Breath swirled across his shoulder, tickled his neck, and had his blood running hot. Each little rumble of muted voice that shook through the Big man's bones jiggled soft through his plushing girth. "Well," Matvi cooed. "Isn't that lavish," each syllable fell a warm hush from his lips. He turned his neck, just the touch toward that full mouth, showing just a hint of those teeth. Caught Jens tipping his drink toward that big fussy cat, Anala.

"Oh go on now, with all your show, parlor kitten," Anala grinned. Shoulders a bounce as her hands busied themselves with another drink for another patron. A nod toward Jens, and she was off.

A big arm pulled him, and how he liked the scoop up. Sent tingles up and down his spine.

Did he want to go see the painting room?

He sunk teeth to his bottom lip. Fingers splayed against the trunk of the sailor's forearms. Too full of all the life the man lead. His own soft grip, its only callouses where finer instruments met the tools of their practice, squeezed full of want to know. His eyes peered up, half draped by loose strands of sweat stuck hair. Craned the closer to those bright chiffon frills, and planted his cheek there beside the other's. Planted more down beneath him with an arch of the spine and a shift of the hips.

"I want you to paint me all across that damned room," he whispered. Teeth showing.

Hopped off. And shook himself loose. Like nothing had been holding him there at all. Smiled, grabbed the Big man, and tugged. Then more gently, ushered him toward the painting room. Unable to hold the smile and giggle from his face.

The music was thumping. The drinks slinging. And all the crowd was tangled or singing. Green skirts flashed in a corner. Claws dug deep into bronzed flesh. Laughs poured a plenty. Pants huffed a many. Just another night at the Fiddler's.
 
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Ah, man.

He gave no resistance. Let himself be lofted off his seat and pulled along like a small fry caught in a line. Reeled in, proper, quipless for what the man had whispered last. He wasn’t planning on painting shit.

A sailor, a philosopher, but an artist? No. He looked past his shoulder without actually looking. The music and beats of steps thrummed to the core and the touch upon his arm was incredibly hot. Absently, he took a swig of his drink to fend off some of the heat. A door opened ahead and he followed.

Like walking through a portal, the air was cooler here than the bar, with a whiff of spilled wine and pipe smoke about it. The shroudlights weren’t as bright either, dimmed down to a warm glow from the tulip sconces. Nickel stem and milkglass petals. Three of the walls were paneled, leaving the opposing end of the room to mere white plaster with a mural of twisting red vines framing the oriel window. That rich colour contrasted with the dusty green of the drapes and the unassuming dark stain applied on the rest of the walls. Furniture was scarce: just a couple little chairs, an Aetochi lacquerware folding screen and a vermilion récamier that was set diagonally to a corner by the bay of the window. Fronds of a large palm overhung the sheen of it’s cushions and on the middle of the room was a rectangle of floor so pristine, it could’ve only been covered by a carpet until very recently. There were, of course, the paintings as well, in various sizes and suspended off the walls in a manner best described as surgically measured chaos.

Jens, naturally, saw none of this, too busy righting the vase with a lush fern that’d lost the battle of girths against his ass upon entry. Shit was heavy too and he had had to let go of his drink to jostle the thing.

“ Balls on little devils. “
 
Sure hands cupped about the vase, steadying the breadth of its wobbly weight. Lip upturned, and brow cocked as the fern rustled and shook itself to stillness. Let a hand trace about the broad digits of the sailor so plum colored and fair. Pads of fingers tracing thick bones, and resting on the worn creases upon knuckle's folds.

"Easy now," he sounded. Let slide his hand up just the more to snag the drink that had been put down. "You might have me think you are nervous," he said with too much pride twinkling in his eyes. Sipped at the Gin Fizz. Loved the taste. If only for that effervescent moment of bubbles popping. Face soured with the memory of who had made it.

Like a cat with tail twitching in mild annoyance, Matvi prowled away. Pranced a run of steps, hopped and turned to splash himself onto the récamier. Spread long, bones sinking as skin felt the plush velvet, and fingers rounded the cushions. Gave them a firm, pat pat. "It's mighty comfy," he lured, and raised the fizz up in lure and invitation. A leg too. Raised and stretched out before he made a show of turning his hips and planting it there again upon the long seat.
 
