Warning: Adult situation
Xanadu Weyr - Hot Springs
The warmth that flows from this cavern is almost overwhelming for some, the steam rising from the shimmering pools as thick as the morning fog that rolls in off the ocean. Numerous pools are scattered here and there with ribboned walls that are natural in their construction. The water has a somewhat green cast to it, but it is merely a reflection from the ethereal light which is the glow down here that was so noticeable from the Lower Cavern Tunnel. People can often be found down here washing themselves or just relaxing.
Situated along the walls are various racks covered in fresh towels ready for those who step out of the warm waters. A set of shelves have been installed towards the back wall, allowing people a place to put their belongings while they rest in the pools, and despite the white color that these have been painted, they are cast with that eerie green glow. Then, it's obvious. The ceiling of this cavern is covered in the fluorescent phosphorous matter that glows are made off. The mossy substance almost glitters and appears quite lovely.
Jethaniel kneels beside the edge of the largest of the bathing pools. This is not an ablutive visit; he is still wearing his clothes. Furthermore, this bathing area is, at present, closed; the sign across the entrance indicates such, and also explains the fact that he is the only one currently present - though breakfast is not usually a high traffic time; most have already conducted their morning visits and are currently encountering liquid in the form of klah and juice. Jethaniel, however, is using an eyedropper to cause liquid in the form of water from the pool to encounter, within a series of test tubes, various chemicals and react to cause visual changes for him to observe and make notes regarding.
Breakfast underway, the huge klah urns full, smaller pots of the same, water pitchers and trays of cookies, pastries, small sandwiches and fruit delivered to the offices in the administration wing, Darsce has commenced with her other duties, which would start with restocking linens in both infirmary and bathing caverns. The pools will presently be either deemed in need of cleaning or good for another day, depending on what the techcrafter checking them reports. The headwoman unclips the rope holding the closed sign, pushes the loaded cart past it and re-clips it before trundling down the corridor into the hot springs. The roiling steam in here is going to do things to her hair, lesigh, but there's not much she do about that save to don the same sort of linen hair wrap the washerfolk wear when doing laundry. In fact, she's just come from there to obtain the stacks of white terrycloth towels, washcloths and robes her cart is laden with. She emerges from the mists as she nears the shrouded figure beside one of the pools and recognizes him. "Hey, Jethaniel." It hasn't been all that long since she bid him a fond, 'seeya later' after a quick breakfast in the caverns, but she's glad to see him regardless. Her fingertips trail slowly, sensuously across his shoulders as she passes him with that cart, in no hurry to leave his space.
The cleanliness of the water is imprecisely defined and is, as such, difficult to measure. Jethaniel may, however, assess the alkalinity and the proportion of various minerals present. These vary according to hydrogeological processes, but are also affected by the residual materials left by bathers, and as such, do provide a reasonable proxy for when scrubbing is required. Others of the measurements may, if not within expected bounds, be adjusted via the application of appropriate chemicals. First, however, they must be determined. Jethaniel is not the only one who could conduct that assessment, merely the one doing so today; while he could spend all his time behind that Steward's desk, he prefers to have hands-on experiences where possible. He smiles at the sound of Darsce's voice, but does not immediately look up; his eyes remain on a test tube to ascertain precisely which shade of orange it intends to turn within the duration specified for this test. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips against her arm, a gentle touch as he counts the moments until… there. That's the reaction he's here to measure. Jethaniel makes a quick notation to mark the levels, then tilts his head up to offer his smile more directly. "Hello, Darsce."
Darsce stops altogether at the brush of fingers on her arm, watching not the orange-turning liquid but the lips counting off the seconds. Never mind that Jethaniel has a test tube or that the floor needs cleaning, leaving the forth-coming question totally irrelevant to both the chemical process going on and the re-stocking of the linens (or duties she'll delegate, such as floor-scrubbing), she wants to know, "Is it hot enough?" She lingers, despite the busy day ahead, while her fingers smooth his collar at the back of his neck before sneaking up to play with his hair. "It should be…" she sounds vaguely confused, questioning, "…hot." Of course it should be. Hot springs are hot. Unless they're not. With a little shake of her head she turns back to that cart, both hands seeking to grasp the handle preparatory to pushing. "The towels need…" She takes a few steps, moving towards those empty racks with slow, almost uphill difficulty, "…you."
