Purrveyor of Such Fine Mews

WARNING: If you don't like kisses or heated looks or TINY KITTENS, this is definitely not the log that you were looking for.


Xanadu Weyr - Secluded Alcove
A twisting, darkly mulched pathway, leads through a densely wooded area off to a set of wooden beams grown into the landscape to form a set of rustic stairs. Each one covered in a bit of leafy moss here and there. Just beyond the path opens up into a romantic secluded garden cut into the wilds themselves. The aromatic scent of the woods is enhanced by the restful sound of a small waterfall splashing over a natural rock formation down into a mountain spring that feeds other water required points of interest elsewhere. Huge mossy covered boulders surround the scene, sparse flowering trees and bushes darting the background with their pale pink blossoms.
A few benches are set off in private areas here and there for the murmured discussion of lovers. Visitors are encouraged to take a swim in the pond, or lounge on the velvety carpeted mossy rock encasing the body itself. Several large flat stones stand alone just inside, allowing one to sit and refresh themselves by sinking perhaps just their legs into the fresh cool water.

Listen, secluded alcoves aren't just for lovers, alright? Sometimes they're for hiding things from your lovers. Small things. That meow. Though perhaps not the strangest occurrence in a weyr that doubles as a feline adoption center some days, the purrveyor of such fine mews… well… he stands out in a crowd. Small, striped, and NEKKID AS THE DAY HE WAS BORN, the kitten rolls about in R'hyn's lap as the bronzerider gently shushes him, mewling plaintively for lunch. "Easy, easy," come gentle tones, pulling the young feline's claws out of the fabric of his pants, wincing when paws shift to somewhere less protected. "Ouch. Okay, it's cool enough, here." The small plate of kitten mash is set on the flat surface of a rock, the tiny terror of R'hyn's belly button settled down next to it, where he's only too eager to dive face-first into his nosh. Perhaps predicting just such an occurrence, the hairless feline has been stripped of his tiny blue flight jacket and tiny blue hat (replete with ears), both items sat aside atop his own shirt, all momentarily forgotten as Ryn tilts his head to watch the play of light over the kitten's downy skin. Feet absently paddle at the water they've been sunk into, the warmth of the summer afternoon lulling the dragonrider into a false sense of security.

But secluded alcoves are for lovers, even when the intention behind their use this time is to prevent said lover(s) from discovering cat-thievery long enough for nekkid kittens (and shirtless weyrmates) to collude and conspire every logistical way to dodge an epic, "No." Caught. Red. Handed. It's hard to say what even drew Ila'den here, into the private surroundings of a lover's garden, where descending stairs, gilded benches, and every nuance of isolated scenery feels more claustrophobic than romantic to a man who saw too much in turns of eerily similar isolation. But is it really important? The answer to why is probably simple enough: R'hyn is an event horizon. He is the one inevitability, the one constant in Ila'den's life that he could not escape even if he wanted to. And he doesn't want to. He wants those stolen moments from before he even spoke, when the ruination of a knee that meant he would be forever announced by a heaviness in his gait didn't stop him from pausing on the stairs to take in R'hyn and certainly didn't prevent that hushed but no less sharp intake of breath when his state of undress came into hyperfocus. AND OKAY. IT COULD HAVE ALSO BEEN THAT HE HEARD A KITTEN. AND THAT BREATH COULD HAVE BEEN LESS BECAUSE R'HYN IS SHIRTLESS AND MORE BECAUSE SAID KITTEN IS MAKING HIM IMMEDIATELY EXASPERATED but it's unlikely. That grey eye was delineating muscle and definition damn near hedonistically before he even registered the kitten was on (with, beside) R'hyn, before he pushed himself forward with that first, 'No,' and kept forward momentum going with an, "Absolutely not." It comes raspy, husky, void of lilting burrs as if there is no genuine agitation to mark his immediate refusal because he's SO DAMN USED TO HAVING TO SAY IT. "Where are you going to put it?" BECAUSE THEY (probably) DON'T HAVE ROOM FOR IT. "Who are you giving up for it?" SEE: ROOM. And there Ila'den is, lowering himself into a crouch right beside his weyrhusband, leaning in UNNECESSARILY CLOSE as his head tilts to one side and those brows rise. "I'm waiting." For his ANSWER. HERYN.

