Strip Uno and Wagers

** Day 14 of Month 1 of Turn 2716
Half Moon Bay Weyr - Tiki Lounge**
As one walks onto the wood panelled flooring of the patio, they are greeted with the scent of burning oil, the likely source the various torches burning along the perimeter of the flooring. The flooring is littered with tables shaded with umbrellas, matching chairs tucked beneath when not in use.
The inside of the Tiki Lounge seems far bigger inside than outside, even when full of relaxing weyrfolk and travelers. Towards the front, in the western corner, is a small stage, generally occupied by harpers. Several tables with chairs decorate the floor and a small area is open for dancing. The bar is rather long and well stocked, glasses of different shapes and sizes hanging suspended from a rack above the bar. Behind the bar is another open window that gives one a view of the forest behind the tavern. Turning around, one is greeted by a lovely view of the lagoon. A decent breeze helps to cool the room. Up above, rafters provide a perch for fire lizards and local avians. The thatch roof, made of straw, rarely lets in any rain.

"So every time one of us places down a draw — wild or no — or a reverse," Ila'den drawls, bridging cards to shuffle them, cutting the deck in half, bridging again before doling seven to Heryn, seven to himself. Ila'den sets the stack on the table between them, flipping the top card over to reveal a green seven as he continues with, "we remove a piece of clothing. And if I win…" A pause, that grey eye jumping from the cards he's fanning out in his hand to his weyrmate's face, thought pulling in his brow as he thinks of a suitable punishment and - "I get to choose your next tattoo." A WOLFISH SMILE SAYS ALL THAT NEEDS SAYING, R'HYN. TELL HIM NO. IT'S PROBABLY FOR THE BEST. "You can still pick where."

R'hyn lifts each card as it is dealt, sorting them into what must be some semblance of order in his hand. Lips quirk up for the initial rules, one brow twitching tellingly as he shuffles some shit around in that hand of his to remind himself to use them last, but it lingers fondly as cards are stacked, initial numbers raised. "Dea—" But wait there's more. Ila'den fans out his hand, and R'hyn's gaze remains fixed on the bronzerider, a single brow lifting as he weighs his options. A beat, two, and then, "Deal." Because WOULD IT EVEN BE RYN if he developed a sudden sense of SECURITY AND MODESTY NOW? Zero likely. "And you, weyrmate? Are you getting something emblazoned on your skin for the rest of your life if I win?" And by that he means, what is Ila's equivalent, since he's the one making up the rules over here.

Ila'den plays a Green 3.

Ila'den's attention is back on his own hand, likewise shuffling what he holds into some semblance of order as the rules of the game are agreed to. It's that second question that has Ila'den looking up, amusement forcing the corner of his lips to curl upward, escaping in the form of husky laughter as Ila'den selects a card from his hand and places it on top of the first on the table. "If that is what you want, husband," he rasps, placing elbows on tabletops as he leans forward, "but you are free to choose your own victory punishments - if you want." Because, well… let it never be said that Ila'den never rises to a challenge, especially when the logic behind his lack of tattoos no longer applies. WE GAVE UP RENEGADING TURNS AGO, ILA.

R'hyn plays a Green 2.

Is R'hyn even paying attention to the card Ila lays? It doesn't seem like it. Hands still grasp cards in a loose fan, but blue-grey eyes do not leave Ila'den's person, not yet. They meet him gaze for gaze before wandering, down his neck, across his shoulders, cutting across clavicles to trace a line down one arm, then the other, seeing skin despite the dragonrider's clothes. "You would look good with tattoos," R'hyn admits in a voice pitched somewhere husky, though whether that is in reaction or provocation, he does not let on. Instead he pitches a card forwards onto the table leaning chin into his hand to stroke it in contemplation. "But the ones I'd pick for you are more a lifestyle choice, so." A moment's contemplation. "We set the girls up with a caretaker and we take a vacation. One week, whatever I want, no questions asked." Cue a gallant gesture for Ila to take his turn.

