Amani and Zymuraith, Ibrahim


Amani and Ibrahim come to an understanding regarding flights.

Backdated; mild sexual suggestion


It is early evening on the 1st day of the 9th month of the 12th Turn of the 12th Pass.


The Magician's Study, Southern Weyr

OOC Date 09 Jan 2018 06:00


amani_default.jpg ibrahim_default.jpg

"I'm not going anywhere, Amani. And I'll wait for you. Every. Single. Time."

The Magician's Study

A short flight of steps leads up to the entrance to this queen's weyr, an ornate metal gate swinging open with barely a squeak to permit entry into the short, candle-lit tunnel beyond. Although it may be on the smaller, more snug side, the weyr is beautifully furnished. The four-poster bed has a plump mattress, and the fabric draped from the wooden bars bears a distinctly Zingari flair in red and gold, some with discreetly glinting and elegantly embroidered design work present upon close inspection. It also allows for some privacy if arranged just so, the gauzy lightness of it lending the room a slightly ethereal quality. The writing desk provides plenty of workspace without taking up too much of the corner it's placed in and matches the pale wood of the bed, illuminated by a pair of hanging glow baskets. A set of elegant glass pens and ink pots serves as the highlight of the space, glinting in the light as though a hidden magic might reside in each crystalline stem. The comfortable chair tucked under the desk is upholstered with a pale brown fabric. A small wardrobe in a similar wood has been squeezed into one corner of the weyr, trying not to take up what remains of the floor space. There is a contrastingly rustic chest sitting beside it, almost begging one to ask what mysteries it might hold. A small private necessary is available off the back of the cavern, pristine and tidy, with a sparkling clean pool and plenty of shelves holding several generously-sized towels in various jewel tones and other toiletries to boot.

Has Amani “settled” into her role as a junior weyrwoman yet? She wonders if she ever will. Perhaps it’s not something she’ll truly ever get used to, but she at least tries to carry herself with collected composure while she’s out and about. At home, however, she can let the mask come off. It’s not as though she’s in a particularly emotional state this evening, just…a thoughtful one. She sits near the hanging that separates her weyr from Zymuraith’s ledge without, listening to the soft pattering of the seemingly ever-present rain as she reads over a few hides, but otherwise seems relaxed. A deep green skirt and loose, cream-hued shirt make up a very casual outfit, no footwear to speak of completing the look. There’s a fire burning in the little hearth she’s gotten established, letting her get away with being barefoot despite the coolness of the air.

She hopes Ibrahim will come by this evening. But rather than leave it to chance, she pauses her reading to write out a little note, sending it off with her little gold Dhahabi to take the wildling man’s way. Then she goes back to her hides, sipping idly at a still slightly steaming cup of tea all the while.

Ask and you shall receive, goes the old saying — and when Dhahabi finds Ibrahim tending to the nets of his chosen trade, he’s all too happy to offer the little gold a tidbit for her prompt delivery of the message. And, in reading it, his smile gets deeper, and the net’s coiled up and put away with an almost indecent haste in his desire to get to Amani. One simply must answer a Weyrwoman’s summons immediately, right? Right! He makes his way toward her weyr, not even bother to throw on a jacket (or a shirt for that matter) to protect himself from the rain. He’s long since learned to ignore being wet, having been born and bred to the climate all his life.

Upon reaching Zymuraith’s ledge, he pauses to look to the beautiful gold, taking a moment to offer her a little bow of greeting; it only seems fair to do so, since it’s her home as well. “Hello, Zyrumaith. You’re looking well.” That, too, has become habit, to admire her for a long moment, and to wonder at his luck in having managed to remain on her good side.

Amani knows of Ibrahim’s arrival somewhat in advance thanks to her lifemate, so rises and goes to the hanging, pushing it aside in time to see him making that bow to Zymuraith. The young queen rumbles amicably at the wildling man, a ripple of motion undulating her long tail and resulting in a flip that coils it into a neat curl beside her hindquarters. She doesn’t speak to Ibrahim per se…but he might have a subtle impression of a crackling fire’s warmth somewhere in his mind, an impression of a few silvery-white sparks drifting before his eyes before they die to golden embers and then fade entirely.

