In Comes the Tide

Day 16 of Month 7 of Turn 2714
Half Moon Bay Weyr - [TP] Fruit Garden
Situated just outside the weyr's bowl is a sprawling garden of fruit trees. Far too regimented to be considered an orchard, neat rows of trees dot what might be better called a courtyard, forming a neat, even grid of shade. Carefully contrived sunbeams dapple light onto the occasional bench, or tiny grottos where firelizards and small avians gather to pick at seed and offerings left in small bowls. In the far corner is tucked a fountain, its soft babbling heard throughout the space. This is mostly due to the garden's clever system of irrigation, trees kept watered despite the predominance of flagstones by a spiderweb of grooves that lead from the fountain into the trees. Water bubbles constantly through the little tunnels set into the stone before eventually being recycled into the lagoon somewhere beyond.


One would think, given the location, that today would be a peaceful day, filled with the delicate chirping of birds and flits, the quiet burble of water along the path, the soft glimmer of light off the fountain in yon corner. Never would you be so wrong. "Get back here!" Because there goes R'hyn, chasing after a pair of sooty grey streaks of fur, running for everything he's worth and still not keeping up. "I know you're a pair of assholes but that doesn't entitle you to steal the food right from my face." Because indeed, one of the grey, narrow-faced, big-eared felines has almost a whole sandwich lodged in their face, shaved meats flapping in the breeze, and the other is (un)helpfully trying to snag some as they flee! Any who knows the weyrmated bronzers and their cats knows there's likely a third around somewhere, but hopefully it will not make an appearance - an unholy alliance of all three mischief-makers would certainly spell doom. These two are trouble enough, scampering up into a tree just ahead of R'hyn, who can only stare up at them in frustration, panting. "You little shits," immediately preceding, "Xermiltoth NO." Because the big bronze is definitely trying to careful-step around and over trees to enter the courtyard. "Go back before you bring more trouble."

IT'S TOO LATE. More trouble comes in the form of Ila'den, the man dressed down today because sometimes he has enough common sense to leave his leathers behind. He is still in a long-sleeved tunic, but the fabric is light enough to breathe in the early morning heat of Half Moon's stifling summer climes - and clinging, because it was made to do that. SHUT UP. Or don't. Or do. "You're never going to catch them that way," Ila'den drawls in that lilting accent, the lyrical quality of burr-heavy words curbed because Ila'den is paying attention to how he speaks and affecting the Half Moonian dialect with practiced ease. He's been here longer than he was where he was; he's learned to adopt and adapt and oft times he puts that to use. But that is not relevant (except that it is in a way); what's relevant is the older bronzerider stepping up beside R'hyn with that limping gait, favoring his weight on one leg as he tilts his head back and grey eyes narrow up towards the trees where both cats have made off with their feast. Is that a baby Ibsyglei on his hip? IT IS. And the child is babbling as she smacks Ila'den's jaw with important things and - yep, Ila'den sticks a finger in her mouth. She's probably teething. "Might as well let them have it now." Though Ila'den's attention flickers briefly towards Xermiltoth without comment. "Unless you're going to climb up after them," comes almost-wicked a moment later, with Ila'den canting his head towards his weyrmate. "They won't be expecting that."

It might be a different accent, but R'hyn would know that voice anywhere. It draws his gaze away from victorious felines, eyes roving over Ila'den, Ibsyglei, gait, face-smacking all as he tries to catch his breath. A beat. Two. Then, "Ain' tryin' ta catch'em," comes out in indolent, rolling tones, because if Ila's going to go forwards in time, R'hyn might as well go back, dredging up an old Istan drawl. "Ahm tryin' t'scare th'fuckin' shit outta'em so as they don' do it again." The last bit is delivered with a point at each of the felines, whose slim grey bodies have the decency to jolt as though tensing to flee again before relaxing when it becomes apparent R'hyn isn't going to give further chase. "Don' tempt meh," he adds, chiding, pointer finger swinging down to aim in Ila's direction before finally he sighs, shoulders dropping out of their hitched position, accent sliding back out of existence as he steps into Ila'den's space. Leftover ire flees in the face of Ibsy's babbling, strong features softening around a breathed, "Hi, baby," and a kiss pressed to her forehead. "Hi, baby," he repeats for Ila'den's benefit, sassy amusement curling around the words as he likewise duplicates the kiss, mushing lips against his cheek before aiming to withdraw half a step. "What're you two doing out and about, hmm? Are you helping your daddy escape paperwork?"

