Who: Isolwyn, C’aol, Eosyth, Daeserath
When: Month 10, 204 AT
Where: C’aol’s Weyr, Fort Weyr
What: In which Isolwyn spends the night in C’aol’s bed.

Two weeks pass before Isolwyn mentions anything of what she agreed upon with C’aol, what conversations are held in the meantime kept to business or of Eosyth, whom she ever seems to place before herself. It’s long enough that perhaps it might be thought that she’s reneged on the idea and wishes to avoid bringing it up, only one afternoon the firelizards that she usually keeps out of the way and set to broader purposes than irritating her or others find C’aol, the bronze with a message in his grasp that he surrenders only to the Acting Weyrleader’s own. He finds a perch to await a response or be dismissed, the small roll of hide one that reads only ‘Tomorrow evening, should it suit. I.’.

C’aol takes the message from the bronze and unrolls it, having only recently been freed from another meeting with the dissatisfied of Fort. Nala and her blue’s presence rankles the older, more ‘sensible’ (as they would call themselves) bronzeriders and C’aol has had to spend endless meetings soothing their tempers. Rather than falling to anger, he’s often found himself being as diplomatic as possible. The short interim of Rori and Inaskashath’s station at Fort has eased most of the harder-to-please’s minds. C’aol’s detached when he reads Isolwyn’s note, and detached in the quickness of the reply he pens to hand back to her bronze. ‘It will suit you I am sure. Meet me at my weyr after dinner. C’aol’. When she does come to his weyr, despite the shortness and potential rudeness his note portrayed, she will find a weyr decorated with candlelight and a table set for two with a bottle of chilled wine and two glasses. He’s not idly waiting for her to come, he’ll have to be called from his office, but he’ll come in wearing clothes presentable of a former Lord’s heir.

It’s with reluctance that Isolwyn has ever worn anything but the dresses and gowns she’s spent her whole life in, the daily chores and lessons of weyrlinghood set to in outfits simple, plain and changed out of the minute that she no longer has to wear trousers as a matter of practicality. The evening finds her in one of her darker gowns, its stitching picked out in gold that might have foreshadowed Eosyth, while a gold-set ruby sits at her collarbone on a heavy chain. She’s not so sure of herself that she simply makes herself comfortable upon arriving at C’aol’s weyr, though she spends some time glancing from candle to candle in a curious fashion before retreating to the entryway and sending a firelizard to seek him out. She’s still there when he arrives, her presence one she means not to be intrusive, yet she’s not the slightest bit knocked back to second-guessing by his arrival. “I have to say, this isn’t what I anticipated,” is, however, an easy enough confession.

C’aol’s drawn from his notes by her bronze, firelizards being a creature he refuses to associate with, he banishes ‘it’ away with a flick of his palm before he closes up his books and locks them into a desk. He may see a future Weyrwoman in Isolwyn, but his secrets will be closely guarded from her. He exits his office and closes the door behind him, pausing to take in the sight of her on the threshold of his weyr. He glances around his rooms, though they are not as lavish as those he keeps at Honshu, he has moved enough of ‘himself’ in that it speaks of someone who is used to the finer things life can offer. He crosses the distance between him and Isolwyn, sketching her a stately bow, that borders on mocking but is eased away with the faintest of smiles he holds in place for her as he offers her his arm. “What did you expect?” he questions, knowing the rumors that haunt him even on the Northern continent. “I have not done any ill to the women of Fort.” A certain play on words yet he doesn’t press further into the conversation. He pauses by the table to draw her chair out and waits until she is settled and pushed into the table. “I assumed you ate dinner. Are you hungry? I will send for food if you are.” He’d never prepare it. He hovers by her elbow, patiently waiting for her to give him a leading answer of some kind.

“More or less to have it be clinically done with and for that to be that,” Isolwyn replies, setting a light hand on C’aol’s arm until they reach the table, her thanks murmured as she takes her seat. “It had nothing to do with whatever people say of you, here or elsewhere. I’m not afraid of you and I don’t say so with any attempt to convince you of anything but that which you please. It’s only how I feel. I’ve never anticipated my first time as being anything but about someone else.” She shakes her head for the matter of being hungry, saying only, “A drink would be nice,” in terms of anything that she needs. “Have any of them been in your bed?” she questions. “The women of Fort, I mean. I wouldn’t put it past some to try and gain favour.” Steady hands smooth her skirts down over her knees, imaginary creases set to rights before she folds one hand over the other in her lap.

