Weyrbaes In Space!

Day 7 of Month 9 of Turn 2715
Yokohama - Cargo Bay
Since the gravity units were restored and now are maintained in working order, the cargo deck of the Yokohama is constantly buzzing with activity. With research needing to be done, equipment to be moved, or a plethora of other tasks taking place people are always coming and going, either from the planet 'below' by dragon back, or meandering in and out from other places aboard the ship.
This area is well lit, the floors themselves have had space set aside specifically for 'betweening'. Three large marked off areas remain clutter-free of people, dragons and equipment. With these 'landing pads' clear, dragons avoid the danger of teleporting into an area of space already occupied and causing a tragedy. Several massive sun lamps have been set up over off to the left, in an effort to make the stay of dragon-kind more comfortable.

This log is ridiculous. It also contains swearing and dingledorfs but nothing (totally) untowards. You have been warned.

Outside, dark. Cold. No air. Inside? Dragons. Lots. Citayzleat? Down for the count.

CITA THINKS SHE'S CUTE AND SHE'S JOKING, but there's six and a quarter feet of bronzerider staring at the weyrwoman's limp form, expression parked somewhere between amused chagrin and sincere regret. "We should probably have expected that," he notes of the fainted goldrider, blue grey gaze flicking from her to Ila'den to his dragon and back, body pulling weightlessly at the ends of his straps with the shift. There's a hint of a sigh, one that speaks more to playful longsuffering than any real ire, and then R'hyn is jerking the releases on straps, keeping hold of one lest he float helplessly away across the void of the cargo bay. "She went green every time she got close to a window last time, or so I was told." HE WAS A LITTLE PREOCCUPIED LAST TIME THEY WERE UP HERE, OKAY. GETTING LOCKED IN A CLOSET WITH YOUR WEYRMATE 'CAUSE THE POWER WENT OFF DOES THINGS TO A PERSON'S MEMORY. Tamping down that particular memory, R'hyn squints the squint of a person doing calculations they are not qualified in the realm of math to do, bunches legs beneath himself, and pushes off towards Ilyscaeth. It's not a pretty collision of his body against Cita's surely, but passers-outers can't be choosers, alright? Besides, Ila will totally come save him if he overshoots to keep him from floating across the bay for five hours. Right? RIGHT?!

AND THEN THERE'S ILA'DEN. ALSO WRONG. ALSO ILA'DEN. Ila'den who is arguably the most useless out of the trio - which is a pretty impressive feat when you consider that Cita has faded from the realm of consciousness, and R'hyn is… well… R'hyn. Indeed, there Ila'den sits, slowly unraveling the straps that secure him to Teimyrth, brows rising as R'hyn speaks and grey eye meets grey-blue for a faction of a second that ends before he exhales. "You should probably just go straight to giving her mouth to mouth. I bet she'll wake up swinging, and then you won't have to worry about saving her." A wolfish smile, the kind that says he is delighting entirely too much in the thought of R'hyn needing to be saved, but he's not moving. He's slow moving (INTENTIONALLY, TO BE SURE), his attention only half on gold and bronzerider as they make collisions in their DEEPS SPACE WEYRBAE BALLET that Ila'den REFUSES TO BE A PART OF. I AM JUST GOING TO TYPE NONSENSE NOW IN THE HOPES THAT ILA'DEN DOES SOMETHING USEFUL, BUT NOPE. NO LUCK. THE MAN IS LITERALLY JUST PERCHED LIKE A KING ON HIS DRAGON WATCHING THE PEASANTS AS THEY PEASANT ALONG AND DO PEASANT THINGS LIKE RESCUE EACH OTHER FROM DEEP SPACE BECAUSE ONE OF THEM WAS PREGNANT AND SHOULDN'T BE HERE AND I MADE ANOTHER RUN ON SENTENCE THAT YOUR BRAIN IS PROBABLY WINCING AT BUT I CAN'T STOP WON'T STOP TAKE IT AND LIKE IT IT'S FABULOUS LIKE DAT ASS. But which we mean R'hyn's ass, which is really where all of Ila'den's attention is because when it comes to goldriders pregnant with his children fainting in the deep, cold, unforgiving void of space, or watching his weyrmate's booty in them leathers, dat booty gonna win ERR'TIME. AWWWYIS.

« YOU BROKE HER. » Ilyscaeth is either curious or chagrined, or maybe she just finds the whole thing hilarious, craning her head around to observe her rider and possibly whacking Teimyrth OR HIS RIDER with a wing trying to reposition herself. OOPS. « Cita. Ciiiiiita? Pern to Cita… » She prods her rider with her nose, and just at the wrong time too; Cita's DECIDEDLY UNCONSCIOUS, THANK YOU, form kind of floats. Right up at Ryn. BONK. Touchdoooooown! The collision of head with — knee? elbow? ABS? — manages to rouse the goldrider, who blinks sluggishly first at R'hyn, then the guy with the eyes focused square on Ryn's ass, then the windows and — « Well, shells. » there she goes again. Just for a second though. A dramatic second, though, all hand-to-chest Edwardian Housewife and all. "I'm leaving both of you and moving to Honshu." Are her returning remarks, and she slumps over against Ily, which is probably at LEAST seven or eight times as dangerous when they're in SPACE. Where nobody can stop her dragon from bumbling out an AIRLOCK. WHICH IS THE ONLY THING KEEPING THE AIR INSIDE OF THE THING AND NOT OUTSIDE OF IT. "Is it really necessary to relive your tryst so viscerally? Why do I have to be present?" The question, posed for this the 148th time, gets an exasperated snort out of the dragon, who might squish R'hyn just a little in an attempt to forestall the floating-off-into-space thing. Er. Better…squashed…than leaving?? Maybe.

