Danger Danger

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.

You would think that, at some point in his life, Ila’den would have given up many, many things - like helping L’ton with his paperwork, for example. Ila’den was Weyrsecond in his twenties, graduated at some point to being Weyrleader, and then went right back to being Weyrsecond - this time, without the official title (and probably the pay). Let’s be realistic here: ain’t nobody got time for that. Fortunately, it meant he didn’t spend hours training with the various wings Half Moon employed (okay, not fortunately because Ila’den’s gotta keep up that muscle mass SOMEHOW and that means hours of training BY HIMSELF), unfortunately it meant taking his work home - for days. He might not be home, per se, but Ila’den is lost in his paperwork, grey eyes narrowed on text that he’s probably read at least eight times now because he drags his mug of klah over in a way that markedly depicts CLEARLY THIS NEEDS CAFFEINATION TO GET THROUGH. “Who the fuck orders this shit?” WHATEVER IT IS, it is CLEARLY getting denied, because Ila’den shovels it into a pile off to the side after scribbling something that looks decidedly ominous and moves on. The bronzerider is in the Tiki Lounge tonight, occupying an entire table despite the crowd (okay, you got me: there’s not that many people here). WITHOUT BOOZE. AND, WELL. It might have something to do with Risali sitting at the piano, talking to somebody in her official HARPER get up. At least she isn’t paying any attention to her wayward father, right? RIGHT.

Heryn is home. Comfort and ease reads in the weyrling's posture as he sidles out of the back room of the lounge, hands busy at his back, deftly lacing the strings of a black waist apron. Half-clad in leathers, the bar-cloth ought to seem incongruous with his weyrling gear, but it somehow just fits, in the same way the over-tall, over-muscular man fits into the space behind the bar even though he probably isn’t supposed to be there, blue-grey eyes lit up, grin wide as he finishes off the bow at the base of his spine and moves into the lounge to engage patrons in discussion. It's usually a swift exchange, how are you's and how's the family's or dragon's dispensed, but R'hyn is no less an active participant, laughing for bad jokes, lip-twitching for sad reveals, somehow managing to respond and fetch drinks both, even as his path leads him slowly, inexorably through scant patronage towards Ila'den. Perhaps counting on the man's distraction, R'hyn picks up the stack of papers that is clearly his discard pile, using height to his advantage to simply slide into the space the papers once occupied. Booted feet tuck up onto the seat of an empty chair as he reads over the ominously declined page with a soft noise that might be disappointment. "Tsk, tsk, Ila'den. Denying this poor man his request for a case of Benden red, an absolutely astounding amount of braided cord, ceiling hooks and-" a beat, a quiver in his tone that might be laughter, but he tries to soldier on "-and phosphorescent paint?" Nope. Can't do it. R'hyn breaks, can't even finish the rest, papers lowering into his lap with a laughed, "Faranth, party at H'lon's weyr, right?" Poor Risali, if he's seen her, he doesn't know her from Eve after only one brisk encounter, which is perhaps for the best, considering the way he's looking at her father, gaze edging somewhere just past friendly warmth as he first surveys the bronzer, then his work. He seems to arrive at a very similar thought as was earlier expressed: "How in the shells do you have the time for all this?" As though, you know, he wasn't interrupting it and therefore making it worse. Shhh.