Ila'den plays a Green 6.

R'hyn's probably paying about as much attention to the card that Ila'den played as Ila'den is paying to the card that R'hyn lays down - mostly because there's heat in the depths of a stormy hue and a soft growl meant in carnally illicit warning as muscles beneath leather go taut in anticipation. "I probably have too much scar tissue on my body for any tattoos to be reasonable," he says instead of what he could be saying, amusement muting want and need as that grey eye finally shifts to look at the card on top of the deck. A moment to study it, and then Ila'den's attention is back on his own hand, thoughtful for just a moment as he pulls another card free from his hand to set on top of R'hyn's. "And deal, husband. One week, whatever you want, no questions asked." WHICH DOES NOT BODE WELL. FOR ANYBODY. LEAST OF ALL ILA. "Skips counts as well," he adds on, as an afterthought. "Because there are never too many reasons for me to watch you taking off your clothes."

R'hyn plays a Green Reverse.

Oh, Ila. Poor Ila. The man surveys R'hyn with typical low-grade, high-stakes carnal intent and R'hyn answers by flipping a green reverse card down atop his six. But if you thought this would be a fair fight in this absurd game of strip uno, you'd be wrong, because the stakes are thus: play a reverse or wild, lose an article of clothing, and R'hyn chooses to pull arms into his leathers, rummaging ridiculously beneath his sleeves before whipping his shirt across the table to - hopefully - smack Ila in the face before pushing arms back into his jacket again. Enjoy. Blue-grey eyes lift, squinting over at Ila because, "That wasn't part of our deal, bronzerider. Changing the rules also costs you an article. Choose." SKIPS OR CLOTHING, ILA. WHAT WILL IT BE.

Ila'den plays a Red Reverse.

Appreciation. It doesn't matter that Ila'den is getting smacked in the face with shirts that carry R'hyn's scent on them; the bronzerider crumbles up the shirt in his fist, attention still riveted on his weyrmate as he pulls it away from obscuring his vision and rasps husky laughter. "Fine," Ila'den says, not even having to really think about it. Instead, the bronzerider is pulling off his jacket, hooking thumbs beneath the hem of that long-sleeved tunic underneath and dragging it up much. too. slow. He pushes R'hyn's shirt to the side, sets his shirt on top of that, and then pulls his jacket back on without zipping it up. ENJOY YOU THOSE GLIMPSES OF MUSCLED (SCARRED) ABS AND A HINT OF CHEST GURL. AWYIS. Ila'den retrieves his cards then, looking over his hand in indecisive thought, and then - a narrowing of eyes, a reach across the table to draw a card because CLEARLY HE DOES NOT HAVE ONE PROPER AND — oh that expression. The least amused, as Ila'den settles his new card on top of R'hyn's, and then shifts to lean forward, fingers catching in the laces of one boot before he pulls it off and sets it on the table. "What's the penalty if I change the rules to whoever is on the receiving end of those cards has to strip?"

It is clearly the ABSOLUTE WORST TIME to be walking into the Tiki Lounge. And yet, here comes R'sner. Oblivious to games of strip-Uno (Strip… Uno…) being had by Weyrleader and Ex-Weyrleader. Does he SEE them? Does he SEE the removal of shirts, one thrown to face to be set aside and joined by the other? Does he SEE the boot on the table? Unknown. But if he does see those things, he's doing a damn good job of pretending he doesn't. Yup. Nope. Straight to the bar for him; like a runner with blinders.

R'hyn plays a Red 6.