Is it EVEN possible to look threatening whilst floating in zero-grav? Picture: a carefully arced R'hyn, hair coasting in a distinctly wild fashion because weightlessness gives zero shits about your casual attempts fashionability, R'HYN, eyes lowered sarcastically, lips pressed in a long hard line, giving Ila'den every ounce of scathing 'YOU'D LIKE THAT, WOULDN'T YOU' he has in his body. Which. Again. See: tallness. He has a lot. But also again, see: R'hyn is… R'hyn and it probably comes off significantly more like 'sullen puppy' than the 'weyrmate scorned' he's going for. "Punch you in the face," he mutters as eyeballs roll right back towards Citayla's deadweight floating form, "ohwaitalreadydid," added in a sassy-head-waggled rush because if Ila is a king on his throne, R'hyn is the Sword of Damascus, holding on by a horse's hair in an attempt to keep the older bronzerider in check. It fails. Ila is Ila and watches his ass, and R'hyn tries not to acknowledge it by a: flipping him off or b: POPPIN' DAT BOOTY, instead snorting low for Ilyscaeth's loud observations. "I think we did." SHE DESERVES IT THOUGH. How many times has the woman stabbed him for no reason?! A little late-pregnancy fainting is surely her due and not at all dangerous; no dangerous than that head-to-abs collision that has R'hyn oofing quietly and grabbing for her shoulders to keep himself from tumbling over her. "Honshu won't save you," the weyrleader mutters as he pokes at her eyeballs, thumbing them further open to check on pupils before pulling back to flick her a grin so terrible, he can only have learned it from one person. "I have to relive your tryst every single day." Hands shift from her face to her stomach to pat rudely because ILA IS BEING A DICK AND SOMEBODY'S GOTTA DO THE PHYSICAL BUSINESS. "So shut up and indulge me." There might be more to add, but then he's being caught by a GREAT BIG DRAGON FACE AND, "Ily you're squishing me." It's what he meant to said. It really comes out as more of "Ilyurskushnee," face trapped hard between some part of Cita and the enormous gold's cheek, tense but not quite trying to wriggle free yet.

If Teimyrth is at all bothered by the wing, or the wing that assaults his rider in Ily's attempts to reposition herself, the bronze makes no outward show of it. There's a shifting of his own massive body, a lurching to the side that's still somehow slow and surefooted and just enough to jar Ila'den and make his vision of DAT ASS bounce around enough to be off-putting. Or maybe that's R'hyn's FACE. And by FACE, I mean his MOUTH. There's a reaching out of one callus-ridden hand to push away at offending appendages, words escaping the oldest of the trio in a dryly humorous tone of, "Should have hit me harder. Maybe it would have fixed some of this dreadful ugliness," and then that lone grey eye is shifting back to Cita as she regains consciousness and her awareness of their surroundings - and the conversations being had, to which she is ALWAYS INVITED. Cita mentions leaving and moving to Honshu? Ila'den rolls that eye slowly to R'hyn with the same sort of deliberate slowness that isn't quite a sarcastic dismissal of Cita's words, and more an amused acknowledgement of threats as he drawls out, "If Citayla runs away to Honshu, does it mean we get a younger wife, husband?" And Ila'den shifts forward, leathers protesting the movement of muscle beneath them as he settles on Teimyrth much like a cowboy might recline on a horse when he's feeling particularly badass. Which Ila'den is. ALL THE TIME. "Isn't that why we came back to Yokohama, Cita? I thought the entire goal was to experience zero gravity in a well-placed closet right between me and Ryn." But Teimyrth is moving in tandem with Ila'den, who is abusing the lack of gravity to grab at ridges and climb up Teimyrth's neck to the top of his head, settling on his snout as Teimyrth rumbles a sound of dissent and twists his head into closer proximity of Cita and Ily both, possibly adding to the squished-ness that is R'hyn because HE IS SUFFERING INDIGNITY, AND SOMEBODY SHOULD DO THE SAME. "I reckon he's jealous, Cita. So in need of assurance that he's playing the part of a damsel in distress." CLEARLY not just BEING SQUISHED BY ILY SNOUT. But Ila'den is settling into a sit, one elbow on his knee and a chin finds the palm of his hands and he breathes out. "Here I am, Princess." Even though Ila'den is now, also starting to float away, still sitting cross-legged and tilting a little sideways without his expression or positioning changing. WELP. Looks like Cita just might be the one on rescue duty today, because Teimyrth ain't got time for that.

"I'll murder both'a you and nobody can stop me." Cita slurs just a little on a brave attempt to keep from spewing whatever monstrosity she last ingested all over in no gravity. TAKE A SECOND TO PICTURE IT. You're welcome. "Honshu would." Contradiction delivered flatly, not at all cross-eyed as she watches Ryn watch here eyeballs in a 'are you DONE' kind of way. "You only think you relive it daily." Smug is one of Cita's resting faces, of course, and here it's grandly on display as Ily reaches out a concilliatory wing and kind of. Thumps Tei. Really hard. In a 'there, there' kind of way. She didn't mean to jar you around, honest. Ryn doesn't quite get the same level of sorry-ness, more along the lines of a happy hum that's probably really loud right next to his face and all. "Wait a day or two and you'll have a real reminder." Is that a threat? Promise? Yes? "Ila'den, I will show you ugly." For this, Cita draws herself up out of her half-slouch to glare — then looked briefly panicked, and — BRRRRRAP. It's a burp. Not the Second Coming Of The Iced Beef. "Consider yourself indulged." Like nothing happened, she continues, glancing with regal dismissal towards the abs-ier of her Weyrmates. Ily snorts (dragon bogeys in spaaaaaace), and jostles the three of them as Ila starts climbing, scooting closer to the bronze and rider and making Cita go a little wide-eyed. Moving. In space. She's all too happy to shoulder in alongside Teimyrth, not dropping any of her charges somehow but also nearly tripping over her tail so who are we kidding here. "Ila, you're going to —" Float off. "Ila," Drawn out in approximately thirty-five exasperated syllables. The problem: encourage the two dum-dums to cling to each other and possibly avoid injury, but risk the Closet Incident v2, OR, ignore it and probably have Ila go floating off? Ilyscaeth has a solution. It's not a good one, but it's a solution: wrapping one of those giant-ass wings around ALL OF THEM and also TEI'S HEAD, nice and snug. « Free hugs? »