"Yeep!" R'hyn's entire form seizes in the full-bodied jump of someone who is guilty, who has been caught at doing something they shouldn't have and has one or ten immediate regrets about it. Hand, cookie jar, trap, because although the alcove has served (for the entirety of ten minutes) as a hiding place, it is also apparently to be his grave, for there's no way out except the way he came - the way Ila'den is blocking with heavy steps Heryn did not recognize soon enough. Blame it on the sunshine beaming its warmth down through rustling leaves, their swaying multitudes shedding beams of light across the flat of his stomach and the swell of tattooed shoulders, or on the relaxing drone of water pouring into the pool that sees loose pants pushed up to expose the metal contraption at one knee, or maybe even on the rolling purr-purr-purr of a kitten who finds contentment in the filling of his tiny stomach, little paws kneading the ground beneath them. Or one might simply blame it on an understanding of their peculiar brand of inevitability, a soul-deep sensation honed over the course of a decade: Ila'den was always going to find him, no matter when, no matter where, the worth of waiting for it, the wear and tear of tension and anticipation lost in the pursuit of more favorable gains. Gains such as this, such as the shift of stormy hues from wide-eyed surprise to warm, scrunched pleasure, the long trail of his gaze along Ila'den's form as he moves closer, the distinct and utter enjoyment inherent to the simplest of things: the set of boots on soft moss, the motion of lips he's traced a thousand times and more with his own, the press of thighs against fabric as Ila lowers himself into a crouch, the very position itself smacking of such familiarity, such personal history that for a moment R'hyn is speechless. "Hey, baby." Orrrr, maybe he's just rude. Maybe he's just aiming a sappy grin up at Ila'den in the hopes it distracts him, head tipping in the same direction as his weyrmate's to effectively block the nekkid-ass kitten from view. "Missed you this morning. We were up early to make pancakes. I hope the girls left you some. They were ravenous. Starting to wonder if Hallac feeds them on that ship or if he just has them stand on the prow, open their mouths, and munch on whatever flies in." R'hyn laughs at his own joke, but the timbre doesn't quite reach it's mark, more the forced 'eh heh, heheheh' of a man who knows he's trying to change the subject and is doing a damned terrible job of it. Here's where a normal person would deposit an inquired 'I love you?', hoping that will win out, but however more frequently they might be used, those words never have and never will be casual. Not for them. Not for jokes like this. And so instead, blue-grey eyes peruse that too close face, momentarily at a loss and showing it until he recovers with a brilliant, "Is that a new eyepatch?" BEAM. Too bad the kitten chooses that exact moment to dunk his nose too far into the mash and sneeze furiously. R'hyn's grin goes brittle. THE JIG IS UP.

