Marry Me

Marry Me

Who: Jet, M’tan, Kyramith, Sirhyth
When: Month 10, 202 AT
Where: Meadow, Southern Continent
What: Some laws aren’t so bad.

It’s just after midday when Kyramith reaches for Sirhyth with a flicker of crystalline starlight, encouraging that he, << Come and find us, >> in a rare, playful fashion, an image provided of an unfamiliar meadow full of a riot of pale blooms. She gives him no more than that, breaking off all contact abruptly, either expecting him to do as she asks or embarrassed for her teasing manner. In that meadow, she lounges at its edge, seeking the shade of the trees that line one side of it, while Jet sits in the spring sunshine among those odd flowers that bear winter’s colours more than summer’s. She’s laid out a blanket and brought along a basket, the contents of which she’s not yet set out, save for a pair of glasses and the presence of a decent bottle of wine.

Sirhyth’s shadows surge like the rolling wave coming into shore, his interest a splash of blue and purple in the darkness of his mind. << We come >> he tells Kyramith, his mental touch going distant for those moments Between. He emerges from nothing over the meadow, his shadow overcasting the green meadow and its pale blooms much like a lazy cloud as he soars towards his mate’s side. The bronze is patient enough for M’tan to remove his straps before he makes his way over to rub his muzzle along Kyramith’s neck in greeting. << Such a pretty place you have found >> he tells her as he eases back onto his haunches and looks out at the world around them. M’tan loops straps over his shoulder and heads towards Jet with that bright, ever-crooked, smile of his. “What’s this surprise you’ve got here?” he asks her, dumping straps to the side as he strips off the remaining of his riding gear.

Jet peers over towards Kyramith and Sirhyth, a softness in her gaze for the pair as Kyramith turns herself about and folds herself down against her mate with a low, pleased thrum. Looking up at M’tan, she gives a twitch of her smile, turning half shy and embarrassed while she darts her focus away from him again and answers, “I just thought… We never did this. We never got a chance to… do normal things, like picnics and dancing and sneaking off together. But we’re our own masters now and… Why don’t we?” She glances up at him again, the busies herself with opening the wine as if she could distract from the blush that colours her cheeks. “And I have something I want to ask you, too.”

“With no threat of angry Weyrlingmasters for my sneaking to your home?” M’tan teases, watching her with a light in his gaze of appreciation as she pours them drinks. “Or the fact that I was nothing but a dastardly ruffian when you first met me?” He eases himself down on the blanket beside her, unlacing his boots to kick them off and leave his socked feet to the side of the blanket. “What did you want to ask me?” he prompts, tilting his head at her as he lounges down on his side and props his chin up with his palm. He grins, waving with his free hand at himself. “Is this not the picture of a romantic picnic for normal people? The man lounges while his woman pours him drink?” He winks at Jet and then falls to silence, waiting for her question.

“I think the great irony in that is that you may have been sneaking off, but we were still being good and careful,” Jet drawls, handing over one of the glasses that she’s filled with a white, bubbly wine. She lets the hand that offers the wine linger long enough to run through M’tan’s hair, then returns it to her own glass, clasping it with both hands for no seemingly necessary reason. “…They let riders get married in this time,” she murmurs, looking down into her drink. “I mean legally. And it shouldn’t make a difference, because I’ve thought of you as my husband since Kyramith was small,” and he gave her the silver and emerald ring that sits next to the one of gold and rubies on her finger, which now she looks at, “but I //want//…” She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them and lifts her gaze to his. “Will you marry me? Properly?”

“We were only being good and careful because of //your// restraint,” M’tan reminds Jet with a smile, “I would’ve not understood the damage I could do. But Sirhyth always knew,” he adds, lifting a palm up towards the bronze who blinks at him placidly. He takes the wine next, sipping it with an appreciative ‘hmmm’ noise in the back of his throat. He goes completely still at her mention of marriage. “I would’ve asked you,” he tells her lowly as he downs the rest of that wine and sets (or throws) that glass to the side as he closes the distance between them in a rush. His hand is to her face, his thumb against her lip as his eyes meet hers earnestly. “Married. My wife,” he murmurs, tilting her face to him so he can capture a kiss. “Yes,” he says between kisses, “A thousand times, yes.”