"If I thought that'd've helped, I would have," R'hyn argues, but the look he tilts back Ila'den's way is edged with much more typical good-natured amusement as he adds, "But there ain't nothing in this world as can fix a face like that." Rude. But maybe he shoots his weyrmate an audacious wink to soften the blow, and maybe dat booty do pop a li'l tho, only just enough to be obvious it's intentional as he tolerates their weyrmate-by-proxy's impatience. "If Citayla moves to Honshu," he says as though she hadn't spoken up on the topic already, "I'm pretty sure Half Moon is out half of its leadership." The implication that they'll follow her is strong in his tone. NO ESCAPE CITA. YOU DIDN'T CHOOSE THE THUG LIFE, THE THUG LIFE CHOSE YOU. "Though honestly, if you go much younger, you'll start being accused of robbing cradles." R'hyn is on one tonight guys, grinning a shitty little grin that he isn't quite assholish enough to point right at Ila, but it's there for the older bronzer to observe nevertheless, beamed right into Citayla's face at a thousand kilawatts for her threat that garners excitement rather than dread, incancescent right up until Ilyscaeth squishes it out of him. RIP, GRIN, AS DOOMED AS WHATEVER FRAGILE DIGNITY HE MUSTERED WHEN THE DRAGON HALF-DEAFENS HIM THERE FOR A HOT MINUTE. Cita's burp to end all burps garners hissy laughter that might be actual amusement or might just be hysterical relief that she didn't puke all over him just yet. "I am not jealous," he manages, again in mangled squished-ese, but blue-greys lift, and the visual of Ila rising off his dragon's back like a goddamned sultan atop his flying carpet has the bronzerider issuing sniggering noises that are more wheeze than laughter, amusement darkening as hands lift, pushing draconic snouts away long enough to grit out a rumbled, "My hero." Nevermind that his white knight is about to FLOAT AWAY, saved only by a well-timed Ily-wing that promises NO DIGNITY WHAT DIGNITY WHO DAT WHO DIS, but at least the hope of making it to artificial gravity sometime this century. Preferrably even sometime before this damn baby is born. Xermiltoth is at least holding silent for now, in voice if not in mind, which twinkles his amusement for free hugs into all of their minds in a thousand shards of diamond.

"I don't know about that. I have it on good authority that kisses have magical healing properties - especially for ugly faces. You have to kiss low, though, or it's no good." And there's another flash of that wolfish smile, too much teeth exposed R'hyn-ward as brows rise and Cita's threats pull Ila'den's attention back to her. That grey eye settles on the once-healer, raking up her body with the same kind of cockiness borne to men who look at their wives and know that they made them that pregnant and they have no regrets about it. "You wouldn't. You love us too much," Ila'den rasps, smug in his confidence, absolutely sure of the truth in declarations he's made — even if it's delivered on distracted tones because that grey eye is making its way back to DAT BOOTYLICIOUS BOOTY POPPIN' BOOTY. That expression says the wolf is ravenous, intent on its prey even if the bulk of his attention is still on Citayla despite the fact that that grey eye is seeking out blue-grey to hold. AND LAUGHING AT R'HYN. IT DOESN'T MATTER THAT R'HYN IS BEING SQUISHED (actually that's probably why he's laughing) AND ILA IS GOING SIDEWAYS AND CITA IS MAKING THREATS OR PROMISES TO EXPLODE A VAGOO OR TWO and - "Six and a half, Cita. You can do better than that." SO MUCH FOR SHOWING HIM UGLY. Though Ila'den is leaning forward, taking a breath and - WE HAVE LIFT-OFF. And then no lift off at all, because amid Cita's protests and R'hyn's amusement, Ila'den' is getting FLATTENED against his dragon's head by an Ily wing. There's a rumbling growl from Teimyrth that's not so much anger as it is an acknowledgement that THIS IS HIS LIFE NOW (and maybe telling Xermi to SHUT HIS MENTAL HUGS UP), and Ila'den's voice is muffled when he finally answers all of those things that R'hyn said before because there's no booty to distract him from his own thoughts. "If Cita moves to Honshu, they'll pay us to take her back, and we'll have full leadership again." The implication that it wouldn't stick, BECAUSE HAVE YOU MET THEM? "And I'm already accused of robbing cradles, R'hyn. Twenty turns." Just in case R'hyn forgot that gaping void separating them in age. WHO'S THE ASSHOLE NOW? "Cita, tell Ily she's ruining my dashing rescue. How am I going to convince R'hyn to sleep with me now?" A shift of a body under that wing, but Teimyrth is making no moves to retreat.