FOR ONCE, R'hyn's seizing form does not elicit rumbling, husky laughter at his expense. Or unspoken affection. Or any kind of intent to seduce, to disengage from conversation, to pursue more primal inclinations. Instead, it replicates that pressing of lips into a frown and translates it in one narrowing eye that says he sees you, villain. He sees you and your naked villain cat-stash. The entirety of what Ila'den's face says can be summed up with considerably more eloquence by the use of one very familiar image — one that we will leave here. Just in case. https://bit.ly/2mtHJA8 In fact, this image of unimpressed tolerance is so on point that it applies itself with alacrity to an alarming amount of everything Ila'den is trying to communicate. Here, let us give you an example. 'Hey, baby,' says R'hyn. "https://bit.ly/2mtHJA8" says Ila'den. 'Missed you this morning,' R'hyn continues. "https://bit.ly/2mtHJA8" Ila'den answers. We could go through this entire RP word for word, paste, after paste, after paste, but the result would be the same. Ila'den will, from now until the end of this prose-lacking monstrocity, keep that very face. Without shame. Without regret. Without an iota of sympathy (or humor) for R'hyn's EXTREMELY CUTE ATTEMPTS to waylay his temper. Or just his answer. Same thing. "Husband," comes with the dangerous kind of soft that means it's the precursor to another incoming, 'no.' "You're going to need a lot more than pancakes and this —" Look. Okay. Listen. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to touch R'hyn even though he's fully aware that an entire decade of touching R'hyn means he doesn't really need to ask R'hyn (except, of course, on those occasions when he does, actually, need to ask R'hyn), but calloused digits are spreading wide somewhere near R'hyn's ribs, pressing up over pectoral muscles, against clavicle, caging his throat without any real pressure until Heryn's jaw is in one hand (thumb pressed to the right, pointer on his chin, remaining fingers to the left) and he's leaning in a little closer while he tilts R'hyn's head up. " — to distract me from that." Ila'den's whisper is close enough to paint R'hyn's lips with his words, to share breath before he VERY RUDELY turns the younger bronzerider's head towards that TINY NAKED GOBLIN. "Where did you get it." IT'S NOT EVEN REALLY A QUESTION. IT'S MORE LIKE A DEMAND. IT'S RUDE. PUNCH HIM, R'HYN. REMEMBER YOUR ROOTS.

For a second, it looks as though R'hyn might well surrender - to laughter at the sheer and utter persistence of that unamusement, or perhaps to the aggression of latent sexuality encapsulated in that long, slow press of calloused hands against his body. Saccharine brilliance flickers, fades, smile halving its watts as lids dip low to watch his weyrmate's progress. Stomach muscles contract on a hitched breath, releasing in a slow ripple that runs the length of his form, pulse quickening with the passage of fingers up his neck, anticipation sneaking into his every line when— Ah. Well. R'hyn can't very well deny the presence of the tiny, furless hobgoblin now, can he? And so he says, in a voice filled with nothing short of spectaculare shock, awe, and surprise, "Oh look, a cat!" His head turns in Ila'den's grasp, or at least it tries to, the motion of bone rather limited by the grip the bronzerider has on his face. That doesn't stop his skin from smushing up against the pressure of Ila's hand, one cheek puffing up higher than the other as he tries to smile great big at the wonder of it all. Well. Since we're using visuals now: https://bit.ly/2m0Hyw0 "What a cwrazy, random happenstansh," he drawls, words somewhat ruined by his tongue's inability to flow in places it normally might. "And look, shomeone fed it. What a shweetheart." Because now it's just a game, a push to see how far he can get with the insanity of this story before Ila'den catches him up in a web too impossible to untangle. "Say," continued with a tip of his chin back towards the kitten, tongue momentarily freed of its slur, "it looks awful sad and alone. What'sh that Ila?" R'hyn's hand comes up to mirror Ila's hold, a gesture so often used to express shared devotion rendered ridiculous as his thumb shifts into the slope below the older rider's lip, pressure tipping his jaw open and shut like a goddamned nutcracker. Or trying. Results dubious. "'Oh what a cute cat Ryn it'sh all alone of courshe you can keep it.' Thanks, baby! You're the beshtest baby, have I told you that before? And so handshome, too." Leaaan. Right into Ila'den's person in a fond, nuzzling snuggle. Worst. He's literally the worst. Why do you even like him, honestly.