Jet makes a quiet, startled sound as the glass goes flying, not managing words, especially when she simply doesn’t care enough about what state it ends up in, too focused on M’tan to worry about it. She curls her hands at his elbows as he reaches for her, sliding up to his shoulders when he kisses her, unable to keep from smiling as she gets her answer between one kiss and the next, prompting her to tug him more tightly to her and demand a longer affair that she only draws back from when she remembers that she ought to breathe every now and then. “I wanted to ask you,” she murmurs, fingertips ghosting along his jaw. “You’re my heart. You have my heart. You keep me safe. Human.” She touches a kiss in the wake of her fingers, one hand straying to draw a ring of silver and jet from the pocket of her dress, this one with the band of black on the outside, matching and mirroring the one she gave him of gold with the band on the inside. “I have two. I think it’s only fair that you do too.”

M’tan returns kiss for kiss, his arm finding its way to her back to hold her close. He pulls back once Jet rummages in her dress and his brows flick upwards in pleased surprise as he beholds the ring. He holds his hand out to her, allowing her to put it on him before he closes the distance between them to shower her in more kisses. “I love you,” he says between breaths, “So much.” He falls to kissing instead of talking, easing her back on the blanket to do it properly. He doesn’t take them further than that, though his hands may wander enough to hint where his mind goes. He pulls back eventually, laughing as he kisses her cheeks and nose. “I’ll never be able to tire of you,” he tells her, “this wanting you. Always. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?” he teases, brow and smile quirking upwards. He stands then, making his way to where he tossed his glass. “Not broken,” he declares and returns to her side, encouraging her head to rest in his lap. “I’ll go visit Honshu’s leaders tomorrow,” he decides, holding up his hand to admire his rings. “As a… what were we calling me?” he asks her, roguish smile flashing, “Earl?”

Jet’s still smiling as she falls back to the blanket and loops a leg around M’tan’s waist solely to keep him close to her, though moments pass when she finds that it’s too tempting to move against him instead, especially as his hands go wandering. She lets him go and retrieve the glass with nothing more than a feigned growl of frustration when he puts distance between them, though curls up with her head in his lap without complaint, giving a low him of contentment as she settles down. “I think she’s going to rise soon, so we can all be exhausted together,” she says quietly, sparing a glance for the lifemate who sits so snugly against Sirhyth. Smirking, she declares, “I don’t think we want you going and introducing yourself as Thief,” as she reaches to tug him down to claim another kiss. “As much as I’d like to see the looks on their faces. If you end up inviting them to our wedding, tell them that queen of theirs had better stay home.”

“I don’t want them near our wedding,” M’tan tells her after that kiss is claimed. He toys his fingers through Jet’s hair, “It’s not their place to join. Our wedding is for our people. Our children. Us.” He leans forward to claim another kiss and then draws his finger along her lower lip. “Our dragons,” he adds, looking at Sirhyth with a fond smile. “We can have Sister be a flower girl with Safiye. Khyrisan can be my best man,” he’s teasing on that point, laughter in his eyes as he looks down at her with pure love on his face. “All we need find is a Harper who wants to come to our way of thinking.” He reaches for that glass and tips some into his mouth, then reaches to dabble a bit along her lower lip, tiny droplets offered from his fingertips. “Any leads on a Harper, my love? You’ve been collecting more people than I have for our Hold.”