The temperature of the springs is recorded at regular intervals, though it is more difficult to adjust than the chemical constituency. Not necessarily impossible, but nevertheless challenging. Is it hot? The question is somewhat unclear, which could in principle account for the faint furrow of Jethaniel's brow; heat is always present in all non-theoretical subjects. The quantity of that heat, and the sufficiency thereof… Jethaniel looks up at Darsce, his gaze tracing over her body, settling on her face. "Yes." It should, in fact, be hot. He may, in fact, have changed the subject of his sentence to regard an entity whose hotness is - to him - just as imperative. Jethaniel leans against her fingers, with a smile that warms through diffusion. "Very hot." Presumably the hot spring is still within the normal bounds for its usage, but that is not the convective heat with which Jethaniel presently concerns himself. Darsce takes a step away, and Jethaniel, instead of turning back to his test tubes and notes, reaches his hand after her. The motion is slow, hesitant, but the towels are not where his gaze lingers. They are not what his hand reaches for, encounters as Darsce changes the object of her sentence to one that Jethaniel's lips silently echo as fingertips brush softly along her rear.
Out in the feeding pens there is pouncing and rending of flesh - things are hot out there! In here, at the hot springs, the temperature is definitely rising. "That's what I thought, too," Darsce manages after a swallow and attempts to force her feet to take her away from Jethaniel. Her hands tighten on that cart a fraction of a second after that touch to her posterior and she, who'd just concerned herself with heat, shivers. She edges the cart in the general direction it ought to be headed, but she's not really paying attention to her steering. No, she's turned, iceblue eyes seeking Jethaniel over her shoulder as she reluctantly increases the distance between them. "I should do… " her duties, yes, but she's wanting, "you." Nothing's coming out right - well, for the location, anyway, and she's dimly aware of that, but though she smiles slowly, the comment is not an attempt at a joke. What was she…? The cart contacts the rack with a clatter, claiming her attention briefly. Oh towels! Yes. Thus reminded, she begins stuffing them onto the rack with haste, carelessly rather than in the neat stacks she takes pride in. She's in a hurry! She has some…thing? she needs to do!
The temperature of the hot springs is regulated by geothermic processes and is likely to remain constant. The perceived temperature, however… may vary significantly. Jethaniel's fingers brush softly, then slip away from Darsce as she continues on. His eyes remain on her, grey ones lifting to meet blue. "You are beautiful." The comment might seem to come out of the blue, but it is, to Jethaniel, a natural consequence of his observations. That is why he came here today, is it not? To conduct observations of… why he came to the hot springs. The reasoning is somewhat circular, but the circularity of that is only somewhat concerning to Jethaniel; he has other things to occupy his attention, which do not, if assessed according to the direction of his gaze, appear to actually include the hot springs. The clatter of cart to rack recalls Darsce to her duties; the departure of her gaze permits Jethaniel a return to his. He turns back to the pool, a faint furrow in her brow as he attempts to recall precisely where he was in the process of assessing something hot and wet, of determining how just how conducive it is to being slipped inside and… "Measure… the hardness." Of the water, that is; the dissolved mineral content of these springs is relevant to their use. Jethaniel reaches for the next test tube, turns the dropper around in his hand that he may lean forward and acquire a fresh sample of liquid.
Darsce does take care of her appearance, but these days it's more with an aim in drawing Jethaniel's eye rather than pleasing her own sense of fashion; makeup is applied with a lighter hand, colors more sheer, the blending subtle. Clothing likewise, at least in public, less tight, necklines a bit higher, hemlines somewhat lower. She'll never be mistaken for modest, but, she's trending less towards provocative. It may be fall, but the days are still warm and she'll be working indoors. Thus, her pale green sundress is a lightweight fabric that, while hanging loosely from the yoke, does little to disguise anything. Her hair is wrapped in that damned ugly cloth to keep her from having a bad hair day, she doesn't feel pretty and thus… her smile grows (how can it not?) upon hearing Jethaniel's comment. "I look like a pillowcase, but if you like it…" That's got her thoughts trailing off to sheets because… sheets - for the infirmary - are next, right? If only she could remember there is an infirmary. At the moment all the can do is focus on baring… the cart. Clean robes follow the towels, shoved haphazardly into whatever space remains while out in the morning sunshine wings reach for the sky, dragons elbow and shoulder one another for position. Darsce forgets the cart, leaving it in favor of stalking back towards Jethaniel. "That's not flying," she half-growls from behind him right before she pounces. The man wants to sample the pool, doesn't he?