"Well, yer nae daein a verrah good job, are ya? Am no professional, R'hyn, but a d'no if they give a shite." A beat, in which Ila'den's attention shifts back up to tree-ward cats, his own brogue thicker for R'hyn's application of accent because why not before the elder bronzer's attention is back on his mate again. "Also, wanty mind yer mouth 'round the bairn? Cannae imagine Syn's face if Ibsy's first word is 'fuck'." As for tempting R'hyn? There's a ghost of a smile that tugs at the corners of Ila's lips. "Am no," he denies, but as R'hyn's accent falls to the wayside, Ila'den's focus is back on schooling his own into something a little less thick and a lot more discernible because sometimes it doesn't even sound like the man is speaking English. The leaned in press of Ryn's kiss to Ibsy's forehead sees the girl smiling a giggle as she leans into it, hands coming down on her other daddy's face as she turns away without pulling away and fingers find bits of facial hair to catch in chubby hands. She's just so delighted at the contact, keeping one hand SMACK DAB ON RYN'S EYE as he leans in to kiss Ila'den's cheek with repeated words that have Ila'den looking after his 'mate in muted amusement. He doesn't comment. "Aye, she's been a right help. Come on now, show your Daddy what you showed me." And Ila'den is shifting to settle Ibsy on her tiny booted feet, allowing her to balance herself by clutching both of his fingers in her hands before he slowly wiggles his hands free. Ibsy takes one step, then two, then three towards Ryn, clumsy and unbalanced but she's walking with arms outstretched for the younger man. And Ila? Well, Ila'den is crouching low behind her, extending arms into the slight distance to catch her if she falls. "Good job," he praises in soft tones not meant for Ila, but despite his eyes being on their daughter, his attention is on R'hyn. "Why are you here, weyrmate?"

Oh, is that how it's gonna be? R'hyn's eyes glitter for the reapplication of accent to Ila's words, appreciation in every inch of his gaze as it flicks back and forth over the bronzerider's face. "How'bow ya mind mah mouth fer mae," is delivered as a suggestion, and a suggestive suggestion at that, a single brow cocking upwards to emphasize the inherent challenge. "Besides," voice descending from highland growl to his usual lazy, homeless drawl, "if anybody's going to be teaching her how to swear, it'll be her momma herself, and you know it." There's a dubious twitch of that brow for Ila'den's denial, but finally it lowers, the better to focus on the tiny hands on his face. R'hyn chases ofter one, then the other, with playful clacks of teeth and soft animal noises, growls turning to chompy noises as lips tuck to imitate gums as he gnaws carefully on teeny baby fingers. "You're delicious," is perhaps a little accusatory, blue-grey eyes wheeling up to seek Ila's one because they are sweet and he assumes it's for a reason, but all the shits he gives concerning the answer flee as Ila'den shifts to lower Ibsyglei to the ground. R'hyn stoops with them, expression curious but realization dawning, some kind of emotion breaking like Rukbat over the angles of his face. With it comes a smile, his own arms extending to catch her perhaps a little sooner than strictly necessary but he can't help it. "Look at youuu," the bronzerider breathes, approval in his tone, lifting Ibsyglei up to twirl with her once before tucking her in against his chest, further words pressed to the side of her face. "I'm so proud of you. But also please stop now." Growing, he means, a look of mixed commiseration and thanks aimed at Ila'den along with a sideways smile before he says, "Filling out wing transfer paperwork."