Ah. Here it is (or rather, comes). The truth of the matter: R’hyn. To think that Ila’den would solely be here in order to go through the motions of supporting his daughter without some kind of personal gain is ludicrous (well, maybe not entirely so, but it does serve as a good front to fulfilling R’hyn-inspired desires - like proximity to the man). The closer R’hyn gets, the more wound up the bronzerider becomes: muscles are taut with anticipation, movements become increasingly agitated and pronounced, Ila’den’s attention for his work wanes, and he lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding when the bartending weyrling completes his circuit of work-related niceties and makes Ila’den’s work his business too. While R’hyn reads off the (arguably fun, but horribly inappropriate) list, the bronzerider emits a low, rumbling growl that ends with him shoving another piece of paper towards the bronzeling. “Or, this request, asking for a brothel.” DENIED. It goes right into the pile of NOPENOPENOPE, and then Ila’den leans back just so, fingers interdigitating as the beginnings of a slow smile curl his lips. He’s silent for a moment that seems to stretch on into forever, then he finally speaks with an amusedly-teasing inquiry of, “Would you go?” To H’lon’s party, of course. “I wouldn’t mind stringing you up to the ceiling and finding use for that phosphorescent paint -” A pause, as an overly curious patron slows mid-stride with a canted head and eyes sweeping over the men in question. Can you blame them? Nevermind the suggestive nature in which he speaks; Ila’den’s every word is said with wickedly debauch undertones. “- in the name of artistic pursuits, of course. A purely clinical study of the effects paint has on the anatomy. Or would that be scholarly?” The bronzerider’s got a Cheshire grin in place as he drags his mug of Klah in close and smiles around the rim of it, breathing a husky, “Oh well… I have it on good authority that I’m verra good at drawing tables.” And baskets, of course. Let us not be forgetting the baskets. Several heartbeats of punctuated eye-contact later (because the exaggerated use of his accent might not have been enough), and those grey eyes shift back to his diminishing stack of work once he yields to the desire for another mouthful of caffeine - sans the wee dram of whiskey that might make everything better. “Why are you here?” comes then, eyes not rising back to his… well… whatever R’hyn is as he sets down his mug and rifles through his work until… pause. Grey eyes flicker up, “And spare me the smart-assed statement of, 'Working,'” and grey eyes flicker back down. Worry not, he’s all amused tones if any.

Alas, it is R'hyn, and if he has any concept of the agitation and distraction he's causing the bronzerider with his mere presence, he doesn't show it. Instead, he shifts to make himself comfortable on Ila'den's table, clearly intending to stay a while. He takes the proffered denial with a snort, voice disbelieving, eyes bright with humor. "Shit, really? Why? Is it that hard to get laid around here?" One, two, three… "Uh. I mean— Not that. You know. I. Because… You. You know, when— That. But. You know. Because weyr and—" WATCH HIM PACKPEDAL, cheeks going a furious shade of pink as he exhales loudly, giving up on trying to explain himself and reading over the denied request as though it was actually of interest while Ila'den leans back and asks teasing questions and he's already too blushy for this. R'hyn's first instinct is to drop his head, shoulders shaking with quiet, nasal laughter as though the implication of being strung up and used as Ila'den's canvas is just too much for him to take, but oh does he recover, chin tipping up to fix man with a look, amusement playing around the corners of his lips as he leans in with a low, "I suppose that depends." He, too, pauses for the patron's passing, and Faranth but they probably are a sight, R'hyn's hand carefully placed right into the middle of Ila's work so he can lean much too far into the bronzerider's business, blue-grey eyes hooded in flirtation, red-faced and grinning like an idiot. Shrug. Wink. You jelly? Yet, he waits for them to move on before he continues, gaze going back to Ila'den with a snap. "I prefer to really get into my art. Brushes and palettes are horribly impersonal. There's just something engaging about tactile painting, about really being able to feel what you're doing," he says, fingers of his free hand sliding along the line of his thumb, an expression meant to summarize sliding sensation. "I don't know why they discourage finger-painting after a certain age. Truly tragic." MMHMM. FINGER PAINTING. SURE, RYN. There comes a laugh for drawing tables, sharp, staccato, but somewhere between the over-emphasized burr and the intensity of the eye contact, R'hyn makes himself lean back lest he go red all over again, setting the stack of rejections aside so hands can fold into his lap. "You are. Though you hardly need paint for that." Smirk. Comfortable silence descends as Ila'den goes rifling, and it's clear that smart-assed was indeed the way he was going to go about answering, R'hyn's jaw clicking shut audibly with a crinkle-eyed grin and a playful glare before he changes tack. "I miss the work, and I can't always be bothering my friends or writing like a madman when Xermiltoth is down, so I come here." And, as is their way, "Why are you?"