As of yet, Darsce has not discovered a mode of attire which Jethaniel does not find attractive. There do exist varying degrees of that enjoyment, just as there may be varying degrees of kinetic energy in a substance, but the result is always - at least according to his assessment - hot. A pillowcase? Jethaniel is slightly puzzled by that, though he smiles. He may consider the contours made by Darsce's hair on that pillowcase, the complexity of layered patterns as it tumbles there when she… sleeps. Patterns of deposition, as may be found in geology when the minerals dissolved in water settle onto a surface. Those minerals are… hard… but simple to test, requiring only that he draw up a sample of water from the pool and release it into the test tube where it may react with the reagents already there. Jethaniel lifts the dropper from the water, but somehow his fingers fumble the bulb and squirt out the water again, and as such, he leans in again to repeat the process. Darsce speaks, and Jethaniel's eyes half-close at the tone of her voice, his breath held. The words themselves are not particularly sensical, but he has not yet had a chance to assess their meaning… nor does he obtain that opportunity. He's tilted toward that pool when Darsce encounters him, and the ground beneath him is slick. His breath is held; it remains so as the force of her impact topples him forward, splashing into the water to conduct a sample of broad coverage but lacking in precision.
Darsce has captured Jethaniel. Prematurely? Perhaps. She has certainly helped him more towards falling than flight, but that doesn't seem to matter as she tumbles into the pool with her arms around him. She hasn't bothered to take and hold a breath, nor does she let go once submerged to surface and seek air. No, she searches for something else, twisting to where… ah! It's awkward but her mouth finds his. The washer-woman's cloth floats somewhere behind them, slowly becoming saturated with water; it will sink sooner rather than later. Darsce? has already forgotten it and the fact that she's going to have a bad hair day despite her earlier intentions otherwise. In the glimmer from the phosphorescence above, her hair forms a silvery-green cloud around their faces. Clouds. Where bodies vie to outfly one another. In the air. Air… Breathe! She should do that, but presses closer to Jethaniel instead. That air high in those skies above is cold. He's hot.
The distinction between falling flying may be pertinent, but is difficult to assess. There was a leap, and now they are floating; the experience seems isomorphic, at least under some circumstances. Jethaniel twists under the water, seeking that surface - but only for a moment, because his motion presses him against Darsce and the shift of his body against hers has him discovering more important things to seek. His mouth presses to hers, the heat of lips competing with that of water, and tiny air bubbles escape to increase the content of carbon dioxide in this pool. The proportion of that dissolved in this water could be measured - as could the oxygen - but given that aqueous gases are not accessible to human lungs, they are, at the moment, utterly irrelevant. Jethaniel moans, a vibration transmitted through the touch of lips, distorted by the water around. The need for oxygen is not yet so pressing that it distracts him from the press of Darsce, his body writhing to wrap around hers as bubbles of air emerge from his shirt, larger than those that escape from his lips. The press of their lips makes an imperfect seal, but Jethaniel intends to make it as close as he may.
