Mutual Misuse

DISCLAIMER: This scene contains adult topics. It gets a little steamy, y'all.


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 tunnel leading here. 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.

A sloped tunnel leads back to the main caverns, a single branch carved out along it to detour down into the laundry room. It allows the passage of people, but even more importantly, it allows for metal pipes wrapped with insulation that run along the ceiling to carry heated water back and forth to where it's needed.

It's late. The hot springs are all but abandoned when everyone ought to be asleep. Even F'yr ought to be asleep, but rare are the hours that the bronzerider gets to steal for himself these days. It's not so long until the eggs are bound to hatch, really. They've got to be more than half way, now, but it doesn't change that he still has days and endless days stretching out before him in the hot, sandy purgatory that is the hatching sands. At last he has good company and drinks? Still, stealing this time away, is good, and that's probably why he's sitting not quite shoulder deep on one of the natural ledges, his head tipped back onto a folded towel, eyes closed, letting the wet heat of the pools ease aching muscles and infusing him with some peace. One might notice, were they previously unaware that hair that had grown past his shoulders (if only just) is now chopped short. Maybe someone applied the cast off to his jaw, though, because a short beard has been allowed to grow. It changes his face, changes his look, but does it change him? Maybe it's just that he doesn't get away often enough to worry about shaving these days, and can anyone blame him for how bloody hot it is in those caverns, even now that it's heading deeper into Autumn?

Near abandoned hot springs? Prime time for visiting when you’re not looking for too much —stimulus— distraction to unwind! Ru'ien’s nightly plans —of chaos— hadn’t included the bathing caverns and yet here he is! Fresh from heading to one of those secretive little dives he’s come to really appreciate when he’s in this state (and outside of it). He’s not wholly silent on his arrival but he’s not obnoxious about it either — no humming or conversing. Just the sound of his bare feet over the stone, the sound of something brushing up against the stone wall; a hand, perhaps, with the trailing of fingers over dry and humid surfaces alike. Clothes being removed by layers, nonchalant and uncaring of modesty, as he approaches the area set aside for personal belongings. He lingers there a time, heavily distracted by the sheer effort of textures between cloth and skin — eventually, he manages, only to be held up again finding THE RIGHT damned towel; and again, delayed when his feet rediscover parts of the floor more smooth than the rest. It’s maddening, frustrating, but Ru’ien finds some humor in it, chuckling quietly to himself for his —sad— state. Sigh. Only when he eventually approaches that nearest pool, he realizes it’s occupied… and it takes a cautious, harder look (sorry not sorry for staring!) to realize they’re a familiar sight. Smirking, suddenly bold and arrogant, he will come to half-kneel, half sit by the edge with his legs partially tucked under him. That towel? Is propped against him and at least offering some decent cover over hip and thigh. “Hello, stranger.” Ru’ien greets in a teasingly low tone, leaning forwards just enough to glide his fingers over the water’s surface — and unsurprisingly is enraptured. Does F’yr remember or even recognize that glimpsed behavior?

Is it Ru'ien giving Ru'ien away or the fact that Glorioth is entirely aware of the impending state of things? It doesn't matter yet, but F'yr is getting much better at tapping into his dragon's lizard brain libido to track when he's getting ready to make a fool of himself try to prove himself all over again. So when the familiar voice comes and blue eyes pull open to look up at that smirking face, the sleepiness comes with a wry smile. "Hey you," it's soft, it's intimate, it's a texture all on its own, an intimate caress that under other circumstances might be the kind of thing that's so abrupt a change in his reception to this particular man that it might jerk tears. Hopefully it doesn't here.

"Soon?" He asks, even as he's reaching up a hand to capture the hand touching the water, pulling his head up as he twists and turns a little toward Ruin. He's not looking to pull him in, just retain the bare arm. Why? Well, of course F'yr' other hand is coming up to drizzle water down across that skin, and then press fingertips to the soft skin of the inside of the forearm and trace his fingertips along, grazing nails just enough to— well, drive someone crazy. It's about the textures though. Right? That's all, right?