Ila'den's grey eyes go stormy dark with amusement as R'hyn stumbles and turns a lovely shade of regret (or would that be embarrassment. Shame?), and tries to tapdance his way out of a verbal trap. It doesn't work. "Don't stop now," Ila practically purrs, oozing appreciative amusement as he continues with a low pitched, "You, me, weyr - I like where this is going." Ila'den twirls his pen between his fingers, waits, and laughs when R'hyn busies himself with paperwork that truly isn't that interesting at all. But he does give up the ghost, doesn't he? He does, because they are moving on to topics of H'lon and human canvases for the application of paint, and R'hyn leans in close enough that Ila'den is hard pressed to remember the public nature of this place as much as his manners. He manages, remaining still as that nameless patron (who seems to be appropriately overcome by R'hyn's shruggy-wink) realizes they are about to be privy to something uncomfortably intimate and hurries along with a decidedly brisk pace. "Who ever said anything about a brush?" Ila'den inquires, allowing R'hyn to flee his personal bubble with dignity in tact and shuffle his paperwork further away - for now. Amid rifling and listening for R'hyn's response to his question, Ila'den lifts his remaining stack of paper between both hands, tapping it thrice on the table to straighten any wayward sheets before he sets it aside. Work can wait; R'hyn cannot. Suddenly, Ila'den is leaning in just as close as R'hyn was before, reaching to capture one lap-bound hand and imprison the bronzeling's wrist in calloused fingers - which he jerks towards himself. Grey eyes train with wolfish intensity on the digits R'hyn was only just rubbing together for emphasis on his point, resulting in the bronzerider sounding distracted when he speaks. "I am doing work. Or I was, anyway, until a certain weyrling with a penchant for getting in the way of tables and inviting trouble decided to interrupt." There's a pause, as grey eyes raise back to grey-blue and hold, somehow accentuating the unruly sensuality exhibited when Ila'den catches that thumb between his teeth - public be damned - and swirls his tongue against the tip. "How much paint can be applied to the tongue without running the risk of toxicity, do you think?" he inquires once he's pulled away, mouth still pressed against the pad of said violated digit with a wicked curl and achingly husky tones. "I've always wanted to try."

And of course, Ila'den couldn't just take pity on him. R'hyn shoots him a dirty glare for his infernal smugness, mouth shifting as though attempting to literally untangle his tongue before he elucidates. "What I meant was, in a weyr setting, it's not terribly difficult to find a willing partner. Ergo, no need for a brothel." And then before he can fumble anything else up, it's back to the paperwork, skimming cut and dry checkboxes and ill-disguised justifications, interested if only to simultaneously distract himself and nose into what the bronzerider did with his time. As for who said anything about brushes: "H'lon did," R'hyn reports with a sharp twist of his lips, head tipping to one side, though he maintains his renewed upright posture for the sake of their mutual sanity. "Twenty-five of them. Or were you too busy picturing what you'd do with the rest of that to keep reading?" Browwaggle. "Damn those weyrlings, always getting in the way. When will they learn. Still. There's lots of tables in here, and I managed to navigate them pretty well. Maybe I've broken my curse," he drawls with a smirk, the expression swiftly erased with a sharp inhale when his wrist is seized, pulled back into Ila'den's space, gaze zeroing in on encircling calloused fingers before it flicks around the room. Nevermind that he was just the one leaning all up in Ila's business - he can only guess what the bronzer will do with the captured hand, and he knows what his reaction will be: something terrible. Still, he wouldn't stop the man even if he could - his wrist stays trapped, and his eyes turn back for distracted words, darkening by fractions until they're much more black than blue when Ila'den looks up to meet his gaze and— "Fuck." As predicted, the word leaves him on a breath, emphasized by an equally quiet but no less needy noise when Ila'den asks him just how much paint can be applied to the tongue. Really, Ila'den?! R'hyn's posture screams those two words, chest swelling with a single steadying breath lest it heave too-tellingly, eyes he can't even recall closing in the first place flicking open with a narrow-eyed look. "I don't know," Ryn replies, voice rough, thumb shifting to brush Ila'den's lower lip, leaving a damp streak, visibly vacillating over whether to push or retreat before he leans back in, so close, too close, floppy fringed hair brushing the man's forehead as he adds, "but I look forwards to finding out." His gaze flickers from lips to eyes and back, body shifting ever-so-slightly into newly-vacated space, seeming to weigh words carefully before he says, just as gruff, just as aching, "And if you don't tell me to go away right this second, I'm going to kiss you."

