There's a Joke Here Somewhere (And It's on Me)

Writers: Duskdog
Date Posted: 3rd August 2024

Characters: M'kayre, Zaphare
Description: Absolutely nobody here has a good mating flight experience
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 1, day 3 of Turn 12
Notes: Mentioned: Saibra, I’serin
Directly after “DFW: A New Weyrleader” Warning: Content warning for some Pern-ified swearing, mild innuendo, and again, internalized homophobia.

M'kayre

Zaphare

As always, post-flightlust wakefulness, along with bits and pieces of memory, came gradually. It was hard to put thoughts together after such a physical, mental, and emotional exertion anyway, even if those thoughts weren’t already spotty and tainted by the tangle of his own memories with his dragon’s memories.

_The flight._ That part, he couldn’t forget. The roaring anger in his/their chest as Saibra/Chioneth was stolen away from him/them, the frustration, the _humiliation_. He didn’t even know exactly who had won, only that it wasn’t him/them, and--

}: Aluneth, :{ Bhelth supplied, his own frustration evident in his mindvoice, though no longer with the intensity it may have held five or ten minutes ago. M’kayre could feel the distant ebb of his dragon’s lust as cold water bathed his hide; the bronze was dunking himself in the mountain lake.

Aluneth. Well. That wasn’t the worst possibility. I’serin was a River Bluff rider, at least… a worthy second choice if M’kayre himself wasn’t to have the job. Any other time -- or maybe even later on this day, or tomorrow, once he’d had time to cool down -- his heart might swell with pride to see one of his fellows wear the Weyrleader’s knots.

But right now, it was just a crushing reminder of his absolute failure to claim control, yet _again_.

The warm body curled up next to him, facing away, only felt more oppressive and stifling the more his awareness returned. He rolled over, irritated, and there she was: petite, blonde, and entirely the wrong gender to garner any of his goodwill.

(A reminder of his failings, a reminder of the flaw he’s in no mood to face. As always after a loss, the fear lingered. Was it his fault? Was he just not man enough to match Bhelth? He shoved those thoughts down, but their bitter taste lingered.)

“Out, _moth_,” he grumbled, nudging the girl in the backside with his knee.

She didn’t respond, but he could tell from the way she curled in, pulling the blankets a little tighter around herself, that she was awake and had clearly heard him. The blatant disrespect in this moment of grappling with his own shortcomings did her no favors.

(Always, _always_ falling behind, _never_ the respect that he deserved.)

“Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. I’ve less than zero interest in you right now. Move on.”

“Shells, give a girl five fecking minutes, will you?” she mumbled. “S’not even your weyr, old man, _shards_.”

Irritation blossomed to anger, and this time when he pushed her with his knee, he gave a hearty shove to her upper back with his hand, too. Already perilously close to the edge of the bed as she was, it was more than enough to send her tumbling over the edge into the floor, taking all of the blankets she was hogging with her.

A thump and a stream of curses that would make a sailor blush echoed up from the floor before her head popped back up to glare at him over the side of the bed, blonde hair in disarray and eyes alight with a fire that he _might_ have approved of, if only he had had even a speck of respect for her to build off of in the first place.

“Do you kiss your mother with that filthy mouth?” he asked her, lip curling in disgust.

“I kissed _you_ with this filthy mouth,” she reminded him. “How’d it taste, you tinypeckered wherry’s arse?”

“OUT!” he roared, pushing himself half-up out of bed.

He saw her draw breath to snap back, but something (in his posture, or his face, perhaps) stilled the venom before she could spit it. Instead she huffed sourly, face twisted in impotent anger, as frustrated by her inability to fight him as he was by his inability to claim the authority that he felt he deserved.

In that, at least, they were matched.

“I need a bath, anyway. Feels like I’ve been riding a giant slug,” she groused, with a pointed look back at him to make the intended insult clear as she turned to gather up her clothes.

“The feeling,” he grit, “is absolutely mutual.”

She didn’t even bother to get fully dressed -- just quickly pulled on her top and trousers and boots, gathering up her underthings in a tight bundle under one arm, as eager to be rid of him as he was of her.

“You know,” she shot back over her shoulder as she headed for the door, “It’s not _my_ fault that you’re a loser, _Loser_.”

The closest thing at hand to throw at her retreating back was a pillow.

He missed.

Last updated on the August 29th 2024

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There's a Joke Here Somewhere (And It's on Me)