It really is the worst time - R'sner is walking in, and Ila'den is accepting R'hyn's terms, and Heryn has no shame. Fingers of one hand tuck beneath his chin, watching that slow disrobing like the show it assuredly is, eyes sparking with mirth by the time Ila is through placing his shirt atop the pile. "Very well then. Skips, too." But he still isn't looking at his hand, eyes raking over his weyrmate's now-visible flesh, pensive. "You know what, no," comes somewhat jarring, considering there's little context for the playfully dreamy quality of the disagreement, though he clarifies his meaning with a rumbled, "I don't think the scars would ruin it at all." Smirk. Finally he glances away, movement at the corner of his eyes and I-have-to-stop-before-I-ruin-this-game sentiment bidding him glance over at R'sner when the man approaches the bar. Fingers lift in greeting, though whether the greenrider sees him or not is another matter entirely, and R'hyn doesn't wait to find out. Fingers splay cards, considering swiftly before tossing one down. The stakes for another rule changing? "You have to buy me paint." SMILE.

Ila'den plays a Red Skip.

More of that husky laughter, a rumble of sound that's quick to quiet but lingers at the corners of Ila'den's mouth and eye — despite obvious discomfort. IT WAS HIS IDEA, STOP FEELING SORRY FOR HIM R'HYN. "Is that so? Do you think it will distract from my hideously unfortunate face?" There's humor in the question, a moment as Ila'den considers his cards, considers R'hyn's cards and his weyrmate's proposal to allow another change. But there's no hope, not for this face, just like there's no hope for Ila'den suddenly finding it in him to be polite. R'hyn waves to R'sner but the only acknowledgement offered from the former Weyrleader is Ila'den's eye, following his weyrmate's line of sight without so much as a smile before he's looking away, back to his hand. "Deal," Ila'den offers. About the paint, of course. "So long as it isn't lime green." And Ila'den's tossing another card onto the top of that pile, folding his cards into one stack as too-big arms cross over his chest and he leans back. The smile that comes over his lips is slow, wicked with carnal implications that say he's about to enjoy this entirely too much as he raises one brow and waits. "Well, go on then, husband. Strip." They clearly need that paint. FOR SCIENCE!

Welp. That hunch of shoulders at R'hyn's finger-lift greeting says R'sner PROBABLY DID SEE HIM. And is at least seeing enough from his side-eye to catch that greeting so… how much of him is actually not watching that game? Hm. But still. He is also, probably SUPER GLAD that Ila decided to forego that greeting. (Polite is pretending not to see the guy who's pretending not to see the guys playing strip uno. Just saying). Straight to the bar, because if he didn't need a drink before he DEFINITELY DOES NOW. (No really tho, it's just the awkwardness of seeing your WEYRLEADER play STRIP UNO). So a drink is ordered, and while he's probably-definitely aware of what's going on over there… he'll just lean here at the bar and pretend he sees NOTHING.

R'hyn doesn't feel sorry… well, not much anyways. Ila'den made the rules, it's only fair he lives by them, too. No, he is merely content - content to look, content to laugh, content to reach out with booted toes that press atop Ila's shoeless foot with gentle pressure and unspoken acknowledgment. "I'm pretty sure even if you painted your face, it wouldn't detract from that much horror, but if you'd like we can give it a trial run." GUYLINER INCOMING! "Tsk. Tanit will be disappointed in you," observed regarding the lack of lime green paint, "but no. Black, like your heart." Wink, and then a sigh for that skip that he knew had to be lying in wait, meeting Ila eye for sarcastic eye. NO WORDS, not for him, not for too-casual R'sner over there, though the certainly-not-looking weyrlingmaster is definitely at risk of getting pegged by the boot R'hyn pulls off as part of the bet and chucks at the greenrider's legs. Does it land? It doesn't matter. The point is still the same: TAKE THAT, IGNORING MAN. There's no room for politeness here. "Go on then, Kilarden. Finish your turn while I contemplate the virtues of herringbones and mystic knots."

Ila'den draws a card.
Ila'den draws a card.
Ila'den draws a card.
Ila'den draws a card.
Ila'den plays a Wild Draw Four and changes the color to blue.
Ila'den plays a Blue 2.