Cita seems entirely unperturbed by her dragon's shenanigans — she's had some time to get used to them, after all, and hey! Nobody is bleeding here, right? That has a very high quotient of winning against even the average. Maybe Ilyscaeth is being careful because of Cita's imminent poppage. Maybe it's a sheer accident that she's not managed to injure sombody yet. The idea of being followed to Honshu, though? That gets a sigh three or four times as dramatic as it really needs to be, complete with reclining her face resignedly against Ily's up-arched neck. "That defeats the point." R'hyn gets a scathing look for the 'cradles' comment — whether on Ila's behalf or hers (theirs, MAYBE), well, it's not entirely clear. The look has just enough time to dissipate in the face of the ridiculous grin before it's, well, smushed, for which Cita kind of makes a vague face. "Ily…" She huffs a noise that might be a laugh, and sets her face back down on the dragon's neck again for a minute, ignoring the looming window pointedly. Ilyscaeth is, for all her Shenanigans, safe. The gold has a fiery, vibrant display of nebulae and blistering amusement-and-affection for both bronzes, flashing in time with a distant melody not quite meant for them. « Can't you just fly? What's stopping you? » She ventures, possibly teasing or possibly just baffled at how the tiny humans aren't keeping some sort of balance in the place. The place which might have grips for dragons, but it's harder to find human-sized ones in a giant space, okay Ily? Nevertheless she cuddles her little human-y brood happily, exuding rainbows to compete with Xermi's sunshine-diamonds and Tei's grump. "Don't be an ass." That could either be for Ilyscaeth or Ila, honestly, muffled by warm dragonhide. "You did drag me into space." The Weyrwoman points out, in a voice with an undertone of Whining not at all becoming of her status. "My love is diminishing by the second that I'm here." Cita grumbles, but there's no real heat to it; but that could just be that she can't actually see anything outside right now. Or anything. Except for warm gold neck. Which is just fine, as far as she's concerned. It also saves her from having to roll her eyes at Ila'den's sass, but she can't help but raise her face up just enough to fix the older bronzer with a flat, flat look for the last. "Ila." Ah, she's already breaking, but keeping her expression so deadpan. "Take your pants off. It won't take long. Actually. Leave them on. I'm not sure it matters." Own sass delivered, she goes back to her breathing, facedown on Ily.

R'hyn wastes no time - he pegs Ila'den with a look, one that speaks so many volumes that it's practically an encyclopedia, lips crooked, cheeks maybe a little pink because it wouldn't be R'hyn if he could flirt without being awkward about it as he responds with a wry, "That sounds highly scientific. We should run tests to find the optimal quantity of kissing to induce ugly-reduction." GROSS. DISGUSTING. MAKE THEM STOP, CITA. AIN'T NOBODY NEED A TRIP TO THE CLOSET. WAIT. NO. GODDAMNIT CITA, NO. WHAT ARE YOU DOING. CITA, STAHHHHP. "Kkkhksphlt." Hold please, R'hyn is busy choking, at first on the words he was trying to say BEFORE Citayla told Ila to take his pants off, then on his own spit, then on his own amusement, and only then on the shreds of his propriety, that little part of him that blusters and huffs in womanly YOU DARE fashion even though let's be real, Cita's only too, too painfully aware of their sex life and it's— "Terrible," the bronzerider finally manages on a wheeze, "you are both terrible." BUT ALSO GREAT, if his expression is anything to judge by, eyes bright with wicked mirth and ample affection even as he breathes through immediate amusement in an attempt to remember just what they were talking about before they were so rudely encouraged. If R'hyn talks in a rush, perhaps expecting the worse, well… "You're right, it'd be safer to bet on when they'd be sent back, not if," he drawls, momentarily amused before his eyebrows drop into a shallow notch. "Also shut up." Okay, a deep notch. "Also I hate you both. Also hey it takes a perfectly adequate amount of time and I" am going to shut up right now before he digs himself into a deeper hole (if u kno wut i mean), huffing loudly before changing tack. "Good thing you're decreasing back from infinity," he mutters regarding her love for them, mouth opening, fishing for a moment, whatever he was about to say becoming instead, "No no, Xermiltoth, no, I swear by the first egg I will" Oof as the bronze impacts with Ilyscaeth and Teimyrth, encouraged as much by Ily's mental music as he is by Teimyrth's grumpy growliness. « QUESTIONS LIKE THAT IMPLY THERE IS SOME LOGIC INVOLVED HERE, » the bronze notes with his usual loudness, fizzing fireworks popping to live betwixt and between her nebulae. He leaves it at that, but his head might just tilt towards their humans, as though that explains everything. Which let's be real, it kind of does. IJS, GUYS. IJS.

It's suspicious, that silence. It lingers, drawn into the realm of awkward, settling somewhere between, 'Is this for real?' and, 'Is this really happening?' But it is. It absolutely is happening. The only hint that Ila'den is still even alive comes in the shifting of a lump beneath Ilyscaeth's wings. He's not answering anybody's questions at the moments, nor making witty retorts to witty responses, and then there's XERMILTOTH, slamming into Ily and Teimyrth, the bronze meeting fireworks with dampening snow and then retreating as he wuffles beneath golden wings. But it's enough. It's enough of an impact to allow the escape of That Which Has Been Demanded Removed: Ila's leathers. Indeed, his pants are doing a lazily slow somersault through the airlock, waving farewell to decency as they venture through the majesty of zero gravity and make it clear that somewhere there's a bronzrider without his pants on. Finally it comes, that voice a raspy growl blunted only by the hints of amusement in his voice when he Ily-Wings a, "Well, come on then, R'hyn. Science waits for no one." One, two, three, and Ila'den's muffling a response for Cita: "I recall you liking my ass. And I said, 'Cita, do you want to go to space?' and you said, 'Only if you promise to make me swoon when we land,' and R'hyn said, 'I'll just bring my abs then,' and here we are." INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY. A beat. "You know what else takes a decent amount of time, R'hyn?" One, two, three, four, five, six, seven seconds of absolute, anticipatory silence, and, "You can't see me, but I'm waggling my brows vigorously."

