Mudfight!!

Half Moon Bay Weyr - [TP] Deep Jungle Waterfall
Nestled deep inside the heart of the jungle, a break in the canopy gives birth to the inspiring sight of a relatively sleepy waterfall. A stream whose beginnings are likely to be found somewhere miles away where even wild felines fear to traipse, takes a lazy spill over a clump of more than half a dozen enormous mossy boulders this way and that, before dumping to deep pool colored the brightest of azure. There is not one place that the falling water has found to descend from, but several, effortlessly spilling over many layers of rock before splashing gently to constantly refresh that which has collected below. The trees and what underbrush grows well in reduced sunlight perfectly cuts around the entirety of the large pool, with the occasional slippery looking green-tinged rocks jutting out of the water itself toward its pooled edges. Someone has hung a rope swing from a thick branch that hangs over the pool, though this seems to be a relatively new addition. Another relatively flat outcropping peeks out along the west side, covered in a lush carpet of moss that might just tempt a passerby to settle down for a while and just enjoy the lively sounds of avians calling to one another across the wilderness. The stream itself continues on from there to the south, its bed dotted with unnumbered smooth stones polished to a fine sheen over the eons. A vast Pernese sky is hung endlessly above this dedicated space to either bath it in the golden sunlight of day or to shimmer under the shine of countless stars.


Does it ever actually get cool in this ding-dang weyr?! It is, admittedly, one of the hazards of living near the equator - heat abounds even in the coolest of months, and spring is no exception. It's been raining for days though, on and off for nearly a fortnight, just enough that with children and pets and the everpresent weight of responsibility, there simply hasn't been time to properly get away. It's perhaps why R'hyn has insisted on an excursion, taking advantage of what has been promised to be a rainless afternoon to trek through Half Moon's wilds towards the distant rush that heralds the deep jungle waterfall. "I think we lost them," the man murmurs to his companion, lover, weyrmate, husband, all, voice low on instinct alone, pausing to listen, blue-grey eyes roving, "or, more appropriately, they lost us." The Trifecta, he means, or some combination of ladies thereof, gone off bearing their daughters for some harebrained adventure, no doublt. R'hyn tries not to look worried, is infinitely reassured when Xermiltoth's dark bulk courses overhead, stirring leaves and sending avians scattering with his proximity as he rushes overhead with a glittered promise to track them down. Mollified, R'hyn steps from the treeline near the waterfall, drawing short with an almost-aggrieved look and a heaving sigh because HOLY MUD BATMAN. It's a veritable field of it between them and their destination, the only way around it consisting of a cliff or a very long walk. "Well, son of a bitch."

The answer is no. No it never gets cool in this ding-dang weyr. EVER. It's kind of a toss-up, really: do you go to Igen Weyr and risk desiccation the moment you step out of a dwelling and into the sun, or do you linger about in Half Moon Bay, where sometimes going outside means suffocation because humidity and heat and lungs don't always mix. If it were up to Ila'den, he'd be back in High Reaches, where he could wear his leathers without worrying about the heatstroke he may or may not be suffering from now. Exhibit A: first he's pulling off his leather jacket to reveal the long-sleeved tunic beneath, taking it even further by rolling up sleeves to his elbows and exposig some of those healed-over gashes that haunt forearms with stories few know. Ila halts his stride alongside his whispering confidant, the man he'd readily give his life for, the one who shares laughter, and secrets, and late nights in various cubby-holes around the weyr with him too frequently for it to be anything outside of inappropriate. "Well," he drawls, voice husky as that grey eye moves slowly over the field of HOLY MUD BATMAN that separates them from their destination over there. So here's the second reason why Ila'den might be suffering heatstroke: he leans down to unlace his boots and kick them off before stepping into the mud. SQUELCH. SQUISH. SQUOOSH SQUOOSH SQUASH. The man is lowering himself into a crouch, elbows at rest on his knees after he gathers up a clump of mud and brings it towards his face as if he means to inspect and extract secrets from it. That grey eye goes back over the proverbial field before them, back to R'hyn and - YEP. Ila'den is drawing his arm back and slinging mud at his weyrhusband, aiming to hit him probably in the body or around his legs, and emitting husky laughter regardless of whether or not it hits its mark. But if it does find R'hyn's body, there's an almost smug addition to that previously spoken word on gravelly tones. "Now you don't have to worry about getting dirty, Heryn." BECAUSE HE'S ALREADY DIRTY. I mean, he was already dirty (if u kno wut I mean), but now it's ON HIS BODY instead of just a BLACK ILA-MARK ON HIS ONCE-INNOCENT (AHAHAHA. AHA. HA.) SOUL.