Ila'den shifts his feet beneath the table, unbooted foot coming to rest on the top of R'hyn's soon-to-be-unbooted one in what just might be unspoken acknowledgement of unspoken acknowledgements. OR R'hyn is just TAKING UP ALL THE UNDER THE TABLE SPACE. "I don't think Tanit has ever been anything but disappointed in me. Anyway, I don't think they make a shade of black dark enough to accomplish that." A beat, that grey eye narrowing in suspicion and then: "What are you planning to do with your black paint?" SO MUCH SUSPICION, as if he just might change the rules of the game but NO. BECAUSE HE HAS A SKIP, and the bronzerider is rumbling laughter when his weyrmate strips a boot from his person and tosses it R'sner's way. Ila'den tracks the progress back to the Weyrlingmaster with his eye, amusement curling his lips when he leans forward on the table again, tapping his cards on the surface before fanning them out in his hands once more. "I give you a four for the removal, husband. Could have aimed higher and you made it entirely too sexy which I do not appreciate when it's aimed at other men." HE'S JOKING OKAY. But uno is not joking, not when Ila'den has to draw one, two, three, four cards. A growl on the final one, sportsman impatience showing through until it's suddenly not and Ila'den is laughing. It's real laughter, the kind that starts in his chest and comes forth unhindered and - "Draw four, baby." WAH-POW. RIGHT ONTO THE DECK THAT CARD GOES. "And lose another piece of clothing." He sets another card on that, and Ila's all elbows on the table once more as he leans forward with eyes full or mirth just waiting to watch what comes off next. NO REGRETS.

Just a drink, at the bar. That's all R'sner wants. It's a simple wish, really. One that should be easily fulfilled. And yet… and yet R'sner has the misfortune of being in Half Moon Bay, where games of Uno becomd scandalous attempts to disrobe weyrmates and assault innocent bar patrons with boots to legs and terrible innuendo to ears that R'sner can neither escape nor scrub from his memory. Which is probably why he's knocking that RATHER STRONG drink back and asking for another. But while he can pretend not to SEE and HEAR, he can't pretend that a boot didn't just collide with his person. A glance for that, first to the boot and then hesitantly, warily, dreadful-ly up and over to that table over there. There is a very longsuffering sigh before, with a look that says he will definitely regret this later he takes booze, boot, and body (his own) to that table. Step-step-drop. Down goes the boot to the floor, with a quick, "Think you misplaced this," because it was TOTALLY AN ACCIDENT RIGHT?! Ahem-cough-cough. NOT LOOKING. JUST DRINKING. CARRY ON WEYRLEADER-AND-CO.

R'hyn plays a Blue Reverse.

R'hyn is a space-hog, though Ila'den and his ability to saturate a space have no room to talk. "Don't be ridiculous. There was that one time where she… And that other time she said you were… Hm. Alright," conceded in jest, followed by, "I miss her." LAMENT. It's short-lived in the face of laughter for specific shades of black, quiet at first, but growing louder for sudden suspicion. "I suppose that's for me to know, and for you to find out, isn't it?" Coyly put, as coyly as he begins to unlace that second boot. Naturally, a very flat, very unamused look preceded the removal as he's made to draw four, but R'hyn is nothing if not up to the challenge of increasing that sexy-boot-removal score. Poor R'sner. He finally gets the gall to walk their way just in time for R'hyn to start humming a suave song under his breath, bare shoulders rolling beneath his jacket as he sets about tantalizingly removing his laces. Nananana, flick, hmhmhmhm, flick, and a sloooow toeing of the boot off his foot, deposited right into Ila'den's lap. "Better?" Browwaggle. Only then do blue-greys drag up to R'sner when the greenrider deposits his other shoe, wayward amusement in his gaze. "How did that get over there?" MYSTERY. "Thank you." There's a beat in which the temptation to tell R'sner it's okay to look comes and goes behind the weyrleader's eyes but he does have SOME MERCY, okay? Instead he gestures at a free chair at their table with a wry, "Join us?" IF YOU DARE. Clearly there are STAKES, expressed in the form of a blue card slapped on top of the pile and a pointed look at Ila'den. "Strip."

