I am writing again
Oct. 17th, 2003 06:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sparkindarknessUnfortunately I'm wiritng fanfic *gasp* no, it's not going to become a habit, I don't do fanfic and this one, while it wasn't that bad, felt weird, kinda like wearing someone else's clothes.
Anyway, I remember having a convo with someone on journal (and clearly the alcohol is earting my brain because I can't find that post so I don't know who it was with, and I'd greatly appreciate the perpetrator coming forward before I start the man hunt) about Anne McCaffrey pern books, and how so many people had slashed it. Then realised, despite everyone I know ASSUMING it had been slashed to death, none of us could actually think of any McCaffrey slash. Beyond being a disturbing indication fo the power of assumption, it made me decide to write some, just to prove it had been slashed to deathn. So there.
So here's some dragon rider slash. Naturally Ms. McCaffrey holds copywrite, based in Benden Weyr at the time of the weird falling thread (which should mean something to Pern readers, I hope).
Oh, and in other news, after much beta'ing I am sending some fic off to Toquere press. Wish me luck!
S’tan sat lazily, laid against Mirithanth’s back, grinning idly as he watched riders running back and forth hurrying into their riding leathers. He’d dressed early, he always did on Threadfall days, then he could watch the frenzied activity of Benden Weyr’s riders undisturbed. Nothing like a bit of free letching to get you ready for Thread, right?
You’re getting known for it. I can hardly keep up with you.
He nearly fell over laughing. Shells! Was he that bad, that even his dragon, his GREEN dragon couldn’t keep up with his... um... appetite?
It’s not too much for me! I didn’t mean you were...
It’s Ok Mirrie, I know what you meant. It was funny. He reached up and stroked Mirithanth’s head, pressing his fingers along the bony ridges until her many faceted eyes spun with pleasure, glowing a gentle blue green.
“Oy! S’tan, are you going to lay there all day?!” His wingleader T’kal sounded harsh, but the old Bitran’s bark was worse than his bite. A thin thread scar on his right cheek failed to ruin the rugged good looks of the tall, muscular bronze rider, and S’tan made sure he indulged in a long stare before answering.
“I was ready hours ago, not my fault your great unwieldy creatures are so slow and heavy.” He gave the old man his best cheeky grin, not even blinking in the face of T’kal’s fierce glare. “Something the matter with Relioth, T’kal? His arthritis playing him up?” T’kal’s glare didn’t flicker, even when S’tan mentioned his Bronze dragon. He didn’t need to defend old Relioth, he had flown his share of queens in his time, and greens for that matter, he had nothing left to prove.
The tableaux stretched for several long seconds before the older man stalked off muttering. S’tan fell back against Mirithanth’s green flank, laughing helplessly.
Two strong hands gripped him from behind, pulling him up to his feet, he gasped in surprise, turning quickly to stare into the playful dark eyes of a stranger. Unruly black hair flopped into his eyes, escaping the flying helmet he wore as he balanced precariously across Mirithanth’s back. He grinned hugely as S’tan’s mouth opened, but his words were stopped. The stranger leaned forward and kissed S’tan thoroughly, probing deeply into his open mouth with a quick, clever tongue, one strong hand moving up his body to cradle the back of the green rider’s head, imprisoning him in the kiss. He needed no holding, he melted into Mirithanth’s flank.
“You two stop that right now! I need you focused, thread’s falling over Nerat tip, last thing we need is thread in the rainforests because you’re too busy mooning after each other!”
The stranger pulled away hurriedly at T’kal’s roar. He paused to grin down at S’tan, “can’t wait to see if you fly as well as you kiss, green rider,” before sliding down the other side of Mirithanth and hurrying off. S’tan was too dazed to speak, and by the time his senses returned, the stranger was gone. He sighed heavily, and somewhat dramatically, before vaulting onto Mirithanth’s neck.
What’re you doing letting people use you as a vaulting horse? You could’ve at least warned me!
You don’t normally get angry when men kiss you. Nice looking men.
S’tan had to grin, he must have the only dragon on Pern who knew what made human’s pretty. Well, maybe some other greens knew.
I’m not angry, Mirrie, just a little surprised. It’s not every day strangers run up and molest me.
He looked around, but even from Mirithanth’s neck, he couldn't see the stranger. His green dragon was too small compared to the vast bulk of the surrounding wing to give him the height to see. Looming over the amassed wings of Benden Weyr was the Queens Wing, glinting gold in the morning light, lead by Weyrwoman Lessa on the great Queen Ramoth, the biggest dragon on all Pern. Lessa shifted the huge canisters of her agenothree throwers with ease, despite her diminutive size and leaned towards a dragon that nearly matched Ramoth in size, bronze Mnementh, Ramoth’s mate, and his rider F’lar, Weyrleader of Benden Weyr, and all the Weyrs of Pern. The tall, serious man was looking out to the east, where thread always fell, seemingly waiting for some signal to send the wings aloft.
Lessa says we fly there was awe, and just a little fear when Mirithanth said the Weyrwoman’s name, and with good reason. Lessa was a heroine, a legend, and all well deserved. And her temper was feared by Weyr leaders and Lords Holder alike. Perhaps the only person on Pern whose name was known to all dragons, well her and F’lar. Dragons rarely remembered the names of people other than their riders, to be remembered by all was a great honour.