“I have no joy in being a Healer or a man who is about getting a deed done. I’m not a stallion who is put into pasture with a mare,” C’aol’s tone is sharp and his gaze sharper as he takes the seat opposite Isolwyn. He reaches to open the wine and pour her a glass and then pours himself one once she has stated she would take it. “I won’t tell your weyrlingmaster’s,” his smirk can’t be hidden, “I’m sure they’d disapprove of their goldrider’s inebriation while they look away from the bluerider that keeps a home with you.” He doesn’t state that no one would approve about their entire arrangement at the moment – it’s a pulsing tension in his weyr. “The women here? No,” C’aol’s answer is sharp, “I haven’t had anyone since..,” he pauses, looking at the wine that he reaches to grab and down in one pour. “I was injured.” He doesn’t speak as to how that was as he fills himself another glass of wine. “And you’ve never fooled with any of the Holder sons’?” his tone isn’t accusatory, but laced with a certain tinge of pride, “the better for it. I’m sure they would’ve ruined you for their own sport.”

“I hardly think a glass will lead to inebriation,” Isolwyn utters dryly, curling her fingers at the stem of her glass. “I think the weyrlingmasters are hoping J’kson will drink himself and Malynth to death and rid them of an issue they cannot deal with. It’s why I pretend I don’t know what he’s doing. He needs at least one person to have absolute faith.” She takes a sip of the wine and cradles the glass in her lap, head tilting as she regards C’aol through lowered lashes. “We don’t have to do this, if you’d prefer. I can assure you I will not be making a scene after Eosyth rises, whether I wake with you or another. If the manner of how or why you were injured makes the prospect distasteful, I’ve no wish to inflict myself on you.” As to the matter of holder boys: “Some needed kisses as assurance of affection. They got nothing more. Easily led.” A shoulder lifts in a light, dismissive shrug.

“Who said it would be a glass?” C’aol questions in a detached way, gazing at her glass and then towards Isolwyn’s face. “There’s no rush here,” he reminds her, as his legs stretch out beneath the table. He’ll never be one to slouch, but that relaxing of his lower posture is indication enough that he at least is feeling the looseness the wine can offer. “J’kson, Malynth,” he mulls over their names as he swirls the wine in his glass, watching as the dribbles of wine leave their mark on the glass before they meet the majority of the liquid at the bottom. He considers her lowered lashes and simply raises a brow, waiting her out for a handful of minutes and a few careful sips of wine. “Having you isn’t distasteful. You asked me if I had any others here at Fort. I gave you the honest answer,” he sips his wine and levels his gaze on her, the piercing intensity undimmed. “I don’t need to be easily lead, Isolwyn. I will be your Weyrleader. You will be my Weyrwoman. Let us find… mutual pleasure in the arrangement. //Before//.” He sips his wine and considers her with a stiffend posture, “You will not receive… ill treatment from me.”

“I think it’s best for everyone at Fort and further afield that I don’t test the limits of Eosyth’s tolerance and understanding of both alcohol and the bed in one evening.” Isolwyn takes another sip from her glass and no more, the vessel still half-full. “If you remember correctly, it was you who kissed me. And I kissed you of my own volition, with no intent in mind, only that I wanted to. If I had intentions of leading or manipulating you, it wouldn’t be with something so silly as kisses and caresses.” She sets the glass down on the table and folds her hands in her lap again. “I don’t think it should be beyond or beneath me to consider your feelings in the matter, since you’ve shown consideration enough for mine. That’s all I meant. You’ve assured me that you aren’t going to treat me poorly, so it’s only right that I enquire enough to ensure that I’m not going to inadvertently harm you.” For a moment, she focuses on the wall behind C’aol, her fingers knotting together, yet, despite her wish to contain it, she cannot help but colour slightly as she returns her attention to him and says, “If I want to because I want //you//, not because I have to, isn’t that better for us both?”

C’aol seems to understand Isolwyn’s decision on the alcohol and he seems unusually pleased by her ability to have a clear head. “You already have proven you are a competent weyrwoman with that understanding,” he tells her, his voice low and calm. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as she mentions the kisses they exchanged, his gaze intensifying as his pupils dilate at the memory. “You needn’t worry about me,” he reminds Isolwyn as he takes another slow drink of wine, his gaze taking all of her in one claiming glance. He sucks in a breath as she blushes and he sets his wine down before he answers. “It is better for us both,” he tells her, his voice roughened. “You are more than welcome to come and sit on my lap and we can see how much we enjoy kissing and caressing without a dragon audience.”