Ila'den plays a Blue 3.

"Our little fish is away tending to her own things, but I suspect she'll be back," Ila'den offers, the only concession he will make in confirmation of his own disposition regarding the dolphincrafter's absence in the weyr. But it's clear: he misses her too. For some reason. Brows draw in, that grey eye finds blue-grey, and Ila'den's fighting back his own laughter at R'hyn's amusement when he offers, "As long as I get to test the toxicity of it on tongues, I'm sure I'll look forward to whatever happens next." WHATEVER THAT MEANS. And then yes, Ila'den is feigning unadulterated amounts of interest in rolling shoulders, and songs hummed under breath, and the wicked slow removal of boots in a way that's as comical as it is exaggerated. "Faranth," Ila'den exhales, "well that's all the game I think I can manage for one night. My self control is in question." ANOTHER JOKE, one that pulls at lips and has that grey eye on R'sner as he arrives with wayward boots and words that have Ila'den laughing - even when he has to lean down and jerk the laces of his other boot open, pulling it off of his foot to join the first. "Whoever's turn it is next has to take off a piece of clothing whenever you place down a draw, reverse, or skip." THEM'S THE RULES. Take them or leave them. Ila'den's fanning his cards out again, selecting one to toss on the pile while he waits for R'sner to either JOIN THEM, or pretend the suddenly ceased to exist.

Oh good. Now there's music to go along with the salacious removal of footwear. That was clearly the missing piece of this puzzle. There's a very distinct twitch to R'sner's eyebrow, but otherwise he's doing a remarkable job of maintaining an expression that suggests this is nothing out of the ordinary and perfectly acceptable behavior. So long as you ignore the fact that he is avoiding eye contact with everything but the wall over yonder. Such a nice wall, that. But that peripheral vision, man. It's a killer. So there's a flash of blue-eyes to offered chair, and then to Weyrleader, and then to Ex-Weyrleader, and then Weyrleader again. "Er… rather not," but at least he drops the 'sir' that wants to get tacked on to the end, right? "Just came for a quick drink," that he knocked back in record time, before getting ANOTHER drink, that is about to be consumed with the same gusto, "and now… probably ought to go check on the weyrlings." Do they even have weyrlings right now? Regardless, it's an excuse that Res can use and so he seizes it by the horns and runs with it. "But you enjoy," as they clearly already are. "… and good luck," that comes with a fleeting glance between the pair, remaining at eye level only before he is HASHTAG-GONE, knocking back his drink and making a bee-line for the door. BYE FELICIA.

R'hyn plays a Blue 9.

"I hope so," sighed most aggrievedly because friends are hard to come by, especially when people can't even meet your eyes, R'SNER. Can't blame him, though, not with the bronzeriding pair flirting aggressively, R'hyn's head lolling back in time with a surge of laughter for the notion of paint toxicity. "Aye. Perhaps I'll allow you to dabble in a little finger-painting, too, after." After what though. "I've a pattern I was considering for myself, at some point, but perhaps I'll try it on you first." Implications Ila is done for the night earns much more honest laughter, losing that scandalous edge in favor of something bright and amused. Besocked toes shove at Ila's knee, eyes rolling with mirth, landing on R'sner with a grin. "Very well. Enjoy your invisible weyrlings," because no, no they do not, "but do stop in and check on the candidates. I'm sure they're feeling lonely." Teasing fades into an actual smile when it's clear the weyrlingmaster is going to actually depart, hand lifting in another wave before he focuses back in on Ila'den. "Just us then. Your beautiful face strikes again." Smoochy face, and another uneventful card tossed to the table.

Ila'den plays a Blue 4.