Nervous. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, barknight?

He hummed something low, lingering by the door as a sort of giddy haze of just the right amount of drink settled into him, warming up every last of inch. For a couple seconds he couldn’t really but to smile stupidly, watching as Matvi moved along to the room’s embrace. Still quick and graceful about the limbs, knowing all too well every last thing he was doing. Or so it felt — by glancing past his shoulder, he spotted the coveted keyhole on the door. Nothing to turn in it, though.

Ah, well.

“ Sure looks that way. “ He responded, locking in on the drink that was dangled for him to come and claim. All that leg on display made it little hard to keep his eye on the prize, but he did manage it in the end. Easy does it, sailor.

“ Thank you. “ And a swig as he turned to sit his ass on the floor by the récamier. He’d been half the mind to tell Matvi to scoot the hell over, what with his old bones and all that bullshit, but being the bane of plenty furniture taught a man restraint. Maybe later he’d have less of that. For what it was worth, it was quite homely, actually, down here.

“ Some room. “ He remarked bluntly, all air and no thought. The glass gave a little thud as he put it down on the floor beside him.

“ The— Décor doesn’t quite clear up what it’s for exactly— “ He continued, shifting as hand slipped over vibrant velvet, trying it, teasing the side of the man’s thigh. When the length in his arm ended, he merely let it rest there. Like nothing else existed but that sliver of space where two touched, look rowing from the tip of a boot to mismatched eyes.

“ What do you usually do in here? “

Did it matter? He hovered, head inclined, smiling invitation in turn.
 
"Well," Matvi said with a word warm as it was breathless. "Whatever one, two, three or more do in a room hid away from the rowdy and raucous," All that sailor scoot there about him. Hand still lingering. Matvi rose up, and let the touch go on a moment, undisturbed. "Sing, dance," he smiled sharpish and rest his chest across the broad mast of Jen's arm, his own fingers there spread about the weft and warp of skin, tendon, muscle and bone.

Up his digits trailed. Like the bristles of a mop, spread out only to gather up as they moved across all they soaked up. Pulse. Warmth. Vein and tendon.

"We can just sit," he let him know. "Be here with each other," as his fingers got to know the breadth of stout limb. "If that's what you want to do, Jens," the man was so large he had to stretch himself up and over to keep the trail of press and spread that was his touch going. But he wasn't complaining. Smiling thoothsome as he was. Careful when he rest his cheek about shoulder, to mind the brilliant frills that sprout from the big man's neck, those proud fins that splayed like fans from his profile.

If his teeth were biting his lip, wide eyed as he was taking in the sight of his catch, well, he didn't know. "Are you comfortable like this?" he went on touching. "With me," exploring those strong lines that made this man as his eyes found that lone red eye once more.
 
The caress was terribly pleasant. And sat down now as he was, he felt as an old house probably did when it settled down for the night. Cooling off, quieting down, timbers creaking. Had it a brain and the meats and the skeleton and— whatnot that living things had. Some capacity to feel old and weary after a yet another day.

We can’t just sit. I’ll doze off. He eyed what little he could of his company, tucked close as they were, expression twinkling for the question. How proper.

“ You haven’t pinned me down. “ He announced matter-of-factly, lest he let it slip he might well be disappointed. “ You think you could keep me here, were I even a smidge uncomfortable? “

Sure, the man was a knight and then some. But himself was pretty damn big, okay.

“ I tried fucking a guy in a thunderstorm. At sea. Once. Was night, too, horrible spur of the moment, so you bet all our mates were there as well, probably trying to sleep. “ Or also jerk off. “ The ceiling is always lower than you expect. Knocked the guy clear out when we were in the middle of it. Though he was dead, of course, so I freaked out, flipped the hammock. Landed on my cock. “

He exhaled, nostalgic.

“ That shit— “ He lofted his hand, index pointed. “ Was uncomfortable. “

The arm fell again, palm daring to claim a spot on Matvi’s knee. Perching there, as if to stay.

“ And a little embarrassing for the young man that I was, at the time. But the lads got a good laugh for the rest of the year for it, so I suppose it wasn’t all bad. “
 
"You haven't pinned me down..."
​
"No, not yet," Matvi said, all warm rumble in the back of his throat. Too pleased by half. But he was glad to hear that self confidence. That surety. And was that, a hint of want there between it all? A dare for more.

