Difference between revisions of "Logs:Flighty Sedition"

Ivraeth has a generous amount of suitors, that much is obvious given the number of male dragons watching the glowing green slowly clean her claws. It is obvious why, when one considers the lovely, dark curves of the dragon with her hints of honey and hooded eyes. Her heat is something overripe and lush, almost suffocating in its sweetness that coils in her thoughts.

And it is obvious why, even if Ivraeth herself weren't so appealing, dragonriders would set their dragons to chasing: her rider is a beacon of just enough reserve to be interesting, even now. Wild, blonde curls catch in the sea's breeze as she stands on the steps of her cottage, barefoot. Her lips are a bright, inviting red and eyes are a soft blue only slightly darkened with lust. She carries herself like a Lady Holder, spine straight and shoulders in an even line, and she only curves a brow at the first man to start in her direction. The knot on her brightly dyed jacket, a red to match her lips, denotes her as an assistant weyrlingmaster.

Kh'tyr's business in Monaco today was not to participate in flighty shenanigans. Mograith, however, is a beast who chafes against his bonds, longing for freedom, a freedom he finds, however briefly, in the heat of flight. Thus, deterring the pale, liquidly angular brown from keeping close watch on Ivraeth and subtly testing for the moment when he's too far drawn in by her nearly suffocating scents and can slip the leash of Kh'tyr's (tenuous) control. When that moment comes, Kh'tyr's business becomes the flight. For all Ivraeth's rider's attractiveness and color coordination, the brownrider glowers as he approaches the cottage. His shirt is only half tucked in, flight jacket nowhere to be seen and riding pants worn with turns of use. His hair is a floppy shock, as haphazard as his route seems to be, wandering through the other suitors. All things being equaled, he'll just as soon stay outside the cottage until his brown loses.

Ivraeth's head tilts, slightly, as she looks up from her sharp, red claws towards the foreign brown there. And she is watching him as she launches herself lithely into the air without another moment of delay, catching the air with a first beat of wings and then stretching herself further towards the sun. There's something subtly poisonous in the way her thoughts curl around Mograith's, beneath the sweet, cloying taste of them.

And Olivya catches her breath still, for just a moment, at that first rush of flight as it invades her own thoughts. For a moment, the firm posture and the imperious expression gives way to unadorned lust, her teeth digging into red lips as she traces the dragons bursting upwards with her gaze. She seems to be of a mind with Kh'tyr in regards to staying outside, since she does not move from the steps of her cottage to allow anyone past her, for all that one rider moves forward to try to guide her in.

Poison is met by searing heat, hotter than sun, hotter than lightning, hotter still than anything she might put a name to. It flares brilliantly white and crackles, spitting fire. Can she take the heat? The thing is, Mograith isn't trying to burn out the poison, but rather is aiming to consume it, to take it as fuel which might make him stronger, faster, better than any of the other suitors here. There's danger in his freedom as he takes wing after the green, an unfettered willingness to carve a path of flesh and ichor to get to his goal: Ivraeth. (To Ivraeth from Mograith)

Kh'tyr's jaw sets as he watches the wraith take to the sky. The woman gets his attention only in those moments when his careful mastery of himself slips, when the sizzle of Mograith's untamed lust sears through some critical section of mental wall; the destruction is never only wrought without, but largely within. How many of his rider's defenses can he demolish before the flight is done? There's vicious effort directed in, Kh'tyr as much an enemy as the other chasers-- as Ivraeth perhaps? His inner battle is Mograith's only distraction from the flight without, but one that's part of a dance that has been done since his very first flight, so the distraction is only slight. Kh'tyr's focus is given over to that, to keeping his own mind intact long enough for the flight to end, for the unbound to be contained once more. That other suitor trying to usher the red-lipped temptation in? Be his guest. She doesn't want to go? Kh'tyr doesn't seem to spare it any thought at all.

There is a certain glee to be found in reaction to the consuming heat, and the lush green is more than willing to feed Mograith. Yet despite how hot he burns, how much around her he can scorch, there is nothing to disturb the lush fertility of her thoughts, of climbing vines and flowering fruit. Ivraeth does not fly straight, but the agile, lithe dragon twists this way and that, playing the game of teasing her chasers like a master, urging them on. But she did not blood, and she is already starting to lag subtly, and it is now that she plays in earnest, drawing ichor with the swipe of blood red talons when a dragon that she does not want comes too close.

