He's No Casanova

Writers: Bree, Yvonne
Date Posted: 4th June 2006

Characters: Dyaera
Description: Dyaera's Tilarth rises for the first time since her injury, but the winner of the flight is hardly a winner himself.
Location: Dolphin Cove Weyr
Date: month 12, day 8 of Turn 3

Dyaera only had a few moments to be nervous about the fact that Tilarth was rising for the first time since her injury. It had seemed like a perfectly normal morning, with Tilarth sunning on the ledge and Dyaera splashing about in the Weyrlake. She was _supposed_ to be working on her stamina with swimming, but the water had felt delightfully cool and it had been nice to simply float and watch the sky.

Then Tilarth's cries had driven her out of the lake and in the direction of the mating cots, dripping wet on wobbly legs with only a towel clutched around her. She didn't have time to worry about her stamina or her scars or what would happen when the door closed on her and a man and everything was swept away in dragon lust.

In the few moments of clarity that she had, she tried to tell herself that it was silly to expect D'cal to win. Tilarth might be fond of Aosorath, but he was still young and had only chased once before. Still, she found him on the edges of the crowd around her and sent Tilarth the briefest thought...
**Please...**

But when Dyaera woke to a back screaming in pain and a brownrider not much older than herself passed out mostly on top of her, she wished she'd spent her time begging Tilarth for someone with a little bit of experience. She shoved at him with one hand, trying to wake him up and at least get him to move off of her so she could see just how badly her back was hurt.
"Hey... wake up."

He groaned, then rolled onto his side with a smile. "Hey. How're you feeling, gorgeous?"

She was feeling like someone had been tossing her around without much care for her well being, but it didn't seem polite to point out. "Fine. Have you seen my towel?"

"Your... towel?" Dyaera made a face as she tried to shift. Her back protested the movement rather violently. "I was swimming when Tilarth rose. I kind of left my clothing on the beach..."

"Oh. _That_ explains it." The brownrider grinned, exposing a snaggletooth, and winked at her. He rolled onto his side and ran a hand from Dyaera's shoulder and across the smooth plains of her abdomen before coming to a rest on the inside of her upper thigh. "I just assumed that you being naked meant that you were really into it... although I'm sure that you are, now."

"Uhhh, not really," Dyaera replied, pushing his hand away from her leg and pulling a blanket up over her. "I'm still recovering from my threadscore..."

"Know what the best cure for threadscore is? Vigerous activity." He winked again. "Trust me. I'm a healer."

"Uh-huh." Dyaera jabbed an elbow into his side, hoping he'd realize it was a hint and not an invitation. She was starting to wonder if he could tell the difference. "Well, I think I've had all of the activity I can handle for the morning. And my back hurts."

"I'm sure I can think up a way to distract you. Lovemaking is supposed to be an excellent way to take your mind of... other things." He tried to pitch his voice low, but it caught and he took a moment to clear it. Loudly. "An orgasm is a good muscle relaxant."

Dyaera looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "Are you joking? If you lay another sharding finger on me, I'll break it."

He did a double take. "Woah! What's your problem?"

"Did you _look_ at my back?" Dyaera retorted, inching away from him. "I'm not exactly in the mood, and I don't think you're going to get me there short of Tilarth rising again. And unless you go learn what you're doing, _that_ might not even be enough!" He gave her a long look, then mumbled, "Playing hard to get, eh?" He didn't seem aware that he'd said it aloud, and suddenly contorted his face into what he probably thought was a sexy, smouldering look. "I don't think I know your name. This surprises me, since I thought I knew every woman who could take my breath away at the Weyr. And you surpass them all in beauty."

Dyaera snarled at him and gave him a sharp, open-palmed slap directly on the nose. He yelped. "Winning a mating flight doesn't give you the right to harass me. If you don't put your clothing on and leave before I count to ten, I'm going to have my dragon tell the Weyrleader's dragon that you're hurting me. I'm sure J'darin could take your breath away."

"You can't lie! My dragon would tell him right back that I did no such thing." He growled and rolled out of bed to search for his trousers, surrupticiously rubbed at his smarting nose. There was no way he could re-interpret a reply like hers to save face. "And it's only because of flight lust that I'd want anything to do with a fat, scarred up ugly herdbeast like you to begin with. I thought I'd be nice and give you a chance since there's no way any other man would want to touch you unless they were so drunk they'd gone blind."

It shouldn't have upset her, especially with D'cal having shared her bed so recently, but annoyance turned to full on anger as she pulled the blankets up to her chin and turned her back on him. "Just shut up and go away. Go find some nice _pretty_ drudge who'll put up with you."

He pulled on his pants and yanked his belt closed before turning to leer at her. "I don't have to find them. _They_ come to _me_."

"Fine! They're _welcome_ to you!" And Dyaera pulled the blanket over her head, not wanting to have to see him again. **Tilarth, find someone who can come get me! And tell them to bring me some clothing!**

A long pause followed before Tilarth relayed the sleepy response that someone would be along, leaving Dyaera to do nothing but hide under the blankets and brood.

Last updated on the June 4th 2006

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He's No Casanova