Without taking her lips from his, Darsce writhes below the surface of the water, assisting the maneuver to more closely entwine with Jethaniel. Clothing, free from gravity floats away from skin; her hands slip under his shirt as her arms curl around him and cling. Do not fly away now! Air? It is thin way up here and she needs it - badly, but she has seven hearts pumping heated blood to aid her efforts and the air is icy, lung-burning, energy-depleting… Dizziness is ignored as her lips open to that groan and her tongue seeks his. She's also oblivious to the dark edging in from her periphery as, iceblue eyes locked upon him, blur and her lashes sag half-shut. Her arms begin to lose their tension and she must take a breath or lose consciousness. She is flying. She will inhale the icy air. A stream of bubbles escape her nose as she exhales…
Darsce's touch is hot, a fire beneath the water - or is that the one that burns in Jethaniel? His shirt billows, floating from his body save where it's pressed down by Darsce's, and her dress does the same, the thin fabric floating away. His hand slips underneath, sliding along her back as he bares it with a motion made ultimately ineffectual by the currents that tug at the fabric. Flying or floating, they achieve a neutral buoyancy; Jethaniel has caught her, tangled with her, but the touch only reminds him that there is more he desires. His tongue twines with hers, lips push to hers as he grinds against her in the water that supports them like air beneath cupped wings. More bubbles escape, and Jethaniel wants more; not of those - the bubbles barely register, what they indicate even less so - but of Darsce. He wants her, and this underwater heat prevents that. The currents of their own motion reflect against the walls of the pool and seek to shake them apart. Their relative densities contribute to differing buoyancies, inclining them to lift and sink and thereby draw apart. The water is hot, but Darsce is more so. Every intrusion of heated water between them is a place where he is not in contact with her… and so one of his arms slips away from her, pushing back against the bottom of the pool. The water supports him, but Jethaniel seeks leverage. He holds Darsce to him as he pushes up - their heads break the surface - and back, toward the wall of the pool as his lips, drawn apart amidst that effort, push to hers once more.
The water muffles the sound of protest that rises in Darsce's throat as one of Jethaniel's arms slips away to make that push upwards, but she doesn't bother to lift her lips to put voice to words, not intentionally anyway. They break the surface as she takes a deep, shuddering breath and rasps, "That's better!" Meaning oxygen or that his other arm has reclaimed her, she doesn't clarify, neither does she say anything else before Jethaniel's lips descend to hers once more. Her strength returns with the inhalation, enabling the arms that had begun slipping away to reclaim what is hers as she half-rises in the pool. She staggers backwards a few steps, more from the momentum of their surfacing and being off-balance than an escape attempt. She grunts softly as the stone edge of the pool at her back halts what might have been a topple back into the water. Sopping wet, now weighted, their clothing clings skintight. Darsce's fingers reach to grasp a handful of Jethaniel's shirt, seeking to prise it away from his back, entangle in sodden fabric, now resistant to her wishes. She mutters her her frustration with this against his mouth. She wants him, but the…material is in the way. That's as far as her logistics operate.
Better is Jethaniel's lips pressed to Darsce's, though the half-voiced sounds he makes against her mouth are not particularly coherent at stating such and it is necessary to rely instead on the demonstration he provides. She retreats, stumbling back through the water; he pursues, until she is pinned between him and the wall. Her lips against his, her arms around him make it clear enough that her withdrawal is no escape attempt, and while that stumbling might be cause for concern… the heat and soaring desire make it difficult for Jethaniel to think of that - or indeed, of anything but that desire. The weight of his body presses against her, and with her so held, his arms slip from around her in order to roam down. They reach beneath the surface of the water to where that sundress still billows freely - as do his trousers - and slip beneath it, an easy motion that becomes more difficult as his hands curve over her hips and rise up past her waist. The once-flowing fabric now clings skin-tight to her body, heavy with the weight of water as Jethaniel's hands push their way beneath it, attempt the lifting of it despite a lack of forethought that has his body still pressed to hers against the wall, pinning it in place at front and back.
Is it ever better! Darsce has no objections to this! Her mouth explores Jethaniel's, molding to the contours of it while instinctively she ripples in response to the touch of his hands upon the skin of her thighs, her waist. Her own clothing, the fabric fragile when dry, strengthened minimally by the water, is forgotten as she, thwarted by the back of his shirt (the dim remembrance of clothing design still prompting her), seeks the front of his collar and, with a yank separates the placket and sends buttons flying. Her hands skim his chest, reaching for the back of the shirt to tug upon what's left of the garment, growling satisfaction as the fabric yields to her wishes. Under the water's surface, the rest of her body arches against him, one leg twining with his as she seeks closer contact while her hands seek his waistband. There's something under there that needs freedom!
