concept. The lingering apprehension that somehow he might again slip through to another world, experience perhaps worse things, ebbs a little as his oblivious body's natural desire to sleep begins to override it.
Draped over him this way, Derrica can feel the way the tension leaves Loxley's body. She lifts her head, looking at him. Taking in all the familiar plans of his face, the faint glow of his eyes.
"Go back to sleep," she whispers, just a murmur against his collarbone. "It's alright."
Reassuring herself as much as reassuring him.
He can sleep. They'll both be here in the morning. That is what Derrica wills to be true.
There's a mumbled, inarticulate answer, and then silence. Eyes closed.
Dreams, then. Just the normal kind, fragmented and disorienting, as if intangible memory were still settling into the matter of his brain. A storm-filled sky, and a barren landscape littered with cracked masks. A long, clawed hand reaching out between the bars of a cage. A hooded figure, turning.
And it all kind of ebbs away, smearing aside as dreams should, ink dispersing into water, into blank unconsciousness. Loxley is normally a light sleeper, normally stirs against Derrica's still sleeping form with the intent either to avoid rousing her, or rousing her on purpose. This time, when she wakes, it is later-than-usual morning light pressing against the window, and Loxley is still and sleeping deeply beneath and around her.
Maybe it's the strangeness of the relatively late hour that wakes her.
When she sleeps here, in his bed, it has become something like a routine: Loxley moving alongside her, how even barely awake she turns in towards him.
But no, that is not what they do this morning. This morning Loxley is still sleeping, even at this uncharacteristic hour. Derrica has remained more or less in place, draped across his chest. As she stirs, lifts her head, she only goes as far as resting her chin on her hand over his heart. Takes a long moment to look at him, feel the rising ache in her chest.
Maybe it would be better to let him sleep. Derrica turns that over in her mind, settles on shifting up to put a soft kiss to his mouth. Let that decide for her whether or not it's time to get up.
Fortunately, it does not take much. The initial stirring of her waking, and then that shift of the bed as she pulls herself up enough to kiss him, that soft point of contact itself. The brighter sunlight. She feels the shift of his breathing, a deeper breath in, and a moment where perhaps he will simply settle again before the gentle weight of his hand finds a place on her back.
If he had settled back to sleep, Derrica would have been content to stay in bed. Maybe dozed back off herself. But at the light skim of his fingers, she deepens the kiss. Open-mouthed and tender, fingers light where she sets them to his cheek.
Is it any better now, in the light of day, than it had been when he'd woken up in the middle of the night? Has the knowledge he'd parceled out to her set into place any differently?
When they break apart, she pecks a second, warm kiss to his mouth before murmuring, "Are you awake?"
Not the sharpest answer, but then comes movement. A leg drawing up a little, his body shifting towards hers where she lays against him. Lifting his head enough to kiss her again, the hand in her hair now sliding his fingers against the back of her neck, her head, while his other hand finds a place on her back.
Still here. Apparently, no further days or weeks or months of knowledge coming to the surface, in those last few hours of sleep. Loxley manifests this relief in this: lazy touches and kisses, as if there'd been no discussion of merely talking to wile away the morning hours.
Maybe they do this for hours. The whole day. Derrica has never spent an entire day in bed with anyone before, but surely this is an event that might warrant it.
"Here," she murmurs, against his mouth. "I have you."
Loxley is unchanged. No new scars. No lingering traces of wherever he might have been traveling. He tastes the same. The callouses on his hands are the same. They could pretend there had been no dream, that no one had woken in the middle of the night.
But they won't.
And so Derrica pins him to the bed, toes upwards to acquire the leverage and set her weight just so. Makes I have you a more tangible thing, a reassurance given over as tenderly as she knows how.
Even before being pressed back into his bed, although now his body believes her right back in a slow, lazy redirecting of warmth and blood and tension. Unguarded, a sound hitches in his chest as she settles her weight, and he looks up at her properly, where she is more sharply rendered with more distance, time for his eyes to focus. The hard slant of sunlight sets her hair on golden fire, and it is tempting to reach for it.
He slides his fingers between hers instead, lacing their hands together, encouraging her to rest her weight down against his palms for the moment as he arches just subtly beneath her.
How nice, to fall asleep somewhere dark, and wake up to this instead.