Was F’yr intending to cast such a baited hook? Because Ru’ien just swallowed it — line and sinker too. Would’ve been hard not too, even if he wasn’t quite in the state he’s in! It’s unexpected and brings a whole new rush of —emotions— color to his already flushed skin. Hello, textured voice! And hello abrupt change in reception that briefly has his mind reeling but not for long. That smirk morphs into a slow, lazy, —predatory— grin, eyes hooded as he plays a little coy.

“Mhm,” Ru’ien affirms and was readying to say more, but the words lapse into non-verbal sounds. “S-Soon…” Damn it, that isn’t fair! The hint of gooseflesh, the shiver racing up his arm, up his spine, making him swallow back a laughed gasp. He tries to glare at F’yr, but it lacks the proper heat (but there is heat there, just not what either may be aiming for… right?). Textures! Sure and maybe why he doesn’t pull back when those nails touch next and why his own hand tries to reciprocate despite the odd angle. His other hand is busy sliding up along his throat, to his lips, then up into his hair, struggling to pull that sudden riveted attention elsewhere. “Haven’t been sleeping, can barely eat, too restless, to hot …” he speaks low, purposely pitched. Fingers loosen his hair tie, allowing the whole thick mess of it to cascade down to frame his face briefly. He runs his hand next along his scalp, revelling in the feel of that to whatever F’yr may be doing still to his other arm. Narrowed gaze darts back to the bronzerider, a smirk back at play on his lips. “… not to keep moving. Means she’s a day, maybe two?” Soon. “This is new.” Almost purred, almost, as his hand now gestures to the new look F’yr sports — and he leans, reaching in to touch.

"Come into the pool," said the spinner to the vtol. F'yr's voice is silky smooth. Did anyone know he could do that? He can. The man who doesn't know what flirting is does evidently know how to be a provocateur - just, apparently not under any kind of circumstance that is vaguely appropriate. dkfjsldkflsjdflksj, F'YR. He doesn't avoid the touch of Ru'ien's other hand to the new textures of F'yr - that hair that hasn't been this short since before weyrlinghood, that beard that has neve been much allowed to grow. "The pool is hot." He adds, because why give temptation if he can't also give a confusing reason why not. But Ru did come to the pools, so this kind of hot is probably not what's going to deter him.

He is still doing things to that arm, creeping up toward the elbow, dragging back down, then, suddenly, a grip around the back of Ru'ien's hand, and a pull of the arm - not enough to unbalance the greenrider, but enough to surprise him (if he's successful). Then F'yr's mouth is around the pulse point on Ru'ien's wrist, teeth scraping soft skin, suction on the skin there, the lathe of his tongue and then as quick and intensely as it came, gone in the release of all physical contact with the greenrider. Maybe he's second guessing that impulse, but it doesn't stop him from looking up at Ru'ien with a long look (a smolder? No, just broody, but in that looks so good way, look out, Ru~), and a beat later he says it again. "Come into the pool, Ruin." He dares him.

Ru’ien is shook by this sudden change in F’yr. WHO IS THIS MAN? Not that he doesn’t approve (oh, he does) but it has him rooted to the spot, save for the movements already at play. Consider himself provoked! Definitely sold. —seriously F’yr— Fingers give a glancing brush to that beard, a low hum (approved too) rising past his lips; he’ll cup his hand next to that jawline, thumb stroking over this new texture. What was that about pools? His eyes refocus, narrowing as they blink and he takes in a heavy, steadying, inhaled breath. On the exhale, it is very close to a growl. Not playing fair, F’yr! But this is fine. Tit for tat! “I bet.” Hot pool? Not gonna stop him now. F’yr wanted this? Reap what you sow.

He was inching forwards towards that pool, but goes still under that touch and the sudden pull to his arm — and oh. OH! Ru’ien’s eyes widen and it’s a very good thing no one is around because while it’s not loud, the low, moaning breathless sound he makes is NOT APPROPRIATE by any means! His hand curls, body tensing beneath shivers as he’s caught by the scraping of teeth and lathe of tongue (that pulse is erratic, racing…) and — it’s too much, NOT ENOUGH, all in one fell swoop! Ru’ien’s features take on an intense look, a whimper flowing into the attempted sighed-chuckle when he’s released. This time, the —dare— invite is taken. How could he resist? Ru’ien keeps his gaze locked on F’yr’s even as he slips over the edge and into the water; his features morphing briefly at the contact to his skin. Otherwise? Fear’s got his undivided attention for that moment. Ru’ien SHOULD put some distance between them but no — like a moth to flame, he’s drifting into striking range (for both of them). “Better?” he taunts, mouth curving to a haughty slanting smirk. His hands are preoccupied now with smoothing over his own skin, but it’s not bound to last.