OH GO ON THEN, R’HYN. Explain yourself. Ila’den doesn’t respond, but the cat-eating-the-canary smile he graces the weyrling with communicates better than what any words could: He’s caught you - and he likes it. Fast forward to paper rifling, shuffling, pausing only when R’hyn informs that H’lon is the paintbrush invoking heathen so that he can also take a moment to study the paper amid the NOPE pile and raise a brow in disbelief. “So he did,” comes that husky burr, timbre low, amusement marking each syllable. Grey eyes jump up to blue-grey, mischief clear as he breaths, “And so you did - if only because the real table in question is too occupied by being in polite company to remind you of just how dangerous tables can be.” TAP. “Dreadful things, tables.” TAP. TAP. “You really shouldn’t let your guard down.” Discard paper, WRIST SHACKLE. It is probably one of the words Ila’den loves to hear rolling off of the weyrling’s tongue the most, second only to Kilarden: Fuck. It’s how he knows he’s got R’hyn trapped within the same unrelenting, heart-pounding, ill-advised and somehow inescapable onslaught of want, and need, and everything he can’t fucking have. Not yet. Not today. Not now. R’hyn whispers words that make Ila’den’s breath catch in his throat while his heart thrums an erratic beat against his ribs, breath momentarily held as the weyrling leans in just a fraction of an inch too much and Ila’den is forced to decide between advancing or retreat. Ila’den rises - surges - up to meet R’hyn until noses are touching and the whisper of breath against lips is just as titillating and exciting as the teasing, near-non-existent space that separates them. Foreheads touch, but sans for the noses, no other parts do. It could arguably be just as much of a confrontation between two bronzeriders who don’t get along as the realistic alternative; it’s Ila’den on his feet, hands slamming down on the table on either side of R’hyn’s thighs, effectively caging him in. There’s something aggressive and assertive and entirely too dangerous about the speed with which he moves, and the posture that he holds, and the way grey eyes drop to the bridge of a nose and seem to see further before they slowly rise again. But for R’hyn, for R’hyn, it is thinly veiled, poorly restrained passion and a man pulling desperately tight on strings that echo noisily in his head as they snap apart anyway. Too close. Much too close. “Go away,” Ila’den breathes, maintaining the lack of distance for several heartbeats more before he forces himself to move. The tension remains in the set of his shoulders, evident in the biceps that are unusually tight and the repeated tick of his jaw despite the forced smile. He looks pissed (he’s not). The weyr will know someday, maybe, but not now, and not here. Ila’den busies himself by gathering his temporarily forgotten papers, pausing only now to level R’hyn with the kind of look a parent might fix on their disobedient child, but only after eyes travel up thigh to hip, navel to chest, chest to mouth, mouth to eyes. “Ass in the chair, R’hyn. Tables are for…” A pause, followed by a decidedly wicked smile that’s bordering on illegal (and ill-advisable) with intent. “Eating.” YOU ARE WORSE THAN HIS CHILDREN. GET YOUR ASS DOWN RIGHT NOW.