"Am gonna be mindin' more than just yer mouth if ye keep it up, weyrmate," Ila'den growls, brogue thicker with the implications of heat and carnal intent that carry the words with a curl of tongue from Ila'den's lips. But there are young, and (as of yet) impressionable children innocuously playing the part of stalwart defenders to what remains of proprietary and virtue between two men who are in possession of exactly none. Ibsyglei's laughter is given freely as R'hyn chases after her with teeth and growls, fearless in that she shoves her hands into his mouth, eager to be eaten, instead of pulling away from him with fear. That tiny face scrunches, each giggle earned ending on a lingering, 'heeeeeee,' of sound and coming from her belly because it's the only way babies know how to be: 100% in. The accusations aimed vocally towards Ila'den in tone alone are met with a raising of Ila'den's brows as if in challenge, because you're damn right they taste sweet for a reason, and Ila'den imparts why: "Risali came because she wanted to see Ibsy and ended up making a bubbly and using her for help." Because Risali is AN ADORING, ATTENTIVE SISTER. Though the admittance has Ila'den drawing in his brows as lips pull downwards. "She is either pregnant or wants to be pregnant, but when I asked her about it, she gave me one of her looks and stormed out of the weyr with the pie." And then none of that matters, because Ibsy is on the move to daddy number two and being lifted into a twirl that has her clinging on for dear life even as she giggles. Maybe what Ryn says makes sense to her, because Ibsy is responding to him with the same syllable over and over again: "Babababababa." Or maybe she's just hungry. Either way, she's babbling happily, shoving fingers into her mouth as she talks and drools and then applies spit-soggy hands back onto R'hyn's face. Nothing says I love you like baby-drool hands (and babble). The look is met from Ila'den's crouch near the ground, a flickering of a smile that hints at the corner of lips before it disappears again just as quickly as it's come. "Wing transfer paperwork? To which wing?"

"Is that a promise, or a threat, Kilarden?," R'hyn asks, octaves dropping along with a hand that skims back through chaotic black hair before drifting down towards shoulders as the younger man steps back into the bronzerider's space. The words are wantful, dark and desirous, the shift of his body languid in exaggeration, but the movement his hand is easy, familiar, speaking more to a need to touch and acknowledge than to devour, lacking in catches and pulls on Ila'den's person. Instead it skims off one shoulder to tilt palm-skywards, a nonverbal offer of a hand up because he's not giving Ibsyglei back. Her giggles are too busy easing vagrancy from his features, shoulders set to quaking with return laughter because hers is infectious to the extreme, would-be bites and nibbles ruined by a smile that curves protective lips away from his teeth. It's for the best, giving him leave to ask, "Oh did she?" to Ila'den even though he speaks it to Ibsy, head butting gently against hers to rub noses. "I hope she likes spit in her bubblies 'cause I just know you drooled in it." Case in point, as the slimed hand goes right on his face, eliciting further laughter and a turn of his cheek right into it to blow a wet raspberry into her palm. "I'm surprised you aren't wearing the pie," again to Ila'den, followed by a pause and an even more mirthful, "I'm surprised I'm not wearing the pie. Your sister has it in for me." That back at Ibsyglei before he alternates kissy-kisses and return bababa's up her arm. It seems for a moment like he's just gonna not answer Ila'den, but eventually he says, "Dunno yet. Sunny's trying to talk me back to Archipelago, but." A press of lips. A shrug. Another raspberry blown to a baby-cheek by means of distraction.