Be careful, F'yr. Be careful. But cautions seems to have gone the way of care tonight. (Not that he doesn't care, but, it's not stopping him in the moment.) The sound, to be fair, probably did not help his self-control. What a reaction. That's sort of the whole point of what F'yr does when a rider is proddy, isn't it? (Or is it more than that? Because this isn't just any greenrider. This is Ruin.) He shifts just enough so he can be sitting with his back to the wall. "Come here, Ruin." Soft, but commanding. How does chaos take to that? He's watching the other man's face, the tone of voice one that might send shivers down the spine for some. Does it help or hurt that F'yr actually bites his lower lip while he's looking at the other man, that his arms float out on the water as if to receive a lapful of proddy greenrider.

Arguably, his reaction could have been one only Fear could entice from him. Ru’ien can be reactive and certainly now as his filters erode further not only because it is F’yr but from proddiness — but who is to say he would behave this way for all? Perhaps on the surface, it would look no different but it is. It is. Chaos can be commanded for a time and if the foundation is there and the bronzerider has done a fine job setting this one. Ru’ien is already moving in before F’yr’s finished speaking, fingers pressing firmly over the inside of his wrist. All while his gaze remains upturned and locked on him, eyes fever bright and emotions all visible (for him, just for him, he will recklessly be unguarded) — the expected ones and the unexpected. There’s a touch of wariness there, a quiet pleading for it not to be some cruel joke. It helps and hurts in tandem to see F’yr bite his lower lip, his mind racing but body, heart and baser needs too many steps ahead. Swiftly, abruptly, Ru’ien will close the distance, humming low and breathless when skin brushes against skin; he will aim to straddle, to hover above that lap as he allows the momentum to carry him up. One arm to brace at F’yr’s side, against the stone. The other, if left uninterrupted, slides up his chest, his body tilting inward. Fingers drift further, chasing that texture-craving high (and something more), pausing over his throat, dragging slower to curve his neck and up to his jaw. All while Ru’ien tilts his head, wickedly-playful grin in place but his eyes are searching. Even as he gives another shiver, another shaky breath, his voice now a hushed, throaty rumble. “What is it that you want, Fear?” And why? Why now?

Cruel joke? No. Joke? Maybe it was? Until it abruptly was not. With Ru'ien so close, there's a helpless shudder, a tensing of muscles and a magnetic lean toward the man he's been so absent from for so many months for so many good reasons. What he wanted when this started is not what he wants now. He had wanted to tease, not cruelly but with sane limits. Now, those things are gone along with any desire to keep distance between them. He's pushing a hand to Ru'ien's lower back blue eyes looking up to blue. Shit just got real. He uses that hand to drag the greenrider into him, eliminating the distance between them. "I wasn't going to do this," he has to acknowledge it. "I'm not really ready, Ruin," quiet and quick confession, "but I need to be close to you." He wants to be body to body, he wants to touch all that skin, explore all those textures.

"Will it hurt things?" If they're close, if they just touch, if they… he tilts his face up— a silent but real invitation to his lips if Ru'ien wants them. But does he? It's fraught, it's more than complicated. And yet… There's a longing that never left, because that deep and necessary connection that must exist for F'yr to want this, want him has not gone away, even if the trust of it has been diminished, perhaps even materially damaged in a way that needs time and tending. But… would this make a difference to that? F'yr probably doesn't know. He might not even care as he should, not with the way proximity is raising goose flesh on his arms where they can be seen.

Ru’ien yields to that hand pushed against his lower back but truthfully - even with his proddy state - he wanted to do this. Would have done it, risks involved and all! Even as F’yr acknowledges what he was already beginning to wonder, even distantly — and it doesn’t sting, that validation that some part of him knew there was more beneath this sudden change. The flicker in his eyes, the tiny shift in his expression, is not disappointment or hurt but relief and something unspoken; now is not the time yet to say it. In the wake of that confession, there is only a gentled smile beneath a look that is still contrarily heated with desire.