On the ground, almost a mirror of her dragon, Olivya shrugs off the hand on her elbow, casting a sharp, dark look to the dragonrider it belongs to. He must be close, because he murmurs a soft, "Liv. You should go inside." She doesn't answer in words, reaching instead for her jacket that she's suddenly too hot for. That bright red leather slides from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground, revealing a light-weight, sleeveless white tunic underneath. Then she does speak, a simple, firm, her tone used to command in it's cool, clipped accent, "You are not winning, V'geir. Go away."

Well, that's frustrating. Mograith is momentarily disconcerted by the lushness that refuses to be consumed by the destruction. Kh'tyr scores a point in this distraction by reminding the brown that he likes green and growing things, that he likes life, enjoys it, is amused by it. The brown's voice sounds in a raucous cry that tries to shove out the truth his rider offers. He can consume her, he can. He will! Or he'll damn well try, hind talons catching on an unfortunate blue as he uses the force of that collision to not only knock the blue out of position but to shove off in an extra burst of speed to try to catch the green up, the heat redoubling, trying.

"Fuck me," Kh'tyr swears as he stumbles back in physical answer to the shoving off his own dragon has done of him. His eyes draw to the situation at hand. He could leave. Couldn't he? Walk away? He takes only one step and then can't. "Fuck."

Kh'tyr could certainly try to leave, but it seems like Ivraeth has another plan. She gives little heed to injured dragons, gives little care for even Mograith's claws as she allows herself to be caught with only a playful, teasing twist as if she might get away-- But then, no, she is there within his reach, all heady perfume and burning insatiably, finally letting his heat consume green.

There's no surprise on Olivya's part for the result, her soft blue gaze lifting to the foreign dragonrider with a sharp study made even now. But there is pure need in her smooth features and her fingers twitch, too far away to slide against flesh as she would wish to. "Please," she finally exhales, as if he still has a choice to walk away.

To Ivraeth, Mograith might have kittenish apologies later, but in the moment, the line of destruction and satisfaction becomes intertwined. He follows vestiges of green to consume them, but rather than ultimately doing so, they guide him to keeping it just barely on the right side of the line to see them joined safely with no fiery crash forthcoming.

"Fine," is high praise, of course, Kh'tyr's look not entirely happy, but not, apparently, able or willing to walk away from the blonde. Instead, he moves toward her, what might have been a prowl if he had any patience for it. His arms seek to wrap strongly around her, tipping his chin to cover her lips with his own. He has the presence of mind to ask, "Inside?" even as he seeks to lift her, to encourage her legs to wrap around him for convenience of ingress.

Olivya pays little attention to the riders that do retreat or to her abandoned jacket, only melding with Kh'tyr in a grateful sigh. Those itching fingers bury themselves in dark hair, curling firmly even as she wraps those long legs around his hips easily. "Unless you prefer to be watched," she breathes against his jaw as she trails her lips there, seeking more. Her cottage may not be the largest in Monaco Weyr, but every part of it is finely decorated. Two green couches look soft and plush, yet still manage to have clean lines. Art hangs on walls, and her bed is a dominating thing in her rider's quarters, made luxurious red sheets and an equally bold red blanket.

There's enough hesitation to indicate that Kh'tyr might genuinely have no fucks to give when it comes to an audience, but after a moment, he does move them into the cottage. She can have more, but not yet because he needs a little cognitive awareness to keep them from running into things. Even so, there are jolts as his legs encounter things along his way to one of the couches. If he forgot to close the door, that's hardly going to slow him in the bow of his head to kiss and rake teeth across the exposed flesh of her neck once he's dropped her (more or less gently) onto one of the couches.

It is all of the lushness that her dragon shares with her mate that opens under Kh'tyr as he drops Olivya on that couch. She isn't willing to let him draw away, those legs tightening around him to pull him on top of her and her fingers curling into fabric, but only to tear it away. There's an urgency to the shedding of clothes, given that the flight was a short one, and the mating equally rushed. They don't get further than the couch, of course, but after when it becomes a little too small for the both of them and their tangled limbs, she only stretches languidly against him, satisfied. "I didn't catch a name," is her first, easy words.