The wings rose from the Weyr en masse. The air groaned under the strain of hundreds of great flying dragons, the biggest dragons of Pern always came from Benden Weyr, even the greens. The assembled mass of Benden’s flying strength was a truly awesome sight. For a full minute the morning sun shone on the massed dragon hide, glittering off the golden Queen’s wing, shining across the mighty bronzes, gilding the strong browns, embracing the fast but enduring blues and adding fire to the small, agile greens. It was a sight to make a Harper reach for a sand-table for it screamed inspiration.
The signal to pass between travelled silently among the wings, and one by one, they disappeared in perfect formation. S’tan caught his breath as they entered the utter blackness of between, cold beyond imagining, so black it was darker than the depths of any hold. He couldn’t feel the flying leathers clasped around his body, couldn’t even feel Mirithanth beneath him. He gasped, but there was no air for his lungs...
Then they were out, the heat hit him like a hammer, the thick, close heat of the jungles of Nerat, leagues away from Benden Weyr, travelled in mere seconds on dragon back.
There was a thin haze to the east, under the baleful gaze of the red star. A haze like thick fog, falling down, deceptively slowly, to the ground. Thread. Fighting over Nerat was the worst, not only was the heat so oppressive, making riders, if not the dragons, sluggish, but one strand of thread falling into those thick, lush forests and acres could be devastated before the ground crews could get through the thick undergrowth to the infestation.
The lead wings met the leading edge, bright sparks shone as firestone fuelled dragon flame charred the deadly silvery fall into harmless ash. Wing after wing engaged in perfect formation, perfect discipline. Riders blinked in and out of between, dodging thread with mere inches to spare. Underneath flew the bright golden triangle of the Queen’s wing, their riders carrying flamethrowers so the breeding queens wouldn't be rendered infertile through chewing firestone. It was a grand sight to stir the blood, S’tan could feel Mirithanth’s thrumming eagerness to enter the fray.
But something was wrong. Too many of those who blinked out didn’t return... none had fallen, but how many were injured? Mirithanth drew back her battle rage as her subdued voice reported the losses...
Firith is scored... and Lirath. Nosith’s rider has been scored. And Trinath’s!
what’s happening?! We’re only 10 minutes in and we’ve taken more scoring than we usually get in a full 4 hour fall!
this thread falls wrong...
He had no time to check on the cryptic comment, for they had reached the leading edge. Long silver stands falling to the rich jungle below. With a roar Mirithanth flew into battle, dancing lithely among the larger, stronger dragons, turning on a wingtip to catch thread beyond the reach of the slower, larger dragons. His mind flashed with quick directions to his dragon, his eyes flicking to spot errant threads. The thread DID fall wrong, twisting oddly in the wind, falling to no pattern S’tan knew, no pattern they’d trained to face. He called Mirithanth to bank swiftly as they nearly collided with a flinching brown dragon, the smaller green darting agilely under the larger dragon’s wing.
He turned to glare at the brown, but a terrible scream sounded to his left, he jerked round, pulling against his flying straps to see... another brown, Wenrath, was spiralling to the ground, most of his right wing sail shredded and burned by thread. The dragon’s panicked thoughts so loud that every dragon rider in the sky could hear his mental anguish. His rider, J’nat was injured, unconscious, maybe dying from thread score...
S’tan urged Mirithanth closer, swooping in before the brown could turn. J’nat lay sprawled, his flying straps near seared through, one half of his face a bloody ruin, ravaged by the pernicious touch of thread. He urged Mirinthanth closer to the thrashing, plummeting, panicking brown, twisting between the flailing claws and beating wings. He grimaced in pain as a claw slashed across his arm, gritted his teeth as Mirithanth jerked backwards jarringly to avoid a pummelling wing. Just a little closer...
He unfastened one of his flying straps, took a rope from his waist and nimbly fastened it round his waist and into Mirithanth’s riding harness. He took a deep breath and jumped onto the broad back of the falling brown dragon below. He grabbed one of the leather straps harnessing the screaming dragon and pulled himself next to the fallen J’nat. He wrapped a loop of the braided wherhide rope around J’nat, working hurriedly as the ground swooped ever closer. With shaking fingers he pulled away the last of J’nat’s flying straps harnessing him to the falling dragon.
Holding tightly to the injured dragon rider, he leaped into space, pulling them both free from the fall, at the cost of bone cracking jerk of the wherhide rope pulling tight. Damn, felt like his left shoulder had cracked.
No time to stop, he pulled himself one handed up the rope, taking advantage of the brief wave of numbness from the broken bone to climb as high as he could. He was almost to Mirithanth’s flank when the nauseating pain hit. Spots danced across his vision, and darkness loomed round the edges. Something gripped him around the middle, something incredibly strong and amazingly gentle. He was moving... his slack hands lost their grip on the rope, but they didn’t fall. Gently they floated upwards.
His vision cleared to see the back of Mirithanth’s neck, her fore-claw tucking back down underneath her. Sighing with relief and sending waves of gratitude to his wonderful dragon, he clipped his safety harness back into place, sparring a couple of thongs to hold the unconscious J’nat in place.
The brown dragon who had nearly crashed into him was now hovering over J’nat’s Wenrath, strong fore-claws gripping the other dragon’s wing joints, riding to the rescue now the rider had been moved out of the way. A much larger golden Queen came up beneath the injured brown, vast glittering wings bracing, taking the strain for both dragons.
Silalith says we should put Wenrath’s rider on the other brown’s back, so they can go between back to the weyr.