“It isn’t as if they don’t see everything anyway,” Isolwyn replies, her voice dry, though her words are warmed by amusement that betrays no understanding that her bond with Eosyth might not be exactly how every other dragon and rider are. Slowly, she rises from her seat, pausing only to take another sip from the glass that she abandons to close the short distance between her chair and C’aol’s, where she gracefully gathers up the heavy skirts of her dark dress just enough that she can settle herself across his lap and reach for his hands to rest at her hips to keep her steady. “We should probably be careful. If we enjoy it too much, we might want to do it more often.” Teasing or not, she doesn’t give him the opportunity to respond, choosing instead to touch her lips to his with a gentleness at odds with the more forward nature of how she’s sat herself down on his lap.

C’aol’s hands are firm and sure on her hips, his body shifting with her weight in his lap as he receives her gentle kiss. He’s not going to rush her, waiting until Isolwyn has pulled back only to lean forward and nip at her chin and claim her lips once more with his own. He keeps his hands on her hips, using his power only enough to drag her closer to allow her body to mold more against the firmness of his chest. He pulls back from his kiss, pressing his lips along her neck and throat, scraping teeth now and then before he returns once more to kiss her with a hint of tongue grazing her lips. “Would you want to do this more often? If I please you enough?” he asks when he breaks to take a breath and consider her face, weigh her desires. “Is that something you crave?” he wonders, letting one hand wander down her hip and along her skirts. He easily draws fabric up to expose her leg, his hand a warm press against her knee as he waits for her reaction.

Isolwyn tips her head back, baring her throat without hesitation while her fingers hook into the fabric covering C’aol’s shoulders and she sighs up at the ceiling, her eyes closed. “Isn’t it also a matter of what you would want?” she murmurs, taking a moment before she opens her eyes again and levels her gaze on him, watching him as he draws up her skirts. It can be no accident that she shifts her weight just enough to direct his hand higher. “You may have me now and when I claim Fort for my own, but I will not be humiliated by being one of many in any man’s bed. Riders may find the freedom pleasing, but I won’t be sleeping my way through the bronzeriders of this Weyr.” She lifts a hand, at first the touch one that has her brushing fingertips through his hair, yet then she holds, just as she did at his shoulder, tugging hard. “If you please me enough, I’ll stay in your bed. If you displease me, then you’ll need someone else to warm it.”

“What I want isn’t always what women enjoy,” C’aol’s honesty is shared as he nips further at her exposed neck, his fingers making idly sweeps along her thighs. He’s caught off-guard by her demanding words and further by the demand of her hands. The smile he offers her isn’t kind, nor is it cold, it’s a feral thing that surfaces as his head is angled. “So you require to hold all the power?” he demands, hiking his hand up higher on her thigh, letting his hair remain in her grasp. He searches with knowing fingers. “I won’t displease you,” he tells her, his voice hot against her neck, “Of that I am certain.” He presses her against him and claims her lips as his fingers seek that sensitive place of hers and explores. So long as she doesn’t pull away, he’ll tease Isolwyn with kisses, nips, and knowing fingers until she demands they leave the chair. If she doesn’t demand it, C’aol seems content to continue claiming her as he is now.

“I require it to be clear what I will and won’t accept.” Isolwyn uses the hand in C’aol’s hair to press her forehead to his, though it only makes it all the more obvious when she tries to bite back sounds that betray anything other than steel. “If you have me beyond this, then you’re mine. And I’m yours. That’s how it works.” Relinquishing her hold, she shifts her hips against his fingers and presses a sharp smile to his lips, her hands running down the buttons of his shirt until she can cast cloth aside and seek out more skin to explore. “If you choose some lesser and biddable creature over me, then she’s the only one you get to keep.” For all her declarations, she can only string words together for so long until her focus narrows to C’aol’s touch and she has to let her head tip back and allow him to hear evidence that he certainly does not seem to displease her as she rocks against him. It’s not so much a demand when she finally makes it, though nails that have found a shoulder-blade dig in as she pleads, “Now. Please. Now.”

“Not yet,” C’aol’s voice is rough as he bears witness to all the proof he needs that //she// can be his – in this way. He won’t give her any sort of verbal arrangement, not wanting to distract her from the measured gasps he continues to draw out of her. He heaves her up eventually, carrying her towards his room. He sets her down on the bed and loosens his pants, letting them drop. He shrugs out of his shirt and beholds her on the bed. “Were you asking for now?” he drawls as he slides his hands up her thighs, exposing her as he pushes skirt fabric out of the way. He settles on his knees before her, moving his face to kiss along her inner thigh, before he finds another use for lips. His hands hold her hips in a firm, confident grip. “Let me claim you,” he tells her, licking slowly between words, “the way I want. And I will be yours.” He returns to his kisses, his hands moving up and down flesh as he awaits her answer.

