First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
no subject
First: Petras gasping in cold shock after his snort wears away, Violet's settled outline still planted partway underneath him with increasingly stiffened contours: her slackened anger the picture of a fish somehow drowning in its native stream, petty counterpart to his bemused incredulity with the rest of the group following suit.
'Can he do that?' A question to which no one present has a definitive answer for once asked. Something that, in a way, makes it an answer unto itself (though it'll take them the better part of the next hour to reach that same conclusion in a somewhat drink-addled deliberation between adolescent hearts).
Second: Astarion.
Drawing den a charcoal map of pipesmoke and half-lit walls while something bassy plays on loop in either this room or the next; his audience thicker than the atmosphere that flanks him, more amenable than the cocksure pack he'd left behind. More willing to be regaled, particularly when the one talking isn't shy about making it a show.
Not to mention the weight on his lap's a pleasant distraction when he otherwise lacks for it in the minutes before footsteps pad close enough to break relative silence. Tangled friction lending itself to a sense of acclimated control that— like a drug— quenches the restlessness in his veins: inflamed jealousy already fading into pleasant numbness under the places where clothed bodies meet, embracing the delicate care of those fingers as they move to fuss along his buttons (ignoring that same attention when the drunken little thing strains higher every now and then, trying to fit spice-scented lips against his own). A game, not a rejection. Why let fantasy hold the reins? This isn't about neophytic love, after all, no matter what his catch might think with every soft attempt to kiss— all redirected to Astarion's neck or cheek or shoulder through tepid tilts of his own head, and like the good little find the host's son is, he obediently takes to it with lavish capitulation (he is a darling little thing. So well behaved. Astarion could free his cock from his trousers right now and tease him to orgasm in front of every set of eyes in the room, and he'd no doubt purr for more).
Which makes this conversation easier, actually.
Left free to frame his focus around that pretty patriar's shoulder while dull teeth nip and worry at his throat, smelling of brandy and too much wine. The ensuing sight of Fenris (oh, still handsome as ever when dark brows shadow green eyes in rage), bristling like a taphouse cat and snapping out sharp irritations that only curl that much sweeter within Astarion's own embittered gut. Different day, same old, destructive habit: l'appel du vide— he likes the attention more than he cares about its type.
Matting its hedonistic spite with a palm slid along the inline of spread legs starting at the knee just to feel fine threadwork pull. His every blink slow. Smolderingly placid. A half-smile on his lips.
Oh.
Hello, Fenris.]
You were busy, last I checked.
[As Astarion is busy now.
Thumb squeezed into the junction between thigh and inseam— punctuated by a panting moan— the slight thing in his lap curled higher.]
Besides— you found me, anyway.
[Didn't you?]