Cita knows as soon as the words leave her mouth that it's a mistake, but well, turning the clock back on that bell would be an act of UNLAWFULNESS and also probably get messy with two Ilyscaeth's in one spot at one time and — "Sheeellllllllls." It's too late. It's not too late to whine about your bad choices, though, and the goldrider takes her time in her remonstrations to herself. Ilyscaeth is too busy laughing to broadcast the litany, but they probably have some idea. Cita knows Why The Silence Is Happening. THEY ALL DO. IT'S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME. Still. She somehow manages to reply, with some dignity, "If you test that theory before I'm back on solid ground, I promise you I will vomit up all that iced beef." 'Over you' probably doesn't have to be said, right? Well. Proximity and all. "If we're terrible, what does that say about you?" She adds, smart-assedly, only lacking a z-snap that clinging to your dragon's neck kind of prevents. Mostly. « Xermiltoth! » Ily gleefully ecnourages even as Ryn decidedly doesn't, a whirwind of joy and amusement as the third party barrels right into them. She's got plenty of wings for everybody! Even the ones who are now what, half naked? Does it count as half if there are no underpants involved? "That's a good point, Xermi." Cita wheezes, a little breathless on impact, blinking as pants go sailing by her field of view. She's not even surprised, but the sheer amount of Doneness cannot possibly be captured by mere expressions. No, no, you've got to take in the slump of her shoulders, the way she kind of tips her head up towards the sky (then remembers she's above the sky and goes a little green), and exhales noisily. "Ila." Cita tries, she tries, because This Is Her Mistake That She Made With Her Own Damn Mouth. "Ila. Your genitals are going to freeze off between and I'm not going to pity you one bit." She tries, watching the pants half-heartedly. Maybe they won't go flying off to places unknown, where nobody will ever be able to find them until some poor engineer digs them out. Maybe Cita will not barf sometime pretty soon. Or start popping out a baby in space. MAYBE.

Silence is not golden. Silence is DAMN SUSPICIOUS, and the longer it drags on, the longer it takes R'hyn to pull his eyes from Ila's last known location to Cita's face, an oh-so-slow slide that ends with him staring up at her with so much blame in his gaze. "You say that like I have a choice, now. He's going to stay down there until I—" Once again the weyrleader's words fail him, drawing to an abrupt stop as he spies Ila's pants, watching their entire spiralling path across his field of vision with a slow track of blue grey eyes before he speaks again. "You know. If you'd've said when I woke up today, that I'd be sexually propositioned while watching Ila's pants float past me in zero-grav and it'd be your fault, I'd've asked if we should take you to a healer. Shame Cat is coming for you," he asserts, smirking sharply before making a muffled pained noise for a sudden bonk of his head as Xermiltoth's chin settles atop it. « ILYSCAETH, » the big bronze booms right back, mussing R'hyn's hair even further as his head tips so facets can focus on Citayla. « IT IS A LESSON HARD-LEARNED. » TURNS. TURNS IT HAS TAKEN HIM TO LEARN THERE IS NO LOGIC HERE. The implication sings through words, pings with diamond discordance, rumbles up in his throat in draconic laughter as R'hyn visibly struggles to shove the beast off of him, cursing in muffled tones. « VERY WELL. » His head lifts to thump atop Teimyrth's instead, risking certain death to allow R'hyn to pull himself free of the dragon sandwich. Feet gather beneath the bronzer, pushing off some piece of dragon (Ily? Tei? Xermi?) to launch after Ila's wayward pants. He gets them, but not before he dissolves into laughter brought on by Ila'den's eyebrows, Cita's lack of pity, momentum carrying him right into a piece of ceiling where he bounces off, still giggling like a fool. "Freeze off," he wheezes, clearly more amused by this than he has any right to be, "somewhere in the void just," gasping inhale, an in-air somersault resulting from a clutch towards his stomach, "dick," breathe, "floating." DICKS INNNNNN SPAAAAAAAAAAAACE. Quick while he's distracted, fuck off and leave him there. He clearly deserves it.

"If you woke up this morning thinking you weren't going to be propositioned for sex, regardless of whether or not Cita instigated it, I don't know who you are or where the man I've been weyrmated to these last several turns," come on patently dry tones from somewhere beneath a wing and — oof — Xermiltoth's head on top of Teimyrth's (or rather, on top of Ila, on top of Teimyrth), "but you'd better give him back. He's the only man stupid enough to try and fix me." Or put up with how very broken he is, but SEMANTICS. Either way, there's a bronze head on him (on Tei), and he's being dislodged slightly, and then slightly more when Teimyrth shifts to rumble a low growl, but makes no attempts on his ledgemate's life. « There is nothing to learn. They are inferior and they are stupid. That is why they do not fly. » But for all the jostling, and HUMAN SHUNNING, and being butt naked in space, Ila'den isn't perturbed. He just clings to Ilyscaeth's wing (and now probably one of Xermiltoth's knobs or ridges) with his feet stretched towards infinity, stance as akimbo as it can be when holding onto something in zero gravity while the rest of you tries to escape and his ass bared for all to see. Incorrigible. Ila'den is absolutely incorrigible, and he doesn't have an ounce of shame to show for it. He's all teeth and unrepentant smiles aimed at both of his weyrmates, his wayward pair of now-retrieved-pants unacknowledged because he's too busy sniping off an answer for Citayla. "It would be a favor, really. I think I have contributed to the repopulation of Pern amicably for long enough." And then a wolfish smile, a huff of rumbling laughter that escapes when that grey eye seeks out R'hyn and there's ENTIRELY TOO MUCH LAUGHTER (and butt floating (SHAMELESS)) going on to be ALLOWED. "You could just come and put my pants back on me, and then you don't have to worry about anything freezing off."