R'hyn is caught indeed, the weyrling seeming to realize he's not going to dig himself out of this one no matter how much he talks about it, and so he surrenders with a mock-aggrieved huff and a playful push of the heel of his boot against the bronzerider's thigh. Then: "Polite company?" Uh oh. "So what you're saying is, I can backsass the real table as much as I want, and it can't do anything about it?" There's something about the unfurling smirk in his tone that just screams danger, hints at the trouble Ila'den's just accused him of being oh-so-adept at finding. He's not nearly as afraid as he should be. And then R'hyn is caught again, and regardless of his threat to deliver sass and use his words against the bronzerider, the expletive is genuine, the noise that follows even more so, and Faranth but Ila doesn't even need words or shackles to hold R'hyn captive, not really. He's long been trapped, spun up in the bronzerider's web of caustic emotion and barely-leashed sensuality, his own tentative hold on reality crushed by the man's sudden, fluid proximity, and it's only too easy for R'hyn to forget himself. His breathing promptly goes ragged, chest heaving, pulse rapid, pounding in his own ears, visibly rushing against the arteries in his neck, but he doesn't back down. The weyrling holds his ground, pupils wide, a wicked grin flickering across his lips as he tilts his head just enough to return pressure against Ila'den's forehead, not enough to move either of them, to close any of the careful, fractional distance Ila has maintained; it isn't a challenge, it's acknowledgement, a reply, the meaning only too clear: he's right there, too, held in check only by the pair of words breathed so close, too close, to his lips. Tension - temptation - flickers through him, eyes narrowing with a twitch of lids. "Fine." R'hyn's posture doesn't ease when finally, finally Ila moves back out of his space - shoulders remain squared, spine remains straight, chin tilted with something that could be called proud arrogance on any other face but speaks only of wanting on him, the single word snarled from between curled lips, teeth flashing in what would be a threat for anyone else as the bronzer eyes him up - but for Ila'den, it's a promise. As much a promise as is held in hips that twitch and shift much more than is strictly necessary as he slides off the table. As much a promise as his proximity as he leans his big body back into Ila'den's space, muscled form shifting with slow purpose as he fetches the bronzerider's mug of klah, if only to retreat with an air of smug defiance. As much a promise as the single digit that he pushes into the rapidly increasing distance he puts between them as he returns to the bar, a rude gesture layered with more meaning than bystanders will be able to comprehend outside of the context of an apparent fight, reassigned by the weyrling's own words to invoke memories of hot kisses, begged words, and tilted hips in forts comprised of pillows, blankets, and secrets. Then he's gone, back behind the bar, meeting inquisitive glances with a wave of a hand and an offer to refresh drinks, allowing tension to unspool as he moves through familiar tasks, very pointedly avoiding looking back in Ila'den's direction for the time it takes to clear the bar, gather and replenish glassware, and, finally, refill the bronzerider's mug. Only then does he make his way back across the room, drink returned to its space before he follows direction and drops his ass into the seat next to the wicked, wicked bronzer. "So. Aside from denying depraved weyrfolk their fun, what do you do?," he asks with a gesture at the rest of the paperwork, rampant lust back under as much control as it ever was around Ila'den, singing somewhere just below the surface, but far enough fled to expose honest curiosity in blue-grey eyes.

And oh how grey eyes rivet to the excessive movement of hips; oh how Ila’den doesn’t even bother to lean away from R’hyn when the weyrling leans into his space and elicits more of that low rumbling, husky laughter from somewhere in Ila’den’s chest. He watches the bronzeling go, marks the path he takes away from himself, mesmerized by movement and the sheer fact of R’hyn’s very existence. It’s probably erring on inappropriate, how long Ila’den gives up the pursuit of work to simply watch Heryn at his chosen task; to commit every smile, every laugh, every mischievously quick-witted response he knows is ready on the tip of that tongue to memory. But he does. Eventually Ila’den rips his attention way, ducks into his work when Risali starts to lay into keys, glancing up only then to study his daughter with the quiet kind of approval that speaks to pride and some deeper emotion before work beckons he return to it – like R’hyn returns to him. Ila’den looks up, leans forward, rests elbows amid a pile that’s hardly changed since R’hyn walked away to tend the bar and refill his Klah. “What do I do?” A hum, a shift as he gathers papers back up and stacks them into an overabundant pile, discarding his writing utensil alongside requests and proposals alike. “Mostly I deal with the Wingleaders, and L’ton delegates paperwork, wing conflicts, and disciplinary actions for wingleaders and wingriders to me.” In other words: a lot. But it doesn’t seem to bother him; it keeps him out of the actual political running of the weyr, and he’s perfectly fine with that. Most of the time. He’s opening his mouth to ask a question when From Between a pesky (and perfectly timed) firelizard pops, finding her way into Ila’den’s hair with a soft croon and a patient demand for food before she deigns to hand over a piece of rolled up paper. Ila’den takes it, pulls it open, goes over text with his eyes and, expelling a sigh, tucks it away into his pocket. “Mind the tables, Heryn. They don’t take teasing well.” But he’s gathering his things, perhaps purposely waiting until he’s on his feet to lean into R’hyn’s space as he gathers up his papers – a subtle brush of shoulders, the contact of bodies that might be awkward among people who didn’t know each other quite so intimately (though not that intimately) perhaps lasting a moment longer than necessary before Ila’den draws back with both hands occupied by work. “Clear skies, weyrling.” And off he goes, disappearing into the crowd, heeding the call of who or what bid he come.

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