"We're getting the paint tonight," Ila'den asserts, one hand disappearing beneath the table to catch knee-knocking besocked feet in the clutch of one calloused hand, squeezing as that grey eye shifts to R'sner and - more husky laughter, a wicked glance spared for his weyrmate, and the card R'hyn lays down before. "You sound offended." A beat, as Ila'den leans a little closer to R'hyn from over the table and manages a conspiratorial, "Why, did you want to see him naked, husband?" And Ila'den doesn't wait, letting go of feet so that he can push his chair back and stand. "Oi! Weyrlingmaster! Your Weyrleader wants to see you naked, get back here!" One, two, three, a sigh. "No luck," and back into his chair Ila sinks. "Maybe I should get the tattoo. It will give people something to look at other than my face." You know, when he's not fully clothed. Which is never. WHATEVER, he's pulling another card out of his hand and tossing it into the pile. "So tell me more about this paint and your plans for it, husband." Because if at first you don't succeed, try, try again?

R'hyn draws a card.
R'hyn draws a card.
R'hyn plays a Wild and changes the color to green.

"And just where are you going to find paint at this hour? You've been denying requisitions for it for, what, five turns now?" Rampant amusement takes an easier turn when fingers find feet, muscles easing, joints going loose in the bronzerider's hands. Even when released, R'hyn makes to drape his feet in Ila's lap, sinking in his seat to make the pose comfortable, elbows pushing at errant, draping fabric until his jacket frames either side of his body. "Offended? No. Amused? Yes. Wait do I wha—" It's too late, his legs drop to the floor with an oof, new position doing nothing to make things less awkward as R'hyn pitches his voice loud to add a potentially-rude-oh-well-fight-him, "No, I don't! Carry on!" Satisfaction reads on his features when he wins (or, more likely, R'sner just keeps on retreating), muscles of his stomach flexing with the effort to lift his feet back up onto Ila'den's lap. The bronzer's played card is considered with a purse of lips and he's forced to draw one, then two, and R'hyn smirks as he tosses the wild onto the top of the pile. "Green," asserted for the color change, "and clothing," then: "You shouldn't, actually, because the only person that would know it was there was me, and it would drive me absolutely insane to know it was there and I couldn't touch it. Though, have you ever considered taking a little bit of black and just… right there?" A slash of a gesture just under his eye. "It might help." Terrible. Cards fold back to the table as he fixes Ila with a heated look tempered only by a curl of humor at one corner of his lips. "I believe it was you that once expressed interest in stringing me up and using me as some sort of debauched, living canvas. You should know that the feeling is mutual," expressed in his most innocent 'oh, the things I would do to you then' tone because R'hyn's an asshole, that's why, and there's more than one way to cheat at cards.

"I am a dragonrider, Heryn. Somewhere out there is a trader just itching to sell some paint." BUT ALSO RUDE, R'HYN. DOUBLE RUDE, R'HYN, because if you think for a minute that Ila'den's eye does not fixate on his weyrmate's body with the same draw an addict might have to their poison of choice after a long stretch of sobriety, you need to think again. Ila'den is riveted, expression nigh feral as he mentally delineates lines that he knows too well with lips, and teeth, and tongue but will never know well enough — lines that give definition to muscle, that elicit a growl born of unhindered sexual tension when Ila'den's gaze drags up, up, up to his weyrmate's face. "Those were not the rules," Ila'den rasps much too quietly into the space that separates them. "It was reverse, draw, and skips, not wilds." HIS WILD COUNTED BECAUSE IT WAS A DRAW FOUR. And then a wolfish smile, as Ila'den folds his cards and leans forward, pushing R'hyn's foot back out of his lap as he does. "But we can change the rules. There are just some stipulations that need meeting first." And Ila'den is placing his own cards back in the deck, picking up shirts to tuck into back pockets and his belt before he stalks around the table to his weyrmate. "Actually, I forfeit. You win, baby." And now Ila is going to win, tucking a shoulder into his weyrmate's sternum and using UNFAIR AMOUNTS OF MUSCLE to haul him up over a shoulder with a raspy bark of laughter. "But first, I think we need to find some paint." AND OUT HE STALKS, maybe not getting far enough to find home or dragons that can carry them to anywhere on a whim for an order of black paint.

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