ILA'DEN: PERPETUALLY UNIMPRESSED. That grey eye keeps attention rapt and avid on his weyrmate even as R'hyn tries to make a ventriloquist puppet out of him and put literal words into his literal mouth. He doesn't crack, he doesn't break. He doesn't give in to the desire to laugh, or smile, or THROW HERYN INTO THE WATER. Ila'den doesn't do anything. He doesn't even let R'hyn have free mobility of his face, if only because Ila's now using that leverage to keep distance between the both of them as brows raise and Ila'den halts that inward lean with a tightening of arm-bound muscle that keeps R'hyn AT A DISTANCE. For now. And then Ila'den is on him, crushing humor against R'hyn's lips, biting hard on the bottom one and dragging his teeth the length of it as he pulls back, back, back with an agonizing kind of slow. There's nothing soft about the press of hard, lean muscle into R'hyn's body, nothing kind about the way fingers press into the younger bronzerider's jaw to keep him still while Ila'den lunges forward again, back into another kiss, this time with a hint of tongue that's sweeping over pliant tiers, curving against R'hyn's top lip as he bites down on that one too. And then he's drawing away, breath shuddered, eyelids coming open just enough for Ila'den to look down his nose at R'hyn. "Next time, Heryn," the former weyrleader rasps, an edge of violence serrating affection, the lick of a burr punctuating fraying strands of control. "You could at least lose the fucking pants." And then he's pressing another kiss to R'hyn's lips — gentle, bordering on apologetic without communicating any real apology. "Come on, Kappa." HE ALREADY NAMED IT. And just like that, Ila'den is getting to his feet with a bit of strain, leaning down to capture the baby cat in one hand, pressing a finger down along WRINKLED HEADS BETWEEN FLOPPY EARS before dropping the tiny thing in one of his inner coat pockets. And for a moment, he's focused on helping the tiny thing adjust, speaking to it as if it might assure him of comfort or explain what that mewling is for before that grey eye jumps back to his husband. He probably looks ridiculous with his jacket held open by one hand, the other allowing one finger to be caught by tiny paws that are attempting to pull fingers even closer. "Are you coming or not?" Because they have to find room for this new tiny… goblin. "You can tell me what actually happened." BECAUSE HE KNOWS YOUR HEART, R'HYN. He knows it too. damn. well.

Rats, foiled again, the expression of which flickers across masculine features as the hand on his face prevents him from successfully completing that lean into Ila'den's personal space. That's it. You leave him no choice. It's time to deploy… the lip wibble. Yeah. You thought I was gonna say smolder, didn't you? Well think again - R'hyn ain't no Flynn Rider. He's nowhere near cool enough for that, instead pursuing the subtle push of his lower lip beyond the bow of his upper, chin tilting down just enough that it's an utterly soulful look that he imparts upon Ila'den's emotional tyranny. Please, sir, just one little cuddle? He'll even lean hard into the pressure of his weyrmate's hand on his jaw, some of that sun-warmed ease leeching out of his form, as something elemental, something at the very core of their interaction shifts. It's what has R'hyn's stormy regard dropping to Ila'den's lips seconds before they crash against his, a flicker of something less sulking and much more sultry coiling in their recesses, waiting only for a catalyst to come alive… And oh, how it does, how that spitting livewire running undercurrent not just behind eyes, but beneath every inch of his skin suddenly crackles with awareness, raising a low, possessive growl from his throat just before it's cut off. R'hyn does not suffer without its expression; there's a hundred thousand ways he might demonstrate his regard for this man, for his kisses, for the way he changes the narrative and speaks volumes without saying a damn thing at all. It's there in the worshipful slide of hands up over Ila'den's shoulders, in the soft sound that's nothing short of prayer issued in the briefest of divides between them, in the return flick of tongue that begs entrance, that slides and presses and thrusts against his weyrmate's own in an only-too-expressive exploration. It's the bites that disrupt him more than anything else, that tilt the blunt nails that have leaked below collars into skin, catching upon the striations made by ancient scars, a singular shiver wracking the length of his spine in time with a low growl for each. R'hyn surges up after Ila'den's withdrawal, chaotic intent written in his every single line, but he pauses just short of claiming his husband's mouth with his again, lingers that fraction of an inch enough to deliver a single word: "Deal." Out flicks his tongue, giving Ila's lower lip a playful lick before he lets go, leans back, darkened gaze following the former renegade as he scoops the wrinkly kitten up into one pocket, the smallest of crooked smiles worming its way up onto his face. It only grows as the pair interacts, feet withdrawn from cool waters to put them under him, clothing - cat and human - gathered up into hands as Ryn closes the distance between Ila, Kappa, and himself with a gentle press of all of him against the bronzerider's side. He holds his silence for a long moment, watches as the striped wonder hauls Ila's finger back in, features going somewhere soft and pleased in the way he always does around small creatures because CLEARLY HE IS NOTHING SHORT OF PREDICTABLE. "We met a young girl in the meadow last night," he murmurs as he tangles his fingers betwixt and between Ila's, launching into the story of his meeting of Evangeline, the story of Doorknob and the quartet of replacements courtesy of a generous grandmother, of tears, sympathies, admissions, giftings, and, "I think she was from Half Moon. She talked about an earthquake. About their house coming down, and her mother having to… to choose between her children. Or at least, that's what I think she said. I…" He can't imagine such a choice, doesn't want to in the face of history Ila'den is only too familiar with, gaze spinning somewhere far-distant with an admitted, "So when she asked if I could keep watch over him until he was big enough to travel between, I couldn't say no." A beat passes, then two before R'hyn lifts his gaze back up to Ila's, smiling faintly with a wry, "So see. He won't even be forever. He's just for right now."