“She says thank you,” Amani announces from the threshold, her smile tilting as she looks him over, then draws closer. “And I’d say you’re looking well yourself. One advantage of having this much rain is that I suppose the odds of getting to see you like this are higher.” She takes his hand and tugs him toward the hanging with an inviting tilt of her head.

Oh, he’d gathered that by that gentle, subtle contact in his mind, a contact he savors for a moment. But still, it’s a startling thing, to feel another mind joining his, however briefly; his only other experience is the exuberant shout of Jedamaeth’s. “If that’s what it’s like… I might be convinced to try Standing, once.” It had been a warm contact, one Ibrahim will likely carry with him forever; it’s not every day a dragon will speak to a human not his or her mate. “She’s entirely welcome.” Funny thing, that; a dragon liking to be complimented. His gaze meets Amani’s, warm and affectionate — he doesn’t say so, out loud, but it’s possible that he thinks Amani is as beautiful in her newfound place in the world. He’s yet to know what it all means, yet, but it’s there. And then he glances down at his chest, and back at Amani with a mischievous smile. “Oh, you like the idea of me running around without a shirt, do you? I might indulge you, then.” His fingers automatically tangle with hers as he lets her draw him further into the weyr.

“Every dragon is different,” Amani points out softly, and chuckles, giving her lifemate’s nose a rub as she passes. “That was her being very polite; she’s downright confusing to others most of the time.” Though not unpleasant, usually. Memory of a certain visiting Igen bronze from her Candidacy days provided her glimpse of the opposite end of the spectrum.

She grins as they pass the hanging, letting her other hand trip playful fingertips up his chest once they come to a stop. “I’d thought I was being obvious about liking you running around without a shirt. Or much else. Maybe I’ll have to be a little more blatant.” She brushes her lips to his, teasing, before pulling away a bit and gesturing toward a cabinet. “Something to drink? I have water, tea, and whiskey.” Standard in any weyr, perhaps.

Her weyr looks much the same as it had when she’d first gotten it, but it’s obvious she’s had a bit of time to add some of her Zingari accoutrements here and there. The fabric draping the posts of her bed is similarly light and gauzy compared to what was there before but is a deep, shimmering green now. There’s an incense brazier hanging near the bed, a tendril of smoke curling upward from it to carry a subtly spicy aroma into the air. Splashes of color pervade now - a scarlet emblazoning on a box here, a bolt of marine blue peeking out from a drawer not quite shut.

“Jedamaeth.” Ibrahim, chuckling, provides an example of differences among dragons. “Perhaps she likes making people think.” Though, thank Faranth she's not inclined in this instance to make Ibrahim think; there's the broad distraction of his hand in Amani's, and her very real appreciation of his body — though it makes him a little bit shy, still; he's not used to that, yet.

He does laugh, though, when she suggests wandering around in little or nothing. “I can't imagine the leadership would be for it.” Her kiss is met with one of his own, and a soft smile as she draws away. “Tea, I think; it's just the right thing for the weather…” He glances around, admiring the splashes of color about the place. “So this is how a Zingari decorates.”

Amani chuckles and gives a shaking of her head, completely understanding. Jedameth is probably the most gregarious dragon she’s ever encountered, but at least he’s friendly. And not quite as obnoxious as he used to be. As for his answer about clothing, she gives Ibrahim a grin. “Good thing I didn’t mean in public, then,” she points out, and moves away to fill a tea ball and pour some hot water into a mug.

Her cheeks color faintly at his last. “This is nothing compared to how they really decorate,” she says, dropping the ball into the mug and crossing back to him to hand it off. “Which I mean to show you firsthand very soon, by the way. As soon as my next rest day comes along, we’re making a trip to Igen. But in the meantime, most of what I’ve brought back is clothing, and I commissioned some more from the clan’s tailor during my last visit. So in that way…” Her chin drops a bit, turning her smile coy. “You can at least see how a Zingari a woman decorates herself and have good example.” One thing she’d fully embraced just before getting Searched.

Oh, Jedamaeth: he is an adorable form of obnoxious. His saving grace, that. And then she suggests private running about without clothes: this pleases him — perhaps too much from the wicked cant of his gaze. “Well, in that case…” Ibrahim chortles, grinning at her. “Does that mean you're gonna run around without clothes too?” What? A man can hope, can't he?

The tea is taken, sipped appreciatively. It's a lovely sort of thing, taking tea while discussing going to meet the Zingari. “Here's to hoping they like me.” He's nervous about that, clearly: meeting the family is always a trying time. “Although I am looking forward to seeing you in Zingari garb…”

“Only here, and only if you’re around,” Amani replies, peering mischievously up at Ibrahim through her lashes and then catching at his waistband with a finger to tug him after her toward the bed. She perches on the end with her tea, leaning against the nearest post as she sips. Her smile for his last is reassuring. “They will. They’ll also be weighing your character, but I’m starting to think that’s just a thing families do.” She certainly caught that on her visit into the jungle with him, after all. “But the Zingari… They’re a warm people, happy and fiery and forged by a lot of trying times. As long as they know you only intend the best for me, they’ll welcome you with open arms.”

As for the matter of her clothing, she chuckles softly. “This is Zingari, though very, very casual,” she notes, fingering her skirt. “Nothing to separate it from anyone else’s common clothes, really. But I’ll make sure you see something that’s more obviously so the next time you’re around.”

“That’s a deal, then my lady.” Oh, but he likes this Amani — hints of spice and fire, and at the most unexpected times. He’ll follow along after her, though that finger in his waistband is becoming a very delightful distraction. Idly, he strokes her wrist murmuring, “That… is unfairly lovely, Amani.” As to the last… meeting — it was most definitely a weighing: of his life choice, of her, of everything. It’s what the small clan does, for Ibrahim is their ever-wandering son, moving further away from their close ties, and leaving many in doubt as to his return. And if Amani proves as grounding as is suspected, they may well lose him entirely. “I intend to give you my best, poor as it may be.” He grins boyishly at her, and absently curls his fingers around the nape of her neck, brushing a kiss across her forehead. Her clothing is met with a gentle assessment: “Hmm. I like it.” He’s rather easily pleased: “I like you with or without clothes of any sort.”

Amani grins again, a little shake of her head given for his assessment of what Ibrahim considers his best to be. Yet even as she leans into his kiss, there’s a worried little twinge that tugs at her heart. It’s good he’s come. The cause of it needs addressing.

She hums agreeably at his last. “At least I don’t have to worry about you being particular,” she teases, and scoots a bit closer, her free hand settling on his knee. As she studies his face, her expression gradually transforms into something more serious, and she gives a little sigh. “Speaking of bests - mine in particular… There’s something I wanted to talk to you about, Ibra. Having to do with something that Zymuraith will be doing, which…ends up manifesting in me when it happens.” She worries at her lower lip a bit, trying to figure out how best to put the matter in easily understandable terms.

Hint: he’s averse to clothes, in the general scheme of things, being a wildling. But, since he’s all out in ‘polite’ society and whatever, he goes along with the pretense of modesty when he can’t avoid it.
But here, now, she’s gone serious on him, and he sets the teacup down, taking her hand in his, and frowns slightly, wondering: “What, Amani?” There’s a roughening of his voice, a twinge of worry long hidden away where he hasn’t had to face it: Zymuraith will not always be the amenable young weyrling gold he’s come to know. “I…” Words, of course, fail him at the worst possible time and he gazes down at her hand in his, unable to still the faint trembling of his fingers.

Amani wonders at the trembling she can feel in Ibrahim’s fingers, frowning slightly as she considers it. What does he fear from the simple mention of needing to talk to him about something? Though they are still new to this relationship and many of the ins and outs attending it - particularly since she’s graduated - she hasn’t felt afraid of anything where he’s concerned…except in what she’s about to bring up. Could he possibly know what she’s going to say, somehow? Has he been at the Weyr long enough to make that deduction? She supposes it’s possible…

Blinking, she realizes she’s not getting anywhere by thinking all of this to herself. Her fingers squeeze his, and she swallows before asking her question softly. “Do you know about mating flights? What happens during them, for the rider?”

“Yeah. And it scares me.” Ibrahim admits quietly, looking up at Amani. To know she will soon not be in complete charge of who she’s in bed with — or what happens in the aftermath — he’s not at all happy about it. “It… gets rough. So I’ve heard, anyway.” He’s managed to get an education, of sorts, with all the greens that rise, and the gossip that follows. His fingers tighten, then loosen, and he sighs softly and lifts her hand to his cheek closing his eyes for a moment. “I won’t pretend I understand it all… I just… well. It worries me. Will you… be okay. Will you get hurt.” He opens his eyes to meet her gaze, his dark eyes meeting hers. He doesn’t know how these things work, not really, being a non-rider. It’s the one thing he cannot share with her, and well he knows it — and he knows he cannot insist on keeping her from the full experience. “I just don’t know what’s expected… of me. Of you.”

“So you’ve…heard.” Something about Ibrahim’s answer has an agitating effect on Amani, and she can’t figure out what it is right away. Her brow furrows, and she rises, starting to pace a bit out of the need to redirect the feeling. “I don’t think what you’ve heard is what I’ve learned,” she says after a bit, stopping long enough to fold her arms upon her chest and give a little shake of her head. “We were taught that it’s always going to be different depending on the dragon that catches. And on the rider. ‘Rough’ isn’t a blanket way to think about it, thank Faranth. It might not be.” Yet she senses that may not be enough to placate him. “It’s going to happen whether I want it to or not, and I have to deal with it, whatever the outcome. There’s nothing to be done about it. Zymuraith rising… It’s how the Weyr keeps going and stays strong, and in that one thing, I’m just along for the ride. Which only seems fair considering how much she’s dealt with through me.” Which isn’t similar in the least, but it’s the closest Amani can come.

She stops with a huff, rubbing her forehead before turning back to Ibrahim. “The other weyrwomen have all lived through whatever happens and come out fine. I will too.” She draws close, settling on her knees in front of him and curling her hands over his knees. “Ibra… I need you to be alright with it, because there’s nothing to be done. It’s part of my life now. And I don’t know if I can handle you not being okay with it.”

She draws a deep quiet breath, her eyes dropping for a bit. “All my life, I’ve had to learn to accept the things I can’t change and just roll along with them. This is one of those. I was…afraid of what could happen, at first. I’m still nervous…but because of being with you, I’m not scared anymore. I know who I am, what sort of strength I have, and I know I’ll be alright. But what’s been worrying me is…”
She lifts her eyes again, klah-dark hues slightly over-bright as she confesses her own fear. “…Will you still want me, knowing that once a Turn or so, someone else will end up having me? Even if it’s mindless for me and the other person?”

Her agitation somehow gives him pause, a feeling that if he doesn’t get this exactly right, it could possibly be an end he doesn’t want. His hands cover hers, holding them against his knees as he bites his lip. “I couldn’t exactly… ask for details.” There’s a shaky attempt at wry humor, there; the corners of his mouth lift in a ghost of his usual smile. He studies her, seeing her as if for the first time: her courage, her strength, her confidence in herself and her dragon. He has to accept this thing, and well he knows it. How could he do less, knowing she has already put in the work? “I believe you. I believe in you. I’ll be okay, my Amani. I just.. I needed to know that you aren’t afraid.”
Gently he frames her face in his hands, thumb sliding over her lower lip with tentative affection. Leaning down, he kisses her forehead again, then the top of her head, his voice softly husky. “Don’t look at me like that, my Amani. You’ll break my heart.” He slips off the bed, hugging her tightly to him. “I can’t promise I won’t be a little bit jealous… hell, I want to keep you all to myself.” He laughs rustily. “But.. I trust you. And I will want you, no matter what. It’s part of what you have to do, to keep the Weyr strong, right? Like I have to keep my family strong.” He pulls away again, to look her in the eye, and smiles softly. “I’m not going anywhere, Amani. And I’ll wait for you. Every. Single. Time.”