« I SUPPOSE. » Ilyscaeth considers, tail flicking absently into the wall with loud thumps. "It being my fault is a surprise." Citayla concedes glumly, nodding along. That, yeah, that's rarer than the average proposition. The idea of Shame Cat being in her future gets narrowed eyes for the Weyrleader, a finger jabbed in his direction threateningly. "I'll shove Shame Cat so far up your ass that you'll get hairballs, Heryn." The goldrider promises, then sinks emphatically back to Ily's cozy-comfy neck, grumbling mutinously. "I can't be blamed for any mistakes I make." A pointed prodding at her side, and a prolonged sigh, as Ilyscaeth blasts them and maybe even Pern so far below with a wash of delighted brass and distant thunder. « TEIMYRTH, DON'T BE RUDE TO THEM. THEY CAN'T HELP IT. » The gold laughs in waves of color, bumping the bronze with whatever limb she can spare affectionately. Cita's laughter joins Ily's when R'hyn starts wheezing, the rider still collapsed against her dragon's neck giggling weakly. The mental image is macabre, but also — well, kind of hilarious, given how many times she's been subjected to it AT RANDOM AND WITHOUT PREVIOUS PLANNING. "I'll fix you." Cita promises, or possibly threatens, and it's not real clear whether by the aforementioned, er, freezing, or possibly some other violent fun. Who really knows, with this healer. Best not to ask, probably. "If you hadn't lost them then the need to have them back wouldn't exist, Ila." She laughs, turning her head to squint down in their weyrmate's general direction. And his ass. "Ryn, the pants?" Arch and maybe a little bit close to laughing again, Cita turns her squinty glare on R'hyn, but she can't keep it up for long, moving just enough to roll her eyes at Ila's ass. "I happen to like your efforts at repopulating Pern." Cita huffs, and Ilyscaeth bugles. Loudly. In the (relatively) small space. « Bring the pants, mine's! Mine's needs that for more hatchlings. » She orders, brisk, maybe a little bit cheeky. Cita sighs. Loudly.

« I SUPPOSE. » Ilyscaeth considers, tail flicking absently into the wall with loud thumps. "It being my fault is a surprise." Citayla concedes glumly, nodding along. That, yeah, that's rarer than the average proposition. The idea of Shame Cat being in her future gets narrowed eyes for the Weyrleader, a finger jabbed in his direction threateningly. "I'll shove Shame Cat so far up your ass that you'll get hairballs, Heryn." The goldrider promises, then sinks emphatically back to Ily's cozy-comfy neck, grumbling mutinously. "I can't be blamed for any mistakes I make." A pointed prodding at her side, and a prolonged sigh, as Ilyscaeth blasts them and maybe even Pern so far below with a wash of delighted brass and distant thunder. « TEIMYRTH, DON'T BE RUDE TO THEM. THEY CAN'T HELP IT. » The gold laughs in waves of color, bumping the bronze with whatever limb she can spare affectionately. Cita's laughter joins Ily's when R'hyn starts wheezing, the rider still collapsed against her dragon's neck giggling weakly. The mental image is macabre, but also — well, kind of hilarious, given how many times she's been subjected to it AT RANDOM AND WITHOUT PREVIOUS PLANNING. "I'll fix you." Cita promises, or possibly threatens, and it's not real clear whether by the aforementioned, er, freezing, or possibly some other violent fun. Who really knows, with this healer. Best not to ask, probably. "If you hadn't lost them then the need to have them back wouldn't exist, Ila." She laughs, turning her head to squint down in their weyrmate's general direction. And his ass. "Ryn, the pants?" Arch and maybe a little bit close to laughing again, Cita turns her squinty glare on R'hyn, but she can't keep it up for long, moving just enough to roll her eyes at Ila's ass. "I happen to like your efforts at repopulating Pern." Cita huffs, and Ilyscaeth bugles. Loudly. In the (relatively) small space. « Bring the pants, mine's! Mine's needs that for more hatchlings. » She orders, brisk, maybe a little bit cheeky. Cita sighs. Loudly.

