Leck Mich Im Arsch

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.

One of these days, R'hyn will stop having days. Really he will. Honest. It simply won't be this day. This day was of the calibre that has driven him to the far side of the bar, visage moody, posture stiff, 'don't talk to me' radiating off him in waves that can be considered bad for business, considering the one-chair square radius around him. The bartender perhaps even says something to the effect, meant only as a tease, but still earning a sullen glare and a single-fingered salute in answer before R'hyn takes another swig of something tall, dark, and dangerous-looking and goes back to his six and a quarter feet of grumpy sulky thoughts. Bless.

That's about as likely as Cita suddenly developing a sense of humor about her people managing to injure themselves. Or as the healer not throwing herself at the bar and gesturing for the entire bottle of keroon's finest to be dispensed to her. Which is to say, not happening. Never mind R'hyn's sulky-angry vibes, Citayzleat is either oblivious or doesn't give a hoot, hunching over and tapping her fingers until the bottle appears. She doesn't bother with glasses, healer and theoretically responsible or no, taking a long drink and then pillowing her head on her arms. She doesn't talk for a long, long time, not until she finally raises her head to drink again, squinting beadily at the bronzer. "Did you deserve it." It's…a question? Maybe. Who cares about all those 'do not poke' signs on the bear. "You did." The healer decides, and toasts it, deadpan.

R'hyn can almost feel Citayzleat coming long before she enters his field of vision, entirely too aware of the oncoming storm in diminutive healer form that brings her brooding bad mood and parks it right next to his in an exemplary example of poor life choices. By the time Cita's up in his no-fly zone, R'hyn is charged with displeasure, blue-grey eyes cutting over his glass to fix the healer with a daggering and none-too-friendly look that plainly reads, 'Not today, Satan.' BEGONE. Eyes flick away just as abruptly, content to ignore the woman as best he can considering the annoying-as-sin way she's tap-tap-TAPPING on the counter, fingers going white around the edges as he grips his glass tighter and tighter. Really, it's a damn miracle the thing doesn't shatter in his grasp, the way he's using it like a tether to sanity, gripping it like the leash around his tongue that it is and holding on for dear life lest he loose the hounds. He almost makes it, too - concern for head-pillowing almost overrides whatever shit's happened to ruin his day - but then she just has to go and open her big mouth and nope. It's over. ROUND ONE, DING: "Fuck you," and an unspoken 'and the runner you rode in on' gets followed by an equally acerbic, "That was one time. And no, thank you, I didn't." Which means he definitely did. He definitely did deserve it, but he won't be telling that to her. And because nobody deserves happiness, "You're a damn treat. Who spit in your klah this morning? Too many suspects, I'd imagine, with shit bedside manner like yours." And he toasts right back with a twisted smile as though to mock her straight delivery before downing entirely too much of whatever that is in his glass.

R'hyn is not the boss of Cita, and she's not given to listening to any orders — implied or no, in any case. She also isn't given to heavy drinking, occasional slip-ups aside, but today the healer is on a mission. That nice whiskey goes down way too quickly, and she's completely oblivious to the tension trying to crack the rider's bones. "Shove it up your ass, Heryn." The healer gargles, mostly finished with another drink, and she only chokes on the liquor a little. She still manages to look Judgemental, raising both eyebrows while trying to cough delicately, at the 'one time'. As for her klah, Cita's eyes narrow dangerously — threats on her beverages are SERIOUS, ALRIGHT. "If it was you, know I have access to where you sleep." She promises, shoving the bottle to the side a little and leaning back, belligerently relaxed and ignoring the bedside-manner shot. "Actually, maybe I should give it a safety check, if you're injuring your ankle during your bedroom exploits. Faranth, man." …or maybe not. Maintaining combative eye contact, Cita takes another drink.