"I see no reason why it cannae be both," Ila'den responds - feral, punctuated, emphatic with an echo of debauchery that's black as velvet and promises so much more than tone alone can imply. It's mimicked in the growl that rises unbidden from the bronzerider's chest when R'hyn's hands (unheated as the application of touch may be) find their way through unruly hair to anticipatorily tensed shoulders; it's in the way Ila'den's fingers brush against knuckles and delineate fingers when a hand is extended as an offer for assistance - in the way that Ila'den's teeth and stubble catch at finger tips and the inside of a wrist before Ila'den presses a kiss against R'hyn's palm and accepts the leverage to pull himself out of that crouch. But Ila'den's attention is on Ibsyglei then, on R'hyn when their daughter infects them both with her already-vivacious personality and those effervescent giggles that come without inhibition. She coos nonsense to R'hyn, and slaps him with her hands in a way that's endearing and affectionate before fingers are being shoved back between raspberry-blowing lips with a demand for more that's met with more of that giddy-laughter. Grey eye is on grey-blue then, the quiet enjoyment of the scene before Ila manifesting as a whispered smile - one that leaves at the mention of spit in bubblies, and people having it in for R'hyn, and what wing his weyrmate is being pushed towards because hell no. "You can do what you want, R'hyn," Ila'den says then, softly, dangerously, and it's one of those rare moments when Ila'den is lacking wolfish deviance and dry humor; when he is just serious without trying to curb the weight of his opinion behind smiles and ill-timed jokes meant to deflect. "But let me talk to Kadesh before you make a decision we both know you're going to regret. You don't belong there." Ila'den doesn't have to say why; the why is obvious, but Ila'den's attention is slipping away to their daughter as he encroaches on the once-bartender's space now, shoulder pressed to his weyrmate's as he leans in to press a kiss against Ibsy's cheek and gets some of those R'hn-Ibsy-Spit-Combo'd fingers caught in his hair for his trouble. "You're strong, little bird. And beautiful. You're going to give me as much trouble as your sister, aren't you? Both of them. Be we'll make a fighter of you yet." And he's gently grappling fingers out of wayward strands, kissing tiny knuckles before pressing his forehead to R'hyn's. Fingers catch at the back of R'hyn's skull, running along the curve at the base to his ear, past it to his cheekbone where digits curl inward and knuckles drag forward across R'hyn's jaw to R'hyn's chin. Ila'den's fingers catch there, tilting R'hyn's head just so… and then Ila'den is leaning in, closing that gap with lips parted in invitation - a breath shared between them, breathed into that contact, that tells R'hyn there could be more, there could be heat, and teeth, and tongue as Ila'den brushes the tip of his nose against R'hyn's, leans in as if he's going to kiss him again with a scintillating brush of contact… and then Ila'den is pulling away. "Let's go home," comes gruffly, though the bronzerider's attention is back on Ibsy again, one large, calloused hand cupping the back of her head as fingers rub baby-soft hair. "I have a feeling somebody is going to want some baby mush, and we're about to hear all about it." And as if in agreement, there's a gurgle of sound from Ibsy that's half a fuss. She's getting there. It will probably be full on wailing by the time they manage home.

"It cannae be both," R'hyn speaks, breath hitching, fingers twitching, thighs tensing for chest-deep growls, the trace of fingers, the drag of teeth and stubble on fingertips, wrists, "because if it's both," he manages though his voice's gone decidedly rough, eyes speaking volumes enough to make up for the lack as that kiss is dropped in his palm, and he helps with that hand up but also keeps Ila'den's that he might lean in and add, quiet, edged words fractions of an inch from Ila'den's lips, "I need to tell Cita to find somewhere else to be tonight." His attention is slow to drag back to Ibsyglei this time, thundercloud gaze hot, lingering on his weyrmate far too long, but he perseveres and is soon enough distracted by shared laughter, further growly-snarls issued around tiny baby hands on his face and in his mouth, and R'hyn obliges Ibsy's demands around quiet huffs of amusement. Lips remain curved, though eyes go grave as Ila'den's demeanor in response to dangerous tones. There's that same sort of 'I don't want to talk about it' look on R'hyn's face, the sort that speaks to a decision that's as of yet unmade despite coercion, and though there's temptation to look away and let the subject drop, that thought goes as swiftly as it comes. This is Ila'den, and it's been long enough that R'hyn doesn't bother concealing indecision, worry, gratefulness for a reaction as visceral as his own; instead, he simply flicks his gaze across the man's features and then nods, accepting the offer to speak to Kadesh first. He takes the moments surrounding Ila'den's encroachment on their space to regather himself in silence, brittle-edged smile easing into something real when small hands find unruly hair, body going loose just in time for attention to turn on him. And oh, but that noise he makes for sudden proximity, for the catch of fingers, for the provocation inherent in just enough distance that his imagination is engaged without being indulged; it's quiet, unbidden, wanting, more than an exhale, not quite a whimper, the need it expresses reflected in eyes that slide open with no knowledge of when they actually closed when Ila'den pulls away. It turns into something of a growl then, rough, promise-laden, desire turned to daggers in a gaze that stays on the bronzer even as he moves to retrieve abandoned paperwork, murmuring something into Ibsyglei's ear as he goes. Threats against Ila'den's person? Hushes for early-onset fussing? Probably both, but he's not telling, instead lengthening his stride to carry her to Xermiltoth's waiting form as soon as possible.


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