"The propositioning I expected," R'hyn clarifies as he recovers from rampant laughter, throwing one hand out to catch on a piece of ceiling before it's too late and he goes spinning off into the deeps. "I'd be worried about your health if you didn't," he adds, droll, "it's the source." SEE. EVEN CITA'S ON HIS SIDE HERE. R'hyn looks smug about it for the passing of a few seconds before, "You can't see it, but I'm looking very smug right now." Because that joke goes BOTH WAYS AIGHT. Citayla's threats do little more than engender a sunbright grin, beaming down at the very pregnant weyrwoman with a sassed, "Gotta catch me first, Citayzleat." One hand goes up to press thumb to nose, fingers waggling in a 'nanny-boo-boo' gesture before he pushes off from his perch LIKE A FUCKING COWARD. "And hey, don't blame the baby for your bad life choices. This is all your own doing. Own up to it." Just like he's owning up to his part in the THIRD MOON CURRENTLY BEAMING OVER PERN RIGHT NOW. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, ILA. "For fuck's sake, Ila," R'hyn actually says out loud because it bears audible repeating, unable to facepalm because TRAJECTORY but it's IN HIS EYES. SO MANY FACEPALMS ARE BEING HAD. SO. MANY. "While that might be true - how many children do you have now, fifty? - you should probably keep it." FO' REASONS. GUUUURL U KNO WUT I MEAN BROW WAGGLE FINGERBANG PEW PEW. "Cita's idea has merit," he drawls as he finally reaches the bronzerider's proximity, not at all attempting to brake, put arms out, or otherwise stop what appears to be a full-body collision. SIX FEET OF BRONZER INCOMIIING. "Clearly no more children should have to suffer the potential of you passing," vague hand gesture, "whatever this is on." INSANITY. SHAMELESSNESS. INCORRIGIBILITY. ALL. "I am sorry, Cita. It's too late for you." AND YOUR BARELY-UNBORN CHILD. YOU HAVE SO MUCH TO LOOK FORWARDS TO. « THEY CAN, ACTUALLY. THEY SIMPLY CHOOSE NOT TO. THE FLYING THING IS PROBABLY FOR THE BEST. DO YOU SEE HOW THEY COMPORT THEMSELVES WHEN MOVING THROUGH THE AIR IS THEIR OWN PROBLEM? » Cue significant glance to where R'hyn is attempting to take Ila out. « AND THEY CALL ME RECKLESS. HA! »

« They are not flying, they are floating. Because they are small and inferior. And stupid. » IS THERE A HEAVY IMPLICATION OF, 'LIKE YOU' IN THAT WHITE-OUT BLIZZARD FOR XERMI? PROBABLY. Though there is a wuffle, a rush of hot dragon-breath that washes out beneath the bottoms of head-placed sails and a bunting that nudges Xermi's head up a fraction of an inch as Teimyrth shifts his body post-Ilyscaeth's version of GENTLE AFFECTION. MASSIVE QUEEN. « It is not rude if you are stating facts, Ilyscaeth. My Ila'den says so. » AND HE'S THE ONLY HUMAN TEIMYRTH DOESN'T FIND COMPLETELY LOST FOR HOPE, so that's something, right? Right. It's probably just because he cannot see Ila'den clutching to dragons while his booty graces the deep darkness of space with its buttjesty. Ila'den? He's emitting low, husky laughter that's cut off into silence as abruptly as its come into being, leaving only Ila'den's dry sarcasm in its wake: "Citayla. I am disappointed. If you weren't aware that half of the time I propose sex with R'hyn because I enjoy hearing you retch in front of whatever door we're occupying the surface of, you haven't been paying attention." SEE. SHE IS A CATALYST FOR BOOM BOOM WHETHER SHE WANTS TO BE A CATALYST OR NOT. Some people have statues of fertility they can thank for their boom in sexual productiveness, CITA HAS HER DANG SELF. And R'hyn, who's getting a smile that's almost boyish (and so very out of place) in its mischief. "And neither have you." Still, Ila'den's laughing again, cued by threats of void cat being shoved into LITERAL VOIDS and IT'S ALL TOO MUCH. "Promises, promises Citayla," Ila'den drawls out, exaggeration placed with implicit abuse of accent on her name. "And I didn't lose them. I acquiesced your command, which I have found in turns of close proximity to you as being a very wise choice if I value my personal safety." Nevermind R'hyn, who's the reason that Ila'den lets go of an Ily wing with on hand to point at him like U RIGHT, U RIGHT AS HELL when he tells Cita not to blame their INNOCENT, BLAMELESS CHILD (and effectively maybe shows a little DINGLEDORF when zero-gravity (or maybe that's just Ila) decides to start turning in ARRRRGH I'M BLIND directions), and who is also getting raised brows aimed in his direction. "Don't make the case for my keeping in tact too intensely, Heryn. I might get the impression that you actually like me." AND THEN WHERE WOULD THEY BE? Here. Where they are now, with Citayla unreasonably pregnant, and Ila'den unreasonably pantless. But here comes R'hyn, with Ila'den getting out, "Cita's not sorry. In fact, I'm pretty sure I remember her saying, 'Please don't stop,' before I - " OOF. IMPACT. Ila'den probably lets go of Ilyscaeth on purpose, because OTHERWISE, WHAT THE HELL ARE THOSE MUSCLES FOR? SHOW? But it means that he's catching at his weyrmate with a naked bottom half, one arm around the bronzerider as he pushes off of Teimyrth with the laziest, MOST BLATANTLY DELIBERATE, 'Oops,' one's ever heard. "Don't wait for us, Cita. I don't know when we'll be -" WHUMP. That would be the air leaving Ila, and that wheeze is probably an attempt at laughter, but it's certainly caused by his own lifemate wrestling his way free of Ily and Xermi both to smack his rider and his rider's captive with a taloned paw. IT WAS AN ATTEMPT TO CATCH THEM, HONEST. « You see? » Teimyrth persists. « They are stupid. »