In moments like this, where they are together, all these points of contact between them and Loxley looks at her like that, Derrica feels the force of her affection for him like the pull of the tide.
This is not unfamiliar to her; caring so deeply for someone that it reverberates through every inch of her body, gathers and settles in her chest. But the moment when the fullness of that emotion makes itself known to her, with all it's nuances and different facets, it's always—
Not fraught. Not heavy. But there is a gravity to it.
Her hands tighten over his. She has set her knees on either side of his hips. The distance between them is slight. Her weight shifts in response to the movement of his body, countering it. Dips to kiss him again, and lets that carry some of that feeling crashing in her chest down to him.
She kisses into the trailing edge of a sound in response to her moving against him. Fingers squeezing but without protest, chin lifting to meet her. Kissing back, rather than only being kissed. Feels the urgency of it, or—if not urgency, that edge of meaning. The ache of it. Meets it in kind.
"I want you," murmured, as soon as there is space for murmuring.
Asking how long it's been seems like such a strange question. Derrica knows how long it's been, except that overnight that information has taken on new dimensions, distorted out of her ability to discern at easy glance.
It becomes something to ask later, in a little while. After she's answered this murmur of a request.
She kisses him first for it, which telegraphs her response before Derrica says anything else.
"Yes," in answer to the implicit, unasked question. He can have her. He does have her. "I want you too."
They are well-positioned for it. Derrica doesn't have to cede her grip on his hands, really, or let him up from where she's born him down into the mattress. But all that comes of that affirmation is a second shifting of her weight, flatting herself down across his chest while she kisses him.
If it were simply about their comparative sizes, Derrica has no illusions about Loxley's ability to buck her off. He permits her this. That too is something that glows like a coal in her chest.
There's an impulse is to wrap around her, slide his hands out from under hers, do as he had voiced, as she had permitted. To act impatiently. The even greater impulse is to do none of these things, giving a quiet breath out at that feeling of soft heat as she presses in closely, as she kisses him. The fingers laced between hers splay, briefly, then relax.
He doesn't do nothing, underneath her. Tilts his hips ever so to press against her, registering his own need in the quiet slide and shift. She kisses him and he kisses her back, eyes closed, shrinking the world into this space, the sink of the mattress and the warm weight of her on him.
Happy to be here, to bask in her presence, arousal like a slow simmer and also something else, an ache, higher in his heart.
She has been with people who could never give over to her this way. It is a kind of trust. Or beyond that, it is a kind of intimacy that seems so terribly delicate. So delicate that she would catch it up between her palms, shelter it there.
Doing such a thing would give it room to grow stronger. And whether or not she wants that—
"I want to be so good to you," she tells him, softly against his mouth. Meets the shift of his hips without releasing her grip on his hand to press further than the friction and catch of a spark that follows. Draws back just far enough to entreat, "Look at me."
There's a breath out that seems like it's going to form a sentence, kind of does, a quiet you are, but she moves against him and it trails off into more of a sound than words. Heels digging into the mattress behind her do something to relieve a little tension, aimed downwards out of sight, although the fine flexes of muscle through thigh, abdomen, shoulders, fingers, all observable.
She pulls back, and he opens his eyes, focusing more specifically when she speaks again. He is unguarded, intrigue and anticipation and, well, trust, that too, all easily read. Looking.
Just watching him would be a fine thing in and of itself.
Derrica's fingers loosen their grasp on Loxley's, trail along his wrists, his forearms, his elbows, as she straightens further. Watches his face, takes in the open quality of his expression and feels it twist into her chest.
A slight press of fingers to the delicate inside of his bicep, instructive, as she rises up onto her knees. Reaches between them briefly to guide him into her, before she resettles herself into Loxley's lap. It's a deliberately slow, easy motion. Derrica lets her body bow forward, hair falling over her shoulders, as she breathes around the sensation.
And remains there, having taken him in fully, breath gone shallow, to admire him, his body and his face, commit all the facets of his expression to memory before she moves again.
When Loxley moves his arms, its only to seek a fractionally more comfortable angle or two, allowing that unspoken instruction alone to keep them otherwise pressed to the mattress. Fingers loose, and then curling. Breathes in, holds it there as she takes him in slowly and deeply, and then held there, like that.