No. He could not keep him here if the Big man so much as wanted another drink. Yet here he sat. A hulk of warm give and sturdy bones. Blood coursing and a big beating heart Matvi could feel thumping through him. Helped that he was damned funny too. Not bad on his feet.

Come the big hand upon the brace of Matvi's knee, and the Medicant smiled. Shift of hip gave up more of that leg, "Well, the cieling's plenty high here, Sailor," the bar knight teased. "Granted," his hands grabbed Jens' wrist, and pulled it, up and up to invite those broad sure fingers to glide and roll over whatever they wanted. Matvi, however, wasn't so shy about what he wanted. Hips arching forward and out with a rock of his nethers on offer. "I'm not seven foot-fucking-through-a-thunder-storm," A grin too pleased across his face.
 
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As if he needed any more encouragement. The eagerness almost made him laugh, the brightness of it in the grin he wore, lips closed. Didn’t do to chuckle now, overmuch — this was serious business. And he could be serious?

Man, where’s my drink.

“ No. You are not. “ He affirmed, continuing the trajectory he’d been guided upon. Palm slipped over tailored thigh and up, up to where it ran out. The brush, gentle and finthin, turned to a grab over that warm crotch, bit of pressure for the needy. The glass mounted on the walls chimed in the commotion outside, so audible now that he’d stopped talking. People were laughing, in multitude different tones. Some stuck out, louder than others.

He didn’t stay the caress, but it’s latent heat traveled up his arm and into his chest, warming up the breath. In a keel of the head, he dipped his look from Matvi’s eyes to his attire, touch exploring the front of it. He’d shifted on his arse on the floor, closer, better access.

“ You’re so nicely dressed. “ He hummed, by the man’s ear. Fingertips teased the metal button that clasped the knight’s collar, popping it open with a tug. Then the next, down the sternum.
 
A warm rolling lap of laughter fell out of him at the squeeze of his fast swelling want. Big fingers grabbing up his little sausage like it was nothing more than a snack. But gods be damned if he didn't want to- "Oh you tease," Matvi sank into the feeling more. Cheeks spreading wanton across the plush of the cushion his firm little ass sat so prim and proper waning.

The sounds of the outside. A fog there with the pinch of searching digits. Sharp bolts that surged with the blood let flow and fill his climbing cock as that massive mit went up and up. Breath pulled deeper. Spilled longer.

"You're so nicely dressed."
​
Oh the big bastard. Had Matvi biting his bottom lip. Rest of his mouth curling up with a tightwant smile. Fingers clutched at the velvet of the couch. Pointer trailed along the mass forearm, so snaked up the middle of him. Rolled up the landscape of that huge limb. Gentle, till the wells between muscles drew his touch in the deeper. The give of warm fat. Up and up till thumb ran there across swell of cheek. Stared into that eye of red. The best color of plum flesh.

"Be a real shame," he said breathy against his frills. A finger taking the button at the bottom of his attire, through the loop, one by one, up and up as he pushed unto the big man, spine stretched. "If I stayed so nicely dressed." Pop by pop, all the way up.
 
The words tickled, teasing a crescent of teeth out of him. A bright little mm-hm reverberated behind their sharp points. He made sure to also congratulate himself for a great choice in dates, seeing as this one stepped up to the initiative so chivalrously, lending a hand.

Their joined efforts at this great undressing met in the middle, bumping into each other on the final button. It was yanked loose for how all that breathy talk laced urgency into him, straight down. He didn’t miss a beat easing a hand inside the open overgarment, kneading into meat through the warm silk of Matvi’s shirt — the chest, the side, lower where it sloped off to the bony crest of the hip. There wasn’t much to grab onto, but he made do with what there was, holding on for dear life.

Him on the récamier, himself on the floor, but edged closer, bodies pressed together where the cushions ended. He inclined his head to kiss the man on the neck, just beneath the jaw where he’d breathe in and give that bit of clean-shaven skin teeth for flavour. And tongue, to taste.

Salt. He laboured out an exhale, long and heavy, touch trailing down to refresh on the perfect mound filling the front of the knight’s bottoms. The fabric was taut, his fingers tracing the outline.

“ Take out your cock. “
 
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