driftfleet | (no subject)

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(no subject)

Who: IT'S A GAME MINGLE GET IN THE VAN
Broadcast: If you want!
Action: All of it!
When: Second half of the month.

[hey everyone! how's it been going? how's medieval-fun-time-world treating you? anyone pillaged and burned anything yet? got kicked out of the castle? been planning expeditions? registered for jousting? busy angsting for the last two weeks on your ship?

this is a mingle for everybody, whether they're hiding in the volcano, out and about in the city, or up on one of those random random stations where you can get quirky souvenirs.]

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[He goes easily, pleased as punch to be pinned, his head falling back against the wall to give Hawke all the leverage he needs. He settles into something a little less urgent but every bit as earnest, bright edges of teeth and bumping noses. One foot hooks around one of Hawke's ankles, a tiny touch, nearly inconsequential next to everything that's happening above deck. But he's always thought it was the small things that made the difference.

Never let it be said he was silent for too long, though. He doesn't break the kiss so much as talk around it, nudging back in every time, even when he's the one doing the disrupting.]

As I recall [his voice is light and breathless, and he can't manage more than a few words before he's drawn back into the kiss] there was some mention of— mmm, conclusions being drawn. [He pulls back, teasing, mouths barely a breath away even as his fingers curl in Hawke's hair to keep him in place.] Verdict?

Oh, it's much too early for--conclusions.

[ The effect of this is somewhat lost by the fact that the m-dash there was occupied by more or less licking Anders' lower lip; isn't that what all pauses in conversation are for? He's ...definitely drunk, by this point, or hanging over the edge of genuine intoxication at least; without quite the initial burning urgency to propel that still leaves warmth behind, movement not slower but more languid, exploratory, learning what Anders likes, likes better, likes best. ]

That--that, though, that's--an increasingly favorable verdict. [ He tilts his head, chin lifting; if it echoes a cat encouraging pets that's absolutely on purpose, never mind his definitive status as a Dog Person ] You can keep doing that as long as you like.

[ He jostles Anders' foot with his own, more friendly than salacious, but his mouth stings from friction and fingers in his hair feel like they're liquefying his spine, so that gesture is perhaps the only not-salacious one in the entirety of particular nook of the bar. ]

Edited 2015-03-28 03:43 (UTC)

Like this?

[A murmur, rumbling in his chest, as he hides the curve of his smile against Hawke's exposed throat. He cards his hand through dark waves, lets his nails drag against Hawke's scalp. It's an intentionally indulgent motion, pressing his advantage for all its worth. He has, as it happens, spent a lot of time petting cats, both literally and euphemistically.

He nips at his pulse point, kisses his way back up to slant their mouths together again, unwilling to be left wanting for too long. He does love to kiss maybe most of all, so close to the warmth and breath and pulse of another person.

Well. Most of all out of what they're permitted to do in the back of a seedy bar in a tourist trap.]

I'd hate to get a lackluster review, after all.

[ Kissing appeals to Hawke for not exactly the same reasons, although they're all good ones. What he likes best might be more closely aligned with what Anders is doing to his hair, actually: the idea of intentional indulgence. Kisses like that mean the luxury of time, mean safety, as much as safety ever means anything for a mage outside the Circle. There's something to be said for every other kind of kiss he can imagine; the delirious, electric bites they were exchanging at first lacked for nothing (as what one might call an example close at hand, much like Anders' experience with literal and euphemistic cats), but the ones that seem to stretch out for hours--well, those are the kind that get bartenders to ask if you wouldn't mind taking the festivities elsewhere. In varying degrees of politeness a/o thrown crockery.

Which is probably at least a tenth of Hawke's motivation, once he recovers a little from the shower of sparks just poured over all the nerves down the back of his neck. The hand on the wall next to Anders' head curls into a loose fist and flattens out again, Hawke coaxing him closer, cupping the curve of his skull like it has to be weighted carefully. ]

Exactly like that. [ A grin spills into the edges of his voice, a tone shift ready to happen at any time anyway. ] Maybe a little too exactly like that, if you wanted to stay in this bar much longer.

[ Because murmuring that between biting kisses strung like beads up the underside of Anders' jaw is the absolute most helpful way he could be expressing that sentiment, yes? (No.) ]

Oh. [He arches slightly into the touch, turns the stuttering sigh that comes out of his chest into something extravagant and put-upon.] Want is a strong word, I think. As much as I adore the spit and the smell and the thin layer of grime over every surface.

[But he likes the direction this is going in much better. It's been a long time, by his standards, since he's so much as kissed anyone at all. Between the templars and the Wardens and now this ridiculous mess of overlapping timelines and hurt feelings, it's all ever been too complicated, each thread tied to another, and to another, and to itself.

This is simple. Easy. His head feels light and his chest feels warm, and he's always craved the proximity of other people. There are a hundred reasons not to do this, probably, if he cared to think about them, but at this point it seems like that's all he's ever been doing since he got here. Thinking and worrying and stewing in his own anger and fear and misery.

For this, he doesn't think at all.]

I have a room in the city that's a bit nicer. Quieter. More, mm. [His breath hitches.] Secluded. [Hands skate over Hawke's shoulders, picking at the fabric there. He turns his head so that his lips are set against Hawke's ear, voice pitched low.] Come back with me?

[ If there are a hundred reasons not to do this, Hawke can't summon any of them right now either; it helps, maybe, that he has literally nothing to lose. Nothing burns a person's bridges like what he's already done; this as much as anything lets him forget that, stuck at the back of his brain like - if you will - cobwebs. If he's focused on the little jolt down his spine when Anders' breath hitches, the heat of his hands through thin layers of fabric--it's not so bad to forget, once in a while. Anders, presumably, would recognize the sentiment. ]

Nicer than here? Surely not.

[ He actually has to take a second to make sure it's safe to stand up (har har); it is awfully convenient that the tunic is in fashion for the time period. If they were visiting the Regency it would take ages to get out of here. ]

Don't forget your cat.

[ So in other words: yes, immediately. ]

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