"I liked that shirt," is muffled in the act of removing it, and hers, and pants. Who needs any of those things at a time like this? Well, fairly, the pants (his) never quite make it all the way off, but enough to do the job. However comfortable he was during, he's not once it's done, shifting on the too small couch, trying not to pinch as he does to get a little more-- well, not space since there isn't any, but perhaps just into a better puzzle configuration for their bodies. "I didn't mean to catch a green--" beat, "-rider," he answers as a pop as though tossing the ball back to her court, though it comes with a, "Kh'tyr. Mograith's. IgFort." There's not even a hiccup at the correction, the word sounding a new Weyr altogether.

Olivya seems fairly flexible, letting him adjust and curving herself around him easily rather than trying to find her own space. Her fingers lift to trace his chest, shameless of the fact that she didn't know his name and careless of the fact he might want space. "IgFort, is it, Kh'tyr?" she questions with a hint of sharp humor. "Olivya, green Ivraeth's. If you weren't looking to catch a Monacoan green, what were you doing in Monaco?"

"IgFortIgen, it might be," Kh'tyr returns, not lightly, but carelessly, as if it doesn't especially matter which Weyr he names as his home; only it must, since there seems to be that indecision there. He's not especially forthcoming with physical affection, though he seems idly to settle into kneading his fingers across muscles in her back where his arm has curled around her. "I had business with a bluerider." He lightly emphasizes blue, since blue is not at all green. "He's just transferred and is getting settled in, Olivya," he uses her name to perhaps prove he's listening.

"From Fort or from Igen?" Olivya challenges, the curve of her brow sliding upwards as soft blue eyes lift to meet his. Her fingers still against the chest, splaying across his heart beat in a careless gesture of her own but one that must be rather calculated.

"The bluerider? Igen." Kh'tyr supplies helpfully. He looks down at her to meet her gaze with an enigmatic brown one.

Olivya's smile is more of a suggestion than reality, her red lips holding it with a mirrored enigma on the greenrider's part. "Seems as if Igen is transferring quite a few dragonriders around these past few turns," she remarks casually. "It hasn't gone unnoticed." Yet, the woman doesn't press the point, seemingly distracted with trailing her fingers down the plane of his stomach.

"They wouldn't have let him go were it not healer ordered to go somewhere less dry." Kh'tyr responds, "not with him on blue." There's a tap, tap, tap on Olivya's back by a single distracted finger. "Anyway, lovely as this has been..." the brownrider begins, trailing off as he shifts to begin disentangling himself from the greenrider.

The greenrider is fluid enough to allow Kh'tyr to disentangle, rolling only to remain laying on the green couch with a cloud of wild, blonde curls pillowed on her arm behind her head. Olivya's blue eyes trail him, but it is more of a study than an appreciation. "Of course," she agrees simply, to his response or perhaps those trailed off words, or both. She adds in a murmured warning, "She's never been caught by the same dragon twice."

"So if you want another romp someday, you'll have to do it the old fashioned way," Kh'tyr warns in kind as he tugs his pants up around his hip. "Not that I would presume." Of course.

A laugh catches in Olivya's throat, not quite making it to her lips as she counters smoothly, simply to Kh'tyr, "I guess we'll see about that." Her gaze doesn't drop away as he dresses, nor does she make any move to do so herself. "I'll see you around, Kh'tyr of IgFort."

"You might," Kh'tyr allows without concern for where her eyes go. He's finding his shirt when he decides to ask, "Do you do anything interesting when your green doesn't have other plans for you, Olivya?"

"Mm, besides the weyrlings?" Olivya questions, her fingers catching at blonde curls to drag through them, trying to brush them into some semblance of order. "Spending marks, usually at Weavercraft. Or writing." Interest sparks in her light eyes, dancing as she tries to catch his to challenge, "And you?"

"Well, shit." It doesn't take him long to assume. Then he's taking his shirt back off. "Now I have to stay and talk shop." Kh'tyr tells her as though he were wholly helpless in this matter.

There is only sharp humor in Olivya's gaze as it drops down to the chest that he reveals, lingering appreciatively before she meets his again. "We'll have eggs here soon enough," she tells him lightly. "Your latest just graduated at Fort, didn't they?"

"Not long ago. A hopeless bunch of cows," Kh'tyr compliments them as he moves back toward the couch, shifting lithely to settle between her legs. "Any high hopefuls for headaches among the weyrbrats here?"