It made sense, dragons often panicked if they went between without their riders. S’tan did spare a smile for Mirithanth’s disdain of the brown who had nearly hit them, refusing to name him. Greens could get stroppy when they had reason to.
They gently manoeuvred the still oblivious J’nat over the steadily hovering brown. With slow, careful movements, S’tan lowered J’nat down with his wherhide rope, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, and deeply grateful to Mirithanth for taking most of the weight with her strong fore-claws. He sighed with relief and brushed aside cold, nervous sweat with an upward flick of his head when he saw J’nat safely fastened to the brown rider’s harness. Then he froze...
The thread descended, far too fast and far too close for the three much larger dragons to manoeuvre out of its way before it hit, especially tangled together as they were. With a thought, he spurred Mirithanth in a breakneck climb towards the descending patch. She rocketed through the air at speeds that stole breath and made his eyes water even through his protective goggles. Mirithanth’s fire seared the fast descending tangle, head angling back and forth as she belched ferocious, phosphine scented flame at lethal mass.
But Mirithanth was a green, she didn’t have the range or the spread of the larger dragons. The tangle was too large. Faster than thought, S’tan guided Mirithanth through the tangle, thinking ahead far faster than a dragon ever could, leading the near panicking Mirithanth through decisions that danced the line between life and death.
But it was impossible! He couldn’t get it all! He heard Mirithanth scream, and ducked rapidly between. Thread had caught her wingtip, just marginally but he cursed himself a thousand fold for getting his dragon, his wonderful, perfect, Mirithanth hurt even the slightest. He blinked back tears and begged forgiveness and comfort down the soul linking bond that held them together. The thread crumpled away instantly in the unbelievable cold of between, and Mirithanth’s reassuring forgiveness warmed him even against the chill. Steeled him for their re-emergence under the thread tangle again - the job wasn't done yet.
And it was still impossible... no other dragons were near, just the three entangled injured trying to achieve enough stable flight to go between to the weyr. The formations had broken up in the face of the strange fall. There was only him, and only one way.
He directed Mirithanth up, relying on her unflinching trust of his instructions, desperately keeping his thoughts blank of his intentions, hiding them from her. She swooped upwards into the thread, without a hint of doubt, one second thought. She twisted , flamed the centre out of the thread, flowed like silk round again to char another swath... they were mere feet from the brown rider now..., she turned again, a kernel of doubt opening in her...
S’tan, we will crash into the brown, or the thread...
trust me, beloved...
They angled upwards, twisting at the last minute... directly under the thread. S’tan had time to hear Mirithanth’s scream of fury, mental and physical...
NO!
Before he twisted in his seat, taking the thread head on, spreading his arms to keep one strand from touching Mirithanth. The agony was unbelievable! The thread seared through his leathers in seconds, boring into his back, sloughing down his skin, burning away layer of flesh and muscle... his vision went black, the excruciating pain blocked all thought as he felt a deep chill take him...
He woke, laid on his stomach on a bed thick with furs. The furs over his back were held over him by a thin wooden frame, to keep the heavy material touching his raw back. He tried to move... and yelped. His whole back was stiff and burned fiercely.
“Don’t move. That’s one of the deepest scorings I’ve ever seen. Certainly the deepest I’ve ever seen anyone survive. I’ll not have you ruining my doctoring with your twitching.
S’tan craned his neck to see Menora, the Weyr’s head woman staring sternly at him, a look that didn’t hide the relief round her eyes.
Mirithanth...?
“I know that look, S’tan. Don’t you dare wake her! She’s half starved and exhausted from watching you these past two sevendays. If it weren’t for Lessa’s orders she would still be here now.”
“But...”
The weyrwoman’s face softened. “She’s fine S’tan. Just a minor wing scoring, tiny it was and already healed. You took the full brunt of it.” She smiled wryly, “Lessa’s still deciding whether to hug you for being such a hero or flay you for being such an idiot. Why is it always the green riders?”
“Because green riders always think they have something to prove.” The handsome man with the unruly hair who had kissed him before threadfall swaggered into the room, grinning.
Menora sniffed, truning her stern gaze on the newcomer. “You look like a man with too little to do, T’rell. We can solve that. I’m going to tell the weyrwoman that S’tan’s awake. You can make yourself useful and put some numbweed on his back - gently! I want him in good health for when the Weyrwoman decides to skin him. And try to persuade him to take some of that fellis juice.” With that she strode out of the room, depositing a large pot of numbweed and a goblet of wine mixed with fellis juice on the dragonrider.
“Shells! She always like that?” said T’rell, sitting gingerly on the side of S’tan’s bed.
“Usually. Keeps this place going though. Guess you’re new here, then?”
“Yes, transferred in about a sevenday before threadfall. From Fort Weyr. I’m Blue Gongorath’s rider by the way.”
“Well, guess you know me. S’tan, green Mirithanth’s rider. And I’m sure Menora said something about numbweed.”
“Pushy little hero aren’t you?” He pulled the top off the numbweed, and pulled the furs back slowly from S’tan’s back. “By the Egg! It’s cut near to the bone!”
S’tan glared up at him as best he could, laid on his stomach. “You’re a terrible doctor, T‘rell. Your bedside manner needs a lot of work.”
The handsome visiting rider blushed and began gingerly smearing the thick numbweed paste across S’tan’s ravaged back. “Sorry,” he muttered, “it surprised me.”