While Jethaniel has no inclination to continue wearing his shirt, the removal of it is left to Darsce; his focus is on /her// body, not his own. Her rending of his shirt is barely noted, but the touch of her hands along his bared chest draws a pleased moan, a shudder that rolls his hips toward hers. Jethaniel's hands move up along her sides, the fabric pooling around his wrists. When it begins to resist, caught between bodies and stone, he turns his hands to grasp at the sundress and pull, tearing streaks through the light cloth as he lifts it. Darsce pulls at the back of his ripped shirt, and her intention slowly penetrates - one hand releases her dress, his shirt sliding off the shoulder, and an impatient tug with the other draws the sundress away before he lets the shirt slip from that arm, the other already reaching for Darsce once more. His fingers push up inside her bra from underneath, not bothering with even the attempt to unfasten it and simply letting the soaked undergarment stretch or snap as he curves his hand around her breast. His tongue presses to hers, exploring her mouth more deeply than mere lips can manage, and his hips press as well, grinding against hers despite the unfortunate fabric still in the way. It floats freely beneath the water, but near his waistband the fabric is stretched, strained with a desire for freedom that serves to make the obtaining thereof more challenging.
Large swaths of the delicate material that had comprised Darsce's dress now drift in the restless waters of that pool. The shoulders, having more stitching remains but the buttons of the yoke have popped, leaving the only thing keeping it in place the sodden state of the clothing that glues it to her skin. Her underclothes are fragile, lacy bikini things chosen for aesthetics rather than function. The bra snaps easily and she, skimming her hands down Jethaniel's sides, presses closer, then growls her pleasure as her breasts encounter his bare skin. Better! Her hands slip to the front of his waistband, then grip the material as she attempts to yank it apart. They're… going to need a shopping trip to Ierne when she can Between safely, not that this is anything close to a conscious thought. Right now all she knows is that she wants Jethaniel - all of him - and the clothing is her adversary. Whether that waistband seam rips or the button slips out of the eye, she doesn't know or care; her hands are busy seeking his undershorts, her impatience with the clinging fabric muttered against his mouth.
Jethaniel is often pleased by the aesthetics of such undergarments on Darsce… which may nevertheless lead to their removal, but in a more delicate fashion. At present, they are considered nothing more than an impediment, dealt with as efficiently as possible. His fingers curl around her breast, the thumb stroking against the nipple as his body presses to hers, pursues the maximal contact of her skin to his. For a moment, his lips reduce the intensity of their contact and his chest expands as Jethaniel inhales deeply, gathering air before resuming the depth of that kiss and exploring the variant possibilities in delving from a different angle. His other hand, freed of interfering fabric, reaches lower on Darsce until his fingers slides beneath the band of her panties, an intent to pull them down that - as his hips shift back just enough to let her hands rend at those trousers - turns to a caress beneath them. His hand traces from outer hip to the center, sliding further beneath the fragile material as it approaches. There, the touch lingers for a moment before urgency overwhelms once more. Jethaniel's hand turns to grasp at the fabric and pull it down sharply, drawing it away to expose Darsce as she does the same to him, his pants stiff with water but made heavier, more prone to gravity by that same soaking.
Pleasing Jethaniel is, on Darsce's agenda, marked top priority. Today, heh, she's prooobably strayed from that just a touch, at least as far as pouncing him here goes. Not that she's planned this, thanks Luraoth. Coherent thought is, once again impossible though, and she's only aware that Jethaniel is here and that he has her. The stroke of his thumb, his other hand, both are efficient in drawing a response in the flesh there and in a general reaction; she arches towards his hands, gasps something unintelligible in the brief time he inhales and moans against his mouth as their kiss resumes. Her undergarments yield to his hand in the same manner her bra did - it disintegrates at the sharp pull given. Jethaniel's trous and shorts are shoved down, further aided towards the bottom of the pool with that leg she'd curled about his and then kicked on their way as offensive obstructions. Later, if the outflow pipe is clogged, she'll claim ignorance! Her hands are now free to roam, as they traverse leisurely up his thighs, linger there to appreciate before ascending to explore his belly and chest, finally reaching the back of his neck where her fingers tangle in his wet hair. He is hers; she has him.