"Not a single one. No hope in any of them," admits Olivya carelessly, her legs falling apart with a shameless ease to allow him between them even as she offers a slow, subtle smile to the brownrider. "If they are our next class of weyrlings, well. We may as well ship the eggs Between. Hopefully the out-Weyr options will be better."

Kh'tyr dips his head to do more useful things with his mouth while she speaks. He's listening though because when-- and only when-- there comes a natural punctuation to those efforts that he leans back a little and says, "You might as well wait until the eggs have hatched to do any shipping Between; then at least you can be free of the useless other halves if you're just going to trash the dragons anyway."

Olivya's concentration remains remarkably focused despite his efforts, though given her unsteady breath and the way she cannot stop wiggling, certainly it doesn't go unappreciated. She is only half-breathless when she answers, "By that point, it will be too late. Too many baby dragons to look adorable and harmless, and for the Weyr to fall in love with." She sighs, a dry sound, before she adds, "Oh well. No clutch is impossible. I've managed worse before."

"No, not impossible," Kh'tyr shifts to sit up, draping an arm along the back of the couch. "Hopeless, perhaps, but that's something else entirely. He drums his fingers on the back of the couch. "So do you teach them the same dribble drabble nonsense they preach everywhere? Natural order and all that dragon dung?"

"Do you not believe in the natural order? That bronzes and queens are made to lead and greens and blues are made to follow? That dragons always make the right choices?" challenges Olivya with keenly honed interest, those red lips curving into a slow smile as she drags herself to sit up in one leisurely movement. "No. I teach them to be right. To know what they are doing and what they can do and then make their own decisions from there. After all, if you are good, you can do anything you want to do." Those words are filled with a subtle suggestion even as she shifts again, unfolding herself from the couch to kneel in front of Kh'tyr instead and take him in her mouth to return the favor.

Kh'tyr's derisive snort might answer for him, only looking vaguely surprised in his distraction when she moves between his knees. He even shifts so that the foot that was still tucked up under him finds the floor and he ends up in a comfortable slouch. "I think," he says, choosing his moments of speech carefully so that he might seem as unaffected as the blonde, "that's what they want us to believe. I think golds, with their magical powers, are, from birth, forcing that idea on the other dragons - so subtly that they themselves don't even know - and that that, as much as size, makes the dragons think they're somehow naturally superior. My beast would chase a senior gold in less than a heartbeat, if I let him. Can't imagine there aren't other browns that would do likewise, and odds are some of them would catch, and just how many brownriding weyrleaders have you heard of? Even now. It's the Tenth Interval, for Faranth's sake." Get with the times, people.

"And how many greenriding weyrleaders have there been?" Olivya counters without apparent sympathy for Kh'tyr's predicament, only a pause in her attentions as blue eyes lift beneath blonde lashes to look up to meet his. "Or wingleaders or wingseconds? Even if I had stayed on my path before-- I would never make Weyrleader, and no one ever takes a greenrider seriously." A pause, and she only asks before her lips wrap around him again, "So what would you do? Establish a Weyr without golds?"

"Point," Kh'tyr gives her after a defined pause, "having trouble thinking," he imparts without shame; it might even be a compliment. "But that's just the grander point, isn't it. People don't take chromatic leaders seriously. Not even necessarily when they've been given authority to lead as acting. Then anything they do is rife with speculation about whether the Weyrwoman has approved or what the last bronzeriding Weyrleader would think of it. Take Mielline at High Reaches for her brief time. How many thought she was simply one of Irianke's creatures? How many outside of those who knew her as a wingleader genuinely believed in the decisions she might've made during her role, and how many of those decisions were really their Weyrleader's? It's all nonsense." There's only a brief pause before he addresses her last, "And I would teach some other fool brown- or green- or bluerider to puzzle out what they would do and release them on the world as we know it. I'm too old and too grumpy for politics on that level. Give me a Weyrlingmaster's knot any day." He sounds like he means it.

A low laugh flavors Olivya's lips even with him in her mouth, a thrum of satisfaction for his answer even as she focuses on the task at hand. It is only after she has intently achieved her goal, pleased as a cat with a bowl of cream, that she sits back on her heels to reply, "Grooming a generation to think for themselves, to address a problem like that-- No, that is politics on a whole other level, isn't it?" The challenge is there, as is the curve of her brow, but she doesn't seem to disagree. "For that, you would need to be prepared. To make friends with those in power so they wouldn't step in and stop you, to make sure that your hand is subtle and not revealed until the flush. If you could do that, I would give you a Weyrlingmaster's knot."