S’tan writhed as the cold salve was rubbed onto his back, breath whistling between his teeth, hands clenched on the furs. Until the thrice blessed weed kicked in, wonderful numbness seeping down through his back, masking even the worst of the pain. He sighed in glorious relief, and managed to turn his head enough to look at the fixed, concentrating look on T’rell’s face.
“So... do you often play Healer?” S’tan asked, casually.
“Me? No! I was a Ruathan holder before coming to the Weyr, never studied much healing, too busy working. Um... what about you?”
“Weyrbred. Born and bred in Benden Weyr.” There was a long pause, while S’tan enjoyed T’rell’s gentle application of the numbing salve.
“I saw you during the fall,” T’rell said, quietly, trying to sound casually. “You were amazing. You DO fly as well as you kiss! And that’s saying something.” He blushed, and cleared his throat, but forced himself to continue. “Everyone’s amazed at how you rescued M’fes, and taking all this thread yourself! You’re a hero.”
S’tan tried to assume a modest smile, but it twisted a bit into a gleeful grin. “Can you say that to Lessa when she comes to claim my hide. Or what’s left of my hide anyway?”
“Errr... no. I think you hero types should sort it out between you.” He shuffled a bit closer, leaning down over S’tan.
S’tan sighed. “Look, I can’t move much like this, so you’re going to have to come a bit lower for me to kiss you.” T’rell blinked. “You didn't need this much invitation last time! Shards! Tell me this isn’t an attack of Holder morals!”
T’rell knelt quickly but the bed, and pressed his lips hungrily to S’tan’s. Working his tongue expertly past S’tan’s lips probing, licking and pushing, hard, hot and wet. He pulled away only when they were both near breathless. “I thought you were hurt?”
“Yup, but isn’t numbweed wonderful?” S’tan struggled up onto his hands and knees, before falling back to the sheets on his left side. “Ow, maybe not that wonderful...” his muscles were masses of stiffness... it probably wasn’t a good idea to move too much.
T’rell grinned, any remaining Holder morals long since forgotten at the sight of S’tan’s sun bronzed body laying displayed in front of him. Skin softened by the oils dragon riders used to clean their mounts, unblemished by the hundreds of little marks Holders get from poor diet and hard work. It was smooth and perfect, more like an artist’s impression of a man than a man himself.
He leaned forwards again, but not to the lips this time. He kissed S’tan’s well defined chest, flicking out his tongue to trace a liquid path around his hard nipples, so much darker than the rest of his skin. He kissed again, an inch lower. Again he lapped at that sweet skin, tasting the salty sheen of sweat, nose tickling the few soft hairs.
He kissed his way down that chest inch, by glorious, perfect inch. Kissing harder the lower he went, still pausing now and then to deliver only the most feather light touch of his lips. Touches that made S’tan’s skin writhe and shudder and his muscles contract and tense wonderfully. S’tan’s breath quickened, more sweat beaded across his body.
T’rell kissed across S’tan’s taut stomach, bringing the flesh into his mouth ever so slightly, nibbling ever so gently - then not so gently, as he proceeded ever lower. Pausing by the navel, to the very top of his groin.
He licked back and forth above the forest of hair, teasing the skin with his teeth, working it with his lips. S’tan gasped, his hands twitching in the furs... he moaned softly, his pain forgotten.
T’rell took that last step, took S’tan into his mouth, tilting his head and opening his throat to take all of him, the full, thick length of him. His lips reached S’tan’s groin, his cheek nestling against the incredibly soft skin of his balls.
he drew his head back, sucking deeply, until he nearly pulled off of S’tan altogether, before drawing back down again, painfully slowly. T’rell’s clever tongue wound sinuously around the shaft of S’tan’s manhood, rolling around the head before dancing down to the base, over and over with every strong, sure stroke of T’rell’s head. S’tan closed his eyes and moistened his suddenly dry lips, his face slackening as T’rell picked up the rhythm, increased the speed, tongue still playing joyously up and down, managing to explore every side of S’tan’s cock.
T’rell came up on his knees, squeezing onto the bed, still holding S’tan in his mouth. He lay on the bed beside S’tan, so his chin could rest in S’tan’s balls, and his tongue could sweep along the underside of S’tan’s cock far easier, far faster and far harder. he took full advantage and soon S’tan’s breathing was so quick he sounded close to collapse.
The bed rocked with the force of the rocking of T’rell’s head, grown so frenzied his hair flailed and he had to close his eyes to avoid getting dizzy. He swooped in and out so fast and so hard that the slapping of flesh on flesh could be heard even outside the room. But anyone capable of hearing that would have long since have been able to hear the purely animal sounds that S’tan was gasping over and over, fast as he could draw breath.
The orgasm caught S’tan and sent him falling back into his furs, rolling around and crying from the sheer intensity of it as the wave bowled him over and raised him up, oblivious to his terrible wounds, to the room around him, even to the man whose lips had brought him to such intensity.
When S’tan could finally see clearly, it was to massively aching muscles and a pair of soft, gentle lips on his.
“Guess I am a terrible doctor... you’re bleeding again...”
“Heh, it was definitely worth it.” S’tan grinned, then outright laughed when he heard an echoing thought.
Yes, it was worth it
T’rell kissed the innmured dragon rider agaoin. “Menora’s going to kill me.”
“Yes, I imagine so.” The woman said mildly as she entered the room. T’rell jumped and blushed bright crimson.