There do exist certain details of this encounter which Jethaniel might - given the opportunity for a calm and rational assessment - suggest revising. There is, however, no such opportunity; not today. Not now, when his world consists solely of Darsce and his desire for her. The remnants of their clothing float in the water; they, like the world beyond this cavern, are disregarded as insignificant. Later, when fibres and buttons find their way into the drain… ah, but that is of no concern to Jethaniel now. His legs shift, assisting his pants in their final departure, and then he leans in to Darsce's hands with a pleased groan. His hips grind, pressing to her, and his fingers trace an arc of contact to assess the modulation of tone so generated, conduct a bilateral comparison that fails to control for the wetness of his fingers as they caress and squeeze. Her hands rise, and his sink down, one and then the other to trace along hips now fully bared as his own hips shift and press, seeking something… better. They still seek as her hands tangle in his hair, and the difficulty in achieving better makes Jethaniel's brow furrow, a soft growl in his throat as desire transforms to frustration and just as quickly to action. He sinks toward a partial crouch, his hands sliding along to the backs of Darsce's thighs and seeking to lift, to rise again with her.
What other world? In Darsce's there is only Jethaniel and the consuming liquid fire that runs in her veins. Her hips instinctively press back to his, the vocalizations he makes more felt, vibrating from his chest against her breasts, are dimly heard. The growl curls her toes, enticing her arms to cling tighter, fingers slipping up further into his hair. The angle of her shoulders changes as her arms lift and the last remnants of her sundress slip from them unnoticed with a near-soundless splish into the pool. His body sinks; her mouth seeks to follow his for a moment but, again logistics thwart that and she, feeling his hands lift her thighs, tightens her arms to take some of her weight, makes a little hop and wraps her legs about his waist to assist the move. He rises and she sinks down, her head thrown back, eyes closed as she concentrates on wriggling closer to him…even closer. Better is…soon.
Jethaniel's breath is hot against Darsce's chest as he lifts her, their lips parted because that kiss has been preempted by a more crucial urge, a greater desire. The water assists their change of position, though without intentionality. Darsce aids him as well, and her intention - her desire - matches his. Jethaniel adjusts his arms, his stance. He establishes the vectors of force to achieve stability, to distribute Darsce's weight onto his body… and the wall of the pool. Jethaniel presses her back against the stone, so that when his hips move and push toward, he may close that distance and also push in. Jethaniel shudders, and the sound that rumbles in his chest is one of pleasure. His head tilts forward, kissing up along her throat as that murmur rises through his. Darsce is his, and he has her… but better is a moving target; close implies closer, and logistics may be iteratively improved. Jethaniel's hips shift, reiterating that claim. Better is together, and they are.
Together… as one moving in a rhythm that is known and shared solely between the two of them. This Darsce craves and seeks, her limbs tightening perhaps painfully about Jethaniel until it might almost seem that she intends to merge them into one being. Her body, pinned between flesh and stone, nevertheless ripples against his, her groan is one of satisfaction and a current of rising desire both. Beneath his lips her pulse beats wildly, her blood heats her flushed skin, as her fingers curl into his hair, encouraging his mouth and hips both. She arches repeatedly to meet his shifts until she reaches a precipice and tumbles over the edge with tremors wracking her body and her breath is but ragged gasps that call his name. Taken to the skies though she might be, she hasn't forgotten who she is. She is his.
Jethaniel has caught Darsce - which is why she clings so tight around him. Their pulses beat, their breaths pant, and from this emerges the driving rhythm that is their motion. It changes as it proceeds, growing faster, more staccato as Darsce's grip keeps him closer to her. He has no urge to depart, though he wishes to move. His motion is, in fact, urgent; desire drives him hard and fast. Nothing else matters; even the touch of his lips is erratic, kisses and nibbles scattered amidst heated breath. She falls over that precipice, and he pursues her; he holds her up, presses her to that wall as he moves against her. He pursues until his body shudders, even his breath unimportant for a moment. She is his.