Nails dig in deeper when Isolwyn is denied, an unladylike curse following when it looks like she isn’t going to get her way, her grip only easing up when C’aol finally lifts her up and carries her through to his bedroom. She doesn’t move from where he sets her down, her hair in waves of disarray around her and left so as she watches him drop his pants with evident interest and curiosity, making nothing of her gaze roams and stays for longer than would be considered any sort of polite. And still he manages to surprise her as he holds her hips, a stunned, high-pitched note lowering to a moan as she arches from the bed. Yet, despite what she wants or that which he wants, she has to warn, “Eosyth,” and put the impact her queen could have on the Weyr before either of them. “Remember. Then do as you please. And you’re mine.” At least there’s been no rage or fear or anything from the young gold so far, whether the calm before the storm or not.

Daeserath’s form of distraction is in full effect – his feelings tied to his own rider’s as the man demonstrates his own restraint that in the past he never has shown a woman. C’aol makes full use of his tongue and fingers, wringing every sound from Isolwyn she may be prone to having. It’s only when he’s certain she’s lost to the throes of desire that he finally lifts himself over her, nudging her legs apart with his knees, and sinks himself inside her. He’s not forceful with his initial thrust, mindful of her virginity, as his eyes hold on to her face. He doesn’t wait for her to deny him past that point as his mouth moves to claim hers. His body melds to hers and finds a rhythm that should satisfy her and him – he has the time to use his extensive knowledge to his use. He claims her lips, and then, finding no reason to care for her clothing, he rips at fabric and finds her breast to claim with his nips and tugs as his movements rock his bed against the wall. Whether or not Eosyth will broadcast, he does not care. Daeserath’s own thrills of the moment chase any males around into the skies for fear of the bronze’s anger.

Isolwyn’s initial reaction to what pain there is is to sink her nails into the curve of C’aol’s ribs, though she refuses to let him see a trace of it on her face, her hitched breathing all else that might betray her. From Eosyth, there’s a ripple of dark thunder across the Weyr, the sound a distant one that could be mistaken for the genuine encroaching of a far off storm, yet there’s nothing more from her, the glimmer of any threat fading when her rider seems neither afraid nor unwilling. Isolwyn may be determined to ignore any first discomfort, but she still rakes a hand back into C’aol’s hair and holds tight as if she’d pay it back, the sharper edge to her cries one that she has him hear against his lips as he moves. Only when he rips her dress does she respond with a low note of faint irritation that promises she isn’t going to let //that// go, the sounds that slip from her otherwise softened to quiet encouragement that doesn’t quite reach further pleading as her hands drift down to his backside and her hips hold hard against his, her head thrown back and throat exposed. Her fingers drift from his skin as sense leaves her, hands fisting in the skirts of her dress, not a flicker felt from Eosyth, who keeps this to herself with any perceived threat seeming to have passed.

C’aol’s answer to nails is to tighten his own hands along her body, bruises sure to show up after, though unintentional this time in his delivery. He manages to withhold himself until he is certain she’s lost to her own sensations, his teeth grazing her neck as he shudders over her. He doesn’t linger with his body pressed against Isolwyn’s, choosing to roll off of her and lay on his back as he savors the release he’s had. He tucks an arm behind his head and stares up at the ceiling, silent and smug, with a tug of a satisfied smile claiming his lips. He lets Isolwyn find her own senses and awaits any remarks from her, choosing to wait her out, rather than demand a response from her. Daeserath’s rumble of pleasure matches Eosyth’s earlier thunder, his body moving to tightenly claim Eosyth’s in a tangle of curls, his wing drawn over her body to claim as if //he// had recently flown her. << Do you have questions? >> he asks her, choosing a different tactic than his rider, << I will answer them. Your rider will need time to settle her thoughts. >>

Eosyth catches the gaze of one of the bronzes on the rim of the bowl as she quite deliberately tangles limbs and tail with Daeserath’s, a lick of lavender hue swirling through her gaze when she tucks herself beneath his wing and completely disregards the envious focus of any other, no matter what it will confirm for any bronzeriders already irritated by what her affections betray. << She had expected pain and nothing more. For all her life. She was prepared to endure it for the sake of all else. To be used. >> It’s not a question, but a wondering, tinged with the judgement of one who believes it shouldn’t be so. And yet, neither of them are so naïve. << If that is being used, it is better than she anticipated. >> Slowly, Isolwyn sits up, her hands lifting to the task of unlacing what remains of the top of her dress and freeing herself of it, giving a lazy kick or two to send it tumbling over the edge of C’aol’s bed before she lies back down. “Either you will see me dressed cheaply or you’ll be paying for my wardrobe if you wish to do that again,” she warns, whether true statement of intent or otherwise. Lying still, her breath still quickened, she murmurs, “If you mean me to have glimpsed some monster, that’s not what you were with me.”