At this rate, they'll both be piss-drunk before anybody gets the chance to break them up - R'hyn takes a great, bracing mouthful before he can even start on a response to Cita's mere attitude, swishing the liquid around and around his mouth as though it might wash away the bad taste left behind by all of this BULLSHIT. "I'd love to, but your head is so far up my ass these days it'd hardly fit. Who needs a mother when they have someone like you." And R'hyn catches that dangerous eye-narrowing, oh yes he does, correctly interpreting its deeper meaning and spitting in the face of her judgement - LITERALLY. In stiff, pointed, abrupt movements R'hyn raises his hand in a cup below his chin. Hocks up a nice mouthful of spit. Pitooeys it into his hand. And then wipes it all over the mouth of Cita's side-set bottle without breaking from his dead-eyed, sarcastic visage. "Because that's not creepy," is said of her knowing where he sleeps, but then— then she brings his BEDROOM into this and watch R'hyn. Watch R'hyn huff, and puff, and stutter and flush red across eartips and cheekbones, words coming out in a jumbled tumble. "What- I never- I wouldn'- You've got it all wrong and- How dare- How do I know you've never- The nerve- It's none of your business how I- What we do in the bedroom is- Fuck you!" Some~body hit a little too close to ho-ooome~. "It was one time," he adds, just in case you thought he was done repeating himself. He wasn't, isn't, still muttering under his breath before he takes another giant slug of what is definitely rum in a pint glass.

AND THEN THERE IS ILA'DEN. While Cita and R'hyn are busy baring their teeth at one another, flinging pointed threats that one might expect to hear from newly-pubescent weyrbrat tweens, Ila'den is on the prowl. He is definitely not stalking R'hyn BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE LUDICROUS, but the snappy healer and the ill-tempered bronzerider have decided to occupy Ila'den's SECOND - no - THIRD favorite place (the first being unmentionable, of course, the second being anywhere there's a piano) and so HERE HE IS. He's coming up on the two, stopping just shy of actually interrupting, single grey eye tracking the insults from one, to the other, and back, and then Ila'den is stepping RIGHT INTO THE MINUTE SPACE with a roll of his eye between bronzer and healer and leaning right into Cita. Lips go to the healer's ear, and there's a husky damn-near-purr of, "You have no idea, little bird; he's actually quite flexible," seconds before he hauls the healer up - DRINK AND ALL - over his shoulder. Why? Because Cita is in his seat, of course, and then he's handing the hiss-spit-fizzle woman over to R'hyn, dropping her right into his lap whether his whatever they are wants the healer there or not. HOPEFULLY YOU DON'T BECOME ACQUAINTED WITH THE FLOOR (though Ila'den will totally fling out a booted leg and try to catch her if R'hyn's in the mood to be a bigger dick). And then? He's plucking Cita's bottle from her grasp, running his tongue up R'hyn spit, and then taking a swig as he patpatpats R'hyn right on the top of his precious head and pinches a cheek for effect. "And here I thought it was my job to brood about the weyr and get drunk. What are you doing to Cita?" Because apparently EVERYTHING is R'hyn's fault tonight.

The ptooey-bottling R'hyn gives her bottle of booze doesn't even seem to register. Well. Okay. The healer hawks something up like she might retaliate — but gets distracted instead, swaying ominously. "It's physically impossible for my head to be up your ass." She mutters instead, sounding terribly sober for somebody who's focusing on the R'hyn directly to the bronzerider's left. She's smug, too, giggling rudely at having flustered the poor guy, chin canting up as she takes another drink. Mmmm. Spit. Cita is three — no, at least five — sheets to the wind, for sure, and perks right up when Ila'den parks his ass in front of her. "Ila!" She crows, with the air of somebody about to appeal to one half of a spousal team to side with her. "You," He's up in her space, though, and the healer's eyes cross, trying once more to focus. She looks a little nauseated at the words, drawing a face and muttering something about Ila not being her favorite any more — which, well, only gets more pronounced when she's picked up and dumped into her current least favorite rider's lap. "Shard it, you sharding, shitting, pain in the ass -" Wait. R'hyn's face is floating in her vision, and apparently Cita isn't drunk enough that revenge isn't out of the question. If the sudden cheshire grin doesn't warn him into fleeing, Ryn's about to get a faceful of Citayzleat; who calmly mmmmblephs a giant, gross, slobbery lick from jaw to forehead. "Don't lick other peoples' stuff, asshole." She grumbles, stands with alacrity (manages not to fall on her face, somehow), and snatches the bottle back from Ila. "Thank you." Prim, proper, she sashays off. It's. Not a good sashay. It's actually more of a stumble. But the intent is there, damn it.