S’tan laughed, reached for the goblet of felis juice and drained it quickly. “I’ll leave you to sort this out, T’rell.” He said, just before the felis eased him into a restful sleep to the sound of T’rell’s stammering.
Anyway, I remember having a convo with someone on journal (and clearly the alcohol is earting my brain because I can't find that post so I don't know who it was with, and I'd greatly appreciate the perpetrator coming forward before I start the man hunt) about Anne McCaffrey pern books, and how so many people had slashed it. Then realised, despite everyone I know ASSUMING it had been slashed to death, none of us could actually think of any McCaffrey slash. Beyond being a disturbing indication fo the power of assumption, it made me decide to write some, just to prove it had been slashed to deathn. So there.
So here's some dragon rider slash. Naturally Ms. McCaffrey holds copywrite, based in Benden Weyr at the time of the weird falling thread (which should mean something to Pern readers, I hope).
Oh, and in other news, after much beta'ing I am sending some fic off to Toquere press. Wish me luck!
S’tan sat lazily, laid against Mirithanth’s back, grinning idly as he watched riders running back and forth hurrying into their riding leathers. He’d dressed early, he always did on Threadfall days, then he could watch the frenzied activity of Benden Weyr’s riders undisturbed. Nothing like a bit of free letching to get you ready for Thread, right?
You’re getting known for it. I can hardly keep up with you.
He nearly fell over laughing. Shells! Was he that bad, that even his dragon, his GREEN dragon couldn’t keep up with his... um... appetite?
It’s not too much for me! I didn’t mean you were...
It’s Ok Mirrie, I know what you meant. It was funny. He reached up and stroked Mirithanth’s head, pressing his fingers along the bony ridges until her many faceted eyes spun with pleasure, glowing a gentle blue green.
“Oy! S’tan, are you going to lay there all day?!” His wingleader T’kal sounded harsh, but the old Bitran’s bark was worse than his bite. A thin thread scar on his right cheek failed to ruin the rugged good looks of the tall, muscular bronze rider, and S’tan made sure he indulged in a long stare before answering.
“I was ready hours ago, not my fault your great unwieldy creatures are so slow and heavy.” He gave the old man his best cheeky grin, not even blinking in the face of T’kal’s fierce glare. “Something the matter with Relioth, T’kal? His arthritis playing him up?” T’kal’s glare didn’t flicker, even when S’tan mentioned his Bronze dragon. He didn’t need to defend old Relioth, he had flown his share of queens in his time, and greens for that matter, he had nothing left to prove.
The tableaux stretched for several long seconds before the older man stalked off muttering. S’tan fell back against Mirithanth’s green flank, laughing helplessly.
Two strong hands gripped him from behind, pulling him up to his feet, he gasped in surprise, turning quickly to stare into the playful dark eyes of a stranger. Unruly black hair flopped into his eyes, escaping the flying helmet he wore as he balanced precariously across Mirithanth’s back. He grinned hugely as S’tan’s mouth opened, but his words were stopped. The stranger leaned forward and kissed S’tan thoroughly, probing deeply into his open mouth with a quick, clever tongue, one strong hand moving up his body to cradle the back of the green rider’s head, imprisoning him in the kiss. He needed no holding, he melted into Mirithanth’s flank.
“You two stop that right now! I need you focused, thread’s falling over Nerat tip, last thing we need is thread in the rainforests because you’re too busy mooning after each other!”
The stranger pulled away hurriedly at T’kal’s roar. He paused to grin down at S’tan, “can’t wait to see if you fly as well as you kiss, green rider,” before sliding down the other side of Mirithanth and hurrying off. S’tan was too dazed to speak, and by the time his senses returned, the stranger was gone. He sighed heavily, and somewhat dramatically, before vaulting onto Mirithanth’s neck.
What’re you doing letting people use you as a vaulting horse? You could’ve at least warned me!
You don’t normally get angry when men kiss you. Nice looking men.
S’tan had to grin, he must have the only dragon on Pern who knew what made human’s pretty. Well, maybe some other greens knew.
I’m not angry, Mirrie, just a little surprised. It’s not every day strangers run up and molest me.
He looked around, but even from Mirithanth’s neck, he couldn't see the stranger. His green dragon was too small compared to the vast bulk of the surrounding wing to give him the height to see. Looming over the amassed wings of Benden Weyr was the Queens Wing, glinting gold in the morning light, lead by Weyrwoman Lessa on the great Queen Ramoth, the biggest dragon on all Pern. Lessa shifted the huge canisters of her agenothree throwers with ease, despite her diminutive size and leaned towards a dragon that nearly matched Ramoth in size, bronze Mnementh, Ramoth’s mate, and his rider F’lar, Weyrleader of Benden Weyr, and all the Weyrs of Pern. The tall, serious man was looking out to the east, where thread always fell, seemingly waiting for some signal to send the wings aloft.
Lessa says we fly there was awe, and just a little fear when Mirithanth said the Weyrwoman’s name, and with good reason. Lessa was a heroine, a legend, and all well deserved. And her temper was feared by Weyr leaders and Lords Holder alike. Perhaps the only person on Pern whose name was known to all dragons, well her and F’lar. Dragons rarely remembered the names of people other than their riders, to be remembered by all was a great honour.
The wings rose from the Weyr en masse. The air groaned under the strain of hundreds of great flying dragons, the biggest dragons of Pern always came from Benden Weyr, even the greens. The assembled mass of Benden’s flying strength was a truly awesome sight. For a full minute the morning sun shone on the massed dragon hide, glittering off the golden Queen’s wing, shining across the mighty bronzes, gilding the strong browns, embracing the fast but enduring blues and adding fire to the small, agile greens. It was a sight to make a Harper reach for a sand-table for it screamed inspiration.
