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.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
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.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom