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Fantasy your fire never singed me | lu & candy
- Thread starter candygore
- Start date
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- Tags
- dragon enemies to lovers mxm
“Good work today, Caen,” comes a familiar, gruff voice from behind.
Slow, heavy footsteps thump on the dusty ground as the figure approaches him—the other recruits struggling to straighten after the gruelling afternoon routines. They back away as the person nears him, while Caen does not deign to turn around to greet the mysterious figure of apparent authority. He continues unwrapping the gauze from between his hands, only to pull it tighter with one swift tug, and wend it back between his fingers. He knows the others are watching him with wary suspicion, silent disapproval in their sharp gazes: why is he so obviously disregarding his superior?
Not just his superior; his direct warden.
“Not even an acknowledgement, eh?” Dithri chuckles, clapping Caen on the back with a curved, open palm. The strength behind his hand has Caen jerking forward, and snapping a glare back.
“You took Gezes’s stash,” he growls.
Dithri tuts, pouting to fake innocence, “And you assumed I took it? It’s a punishable offence to accuse your commander without proof.”
“Who else has the keys to my weyr except you,” it is not a question. He continues wrapping the gauze around his fist, the action done simply for the sake of keeping his attention ducked and busy on anything but the grey-haired man. “Besides,” he adds, quieter, “you leave behind your disgusting alpha stench wherever you go.”
“You indulge him,” Dithri suddenly announces, speaking of Gezes—Caen’s Tracker—all traces of the previous lightheartedness erased from his voice.
It grinds Caen’s teeth further into each other, molars groaning under the tremendous pressure. “I scavenged those gems!” He barks. People have started clearing away. “I earned those. You can not just take them away as you please–”
“I can,” Dithri contends coolly. “I can, and I have, and if you have any further objection on the matter, you are free—,” he stresses harshly, “—to file a complaint through proper channels.”
What an asshole, Caen seethes silently. If he were a dragon, no doubt there would be steam winding from the top of his head. Dithri knows Caen can not file an official complaint against him without hard proof, and he knows no one will come forth as eye witness even if they did see the old man sneak into Caen’s weyr when he was out.
“Nonetheless,” he says, “I came here to tell you to take the rest of the day off.” At Caen’s obvious surprise, the commander adds, “You’ve been working hard.” At the reactionary mistrust, he sighs, “I have been summoned by our Head Alpha in the mountains.” Caen rolls his eyes, Dithri simply continues, “I expect to be back by the night of the Fire Festival. Try not to set too many tails on fire while I’m away.”
He ends his announcement with a small, warm smile, his palm still warm on Caen’s bare, sticky back. Caen returns a smaller, tight one.
He knows how he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon today.
Once Dithri is off, Caen makes his way back to his weyr, avoiding all the invasive eyes boring into him from the shadows of the washing stables in the peripheries of their earthen training ground. He stops only long enough to grab the careworn sling bag he takes to the shower every day—except he is not headed to the communal showers today.
Gezes is nowhere to be found, and Caen is not in a rush to locate him either. One lungful, voluminous whistle, and he would emerge from whatever roof in Mournborn he is basking on, but Caen does not need to disturb his slumber; he is a healthy young man quite capable of making the trek from here to the heart of their neighbouring forest—where the Narrow Creek’s freshwater rapids flow.
Caen is sweating through his brown hose trousers once he reaches the marshy grounds. The humidity contained under the coarse canopy of forestry augments the swelter of the day’s natural heat, so the sussaration of the river’s frothy white water hitting the protruding rocks is like heaven’s glimmering bells in his ears.
He runs through the last stretch of land separating him and the creek, haphazardly tossing his bag on one of the perpetually wet boulders embedded on the banks. Not wanting to waste a second further of this seldom-found leisurely afternoon, his fingers find their way below his navel, tangling between the cords tying the tunic pants to his waist.
Slow, heavy footsteps thump on the dusty ground as the figure approaches him—the other recruits struggling to straighten after the gruelling afternoon routines. They back away as the person nears him, while Caen does not deign to turn around to greet the mysterious figure of apparent authority. He continues unwrapping the gauze from between his hands, only to pull it tighter with one swift tug, and wend it back between his fingers. He knows the others are watching him with wary suspicion, silent disapproval in their sharp gazes: why is he so obviously disregarding his superior?
Not just his superior; his direct warden.
“Not even an acknowledgement, eh?” Dithri chuckles, clapping Caen on the back with a curved, open palm. The strength behind his hand has Caen jerking forward, and snapping a glare back.
“You took Gezes’s stash,” he growls.
Dithri tuts, pouting to fake innocence, “And you assumed I took it? It’s a punishable offence to accuse your commander without proof.”
“Who else has the keys to my weyr except you,” it is not a question. He continues wrapping the gauze around his fist, the action done simply for the sake of keeping his attention ducked and busy on anything but the grey-haired man. “Besides,” he adds, quieter, “you leave behind your disgusting alpha stench wherever you go.”
“You indulge him,” Dithri suddenly announces, speaking of Gezes—Caen’s Tracker—all traces of the previous lightheartedness erased from his voice.
It grinds Caen’s teeth further into each other, molars groaning under the tremendous pressure. “I scavenged those gems!” He barks. People have started clearing away. “I earned those. You can not just take them away as you please–”
“I can,” Dithri contends coolly. “I can, and I have, and if you have any further objection on the matter, you are free—,” he stresses harshly, “—to file a complaint through proper channels.”
What an asshole, Caen seethes silently. If he were a dragon, no doubt there would be steam winding from the top of his head. Dithri knows Caen can not file an official complaint against him without hard proof, and he knows no one will come forth as eye witness even if they did see the old man sneak into Caen’s weyr when he was out.
“Nonetheless,” he says, “I came here to tell you to take the rest of the day off.” At Caen’s obvious surprise, the commander adds, “You’ve been working hard.” At the reactionary mistrust, he sighs, “I have been summoned by our Head Alpha in the mountains.” Caen rolls his eyes, Dithri simply continues, “I expect to be back by the night of the Fire Festival. Try not to set too many tails on fire while I’m away.”
He ends his announcement with a small, warm smile, his palm still warm on Caen’s bare, sticky back. Caen returns a smaller, tight one.
He knows how he wants to spend the rest of the afternoon today.
Once Dithri is off, Caen makes his way back to his weyr, avoiding all the invasive eyes boring into him from the shadows of the washing stables in the peripheries of their earthen training ground. He stops only long enough to grab the careworn sling bag he takes to the shower every day—except he is not headed to the communal showers today.
Gezes is nowhere to be found, and Caen is not in a rush to locate him either. One lungful, voluminous whistle, and he would emerge from whatever roof in Mournborn he is basking on, but Caen does not need to disturb his slumber; he is a healthy young man quite capable of making the trek from here to the heart of their neighbouring forest—where the Narrow Creek’s freshwater rapids flow.
Caen is sweating through his brown hose trousers once he reaches the marshy grounds. The humidity contained under the coarse canopy of forestry augments the swelter of the day’s natural heat, so the sussaration of the river’s frothy white water hitting the protruding rocks is like heaven’s glimmering bells in his ears.
He runs through the last stretch of land separating him and the creek, haphazardly tossing his bag on one of the perpetually wet boulders embedded on the banks. Not wanting to waste a second further of this seldom-found leisurely afternoon, his fingers find their way below his navel, tangling between the cords tying the tunic pants to his waist.
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