Were they somewhere else, anywhere else, facing a different set of challenges, disrupting a different set of rules, Ila'den would not have suppressed a ripple of muscle beneath the only hands to ever know Ila'den this well — well enough to press over marks of faded abuse, well enough to know just where to touch to elicit that response (a hitch of shuddered breath, a growl crushed into that second press of R'hyn's mouth because he's on the precipice of losing control and he doesn't want to stop). There will never be another set of hands to map out a constellation of survival on a savaged body, there will never be another person who can conjure up every possessive press of hands, and body, and tongue, and teeth while simultaneously banishing every single demon still at large behind storm-cloud greys. There will never be another R'hyn. And something changes, something shifts in that moment, in Ila'den. It's the only reason Ila'den finds it in himself to fortify resolve when R'hyn surges up and Ila'den bares teeth in another growl that could be pressed against those lips again, where words could be tasted instead of heard. "Good." Because Ila'den is absolutely going to hold him to it. And then he's moving, gathering up kittens because anything else is too dangerous and here, at least now, there are important matters in which BOTH BRONZERIDERS ARE REQUIRED TO BE PRESENT. Later. Later Ila'den will pick up where they left off, will unravel R'hyn piece by piece, inch by inch, until there's nothing left at the tips of his fingers but a shivering, pleading mess of a man desperate to be tasted. Now is for Ila'den to bring his arm around R'hyn when the former weyrleader tucks in against his side and abandon the kitten to its cries (temporarily). His full, undivided attention is on R'hyn, those fingers interdigitating and squeezing as he listens, as patience keeps him silent for a retelling of a young girl's tragedy. "We'll see about that," comes softer, no less raspy, no less a growl, no less husky a timbre but certainly gentle. "And stop making that face, baby." The one that he tries to smooth away with the sweep of one thumb over lips he'd been abusing between his teeth only moments before. "I don't have any pockets big enough to fit you in them." What he doesn't say outside of that sweep of fingers against R'hyn's jaw, what he doesn't say except in that gentle press of his mouth to R'hyn's one more time before he rasps out, "Let's go home," is that this is what makes R'hyn so good. It's there in every touch, communicated in the language of fingertips and tongues, spoken in the primal press of bodies that R'hyn's compassion, just R'hyn being R'hyn is the reason 'love' (in a thousand languages, spoken by a thousand fluent tongues) will never be anything enough to explain just what it is that Ila'den feels for him. "And before you or Cita get it in your head that the naked cat needs a naked cat family, the answer is no." … Sometimes, anyway.

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