Daeserath’s eyes flicker red as he watches the bronzes on the rim with a low-throated snarl of warning. He’s soothed only as Eosyth tucks in closer to him and he nudges her beneath her chin gently. << Pain is not always bad >> he tells her, flickering humor lacing his tone, << though it is understandable that the first time it would not be wanted. He uses women >> he reminds Eosyth, << as in the past none were worthy of not being used but one. And she is not for him, for I will not settle for a rider who rides a male. >> He croons as he tucks his wing closer against her body. << Only you. >> C’aol’s attention shifts from the ceiling to Isolwyn as she frees herself from the dress, his eyes taking in the whole of her naked body with an appreciative glean. He lifts himself up enough to rest his palm along her chest, squeezing gently before he claims a kiss on her exposed nipple. “You’ll bruise and ache,” he tells her in a low tone, “so do not feel like you will have avoided that. The monster I tend to be… will not come for you.” He lifts his head from her chest to press a kiss to her chin and then he claims her mouth in a rush of need. His tongue is demanding as his hands find places to grip. He pulls back to gather himself a breath and then he settles back on the bed once more.

Tipping her head back, Eosyth seeks to soften anger and snarling with the brush of her muzzle alone Daeserath’s own while she adjusts how her wings lie so that she may better curl herself against him. << You are mine. They will not have me; you will make sure of it. They are fools to interfere in what has long been decided. >> As if she would demonstrate, against her better nature, a thread of silver spinner web snakes out towards that bronze and //tugs//, the motion one that sends him to his own ledge, her instruction realised as starting with her or not. “I already ache,” Isolwyn states, words low and threaded through with dry amusement, a hand sliding up along his arm to toy with the strands of hair at the nape of C’aols’s neck, knuckles turning to slides back down and out across his shoulder, only to twist and for nails to catch again as he makes his demands and his hands grip her once more. The sound that rises from deep in her chest is one of protest when he draws away, impulse making her follow and drape herself over him, propped on her elbows so that she might look down, for all that that aching is betrayed in the slight trembling of her arms. “You may assume that I want and welcome you, unless I say otherwise,” she declares, touching her lips to his jaw. “I think that’s as good an understanding to have as any. If broken… then we talk about the monster and what he needs.”

C’aol shifts as the weight of Isolwyn is brought to his chest, shifting himself upwards enough to make it comfortable for them both to have her draped so. He lets his fingers trail down along her back, light-scratches of nails along her flesh. “Your consent is noted,” he drawls with a dark chuckle, “and I am glad to have it.” He reaches down to pinch at her rear before he moves to shift her off of him. “If the monsters needs are required, I’ll be dead long before you’ll need to talk to me about it. Come,” he announces, moving himself off of his bed and rising, sweat-slicked and hair disheveled, he looks younger than he is as he holds a hand out to her. “We should bathe and then we can eat. I’ll send for food to be brought to us,” something dark glints in his eyes, “And you should send word to J’kson you will be staying the night with me. We will discuss living arrangements later. But I will let you know now, I will not tolerate you having a roommate for long. It is beneath my future Weyrwoman to shack up with a bluerider.” He waits, hand offered, for her to join him.

For a moment, Isolwyn sits at the edge of the bed, head tilted, as she tries to work her way back through C’aol’s words to find some joke or metaphor to make better sense of them. Finding herself unsuccessful, she doesn’t question what he says on the subject of death, instead filing it away for another day when she might be better able to put clearer thought into it. She pushes up from the bed, reaching a hand out to claim his, her hold tightening as her body starts to protest what she would have it do, yet she follows after anyway. “You mean you aren’t going to take the opportunity to visit my bed and have him hear you stake your claim?” she drawls, trailing a finger down his spine. It’s not quite the last of the teasing she offers, much of the rest done in the bath, where she spends her time learning the lines of his body without the nerves of anything ahead to distract her. She makes her demands in the night, drifting awake to nuzzle at him and remind him of her presence, and in the morning she goes so far as to steal one of his shirts to lace her ruined dress over, not caring a bit what any who see her might think.

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