Kh'tyr slowly lifts his head from where it had lolled in her moment of triumph, making an appreciative sound as he does. "You're a smart one, aren't you," isn't really a question as he looks down at her shrewdly. He offers her a hand in invitation, meaning to draw her up and into his lap. "If that isn't a bid for staying at Fort instead of returning to Igen as any sensible Igenite would do, having fulfilled the obligation that brought him, I don't know what is. I had a fairly close hand in the second half of their newest goldrider's training. The one they all expect to be senior when her gold rides. The teenager." He shakes his head. "If nothing else, her youth and inexperience makes her open-minded." He reaches up to scrub at his goatee. "Subtlety... well, it's doable when I'm not tremendously bored. It is so tedious," he bemoans.

Olivya sidles into his lap easily, her fingers lifting to brush over his jaw as she meets his gaze. "I am a smart one. I almost had my own chance, promises from Mirinda to make me Weyrlingmaster and a Weyr that was ready for change, but--." But, does she really need to say what has happened to Monaco. Everyone knows. Instead, she will murmur with soft encouragement, "It sounds like a bid to stay to me. Stay. Guide her and guide your Weyr. Make the change you want to see in the world." The last is said with a hint of a smile and a spark of humor in her gaze. "I am sure you can find something to entertain you in the meantime."

He only grunts for the idea that his attention might be held by something or any number of things. "Everyone knows you can't trust the promises of a goldrider," Kh'tyr's bitterness isn't hidden. "But it'll never stop those with hopeful hearts from believing them anyway. Idiots." There's a distinct sense that he includes himself in that group, and Mograith, kittenish and playful now that the beast has been leashed, is amused. "Nimae isn't likely to let her weyrlingmasters teach sedition, that's for sure. Though I'm not sure Ebeny can be convinced if I let some of my more-- eccentric opinions out of the shadows."

"Then take her knot, convince your inexperienced teenager that it is for the best," suggests Olivya simply, more of an order than anything else from someone who wears a mantle of command as easily as breathing, even snuggled up naked in Kh'tyr's lap. For the other, she only murmurs the question of, "Trusted one too many goldriders did you?" But she watches him with sharp interest for it.

"One is too many." Kh'tyr answers, is arms settling around the woman's waist, his expression betraying nothing but the strength of his resolve to that personal truth. "'My' inexperienced teenager first has to actually become the Weyrwoman, then such convincing might be useful, but I--" he pauses, "I'm not sure I have the skill to 'handle' her. She's youthful, inexperienced, and optimistic but not stupid. Manipulation would wound me worse if discovered." This much means, at least, that he doesn't over-estimate his own cleverness.

Olivya's subtle smile is amused for the man's answer, but any further teasing she may do is forestalled for the moment for more serious business. She replies simply, "Then tell her the truth. Tell her that the old ways are outdated and a burden on the Weyr. Tell her that you can change the future for Fort and make it a better place for every rider, and not just metallics."

"I'm sure if I told her, she'd like to believe me." Kh'tyr contemplates, "She's strong, but in that she's not stupid, she doesn't have confidence that an eighteen turn old can lead well a Weyr fresh out of weyrlinghood." He takes a slow and deep breath, "She's not wrong. But Hattie seems too traditional to consider an acting weyrwoman that isn't a goldrider." Another pause has him shaking his head, "And I can't see another goldrider on Pern standing for it." He glowers a little. "Would your Mirinda?" He says the last name in a way that doesn't impart respect but lends it emphasis. (Disrespect is probably just his default for goldriders he's never met.)

"My Mirinda," emphasizes Olivya with that same subtle smile, even as she levels a look on the brownrider, "is a smart, mature woman. She is capable of leading a Weyr, should be leading a Weyr if it weren't for her sharding father." Her fingers lift to her lips, pressing lightly there as she finishes in a murmur, "And she would support teaching the next generation better than this. She isn't any other goldrider."

Kh'tyr's expression is dubious to the point of being comical and dramatic. "If you say so, Olivya," he emphasizes each syllable of her name separately. "Just remember, she's part of the status quo." It's pretty amazing that Kh'tyr trusts anyone in the world. (If he does.)