The signal to pass between travelled silently among the wings, and one by one, they disappeared in perfect formation. S’tan caught his breath as they entered the utter blackness of between, cold beyond imagining, so black it was darker than the depths of any hold. He couldn’t feel the flying leathers clasped around his body, couldn’t even feel Mirithanth beneath him. He gasped, but there was no air for his lungs...
Then they were out, the heat hit him like a hammer, the thick, close heat of the jungles of Nerat, leagues away from Benden Weyr, travelled in mere seconds on dragon back.
There was a thin haze to the east, under the baleful gaze of the red star. A haze like thick fog, falling down, deceptively slowly, to the ground. Thread. Fighting over Nerat was the worst, not only was the heat so oppressive, making riders, if not the dragons, sluggish, but one strand of thread falling into those thick, lush forests and acres could be devastated before the ground crews could get through the thick undergrowth to the infestation.
The lead wings met the leading edge, bright sparks shone as firestone fuelled dragon flame charred the deadly silvery fall into harmless ash. Wing after wing engaged in perfect formation, perfect discipline. Riders blinked in and out of between, dodging thread with mere inches to spare. Underneath flew the bright golden triangle of the Queen’s wing, their riders carrying flamethrowers so the breeding queens wouldn't be rendered infertile through chewing firestone. It was a grand sight to stir the blood, S’tan could feel Mirithanth’s thrumming eagerness to enter the fray.
But something was wrong. Too many of those who blinked out didn’t return... none had fallen, but how many were injured? Mirithanth drew back her battle rage as her subdued voice reported the losses...
Firith is scored... and Lirath. Nosith’s rider has been scored. And Trinath’s!
what’s happening?! We’re only 10 minutes in and we’ve taken more scoring than we usually get in a full 4 hour fall!
this thread falls wrong...
He had no time to check on the cryptic comment, for they had reached the leading edge. Long silver stands falling to the rich jungle below. With a roar Mirithanth flew into battle, dancing lithely among the larger, stronger dragons, turning on a wingtip to catch thread beyond the reach of the slower, larger dragons. His mind flashed with quick directions to his dragon, his eyes flicking to spot errant threads. The thread DID fall wrong, twisting oddly in the wind, falling to no pattern S’tan knew, no pattern they’d trained to face. He called Mirithanth to bank swiftly as they nearly collided with a flinching brown dragon, the smaller green darting agilely under the larger dragon’s wing.
He turned to glare at the brown, but a terrible scream sounded to his left, he jerked round, pulling against his flying straps to see... another brown, Wenrath, was spiralling to the ground, most of his right wing sail shredded and burned by thread. The dragon’s panicked thoughts so loud that every dragon rider in the sky could hear his mental anguish. His rider, J’nat was injured, unconscious, maybe dying from thread score...
S’tan urged Mirithanth closer, swooping in before the brown could turn. J’nat lay sprawled, his flying straps near seared through, one half of his face a bloody ruin, ravaged by the pernicious touch of thread. He urged Mirinthanth closer to the thrashing, plummeting, panicking brown, twisting between the flailing claws and beating wings. He grimaced in pain as a claw slashed across his arm, gritted his teeth as Mirithanth jerked backwards jarringly to avoid a pummelling wing. Just a little closer...
He unfastened one of his flying straps, took a rope from his waist and nimbly fastened it round his waist and into Mirithanth’s riding harness. He took a deep breath and jumped onto the broad back of the falling brown dragon below. He grabbed one of the leather straps harnessing the screaming dragon and pulled himself next to the fallen J’nat. He wrapped a loop of the braided wherhide rope around J’nat, working hurriedly as the ground swooped ever closer. With shaking fingers he pulled away the last of J’nat’s flying straps harnessing him to the falling dragon.
Holding tightly to the injured dragon rider, he leaped into space, pulling them both free from the fall, at the cost of bone cracking jerk of the wherhide rope pulling tight. Damn, felt like his left shoulder had cracked.
No time to stop, he pulled himself one handed up the rope, taking advantage of the brief wave of numbness from the broken bone to climb as high as he could. He was almost to Mirithanth’s flank when the nauseating pain hit. Spots danced across his vision, and darkness loomed round the edges. Something gripped him around the middle, something incredibly strong and amazingly gentle. He was moving... his slack hands lost their grip on the rope, but they didn’t fall. Gently they floated upwards.
His vision cleared to see the back of Mirithanth’s neck, her fore-claw tucking back down underneath her. Sighing with relief and sending waves of gratitude to his wonderful dragon, he clipped his safety harness back into place, sparring a couple of thongs to hold the unconscious J’nat in place.
The brown dragon who had nearly crashed into him was now hovering over J’nat’s Wenrath, strong fore-claws gripping the other dragon’s wing joints, riding to the rescue now the rider had been moved out of the way. A much larger golden Queen came up beneath the injured brown, vast glittering wings bracing, taking the strain for both dragons.
Silalith says we should put Wenrath’s rider on the other brown’s back, so they can go between back to the weyr.
It made sense, dragons often panicked if they went between without their riders. S’tan did spare a smile for Mirithanth’s disdain of the brown who had nearly hit them, refusing to name him. Greens could get stroppy when they had reason to.