He totally caught her - that's why she pounced him - so he could, right? After all motion stops, Darsce's fingers slowly release Jethaniel's hair, her head sinking to rest in the crook of his neck though she continues to cling, her arms slipping down to his shoulders, until her limbs begin to tremble with fatigue. The sounds of their breathing, the slap of wavelets against the side of that pool, the occasional echoing drip of water fills the silence until she mumbles faintly against his neck, "Hot…" An understatement of both past and present, for their exertions have heated their bodies and the pool prevents them from cooling. Her strength has gradually ebbed, her limbs growing limp - either that or she's falling into somnolence in his arms and quite content to do so. Neither is she cognizant of their situation, of their shredded clothing sunken to the bottom of the pool.
Now, having caught Darsce, Jethaniel is disinclined to release her. Even once they have stopped, his arms continue to support her, but they - and his legs - are beginning to suggest that this position is not one suited to arbitrary continuation. More to the point, they have been suggesting that for some time; Jethaniel, as his breath returns to a closer approximation of normal, is beginning to notice the fatigue of those muscles. Nevertheless, he is disinclined to release her, and motion - while eventually necessary - is made further difficult by the heat trapped due to a lack of thermally conductive surfaces adjoining regions with reduced molecular kinetic energy. Jethaniel's answer to Darsce is a low groan, his eyes opening from where they had begun to drift shut. This is, the flicker of resumed attention indicates, not a suitable place to rest. He has caught Darsce and in that he is satisfied, but he also wishes to protect and keep her, and so Jethaniel exerts his worn muscles once more. He adjusts his arms around Darsce and carries her - as fragments of cloth swirl unregarded around his feet - across the pool, up one… two… the third step is too great an effort for him to achieve in his current state. Jethaniel turns and sinks down onto it, still holding Darsce against him. They are at least partly out of the water, the air here still warm but less heated than the spring that still washes around Jethaniel's legs and between the stone steps which make ridges along his back.
As her limbs refuse to cling, Darsce is now draped astride Jethaniel's lap as he sits upon those stone steps. She wouldn't have the wherewithal to go far should she remotely wish to and she doesn't wish. While their temperatures cool and rivulets of water trickle down their bodies to find their way back to the pool, she keeps her soaked head on his shoulder. Her hair, plastered down her back, to the sides of her face and one of his shoulders, shuts out the dim green glow from above and her breathing slows, grows shallow as she sinks into semi-oblivion. A stupor that refuses to relent though she rouses at some point, groggy and stiff, confused though stupidly unable to assess why she is so muddled. Heavy lashes lift, she knows she is… safe and…sated, yes that's what she is. She is loathe to leave him - for any reason, even to seek comfort, a comfort that is secondary to the need of being kept by him and yet her bleary gaze spots… With a wordless croak she fumbles to crawl off of his lap, hooks a hand around Jethaniel's upper arm and tugs insistently before crawling towards the rack of clean towels where she reaches up, tips the entire contents onto the floor. The robes follow. Okay, it's not a bed. It's a nest, but don't get any ideas. She not going to lay eggs!
The stone beneath Jethaniel is not the most comfortable of seats, but he has Darsce. His arms hold her, though their grip loosens somewhat as his eyes close. He has her, and he will rest for… a little while; a few moments, though he loses track of time between the closing of his eyes and when he rouses again. There's the tugging on his arm, but just as importantly, there's the fact that Darsce has moved. Jethaniel makes a wordless noise of inquiry. Why is she gone? Perhaps more importantly… where is she going? Jethaniel lifts his head to try to focus dazed grey eyes sufficiently to follow her. He is not thinking with any particular coherency, and so it's a moment before his lips part. "Darsce." He's pleased by that, mouth curving at the corners afterward, and he turns to hoist himself from the water and follow her. Rivulets of water fall along his lower back and legs as Jethaniel crawls fully out of the pool, following Darsce to those towels and robes. They are not what has his attention; she is. He reaches the impromptu nest of soft cotton, and he reaches for her. A trail of fingers up her leg, rising along the skin in an appreciation of touch. The golden haze of fog still lingers in his mind despite those moments of rest for his body, those drips of energy returning to him. Jethaniel has, at the moment, very few ideas. In fact, he may only have one: Darsce is his, and he wants her.