« You are reckless! » Ilyscaeth laughs, watching her rider's men float around without her to tether them like a couple'a dummies. Cita doesn't watch. Cita knows better than to watch. What possible good could come of watching them — one, dick out for all to behold, and the other, trying to bodyslam a pantsless man in space? No good is what good. So Cita doesn't. She's practical that way. « They haven't managed to hit the button for the airlock yet. » Ily points out amicably, amusement falling back into a jaunty, plinky music-box murmur. "Yet." The gold's rider mumbles uncharitably into the dragon's soft neck, taking slow breaths and generally looking like she's steeling herself for something unpleasant. "I'm going to go to somewhere with more gravity. You two are welcome to race the techs and see if you can't —" A beat. What is she saying. Seriously, Cita, there's only so far pregnantbrain can get you with these goofs. "On second thought, both of you, come on. I don't need do learn what goes beyond an intercontinental incident." It doesn't really bear thinking, does it? Interplanetary? Intersomething? Faranth knows. Nothing GOOD. Not even boyish smiles directed at weyrmates or DARING RESCUES can distract Citayla from this, the mission she's been neglecting because. Reasons. "Ily." And there the gold goes, abandoning Tei and Xermi and all the possibilities of playing human soccer with the men. She gets Cita as far as she can, but Cita's on her own from there. It's real hard to float while real real pregnant with any sense of dignity. We'll say that Cita manages it. Sure she does. « They are…not? » Ily contradicts over her shoulder, watching Ila and Ryn float while Tei smacks them. Hm. « Maybe. »

Is Xermiltoth being JUDGED BY BOTH OF HIS LEDGEMATES?! HE SURE IS. Does Xermiltoth give SINGLE FLAMING DOODLYFUCK?! HE SURE DOES NOT. « THAT IS THE POT CALLING THE KETTLE BLACK, » the bronze diamond-blasts back against winter storm and music-box tinkling, insulting them both in one go. TWO-FER. HOLLA. THAT'S HOW IT'S DONE. Content with his VERBAL SLAUGHTER, the dragon thonks his chin against Teimyrth's brow for that bunting before pushing away to physically tangle with Ilyscaeth in an upside-down mess of too many limbs, tail slapping her about the face as he aims to knock them all into a barrel roll. ENJOY THAT. R'hyn, meanwhile, might just be basking in that boyish grin, eyes scrunching up around their edges in beamed return even as he physically collides with the bronzerider, clearly expecting ALL THEM USEFUL MUSCLES TO STOP THEM. NO? OK THEN. "We get it, Ila. You like voyeuristic sex," he says, pressing his nose to the space behind the bronzerider's ear in a parody of intimacy, but still speaking loud enough to carry all the way back to poor Citayla. "And was that before or after you invited me in?" YEAH HE WENT THERE. His head twists, temple to temple with Ila'den to stare the goldrider's way for the sentence that never quite makes it to fruition, a slow grin forming in time with words that go and go and stop just fast enough that the hand totally creeping up Ila'den's thigh stops just shy of— "Damn, she's learning," he says on a sigh, slapping the inside of that thigh instead of doing ANYTHING ILLICIT, pushing leathers gently againt Ila's chest along with a press of his lips against the man's cheek. "I don't like you. I hate you," he asserts, voice pitched low, nipping at a cheekbone, jaw, before adding, louder, "now put your pants on, husband. We have a very pregnant weyrmate to escort and I'm pretty sure they require you to be clothed." PLEASE KEEP ALL HANDS, FEET, AND DINGLEDORFS INSIDE THE RIDE AT ALL TIMES.

DO A BARREL ROLL! Teimyrth is certainly in the throes of one, thanks to Xermiltoth being a right HAMILTON and gravity (or a complete lack thereof) encouraging his massive body to do things that he feigns aren't happening if only to preserve his dignity (of which there is very little left). THIS IS MORE DRAGON BALLET. YOU DON'T KNOW HIS LIFE. HE IS GRACEFUL, AND HANDSOME, and DEFINITELY NOT SLOW-MOTION SMUSHING HIS FACE INTO A WALL while holding completely still as his body makes rotations and his existence tries to pretend that somehow he can recover from this and make it look cool because - SHUT UP TEIMYRTH. Ila'den has no such qualms, watching Cita flee, grinning like a man gone mad as R'hyn plays chicken with Cita's sanity (and ability to see) and aborts last minute - just enough gumption and push to elicit a raspy huff of rumbling laughter from Ila'den's lips. "Well don't stop," Ila'den rumbles. "It doesn't have to be voyeuristic for me to enjoy it." He leans into R'hyn, making a husky noise of agreement in his throat that's cousin to a growl; pressing sprawled, calloused fingers into the small of Ryn's back at the swell of his hips and pulling him in closer against his body as he presses his face back against his weyrmate's to leave behind the scrape of stubble and — "As I recall it, you invited yourself in. It was very rude. Cita wouldn't stop staring at your abs." WHICH IS NOT AT ALL TRUE, but DO EITHER OF THEM REALLY REMEMBER? Probably. (It was Ila.) REGARDLESS, Ila'den's all wolfish smiles that lose their vibrancy with each low pitched word and nip; with each R'hyn-earned illicit growl that escape him before he's ducking his head into R'hyn's neck, pressing lips, and teeth, and tongue with fleeting pressure against the hollow. "Aye, and I hate you too, husband. More than I've ever hated anybody." Hands trail over the younger bronzer's body, catching at hips and abdomen before Ila'den removes his hands all together to retrieve his pants. "How very unfortunate for you, but you're right. Our weyrmate is very pregnant, and there are innocent people in this ship in dire need of protection. Come on, before she starts a massacre." SOMEWHERE IN THERE, he manages to get his leathers back on (it takes work), and Teimyrth moves just enough to catch them in one taloned paw and push them towards Cita, whom Ila'den abandons R'hyn for to catch around the waist and pull with him until they can reach one of those human-sized footholds and move from there. TODAY'S EPISODE OF WEYRBAES. IN. SPPPPAAAACE! WAS BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE LETTER 'D', and a disappointing lack of dingledorfs to accompany it.

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