They gently manoeuvred the still oblivious J’nat over the steadily hovering brown. With slow, careful movements, S’tan lowered J’nat down with his wherhide rope, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, and deeply grateful to Mirithanth for taking most of the weight with her strong fore-claws. He sighed with relief and brushed aside cold, nervous sweat with an upward flick of his head when he saw J’nat safely fastened to the brown rider’s harness. Then he froze...
The thread descended, far too fast and far too close for the three much larger dragons to manoeuvre out of its way before it hit, especially tangled together as they were. With a thought, he spurred Mirithanth in a breakneck climb towards the descending patch. She rocketed through the air at speeds that stole breath and made his eyes water even through his protective goggles. Mirithanth’s fire seared the fast descending tangle, head angling back and forth as she belched ferocious, phosphine scented flame at lethal mass.
But Mirithanth was a green, she didn’t have the range or the spread of the larger dragons. The tangle was too large. Faster than thought, S’tan guided Mirithanth through the tangle, thinking ahead far faster than a dragon ever could, leading the near panicking Mirithanth through decisions that danced the line between life and death.
But it was impossible! He couldn’t get it all! He heard Mirithanth scream, and ducked rapidly between. Thread had caught her wingtip, just marginally but he cursed himself a thousand fold for getting his dragon, his wonderful, perfect, Mirithanth hurt even the slightest. He blinked back tears and begged forgiveness and comfort down the soul linking bond that held them together. The thread crumpled away instantly in the unbelievable cold of between, and Mirithanth’s reassuring forgiveness warmed him even against the chill. Steeled him for their re-emergence under the thread tangle again - the job wasn't done yet.
And it was still impossible... no other dragons were near, just the three entangled injured trying to achieve enough stable flight to go between to the weyr. The formations had broken up in the face of the strange fall. There was only him, and only one way.
He directed Mirithanth up, relying on her unflinching trust of his instructions, desperately keeping his thoughts blank of his intentions, hiding them from her. She swooped upwards into the thread, without a hint of doubt, one second thought. She twisted , flamed the centre out of the thread, flowed like silk round again to char another swath... they were mere feet from the brown rider now..., she turned again, a kernel of doubt opening in her...
S’tan, we will crash into the brown, or the thread...
trust me, beloved...
They angled upwards, twisting at the last minute... directly under the thread. S’tan had time to hear Mirithanth’s scream of fury, mental and physical...
NO!
Before he twisted in his seat, taking the thread head on, spreading his arms to keep one strand from touching Mirithanth. The agony was unbelievable! The thread seared through his leathers in seconds, boring into his back, sloughing down his skin, burning away layer of flesh and muscle... his vision went black, the excruciating pain blocked all thought as he felt a deep chill take him...
He woke, laid on his stomach on a bed thick with furs. The furs over his back were held over him by a thin wooden frame, to keep the heavy material touching his raw back. He tried to move... and yelped. His whole back was stiff and burned fiercely.
“Don’t move. That’s one of the deepest scorings I’ve ever seen. Certainly the deepest I’ve ever seen anyone survive. I’ll not have you ruining my doctoring with your twitching.
S’tan craned his neck to see Menora, the Weyr’s head woman staring sternly at him, a look that didn’t hide the relief round her eyes.
Mirithanth...?
“I know that look, S’tan. Don’t you dare wake her! She’s half starved and exhausted from watching you these past two sevendays. If it weren’t for Lessa’s orders she would still be here now.”
“But...”
The weyrwoman’s face softened. “She’s fine S’tan. Just a minor wing scoring, tiny it was and already healed. You took the full brunt of it.” She smiled wryly, “Lessa’s still deciding whether to hug you for being such a hero or flay you for being such an idiot. Why is it always the green riders?”
“Because green riders always think they have something to prove.” The handsome man with the unruly hair who had kissed him before threadfall swaggered into the room, grinning.
Menora sniffed, truning her stern gaze on the newcomer. “You look like a man with too little to do, T’rell. We can solve that. I’m going to tell the weyrwoman that S’tan’s awake. You can make yourself useful and put some numbweed on his back - gently! I want him in good health for when the Weyrwoman decides to skin him. And try to persuade him to take some of that fellis juice.” With that she strode out of the room, depositing a large pot of numbweed and a goblet of wine mixed with fellis juice on the dragonrider.
“Shells! She always like that?” said T’rell, sitting gingerly on the side of S’tan’s bed.
“Usually. Keeps this place going though. Guess you’re new here, then?”
“Yes, transferred in about a sevenday before threadfall. From Fort Weyr. I’m Blue Gongorath’s rider by the way.”
“Well, guess you know me. S’tan, green Mirithanth’s rider. And I’m sure Menora said something about numbweed.”
“Pushy little hero aren’t you?” He pulled the top off the numbweed, and pulled the furs back slowly from S’tan’s back. “By the Egg! It’s cut near to the bone!”
S’tan glared up at him as best he could, laid on his stomach. “You’re a terrible doctor, T‘rell. Your bedside manner needs a lot of work.”
The handsome visiting rider blushed and began gingerly smearing the thick numbweed paste across S’tan’s ravaged back. “Sorry,” he muttered, “it surprised me.”
S’tan writhed as the cold salve was rubbed onto his back, breath whistling between his teeth, hands clenched on the furs. Until the thrice blessed weed kicked in, wonderful numbness seeping down through his back, masking even the worst of the pain. He sighed in glorious relief, and managed to turn his head enough to look at the fixed, concentrating look on T’rell’s face.