"Tell that to the giant pain in the ass you're giving me right now," R'hyn snarks back, clearly holding his booze much better than Citazyleat, but perhaps - PERHAPS - only just. There's definitely an edge to his ire, a sense of rawness that doesn't come around every day, that is perhaps the exact reason why he doesn't indulge like this anymore. It fluffs his feathers so much that even the appearance of Ila'den doesn't ease the tension still rolling off the bronzerider in waves, though perhaps that is more due to the nature of his whatever-they-are's appearance than anything else - purred words earn a flat stare and a harsh expellation of air through his nose (HE HEARD THAT), the licking of spit from Cita's bottle a sudden flush and a hard glance anywhere but at Ila'den, and then he has a lap full of unhappy Citayzleat and this is just not how he saw his night going. Muscles in Ryn's arms jump, as though legitimately fighting against some instinct to shove Cita right back off his lap, a battle he ultimately loses when the healer licks his FACE. "EUGH." Luckily Cita sashays right on out of his grasp or Heryn really would have pushed her, his shoulders already crawling up to his ears to wipe away at the spittle-slime, swearing loud and colorfully with more than one phrase that sounds super made up before he, too, pushes to his feet. "That was fucking disgusting, and super unsanitary. You are the worst healer I know!," he shoots at her retreating back. "And you." Lest Ila think he gets away with the chaos that CLEARLY HE STARTED. "You don't own the corner market on drunk brooding so stop all this-" Yes, he just finger-waggled at all of you, swaying enough that that finger eventually presses into Ila'den's chest so R'hyn can growl words threateningly (read: as threateningly as a tiny puppy) up in the bronzer's face. "-before I stop it for you." With a punch to the face?! Oh. No. There is some small smidgen of R'hyn in there under the thundercloud of anger, and that part bids him to lean in and press a fierce kiss to Ila's mouth as though in threat (or perhaps demonstration) and then HE'S OFF with a growl and a grumble and a, "I need a bath," and nary another word for the poor bronzerider that he totally leaves behind at the bar without a backwards glance.

CITA AND R'HYN, WITH THE FACE AND THE EYES AND THE — AUUUGH. FACE-LICKING. To say that Ila'den is amused would be an understatement; in fact, the bronzerider watches the interaction between healer and wingrider with a raised brow and a curl at the corner of his lips that might be infuriating if not for the fact that it's somehow muted by a concern for the raw-edge in R'hyn's voice that he can't — "You just licked my stuff," Ila'den intones after Cita - but too late. The woman is drunk-sashaying her way far, far away from HERE and leaving Ila'den to face R'hyn as the equally-drunk rider invades his space. Ila'den doesn't back away, watching all-encompassing finger waggles that come on the heels of puppy-esque threats - and then he's being kissed. Ila'den leans into the otherwise intimate contact, eyes closing for the brief duration, hands remaining placed elbow on bar, forearm to knee, and when R'hyn goes, Ila'den lets him. The older bronzerider's taking a breath that might be appreciation for R'HYN, and BATHS, and DRUNKEN SWAGGER, but ends on an exhale an amused, growling rumble of, "I love you, sweetheart. Try not to drown." REVENGE. Grey eyes go to R'hyn's abandoned drink and, after a moment of hesitation (probably deciding on whether to chase one or the other down to talk FEELINGS), Ila'den pulls it to HIMSELF. Nope. Feelings are for MORE FEELING-PRONE PEOPLE. Ila? He will let them sort themselves out; they know where to find him if they need shit-eating grins and Cheshire smiles for support.

Did I say nary another word? Not a single backwards glance? I LIED. "I don't think so, sweetheart," gets pressed to the bronzerider's ear, words immediately preceding a flash of black tattoos as Ryn snatches the glass of rum right up out of Ila'den's hand. "This is my alcohol stick." And as though to say HAVEN'T WE HAD ENOUGH OF LICKING OTHER PEOPLE'S THINGS or perhaps I LOVE YOU TOO, YOU LITTLE SHIT, R'hyn cricketty-crooks his eyebrows as his lips fasten about the straw in question, the drunken rider backing away a few steps, pointing two fingers at his own eyes, then one at Ila's single grey orb, and then he turns about on his heel and actually leaves for real this time, with just enough 'get out of my way or I'll make you' in his swagger to clear a path right on out the door.

"And that is my weyrmate — so handle it with care." Ryn might smile around his straw, but Ila'den is smiling too, watching the bronzerider DANCE OUTTA REACH UNTIL HE GONE, and Ila'den is left to laugh. THE END.

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