Breathes out again once she is settled, and now he shifts, a subtle arcing his back, chin lifting. There, restraint, the potential of movement rather than movement manifesting.
Refocuses, looks at her, all sweeping admiration from where they are joined together, then up her body as she shifts forwards, as her mouth parts to breathe out her tension. Now, a little sharpness in the haze, just the corner of his mouth upticking. Good morning.
The rhythm is deliberate, achingly slow. Drawing up and then settling back down into his lap, lingering there. Her hands slide from his chest back to the mattress, so she might lower herself down to set a deep kiss to his mouth.
Good morning, indeed.
It's sweet, having him spread pliant beneath her. It would be sweet any morning, even if the specter of his world and newly arrived memories weren't hovering over them. But it's better now to have him so firmly anchored in this moment.
There is nothing, nothing Derrica can to keep a Rifter here. She knows. She'd tried once, grasping at Holden as he slipped into nothingness.
And it would hurt just as badly to lose Loxley that way. That fact has made itself very clear.
"Loxley," she murmurs. Stalls out over the thing she means to say, all this affection that doesn't easily resolve itself into words. She kisses the corner of his mouth, breathes out as her hips roll slowly down against him, "Stay here."
There's only a quiet 'hm' when she says his name, lazy inquiry, and then a pause. Through the blur of eyelashes and close proximity, Loxley watches the slice of profile he can see of her, waiting to hear the thing she says. When she says it—well, first, a deep breath in at the movement that comes along with it, relishing the unbearable slowness and nearness of it all.
Maybe Thedas is the dream. It's certainly something every Rifter considers at least once, whether in those first panicky moments of rifts and demons and people shouting, or later. Now, for instance, in bed, with a lovely thing happening, with the most beautiful of women.
He doesn't say that. He says, "Right here," agreeably, cheekily, but he lifts his head a little to nuzzle a kiss against her cheek. "I'm right here." In a tone that says he is glad to be.
The press of his mouth to her cheek gives way to the turn of her head, catching him before he can retreat to kiss him properly. She's smiling into it, recognizing the absurdity of the request but pleased with his answer, the mellowed tone of his voice. Her hair falls in a curtain around their faces, remains there as she moves over him, rocks down into him.
What else might she say? That she would hate for him to be elsewhere? That she would keep him here until someone came looking?
"I want you here," which is broad enough to encompass Thedas and this bed and their present entanglement. "Does this feel good?"
She nips at his lower lip as punctuation, soothes it a moment later. All of this, conducted at such a deliberate, languid pace, has the potential to drag on and on. The flush of her skin and the shallow breaths against his mouth aren't of the kind that indicate urgency, or even any approach towards it. Maybe she does keep him here, whispering soft, sweet things until Loxley can't bear it anymore.
"Yes," still quiet, still a bedroom murmur, but a broader smile reforming after the edge of her bite, the kiss that soothes it. Pointy canines, good symmetry, it's a nice smile. "So very good."
There will be a tipping point where 'too much' and 'not enough' become a singular circle together, and maybe the next little tilt of his hips in time with the next roll of hers is a signal of that moment. It evokes a sound out of him, more senseless than the last, if still kept trapped behind his teeth and low in his chest.
"I want you here too," with less of a grin in his voice, although not none. "Doing this as long as we can stand it."
It's a little bit testing the waters when he raises a hand off the mattress, just touching her hair, pushing it back to let his palm graze against her cheek. Hard not to touch her. Hard to permit even the remote possibility that she might feel less than desired.
Hadn't she said something to that effect that first night after the joust? He'd had bruises, mottled deeper gray along his torso. She'd pinned him up against the headboard of this bed then.
She'd stayed that night too, she remembers.
"Let me hear you," is for whatever held in reserve. She could feel the catch of it, that sound.
Her movements have turned excruciatingly slow. All her muscles are shaking, just finely, as his hand comes up to touch her face. Does she want this contact more than she wants the shape of that game they'd almost been playing? As it turns out, yes. She does.
Loxley nods (silently, a little inverse to instruction) just once, and just subtly. A lot of this is subtle, including the fine-tuned responses of her body when he touches her, but when she does not steer away, he gladly sinks his fingers into her hair properly, while his other hand lifts, lowers, smooths a path up the outside of her thigh.