"Aren't we all until we are part of the solution?" Olivya's question has a sharp edge, defensiveness rather clear for his dubiousness, for his accusation of Mirinda. That, it seems, is enough to drive her from his lap, slipping off only to reach for her pants.

"That really depends," Kh'tyr tries to keep her with a grip slid to her hips, but he won't if she's determined to go. "More equality means less privilege for those who had it before, more competition. It's more fair, of course, but a shocking number of people on Pern don't give a single shard for fairness when it means giving up things they like."

Olivya is determined to go, slipping past that grip even as it eases to let her go. "Mirinda isn't one of those. There are people who would fight it-- Who will fight it," she agrees in a murmur. "But if it is done properly, it would be too late before anyone noticed."

"Did I tickle a tender spot?" Kh'tyr asks with exaggerated disappointment; he must very well know he has. Rather than look apologetic, his stupid face looks amused. He watches the greenrider. "Do you want me to go?"

"Oh, you found all the right spots," answers Olivya with the hint of a smile, even as she wiggles into her pants. "But I can't spend all day in bed. I have more important things to do."

A hand clutches to Kh'tyr's heart briefly, to keep the wounds from spreading. "I'm sure you could sell this as pleasant professional collaboration, if you tried."

"Wasn't it? What else would you call it?" questions Olivya with mild amusement, a blonde brow arching upwards as she hooks fingers on her discarded shirt.

"Oh, that's exactly what I'd call it. Particularly," Kh'tyr leans forward, reaching out a hand to try to hook into the waistband of her pants, "if I was accounting for why I wasn't available all day."

The shirt slips through Olivya's fingers back to the floor with a sigh, only the subtle impression of a smile marking the suggestion as not entirely amiss. That and of course the twine of arms around his neck, and the murmur of, "Then tell me more about your last clutch."

"Are you sure you want to know? It's really going to kill the mood," at least Kh'tyr will offer fair warning even as he seeks to draw her back into his lap.

Olivya only laughs, lips brushing his jaw as she answers, "I always want to know more."

"Less than a seven after I was accepted by the weyrlingmaster, a weyrling suicided because her sister vanished. Well, presumably." Kh'tyr tells her soberly. "I was brought in because a fair few of that class were liars and thieves. The dragons could've had better taste."

"You were right. That does kill the mood." Olivya's attention shifts to watching Kh'tyr, studying the man with a quiet thoughtfulness. "And you haven't went back to Igen, yet?"

"Maybe the next time I warn you about something, you'll elect to listen," Kh'tyr answers with half-lidding of his eyes. This all could have been avoided. "It's alright though," never fear, "I wasn't ready to go again anyway." That sounds like it might be a joke, and yet also offhanded. "I specialize in problems of that variety. Redirecting the hopeless. Teaching them to be cows, if that's what's wanted. So, they're cows now. Mostly. We can call that a success by conventional standards."

"And what do you call it?" Olivya challenges, those red lips pressing together in a firm line on her own opinion.

"Fulfilling a promise to the dead." Kh'tyr meets her challenging gaze steadily.

One brow curves upwards as the blonde churns over that answer, her fingers lifting to press fingernails lightly against his jaw until--. "No. It isn't a good enough reason," she tells him dismissively. "Whoever wanted that was wrong, Kh'tyr. Our job is to teach, not to suppress."

"I did teach," Kh'tyr complains, "I just also made them trustworthy as far as the usual system goes. For the most part." He sighs, "It's a good thing you're here and I'm there or I can see I would have to put in a lot more effort just to keep you happy." That last comes with a shift that's meant to quickly shift them so the greenrider is once again on her back on the couch, him leaning over her suggestively.

Olivya's leg hooks over the brownrider's hip without hesitation, even as she answers with a sharp, "Yes, you would. I have high standards, Kh'tyr of Fort." She reaches to try to drag him closer, to claim his lips with her own in a teasing kiss. "In the future, I expect you to do better; after all, we have a plan, don't we?"

He doesn't protest aloud, nor does he clarify if their plan is for what's about to immediately begin or the grander plan, but he makes some sound that's probably agreement before smothering any demands for clarification with a kiss. The grand plan would be an awfully large commitment when they've only just met~