The stone beneath the heap of towels and robes Darsce is pawing through in an uncoordinated manner isn't bound to be much more comfortable but, like a drunk wanting to flop - anywhere will do as long as it isn't a bare rock bed. Bare other things…well…that'll be the sight that greets the dazed Jethaniel (he recognizes her tush, how fortunate for her!) Her head turns to him over a shoulder at the sound of her name and though her lips part, no sound issues forth. She smiles though, and just as his hand traces her skin, she wobbles and sprawls; limbs refusing to support her anymore. Though the distance is but four paces from the pool, it took all of her strength go get there and mess up the launderers morning work. Adrift in the lingering miasma of the past hour, she knows but one thing: he is hers, she wants to twine with and continue to appreciate him.
Dehydration from their exertions in the water no doubt contributes to the persistence of this haze, but Jethaniel is in no state to analyze that causation - or anything else. Much like that theoretical drunk, his mentally compromised state conceals itself from self-reflection, and while his universe remains focused on Darsce… he does not think to wonder why he pursues her to a bed of clean towels beneath phosphoroluminescent stone. He merely follows her, because he recognizes her body in both part and whole, both visually and through tactile means. He knows that here - with her - is where he wishes to be. For him, now, that is sufficient. His fingers brush along her leg and he crawls closer, a stumbling pace on unsteady limbs, fingers curving around one of those posterior contours and crossing her lower back… at which point Jethaniel discovers another point of similarity to that hypothetical drunk, in that his postulated degree of balance does not match that which he actually possesses. He wobbles, and his fingers slide further along Darsce's back as he falls to lie against her, his lips brushing her shoulder as the portion of her in closest proximity once he has done so.
A little whoosh of air from Darsce's lungs accompanies Jethaniel's arrival upon to those towels beside her. That's followed by a satisfied hum as she gingerly curls into him, twining a leg with his, wriggling closer and weaseling her head somewhere comfortably close enough that she can apply her lips in leisurely, lazy kisses to whatever bare skin she can find. She reaches an arm blindly behind her to pat and fumble for a robe, then slowly drags it over the both them before her arm finds a comfortable spot around his waist. She was never all that close to awake and the languor now reclaims her, a warm blanket that shuts out the rest of the world save for the one beside her. Fingertips drift aimlessly on his skin where her hand, now draped over his hip hangs. "…my…Jeth…" she mumbles sleepily as her lashes touch her cheeks and remain there. Later, when the some of the weyrfolk regain their senses - or those who never lost them dare to venture forth - and pass that rope barrier, the pair of them will likely be found, still at the scene of the crime, out-cold and still entwined in the heap of white towels, bare toes exposed from one end, tousled hair, silverblonde mingled with dark at the other. Hopefully, if that mass of towels is moving, whoever enters will just tiptoe out the way they came and leave them alone.
The manner of Jethaniel's arrival beside Darsce may have elements of the unexpected, but his presence there is as it should be; a brief grunt of surprise is followed by a murmur of pleasure as he shifts against her, tangling arms and legs around her. The circumstances beyond them are forgotten - even more so as Darsce pulls that robe over them and their vicinity increases in isomorphism to those places where he might ordinarily take his leisure with her. Her kisses bring soft murmurs of pleasure, his lips made incoherent by the kisses they place amidst the words, but the most important ones are said by Darsce, and Jethaniel's response is a rumble of assent. Sleep is not precisely his intention, but it arrives for him with the same ineluctable imperative despite the suboptimal nature of this fluffy nest on stone. He'll sleep soundly, the shifts of his fingertips against Darsce's skin made without waking. That rope barrier will at least keep many away; the hot springs will not be flooded by those seeking to rinse off after their own exertions. Whether they are literally flooded will depend on the rate of inflow to that pool and what proportion of the outflow becomes blocked by fabric. That, however, is a discovery for later… as are Darsce and Jethaniel, whether in the context of a third party encountering them or their own rediscovery of each other in their conscious selves.