“So... do you often play Healer?” S’tan asked, casually.
“Me? No! I was a Ruathan holder before coming to the Weyr, never studied much healing, too busy working. Um... what about you?”
“Weyrbred. Born and bred in Benden Weyr.” There was a long pause, while S’tan enjoyed T’rell’s gentle application of the numbing salve.
“I saw you during the fall,” T’rell said, quietly, trying to sound casually. “You were amazing. You DO fly as well as you kiss! And that’s saying something.” He blushed, and cleared his throat, but forced himself to continue. “Everyone’s amazed at how you rescued M’fes, and taking all this thread yourself! You’re a hero.”
S’tan tried to assume a modest smile, but it twisted a bit into a gleeful grin. “Can you say that to Lessa when she comes to claim my hide. Or what’s left of my hide anyway?”
“Errr... no. I think you hero types should sort it out between you.” He shuffled a bit closer, leaning down over S’tan.
S’tan sighed. “Look, I can’t move much like this, so you’re going to have to come a bit lower for me to kiss you.” T’rell blinked. “You didn't need this much invitation last time! Shards! Tell me this isn’t an attack of Holder morals!”
T’rell knelt quickly but the bed, and pressed his lips hungrily to S’tan’s. Working his tongue expertly past S’tan’s lips probing, licking and pushing, hard, hot and wet. He pulled away only when they were both near breathless. “I thought you were hurt?”
“Yup, but isn’t numbweed wonderful?” S’tan struggled up onto his hands and knees, before falling back to the sheets on his left side. “Ow, maybe not that wonderful...” his muscles were masses of stiffness... it probably wasn’t a good idea to move too much.
T’rell grinned, any remaining Holder morals long since forgotten at the sight of S’tan’s sun bronzed body laying displayed in front of him. Skin softened by the oils dragon riders used to clean their mounts, unblemished by the hundreds of little marks Holders get from poor diet and hard work. It was smooth and perfect, more like an artist’s impression of a man than a man himself.
He leaned forwards again, but not to the lips this time. He kissed S’tan’s well defined chest, flicking out his tongue to trace a liquid path around his hard nipples, so much darker than the rest of his skin. He kissed again, an inch lower. Again he lapped at that sweet skin, tasting the salty sheen of sweat, nose tickling the few soft hairs.
He kissed his way down that chest inch, by glorious, perfect inch. Kissing harder the lower he went, still pausing now and then to deliver only the most feather light touch of his lips. Touches that made S’tan’s skin writhe and shudder and his muscles contract and tense wonderfully. S’tan’s breath quickened, more sweat beaded across his body.
T’rell kissed across S’tan’s taut stomach, bringing the flesh into his mouth ever so slightly, nibbling ever so gently - then not so gently, as he proceeded ever lower. Pausing by the navel, to the very top of his groin.
He licked back and forth above the forest of hair, teasing the skin with his teeth, working it with his lips. S’tan gasped, his hands twitching in the furs... he moaned softly, his pain forgotten.
T’rell took that last step, took S’tan into his mouth, tilting his head and opening his throat to take all of him, the full, thick length of him. His lips reached S’tan’s groin, his cheek nestling against the incredibly soft skin of his balls.
he drew his head back, sucking deeply, until he nearly pulled off of S’tan altogether, before drawing back down again, painfully slowly. T’rell’s clever tongue wound sinuously around the shaft of S’tan’s manhood, rolling around the head before dancing down to the base, over and over with every strong, sure stroke of T’rell’s head. S’tan closed his eyes and moistened his suddenly dry lips, his face slackening as T’rell picked up the rhythm, increased the speed, tongue still playing joyously up and down, managing to explore every side of S’tan’s cock.
T’rell came up on his knees, squeezing onto the bed, still holding S’tan in his mouth. He lay on the bed beside S’tan, so his chin could rest in S’tan’s balls, and his tongue could sweep along the underside of S’tan’s cock far easier, far faster and far harder. he took full advantage and soon S’tan’s breathing was so quick he sounded close to collapse.
The bed rocked with the force of the rocking of T’rell’s head, grown so frenzied his hair flailed and he had to close his eyes to avoid getting dizzy. He swooped in and out so fast and so hard that the slapping of flesh on flesh could be heard even outside the room. But anyone capable of hearing that would have long since have been able to hear the purely animal sounds that S’tan was gasping over and over, fast as he could draw breath.
The orgasm caught S’tan and sent him falling back into his furs, rolling around and crying from the sheer intensity of it as the wave bowled him over and raised him up, oblivious to his terrible wounds, to the room around him, even to the man whose lips had brought him to such intensity.
When S’tan could finally see clearly, it was to massively aching muscles and a pair of soft, gentle lips on his.
“Guess I am a terrible doctor... you’re bleeding again...”
“Heh, it was definitely worth it.” S’tan grinned, then outright laughed when he heard an echoing thought.
Yes, it was worth it
T’rell kissed the innmured dragon rider agaoin. “Menora’s going to kill me.”
“Yes, I imagine so.” The woman said mildly as she entered the room. T’rell jumped and blushed bright crimson.
S’tan laughed, reached for the goblet of felis juice and drained it quickly. “I’ll leave you to sort this out, T’rell.” He said, just before the felis eased him into a restful sleep to the sound of T’rell’s stammering.
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Date: 2003-10-19 06:26 pm (UTC)