“Good,” Jet murmurs, closing her eyes for a moment to focus on the motion of M’tan’s fingers through her hair. “I don’t want to be playing politics when we should be focused on doing whatever we please.” As for a Harper, she gives the slightest twitch of her lips, more intent on delicately lapping the wine from them and angling a silent, innocent plea for more up at her mate. “There’s one at Fort who seems to be bearing the brunt of the Weyrwoman’s displeasure when she’s not directing it at her queenriders. Given an out… They’d potentially bring intelligence from the North with them. I suppose it depends on whether we’re looking for an official posting from the Hall or not. We’re a functioning Hold, as far as anyone is concerned. We’re entitled to a Harper presence. One who would be useful in terms of what they know and make a decent teacher for Safiye… We might never get a better chance, if I can convince them to risk the Weyrwoman’s wrath and leave.”

M’tan obiges that silent plea for more, anging that cup of his carefully to let Jet sip from his own glass. He listens to her musing in an idle way, setting the glass to the side and leaning on one arm so he can relax his weight against it. “Let’s entice them to join our Hold then. Since we already know that a Weyrwoman has treated them ill, and they may enjoy our way of life, having knowledge of dragonriders. It’s better than reaching out and asking for a posting directly from Harper. Then who knows what we might get and how we could leverage them to our needs.” He nods once at the mention of Safiye, “Her studies should not suffer because we live in isolation. It’s not fair. Does she have enough playmates? Do we need to seek out more families?” he asks Jet, switching gears to thinking of his small family. “We can collect more. There are orphans out there, after all.” He pokes her nose playfully, “You could play the part of an auntie and I could be an uncle to them. Raise them up alongside our kids and create a little army of our own to take over this time.”

“If the Hall can be convinced their Harper has been mistreated… They might be willing to change their post with minimal interference…” But there’s only so much focus that Jet can give to plotting of that sort when children and playmates for their daughter are mentioned, and, though she goes rather still, the sharper, more calculating edge fades from her expression. “Are you… Do you want another child?” she asks slowly, the words strung together carefully while she watches M’tan in much the same manner.

“Of my flesh? No, I don’t yearn for that. Do you?” M’tan asks, looking down at her placidly. “I figure you’ve given birth to tw– three beautiful children. You don’t need to bear anymore on my behalf.” He draws his fingers through Jet’s hair again. “I like the idea of collecting orphans, havin been one myself to a certain degree.” He pauses, trying to gauge her reaction. “Unless you want more from me? I mean, of my–,” he laughs, blushing and looking away from her in a sudden bashful manner. “Not now, even if it’s a yes. We need to keep building here and making sure it’s safe.”

Jet takes a breath to reply, only to close her mouth again and repeat the process a second time with still no words to share. “…I don’t know,” she eventually has to confess, her voice a little hoarse from the stress of trying to find a better answer than that. “Not now,” is something she can agree on. “I don’t like being pregnant. It was easier with Khyrisan, but…” She shuts her eyes and exhales a sharp sigh. “I don’t know. One day, I might want another one that’s a little bit me and a little bit you. It might be in six months or six turns or a decade. I don’t know.” Reaching a hand towards M’tan’s chest, she settles it over his heart. “I’m happy to give any family or child that needs one a home, as long as they’re willing to work with us. To build them up and give them command of themselves, not just shelter.”

“I would expect nothing less,” M’tan agrees with Jet on the terms for welcoming orphans into their midst. “It would do better than falling to other underworld types, who exploit their needs, and change them.” He would know more than any other what it is like to be exploited by the underworld at a young age. He draws his fingers across her cheek and smiles at her. “Someday is a wonderful future. For now, let’s focus on marriage?” He leans down to kiss her and then falls to a conversation of the ‘how’ for marriage, and then to kissing, and then… his wandering hands finally make their way to removing clothes to allow hands and lips to draw pleasure from her. There’ll be plenty of time to daydream and plan – today, he relishes simply //being// with Jet. Being, loving, and having all that he could hope for. Sirhyth’s mind is a wisp of darkness against Kyramith as he watches the sun begin to set around them. << Beautiful. >> The sunset, her, his rider, her rider. All of it. Looped together and bound by more than words. << Forever. >>

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