There’s a dry snatch of laughter for Ibrahim’s attempt at levity, and Amani blushes furiously. Won’t it be a relief if she finds she won’t be able to remember much anyway? She can only hope. And yet, there’s a worry that still clings - what if she does remember…and what if she likes what she remembers? It’s as much speculation as anything else; she won’t know until it actually happens. But the possibility is one she doesn’t know that she can bring up to Ibrahim, the single most unsteady thing about all of this that crouches in the back of her mind.

She nods when he says he’ll be okay, continuing to do so when he says he needs to know that she won’t be afraid. There’s no way to avoid it the first time around, just as there was a touch of fear to her first time in bed with him. So much will just remain unknown until Zymuraith’s first flight actually happens.

But the thing that has most nagged at her is addressed - his assurance that he’ll still want her, and it’s all she needs to hear right now. She returns his embrace just as tightly, burying her face in his shoulder, breathing him in and using all she can feel of him as a much-needed anchor. She manages not to let any further moisture brighten her eyes as she meets his gaze, fortunately. Then she surges forward with enough force to push him backward if he’s not balanced properly, her arms catching around his neck as she kisses him, fierce and deep. When words fail, action will sometimes suffice…and at the moment, this is the best way she can think to show how much his acceptance means to her.

Ah, the unknown: the core of his fear. That she might like what happens after, that she might remember, that she might realize that he is nowhere near as experienced as some. But still; she’s here. She’s chosen him, and for that, he’s unreasonably grateful. She’s as much an anchor for him as he is for her, and there’s nothing like the enjoyment of this moment that is all theirs. Some small part of him wonders how well she knows the depth of his trust, so rarely given in great quantity to any — but she likely does.

That’s a bridge they’ll have to cross when it’s reached, now isn’t it? Until then, Ibrahim will savor their time together most especially her sudden ferocity in tackling him — and he lets himself be bowled right over, his arms tight around her waist as he kisses her right back, keeping her body locked tight to his, accepting her ferocity as willingly as he’s accepted the rest of it.

Amani certainly knows there is a great amount of depth to what she and Ibrahim have, even if she can’t rightly put words to it. Trust is still something she’s learning to define in full, well-rounded though her concept of it may be now. Still, it is something she’s better able to recognize on a more personal level rather than when it’s being given by another, save when she’s outright told. He’s said he trusts her, and she trusts him. Now she’s learning the nuances of it all.

Breath escapes her in a gust as she lands atop him, a groan of need vibrating between their lips as his arms lock her tightly against him. She frees her own arms, pausing in her bold conquest of his lips in order to reach down and quickly tug her shirt away before going right back to what she was doing. Only this time, the added tantalization of skin upon skin transforms her fierceness to heat with an almost shocking ease.

Presently, however, she chuckles, becoming aware of the press of the floor’s cool stone to her knees. “It’s…not all that comfortable down here,” she notes with a husky chuckle, pulling back just enough to catch his eyes.

“C’mere, then.” Ibrahim lifts her gently into his lap, cuddling her close to his chest before kissing her again, savoring the warmth and weight of her body against his; her need is answered by his own, and his arms are tight around her waist. “Can't have you uncomfortable, now can I?” he laughs huskily, tilting her head back to press a kiss to the hollow of her throat.

Amani snuggles into the warmth of their bare-skinned contact, her arms sliding up to loop around Ibrahim’s neck as she utters a soft hum of pleasure. A soft chuckle leaves her as she lets her head fall back with his urging, gooseflesh prickling subtly with the touch of his lips. “Well, you can’t be all that comfortable either,” she points out wryly. They’re both on the floor, after all! She means to get up, persuading him with her…but the feeling of being in his arms is just too lovely to give up just yet.

Oh, Ibrahim cares not at all — his favorite girl is draped on him and that's all he really needs. He nuzzles her playfully, then gently nips her shoulder. “Hmm. I hadn't noticed. There's this distractingly pretty woman in my lap…” Idle fingers find the skin of her back, stroking it slowly as he takes in the sweetness of her skin against his.

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