The next time there's a sound, in response to the slow squeeze and flex of muscle, the gentle shift of their movement, there's less of that silencing tension. In the confines of his room, thick walls and thick flooring doing much to muffle the late morning Lowtown outside, he always feels as though even the littlest noises out of him are loud.
They're not, but there is a rawness to it all, a need.
His hand slides up her side, gentle but firm pressure through the broadside of his palm, following her curves. It's touch for the sake of touch, rather than attempting to manoeuvre.
The trade here, permission to lift his hands from where she'd put them so he might set his hands onto her skin, is worthwhile enough that Derrica doesn't consider re-establishing any initial instruction.
It is not a touch asking anything of her. He is not asking that she modify her pace or adjust her angle. It is only Loxley's palms sweeping warm strokes across her skin as she moves over him. Slowly, slowly.
This is not necessarily about what feels good for her, though this does. It is about taking him apart, drawing out these minor, near-involuntary sounds from him. Or pushing him to whatever point exists where he cannot moderate his own volume.
"I'm going to keep you here," is a murmur too, her eyes searching his. "Right here."
In this room, in this bed, with sunlight spilling in around the shutters. (Unrealistic. Impossible, given the work waiting for both of them. But it suits, in the moment.)
Touching to touch. As much as to enjoy the sensation of her warm skin against his hands as it is to impart something pleasurable. Pleasure begets pleasure, but there is a selfish desire (that never feels selfish, when he is with her) to enjoy her, and touch her, and remap his hands on her body after so much of him had forgotten such a thing entirely. Doing so without demand still feels in spirit of their silent little contract.
And this time, at this promise from her, Loxley feels it like a rush of warmth, a downwards ache, and he lets himself respond with a sound, as she'd asked, a quiet drawn out groan. The next breath out, shakier, in time with the next rise of her hips, the next pushing down.
"Derrica," half-whispered, a signal, of the slow build she's drawing out of him. The real possibility he might ask for more, the usual sort of thing, harder and faster and messier, along with the indecision about whether he'd really want her to give it.
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Relaxes again. Contemplates sleep, as an idea, as a concept. The lingering apprehension that somehow he might again slip through to another world, experience perhaps worse things, ebbs a little as his oblivious body's natural desire to sleep begins to override it.
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"Go back to sleep," she whispers, just a murmur against his collarbone. "It's alright."
Reassuring herself as much as reassuring him.
He can sleep. They'll both be here in the morning. That is what Derrica wills to be true.
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Dreams, then. Just the normal kind, fragmented and disorienting, as if intangible memory were still settling into the matter of his brain. A storm-filled sky, and a barren landscape littered with cracked masks. A long, clawed hand reaching out between the bars of a cage. A hooded figure, turning.
And it all kind of ebbs away, smearing aside as dreams should, ink dispersing into water, into blank unconsciousness. Loxley is normally a light sleeper, normally stirs against Derrica's still sleeping form with the intent either to avoid rousing her, or rousing her on purpose. This time, when she wakes, it is later-than-usual morning light pressing against the window, and Loxley is still and sleeping deeply beneath and around her.
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When she sleeps here, in his bed, it has become something like a routine: Loxley moving alongside her, how even barely awake she turns in towards him.
But no, that is not what they do this morning. This morning Loxley is still sleeping, even at this uncharacteristic hour. Derrica has remained more or less in place, draped across his chest. As she stirs, lifts her head, she only goes as far as resting her chin on her hand over his heart. Takes a long moment to look at him, feel the rising ache in her chest.
Maybe it would be better to let him sleep. Derrica turns that over in her mind, settles on shifting up to put a soft kiss to his mouth. Let that decide for her whether or not it's time to get up.
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Smooths up her spine, into her hair.
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Is it any better now, in the light of day, than it had been when he'd woken up in the middle of the night? Has the knowledge he'd parceled out to her set into place any differently?
When they break apart, she pecks a second, warm kiss to his mouth before murmuring, "Are you awake?"
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Not the sharpest answer, but then comes movement. A leg drawing up a little, his body shifting towards hers where she lays against him. Lifting his head enough to kiss her again, the hand in her hair now sliding his fingers against the back of her neck, her head, while his other hand finds a place on her back.