He’d be a fool and hypocrite both, if he tried to say anything other than the mutual wish of wanting to be close. Body to body, no distance separating them — and that is Ruin’s wish, not that of other (current) influences! Even if he is fighting those impulses now, struggling not to drown in sensory overload just by proximity. “No,” He breathes the first word softly, shuddered along with a shiver of his frame. The second time comes with more conviction. The invitation to those lips — he doesn’t ignore it, lingering on that threshold of accepting it. Important things need to be addressed first! “No, it won’t. It won’t hurt things, Fear.” he assures, his voice lacking in that playful huskiness and replaced by one thicker, emotional. “I need you too and it doesn’t have to be more than this, right now.” It’s so complicated on both sides. There’s a longing in him too, that never left either but for him the trust he has for F’yr was never lessened; but he has respected what was needed — time and tending and that too hasn’t changed. “We don’t have to go further.” For many reasons, including the fact that he is proddy and Ru’ien does not want that muddying things too. “You set the boundaries you need…but tell me if I go too far.” Only fair, right? His hands both come to rest on either side of his face (and he does his best not to obsess over the texture there), his gaze seeking out F’yr’s, holding steady. He sees you. Is it too much then, as he touches his forehead to his? Or when he makes good on that delayed invitation, and finally seeks his lips in a firm, lingering kiss?

Blue eyes continue to study blue as Ru'ien speaks, though not without the intense distraction of textures, even for F'yr. The water does provide a slip against smooth, soft skin and makes it something different, something new, at least for them together, excepting those few stolen moments of contact as weyrlings so long ago. Maybe that's part of it, even, a throwback to what was, but with the added bonus of being able to pursue. A long breath leaves F'yr. It's not quite a sigh, but it is some kind of surrender. "It's always more than this, Ruin." It's not what the greenrider meant, and no, F'yr didn't miss that permission for it to not go further than just closeness, but it might explain why when Ru'ien's head dips and touches F'yr's forehead, there's a moment of heavy anticipation that grows and bursts as lips find lips and there's a heady, hurried passion to the kiss. Almost as though he needs it far more than he's let on, missed it much more, and can't resist getting as much pleasure punched into this press and parting of lips, the invitation of his tongue to Ru's to find deeper connection. It could escalate, but it doesn't, because when F'yr is gasping for breath from the intensity of those shared moments, his forehead is pressing back into Ru'ien's. "We should stop." He doesn't want to stop. He really doesn't want to stop, that much should be obvious from the stir of— well, things hard to ignore right now.

So many textures, so many distractions and so much temptation! Water — heated water at that — certainly provides plenty new about this. Those memories surface, a throwback to equally complicated times but ones so zealously guarded and protected by Ru’ien. It’s not what the greenrider meant, but he keeps any sighs of his own to other kinds — namely against F’yr’s lips when they press so hurried and passionately to his. Lips part to allow that slip of tongue, Ru’ien sinking and melting with a visible shudder to the bronzerider’s frame. Lost into that kiss, eyes fluttering closed, low sounds muffled and softly groaned; he’s missed it too and that much he tries to convey. Then they are breaking away, Ru’ien’s breath catching and then releasing shakily. He’s on fire, running too hot, so incredibly hot. All this sensory touch is frying his senses but he lingers and drowns, all while reining himself in. It’s wonderful and terrible to be torn in this way. “I know.” he breathes, with one of his signature smiles, albeit smaller and genuine. He knows they have to stop and too that it’s always more than this. Always has been.