And R'hyn says nothing, not about the shedding of jackets, nor the rolling of sleeves; he merely soldiers on, offering water when appropriate, insisting if turned down because it'll be a cold day in Half Moon Bay before R'hyn lets Ila suffer heatstroke from anything other than his own proximity. Get it. Because he's hot - hot for Ila. Okay. I'm done. "Well," R'hyn repeats in agreeing tones, hands going to hips to stare across the expanse, weighing options. To turn back? To make the longer trek? To - take one's boots off? "Ila," said with vague reproof, voice pitched somewhere teasing. "Cita will cut off your head if you…" But it's too late, the man is already squelching out into the muck, and R'hyn can only sigh and glance away because if he didn't see it, he can't tattle about it, right? "It's a good thing we were planning on swimming awhile. We can rinse out your clothes and let them dr—" SPLOOT. MUD. ALL OVER HIS PERSON. Well, no, it is isolated to a splash across his middle, but it might as well be a declaration of war for all it matters. 'BITCH YOU DID NOT' flashes through Heryn's eyes, all the warning Ila has to fucking high tail it as R'hyn lifts one leg, hopping awkwardly to tug boots off as fast as possible. "You flaming hot son of a motherless dragon, I'm going to end you." Or. You know. Bodily tackle him into the mud, given Ila doesn't get the hell out of dodge. Same difference, right?

TOO HOT. HOT DAMN. Ila'den totally was search and rescue once, so he totally counts for being called upon to douse those flames. WITH ILALINE. GET IT? LIKE GASOLINE, BUT ILA. No? Okay, I will see myself out. Regardless of what murder may or may not happen at the hands of their Weyrmate By Proxy, Ila'den is laughing, not even bothering to move when his weyrmate makes warning eyes and hops to tug off his boots before - "Oof." The air in Ila'den's lungs departs on impact, the former renegade going backwards with R'hyn's momentum, keeping his arms on him even as back and head hit the mud and make an interesting suction that makes his next movements almost sluggishly slow. A ROLL, one he's probably performed many-a-times in the bedroom, one that finds him seated between R'hyn's thighs with the younger bronzerider beneath him, one hand just under the curve of R'hyn's ass while the other attempts to grapple arms and pin them into the mud. Or at least Ila's trying to, his free hand trying to gather up mud to SMEAR ON R'HYN'S FACE, AND NECK, AND CHEST, but we both know there's probably going to be a lot of trying to fend off hands and pinning uncooperative arms to achieve this feat - ALL OF WHICH ILA DOES HAPPILY, OKAY. IT NEEDS DOING. He might fail, but that doesn't mean he won't give it a DAMN GOOD SHOT. FIGHT HIM.

Fired. SO MANY KINDS OF FIRED. Ilaline honestly how do you even come up with these ridiculous ways to make Ila— "Eat dirt," R'hyn growls upon the successful completion of his tackle, cackling quietly under his breath for that sickening squelch and for the sheer and utter absurdity of the moment, for the vision of Ila'den pressed to the muck beneath him, fingers catching in fabric that is no longer pale perfection against dark skin, the slip and slide of knees trying to gain purchase, body trying to gain dominance making it even absurder (shut up, it's a word) when a practiced roll reverses their positions and it's… not comfortable, being borne onto one's back into this chaos, memory of how good his body usually finds this move at total and complete odds with how bad it feels for cool, gross damp to press into places he didn't even know he had, aggravated further by hands that pin, and smear him with mud, and all R'hyn can do is LAUGH and FIGHT. Hips lift, his body strains, feet scrabble for purchase that is simply not there to find, hands doing their best to pry apart, criss-cross, slick with mud, anything to prise them from Ila's grasp even as his chest heaves in the attempt to draw in air. "You fucking bastard," gets choked between gasps, one knee finally lifting high enough to catch Ila at the join of leg to body, pushing hard outwards in an attempt to dislodge him enough to raise the other leg and shove his weyrmate off him with both heels. If successful? MUDBALL FIGHT, with those stupid oversized hands serving as glob-catapults, destination: ILA'S FACE.