Still here. Apparently, no further days or weeks or months of knowledge coming to the surface, in those last few hours of sleep. Loxley manifests this relief in this: lazy touches and kisses, as if there'd been no discussion of merely talking to wile away the morning hours.
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Maybe they do this for hours. The whole day. Derrica has never spent an entire day in bed with anyone before, but surely this is an event that might warrant it.
"Here," she murmurs, against his mouth. "I have you."
Loxley is unchanged. No new scars. No lingering traces of wherever he might have been traveling. He tastes the same. The callouses on his hands are the same. They could pretend there had been no dream, that no one had woken in the middle of the night.
But they won't.
And so Derrica pins him to the bed, toes upwards to acquire the leverage and set her weight just so. Makes I have you a more tangible thing, a reassurance given over as tenderly as she knows how.
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Even before being pressed back into his bed, although now his body believes her right back in a slow, lazy redirecting of warmth and blood and tension. Unguarded, a sound hitches in his chest as she settles her weight, and he looks up at her properly, where she is more sharply rendered with more distance, time for his eyes to focus. The hard slant of sunlight sets her hair on golden fire, and it is tempting to reach for it.
He slides his fingers between hers instead, lacing their hands together, encouraging her to rest her weight down against his palms for the moment as he arches just subtly beneath her.
How nice, to fall asleep somewhere dark, and wake up to this instead.
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This is not unfamiliar to her; caring so deeply for someone that it reverberates through every inch of her body, gathers and settles in her chest. But the moment when the fullness of that emotion makes itself known to her, with all it's nuances and different facets, it's always—
Not fraught. Not heavy. But there is a gravity to it.
Her hands tighten over his. She has set her knees on either side of his hips. The distance between them is slight. Her weight shifts in response to the movement of his body, countering it. Dips to kiss him again, and lets that carry some of that feeling crashing in her chest down to him.
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"I want you," murmured, as soon as there is space for murmuring.
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It becomes something to ask later, in a little while. After she's answered this murmur of a request.
She kisses him first for it, which telegraphs her response before Derrica says anything else.
"Yes," in answer to the implicit, unasked question. He can have her. He does have her. "I want you too."
They are well-positioned for it. Derrica doesn't have to cede her grip on his hands, really, or let him up from where she's born him down into the mattress. But all that comes of that affirmation is a second shifting of her weight, flatting herself down across his chest while she kisses him.
If it were simply about their comparative sizes, Derrica has no illusions about Loxley's ability to buck her off. He permits her this. That too is something that glows like a coal in her chest.
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He doesn't do nothing, underneath her. Tilts his hips ever so to press against her, registering his own need in the quiet slide and shift. She kisses him and he kisses her back, eyes closed, shrinking the world into this space, the sink of the mattress and the warm weight of her on him.
Happy to be here, to bask in her presence, arousal like a slow simmer and also something else, an ache, higher in his heart.
good work
She has been with people who could never give over to her this way. It is a kind of trust. Or beyond that, it is a kind of intimacy that seems so terribly delicate. So delicate that she would catch it up between her palms, shelter it there.
Doing such a thing would give it room to grow stronger. And whether or not she wants that—
"I want to be so good to you," she tells him, softly against his mouth. Meets the shift of his hips without releasing her grip on his hand to press further than the friction and catch of a spark that follows. Draws back just far enough to entreat, "Look at me."
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She pulls back, and he opens his eyes, focusing more specifically when she speaks again. He is unguarded, intrigue and anticipation and, well, trust, that too, all easily read. Looking.
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Derrica's fingers loosen their grasp on Loxley's, trail along his wrists, his forearms, his elbows, as she straightens further. Watches his face, takes in the open quality of his expression and feels it twist into her chest.
A slight press of fingers to the delicate inside of his bicep, instructive, as she rises up onto her knees. Reaches between them briefly to guide him into her, before she resettles herself into Loxley's lap. It's a deliberately slow, easy motion. Derrica lets her body bow forward, hair falling over her shoulders, as she breathes around the sensation.
And remains there, having taken him in fully, breath gone shallow, to admire him, his body and his face, commit all the facets of his expression to memory before she moves again.
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Breathes out again once she is settled, and now he shifts, a subtle arcing his back, chin lifting. There, restraint, the potential of movement rather than movement manifesting.
