Logs:Bite Marks

Bite Marks
"You don't have to like... tell anyone about this, you know?"
RL Date: 7 September, 2015
Who: Roszadyth, Farideh, A'rist, Lythronath
Involves: High Reaches Weyr
Type: Log
What: After the flight, Farideh and A'rist face reality.
Where: Guest Weyr, High Reaches Weyr
When: Day 25, Month 9, Turn 38 (Interval 10)






Most of the signs left to her hide will have been from the initial catch and hold, talon scrapes and a few love-bites (that may have broken through hide just a little). But fight or flight imposes itself even in sex, and in that instance, the most primal of instincts are perhaps best set to recognise priorities. He is strong. He kept them aloft, and they flew far and long. That unimpeded mind, that can at times seem chaotic or distracted, had a singular, penetrating focus throughout; her name may even have manifested fully into language a time or two, though without any romance to it. Now, on her ledge, that moment is over. She isn't forgotten, Roszadyth, his prize - he will occasionally lift his head and open his mouth to press teeth to her hide, this time not to break through or hold - but Lythronath mostly radiates an inner victory, satisfaction, and sleepiness, tucked in close next to the young queen. A'rist was not so encumbered by the necessities of gravity, nor was the control he's built up for greenflights, since Lythronath first starting catching, so readily available to him when his dragon took hold of his first gold. What Lythronath could not, A'rist could; urgency, at least, kept him from much in the way of improvisation or creativity, but there will be bruises where he's grabbed or shoved for positioning, perhaps even scrapes where they've come up against the wall, scratches when the angle was right for short fingernails, and certainly, the outlines of teeth. But it's over; A'rist is catching his breath, his jaw mimicking his dragon's, but without any attempt to near Farideh. A leg was in her vicinity, and could be touching her yet, if she's not shied away, but he certainly doesn't try to cuddle. There are changes in his face, in his eyes, as he comes back a bit more into himself (or what Lythronath has left him of it), as the full realisation of this win begins to settle into his brain. The nature of flights being what they are, actions one might abstain from otherwise aren't officially barred, and certainly High Reaches' queen seems quite content in her own way when the whole ordeal is over with. She's pleased to curl up on her ledge with Lythronath and enjoy the requisite post-flight cat nap, her projected lust no longer a bother to the Weyr. It's a little different in the guest weyr where those last frissons of flight lust are starting to wear off. On her side, naked back to A'rist, Farideh rests in a half-asleep state, her arms loosely curled around her torso and her eyelids drooping automatically every time she tries to keep them open. She's not interested in touching, not now that the fire has burned itself out; while caught between full awareness and blissfully satiated, she's still distant. Little bits of thought are starting to fall into place. A'rist's eyes have started to move as he goes on thinking. And soon, he's sitting up, back lifting away from the wall. His head is given a sudden, violent shake. A waking shake. He blinks his eyes for focus, and turns to consider Farideh. It's not desire as he looks her over now, not need, not even familiarity. A hand goes to scratch at his shoulder, at old scars, some human, at least one clearly dragon in origin. For now, he waits, but there's an aura of impatience in it, of restlessness. When the weight on the bed shifts, it sets the goldrider's shoulders to stiffening visibly, pulling back; she's tense, but quiet. "You can go," she tells him, after a heavily pregnant pause, and reaches down to fumble for the sheets. There's no effort to rectify their stranger status or smooth over the awkwardness in the room, and when she finally snags the sheet between her fingers, she's quick to pull it up all the way to her chin; fully awake now, and her hazel eyes shifting around at what parts of the guest weyr they can see, anxiously. That stiffening makes A'rist's jaw set, even has a bit of a twitch coming to his upper lip. He takes a breath, and keeps her words from setting him to his feet immediately, though the potential for it is there, in his muscles, which twitch as if the command to go was cut off only at the last minute, faintly heard. "You want me gone?" It's barely a question. What comes more as a question, with a hint of something human in it, is, "You okay?" Finally, inevitably, those anxious eyes shift, as her body turns, and settle bemusedly on A'rist. "Do you-- want to talk about it? I didn't think people stayed after, unless they--" Farideh's cheeks burn bright red and she hurriedly turns back around, cradling that sheet closer. "You can go if you want to," is amended, rather tremulously. On Roszadyth's ledge, Lythronath makes a final tooth-caress, and settles his muzzle in against the gold's