And Ila'den resists, laughter halting his movements if not breaking the complete and utter concentration he's devoted to the ruination of his weyrmate's clothes and face (in the mucky, murky, squelchy way, of course). He's even growling out a rasping, "You know I love it when you talk dirty to me, baby," around a smile that's somehow disarmingly boyish in his delight while still managing to be wolfish. And it's enough; R'hyn's knee comes up and pushes hard and Ila'den is forced to give up ground, relinquishing his hold on wrists with the movement that sends him back and onto his ass in the mud, arms coming up to protect himself from at least some of those mudballs even if MORE THAN JUST A FEW get him ALL OVER THE PLACE: his face, his ARMS, his TORSO. Each connection is met with more laughter, the kind that comes in tenor pitches and marks an inability to breathe; the kind that crinkles the corners of eye even as Ila'den ducks down behind arms crossed at the forearms in front of him as if this might lend him some semblance of protection from his weyrmate's onslaught. And then it doesn't matter, because Ila's dropping his arms, letting himself get MUD-BARRAGED (RUDE) so that he can gather up some of that mud on his own and sling it right back. QUICK! Ila fights the resistance of mud that seems to try and swallow him whole by moving onto his knees before he lunges forward again, aiming to tackle R'hyn right back into the mud even if it will be at a slightly awkward angle this time. But at least if he's successful, he'll press into that too big body at the hips, finding R'hyn's lips with his own for a kiss that's chaste albeit fiercely forceful, marked by a growl - and meant as a distraction, so that the former renegade can SMEAR MORE MUD INTO THE WEYRLEADER'S HAIR AND DOWN HIS NECK. MMM. TAKE THAT. "Filth looks good on you, baby." ALL TERRIBLE AMUSEMENT, ALL UNREPENTANT UNDERTONES BECAUSE R'HYN YOU HOT THO.

Oh, R'hyn is ruined, alright - physically, sure, clothing plastered to his person in wet, heavy, disgusting twists, but one can argue he's been ruined mentally as well; ruined by this man and his ridiculous smiles and pitchy laughter that somehow give his weyrmate pause even in this, in the middle of all-out war. It's minor, a simple dip of hands, a halt in the playfully aggressive assault of handfuls of mud upon Ila'den's person, but it's enough to be poignant, enough to bid his return grin to widen, nose wrinkling, body swelling with something more than an intake of breath - it's pleasure, and pride, and joy, and enjoyment - and it's over as swiftly as it comes, wrecked by return fire, but there nevertheless to be marked until- "No. No no no. Ila, baby, please I'll talk the dirtiest talk you've ever heard just-" IT'S TOO LATE HERYN. All that backwards knee-sliding and bid for ground does him no good, tackled right back into the slime with a noise much too close to a squeal for comfort, growling through bubbly laughter in an attempt to keep it at bay. It fails; Ila succeeds. That kiss brings rampant amusement down to a low simmer, chest still quaking but noises silenced even as he presses his tongue (and likely a fair amount of grit) into Ila's mouth. ALAS, there is no time to turn chaste kisses into anything more disastrous - SMEAR goes the mud and UGH goes the R'hyn, messy hands coming up to splat to either side of Ila's head, holding him in place even as eyes flick back open, fixing him with a look that'd be coy under any other circumstance. Here? Now? It's ridiculous, but R'hyn pitches his voice low anyways, mouth hiking up on one side to offer a purred, "You do like making a mess of me, don't you?" WINK, accompanied by hands sliding down Ila's neck before dropping to his sides, recoating with muck before he seeks the edges of Ila's shirt and shoves his palms on up inside. MMM THAT SKIN ON MUD ON SKIN ACTION THO. CALL A WEYRPOLICE AND A FIRE DAG.