Refocuses, looks at her, all sweeping admiration from where they are joined together, then up her body as she shifts forwards, as her mouth parts to breathe out her tension. Now, a little sharpness in the haze, just the corner of his mouth upticking. Good morning.
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Good morning, indeed.
It's sweet, having him spread pliant beneath her. It would be sweet any morning, even if the specter of his world and newly arrived memories weren't hovering over them. But it's better now to have him so firmly anchored in this moment.
There is nothing, nothing Derrica can to keep a Rifter here. She knows. She'd tried once, grasping at Holden as he slipped into nothingness.
And it would hurt just as badly to lose Loxley that way. That fact has made itself very clear.
"Loxley," she murmurs. Stalls out over the thing she means to say, all this affection that doesn't easily resolve itself into words. She kisses the corner of his mouth, breathes out as her hips roll slowly down against him, "Stay here."
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Maybe Thedas is the dream. It's certainly something every Rifter considers at least once, whether in those first panicky moments of rifts and demons and people shouting, or later. Now, for instance, in bed, with a lovely thing happening, with the most beautiful of women.
He doesn't say that. He says, "Right here," agreeably, cheekily, but he lifts his head a little to nuzzle a kiss against her cheek. "I'm right here." In a tone that says he is glad to be.
And Tassia, all its bullshit, can wait.
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What else might she say? That she would hate for him to be elsewhere? That she would keep him here until someone came looking?
"I want you here," which is broad enough to encompass Thedas and this bed and their present entanglement. "Does this feel good?"
She nips at his lower lip as punctuation, soothes it a moment later. All of this, conducted at such a deliberate, languid pace, has the potential to drag on and on. The flush of her skin and the shallow breaths against his mouth aren't of the kind that indicate urgency, or even any approach towards it. Maybe she does keep him here, whispering soft, sweet things until Loxley can't bear it anymore.
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There will be a tipping point where 'too much' and 'not enough' become a singular circle together, and maybe the next little tilt of his hips in time with the next roll of hers is a signal of that moment. It evokes a sound out of him, more senseless than the last, if still kept trapped behind his teeth and low in his chest.
"I want you here too," with less of a grin in his voice, although not none. "Doing this as long as we can stand it."
It's a little bit testing the waters when he raises a hand off the mattress, just touching her hair, pushing it back to let his palm graze against her cheek. Hard not to touch her. Hard to permit even the remote possibility that she might feel less than desired.
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She'd stayed that night too, she remembers.
"Let me hear you," is for whatever held in reserve. She could feel the catch of it, that sound.
Her movements have turned excruciatingly slow. All her muscles are shaking, just finely, as his hand comes up to touch her face. Does she want this contact more than she wants the shape of that game they'd almost been playing? As it turns out, yes. She does.
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The next time there's a sound, in response to the slow squeeze and flex of muscle, the gentle shift of their movement, there's less of that silencing tension. In the confines of his room, thick walls and thick flooring doing much to muffle the late morning Lowtown outside, he always feels as though even the littlest noises out of him are loud.
They're not, but there is a rawness to it all, a need.
His hand slides up her side, gentle but firm pressure through the broadside of his palm, following her curves. It's touch for the sake of touch, rather than attempting to manoeuvre.
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It is not a touch asking anything of her. He is not asking that she modify her pace or adjust her angle. It is only Loxley's palms sweeping warm strokes across her skin as she moves over him. Slowly, slowly.
This is not necessarily about what feels good for her, though this does. It is about taking him apart, drawing out these minor, near-involuntary sounds from him. Or pushing him to whatever point exists where he cannot moderate his own volume.
"I'm going to keep you here," is a murmur too, her eyes searching his. "Right here."
In this room, in this bed, with sunlight spilling in around the shutters. (Unrealistic. Impossible, given the work waiting for both of them. But it suits, in the moment.)
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And this time, at this promise from her, Loxley feels it like a rush of warmth, a downwards ache, and he lets himself respond with a sound, as she'd asked, a quiet drawn out groan. The next breath out, shakier, in time with the next rise of her hips, the next pushing down.
"Derrica," half-whispered, a signal, of the slow build she's drawing out of him. The real possibility he might ask for more, the usual sort of thing, harder and faster and messier, along with the indecision about whether he'd really want her to give it.
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slaps down bow