hide. « Good, » is shared from somewhere on the edge of sleep, but shared purposefully. Meanwhile, A'rist makes a face, a flat line that pulls off to one side. Like a muppet chewing on its cheek. "Just want to make sure you're good." He's trying for gentle tones. They sound a bit tinny. "We'll be together a lot, soon. Probably not like this - although Lythronath's never caught a gold before." It's that last musing that's more sincere, that has him squinting, and peering through the wall, at something other than Farideh. Gentle warmth and saccharine tones counter the bronze's sleepy-speak. « It will be, » because without a doubt, regardless of anything, Roszadyth is confident in her choices. Her rider, less so, but she at least tries to sit up on the bed, clutching the sheet like a life-preserver; even if A'rist is trying to use it, or tries, she's not open to sharing. "I'm fine," she sighs, trying on a perhaps non-convincing smile. "Not-- not like this, no," is immediate, her color rising again, making the freckles on her cheeks stand out more. "It won't be so bad. It will be--" Her eyes slant to him, but she's obviously lost for the actual words. « Babies, » is Lythronath's last word before he drifts into sleep. Proud, yes. Excited. Anticipating. A'rist, as it happens, doesn't try to use it. He stays as he is, where he is, waiting, but always with that potential for movement. "It won't have to be bad at all," he says, with a nod that marks it off as a capital-D Decision. Finally, potential turns into actual, and he slides off the bed, and starts the trek of clothes-finding, dressing as he goes. "I bet he'll be good on the sands. It's always where he's been most... I guess normal? With the little ones." "No," one hand smoothing the hair back from her face. "It will all work out. I'm sure he'll-- you'll-- be fine. Roszadyth and Niahvth will be sharing the sands, which could be--" Farideh's lips thin, but her gaze slips away when he starts to find his clothes and dress, and she pulls her knees up under the sheet. "He likes eggs, then? Hatchlings? I suppose that's-- that's good." By the way she chews on her lower lip, eyes downcast, might suggest the opposite, or some other thought process, while he redresses. A'rist has his shorts. Has his pants. His shirt is still wet, and he's less eager to put that on. The others were necessary, for an eventual escape. He sends a sidelong look back to the bed. "We will be," is almost defensive. He looks around the room. His shoulders change, drooping forward a bit, and that shirt gets hold in a bit closer to his abdomen, though when it touches, he flinches it back, away from his skin. "You don't have to like... tell anyone about this, you know? Like, don't have to spread around how... it is." Not that, surely, he doesn't have some reputation from all the green flights Lythronath has won. Not that the signs aren't on his skin. But that look he gives her is almost vulnerable, in that moment. The shift of tone is what has Farideh looking up, actually looking at A'rist, albeit with a frown. "I wouldn't--" Redder, she flushes. "I don't talk about my sex life-- to anyone, about-- anyone. It's not-- I wouldn't--" She gives him a pained look, and glances away, again. "You don't have to worry about it. It's not the kind of thing-- to be repeated." In essence, his secret is safe, with her. And really, she doesn't seem to want to talk about it at all, much less in making promises not to have it bantered around by the Weyr gossips. "It's not-" A'rist starts, with cautious sincerity. He starts, but he stops it, and shakes his head. "Anyway. Lythronath's probably going to stay with her a while. He even does it with the greens. If you don't mind that. I think it'll be good for them, anyway, if Roszadyth is okay with it." The start-and-stop gets an agitated stare, but Farideh's willing to drop the subject if he will, as she so aptly displays by nodding acceptingly in his direction. "That's fine. Roszadyth isn't bothered by company. She enjoys it-- he can--" A half-shrug follows, but she's not dropping that sheet, not even an inch. "He can stay however long he wants, whenever-- he wants." "Okay," A'rist nods. The shirt gets a second look, and there's another distinctive change in him, shoulders back, abdominals tensing, stance widening. That wet shirt gets put on, with some tugging and clinging, but nonetheless. It's cold. But it's on. And when he looks back to Farideh, it's with some sense of control. Or facade. How different are they, really? "Well. If you need me for anything, you know how to get me. And you'll want to make sure those," a vague gesture to a set of lines on her skin, "get cleaned. Else they get itchy." A tiny sliver of relief escapes from the goldrider's carefully kept emotions, but she jerks her chin in a nod that's meant to mark his departure. "That's--" But then the last, sees Farideh blanching visibly and immediately squeezing her eyes closed. "Just," tense in posture and voice, "go." No reminders, please. A'rist's teeth push against each other. But he nods. And goes.