NO FIREDAGS TO SPEAK OF. R'HYN'S TOO HOT; HE MADE THEM ALL RETIRE. It's too bad that Ila'den's pressing the advantage of R'hyn's minutely-halting pause, unaware of his weyrmate's momentary reprieve to simply enjoy him and his smiles and his laughter — a kind of awareness and adoration that Ila'den will never get used to, no matter how many turns pass to reassure him that R'hyn is here with him, building a life that includes children, and cats, and one weyrmate TOO DANG MANY. Every pleading word from R'hyn's lips makes Ila'den's smile expand and grow until that boyishness is lost in the press of something positively predatory. POUNCE! And Ila'den's growling at that press of tongue and grit into his mouth, a teasing brush of his own tongue meant to steal and press back in a motion all too brief because yes, he's drawing back to smear mud all over Heryn and receive a helping of it underneath his tunic - an application that might make anybody else squirm away, but that has Ila'den growling as a shiver rolls up his spine. And then it's Ila'den who's pressing his body back into R'hyn's, teeth finding lips (and grit) to bite down on and pull; who's tongue is demanding more than even what the sudden rock of his hips forward doesn't. And hands playful only moments before, still covered in mud, catch in R'hyn's muddied hair to twist around strands and pull. His other hand marks a path down R'hyn's ribs, side, hips, dragging down the outside of his thigh to his knee so that he can hitch the appendage up and pull it in closer against his own body. And finally Ila'den pulls away with a kiss to chin, to muddied neck, down, down, down to shoulders where he ceases affectionate (and muddy) ministrations so that he can draw back and look water-wards. "Something tells me that I'll have better luck seducing you if we're both clean." DOES HE SOUND DISAPPOINTED? He looks disappointed, but there's that wolfish playfulness again as Ila'den steals one last lip-to-lip slow burning kiss and then sits back on his heels. "Well, come on then, baby. You're supposed to talk the dirtiest talk I've ever heard and I'm fully prepared to lose all ability to reason while you do it." TOTALLY NOT PART OF THE DEAL, but look at Ila'den pretending like it is, moving to stand and gather discarded things so that he can lead the rest of the way to the water. And probably throw some mud at R'hyn again at some point along the way.

ALAS. ILA WILL JUST HAVE TO SAVE HIM FROM HIMSELF THEN. Luckily for Ila'den, there's no shortage of admirition coming from R'hyn - fingers have traced this selfsame path up Ila'den's ribs hundreds of times, if not thousands, but still they press with feverish fervor, still they delineate musculature, scars, the hard line of bones from ribs to sternum to clavicle before reversing downwards with no less reverence in the application of his hands to Ila'den's body than they possessed the first time, and that's what makes the difference. Anyone can press kisses to mouths, hands to bodies, mud to skin, but it takes something like this, this undefinable but no less consequential thing that goes far past the ability of words to properly conceptualize, to make it about each other. Blue-grey eyes flick up for that growl-ridden shiver, amusement and delight vying for dominance in his gaze until they are swallowed by the application of lips and teeth and tongue to his person. Hands shift, skidding slick around the outer edges of Ila's body to press one hand to his back, the other sliding low beneath the edges of pants, seeking some purchase, any purchase, with which to rock back up against Ila'den's form. Mud-streaked lips part upon the bronzerider's withdrawal to pursue a path down his neck, lips twitching crookedly on a smirk. "You know-" words are broken off before they can fully realize, cut short by a low, needy noise that stretches out with a flex of Ryn's body against Ila's, heels dragging the older rider in, curling fingertips introducing a slick drag of blunt nails to the melange, eyes sliding shut as though praying for patience enough to finish his sentence "-with your face all muddied up like this, you almost look handsome." SPLACK. That's a smack of his palm against Ila's leathers, withdrawn only to be reapplied to outer layers for that telling look towards the water. "Don't think you're getting off that easy, as though with one wet, dirty snog you're just going to get me to—mmf." A beat follows that slow-burning kiss, punctuated by a gruff exhale and a peer up at Ila through mud-splashed lashes. "I stand corrected." NO, YOU LIE MUDDIED, BUT SEMANTICS. He ain't giving up without a fight, though - great handfuls of mud are lobbed back at the bronzer, and Faranth forbid he turn his back lest he find R'hyn throwing himself at it, hanging from about his neck (whether he keeps his feet or no) to breathe terrible things that should not be sexual but somehow are ("Is it bad that I want to lick you clean right now? I just want to carve a clean path from your stomach to your chest. We should experiment with frosting." and "You know, they offer mud baths in Ierne, I wonder what it'd be like to-" hand gesture "-while in one.") to Ila's ear, testing patience with hands that rove as much to excite as to indiscriminately coat his weyrmate as thoroughly in mud as he might before they reach the pools where R'hyn will undoubtedly push Ila in and cannonball to follow because they're adults that's why. Sue him.


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