“I know.” Forehead to forehead, the words say one thing but their bodies betray them both. He doesn’t want to stop, he wants to give F’yr everything if that’s what he needed — but not tonight. Not now. Not yet and not when Ru’ien is like this and not with F’yr admitting being not ready. He can’t, he won’t, even if the very fibre of him screams for it. He presses his cheek to F’yr’s, pressing hard, smooth to rougher, in no hurry to break all contact but gradual, slow, regardless. Reluctant. Eventually, Ru’ien lifts his head enough to peer down into F’yr’s eyes, dark auburn hair framing both of them. His hands try not to wander father then shoulders, arms or chest, fingers restless with their caressing touch. His gaze is heated, a little wild from the heat in him, but questions lurk as rational thought bubbles forth. What brought this on? He won’t press or pry, but it is visible all the same. Fingers lift from the water again, now cupping his face once more — it can’t be helped. Thumbs stroke, gentle, and comforting. He’s still here, Fear and nothing has changed (and yet some of it has) — not even that unspoken love for him and the nameless bond between them.

Really, they're in total agreement. That their heads know they need to stop, that their bodies don't want to, that somehow, between the two of them, the will anyway. If only just. If only after F'yr is stealing one more hot and heavy kiss from the agitated greenrider with a texture titillation. He can even wait to steal it until Ru'ien's had more of a chance to pet his face explore the contrasting feel of cheek to chin. After that, he makes himself settle, makes himself behave, but he can get lost in the moment another way… It's not going to do much for anyone in the way of providing any relief, but pulling Ru'ien against him, into an embrace that leaves F'yr's hands free to draw patterns on his back with the drippy warmth of the water against skin kissed by cool air will at least give him some connection to his companion. "Close your eyes," is encouraged before he begins and if Ru'ien can bring himself to get comfortable, F'yr will even sing to him, because, yes, voices can be textures. The truth is, he's not thinking about the choice of song, and yet, the lyrics of the song, sung softly at a slower tempo than it's meant to be sung, holds so much meaning, in this moment and beyond. If he makes the proddy greenrider cry, it's an accident, okay? He's on a roll with making greenriders cry; why not Ru too?

One more hot and heavy kiss! One. Ru’ien knows himself well enough not to tempt it further, no matter how much he wants too. The kiss is returned, reluctantly parted from but nothing more pursued — save for a briefly darkened look of checked-passion and desire. He takes a shallow breath, then a deeper one, exhaling slow in a fight of will to calm down and follow F’yr’s similar battles. Settle and behave — made slightly delayed and a touch difficult at first when the bronzerider is pulling him in rather than pushing away. Ru’ien makes a quiet sound of surprise but yields because like hell he’d pass up an embrace (it’s safe, right?). He does settle comfortably, despite the occasional movement or shiver from the touch to his back. “Hmm.” Ru’ien, a touch amused, does as asked of him and his eyes drift closed, in anticipation and trust both. Voices can certainly be textures and they can evoke much like touch can as well. So much meaning can be in words too, in a song and if a few tears are shed, Ru’ien is quiet about it (F’yr might know, regardless, the telling signs, even if subtle?). His tears may be of a different kind of range of emotions, but he doesn’t fight against it. He tucks his head against F’yr’s neck and shoulder, leaving him to sing uninterrupted and be carried away by that. All while that incessant buzzing from proddiness still eats away at him, making it impossible for him to be entirely still but Ru’ien contains it at least to just fidgeting caresses along skin, through water, to stone.

F'yr turns his head enough at the end of the song to press a kiss to Ru'ien's head, awkward though the angle might be. "Okay." He says after another bracing breath. "Time to play, Ruin." There's invitation there, but it's followed by a drag of fingernails up the back, teasingly on either side of the spine, water pulling up and trickling back down even as hands continue upward. At least this time, F'yr seems to be looking for consent before he goes all out. "I want you stand up and face the wall. We're not going to do anything, but I'm going to drive you crazy until you need to leave." And when Ru'ien needs to leave because too much, the bronzerider won't stop him. But until then, as long as he has Ru'ien's questionable proddy-minded consent, he's going to use his hands just his hands (okay, and maybe his chest for at least one embrace from behind, but who can blame him) to draw patterns got play wet tendrils of Ru'ien's own hair over his shoulders like a paintbrush, to reach to his hands and guide them across wet and dry stone, to even toy around with the feel of the soap sand and how that changes the kind of slippery that there is between hands and body. The bronzerider will, of courses, be driving himself crazy in the process, so fair's fair, right? They can talk after Kiha's had her way, maybe, hopefully in the contented afterglow that will make all this a kind of very intense foreplay. TOO BAD, F'YR.

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