faderift | [ota] nobody's gonna have an orgy in their mansion all over their nice furniture

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[ota] nobody's gonna have an orgy in their mansion all over their nice furniture

WHO: OTA, more or less
WHAT: An all-hands infiltration mission ends up being rather more hands than anticipated.
WHEN: Nowish
WHERE: At an estate outside Ostwick
NOTES: Sending crystals are allowed but must be used with the utmost discretion to avoid discovery. A general warning for Eyes Wide Shut-type party nonsense, but more fancy swinger makeouts than sex dungeon. Please make sure to communicate OOCly to ensure everyone's having fun. NSFW content is likely, but if a thread is going to turn into prolonged porn please shift it to an inbox.

Word has come through reliable sources that Baron Hounsford, secretly a significant financial supporter first of the Inquisition and now of Riftwatch as well, is to be the target of an assassnation attempt. Precisely why or by whom is unknown, just that the threat is imminent. Worse, the Baron has left behind his personal guard to attend a somewhat mysterious event at the home of Lord Esterhauzy, outside Ostwick. All Riftwatch has been able to learn on such short notice is that the estate is secluded and the event extravagant. The massive scale is a blessing and a curse: it's certainly big enough to sneak in quite a lot of people, so long as they look as if they have money, but by the same token it will be easy for assassins to sneak in as well, and difficult to quickly locate anyone.

On arrival, everyone willing to dress the part is ushered in to Lord Esterhauzy's glittering mansion, where the difficulties of the mission suddenly become much greater: each person, whether disguised as guest or staff, will be handed a random mask, and informed of the rules:

Merry Widow of Wycome

The dimly candle-lit ballroom is already loud with masked guests, so many that they spill out onto the torch-studded terraces and garden beyond. The room is overwarm, but not sweltering thanks to the efforts of oiled footmen posted near the windows with large fans, and the servants circulating with trays of icy-cold champagne. Somewhere in this crowd are Baron Hounsford and those who wish to kill him, and the only way to find them is to spread out, speak to as many people as possible, and regularly pool information among themselves to try to zero in on their targets. They must mingle as if lives depend upon it.

Those reluctant to participate if it might be avoided will discover that locations where private conversation can be had without complying with the house rules are almost non-existent. Lord Esterhauzy learned his lesson the last time he tried this--it is a common subject of gossip among the crowd that the last party he had advertised as the most debauched of the season fizzled out into merely a slightly racy cocktail hour with underdressed staff. This time he has taken precautions, blocking off most of the house, monitoring access to the rest to ensure it's for sexy purposes only, and empowering staff to have anyone not complying with the spirit of the event thrown out--lest they think that an idle threat, shortly after they arrive several people are unmasked and thrown out for not obeying the musical cue, much to the laughter of the crowd. Even the grounds are patrolled.

There are several spots they've overlooked: a linen closet, a stairwell alcove, a corner of the library, but Riftwatch aren't the only ones to have discovered this, and there is no guarantee any particular hiding spot will be available when the music stops.

As the night goes on and the crowd gets drunker, the tone gradually shifts from slightly giggly titillation to more serious debauchery (much to Lord Esterhauzy's delight. If at first you don't succeed!) but there remains a veneer of decorum that keeps it from sliding into obscenity: people may saunter off to the garden or a private room with someone else's spouse(s), but nobody is just openly fucking on the piano.

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"Useless." The gossip, that is--she does not care about pig diseases.

She would know Matthias even if he hadn't spoken: his wrists make it obvious, and the mixed-up scent of sweat and magic. He still moves like himself, even though he looks like somebody's noble son when he stands still.

It is...she decides it is nicer on him than on most, the fine clothes and the mask. Laura will never like these masks, if only because they are tactically inconvenient, but she likes the way his catches the light with the slightest dip of his head.

"Thank you," she starts, because it has been made clear to her that there is a correct way to accept compliments when she is pretending to be some kind of noble. She should tell him that he looks great, too--returning a compliment, she has discovered, is generally a safe choice--but the words will not come out of her mouth. They feel too private, something to keep locked within her and draw out in the dark when she is alone. "Your mask suits you."

Matthias catches the light of dozens of candles and reflects it back. It is right, somehow, in a way she cannot explain to herself. Looking at him feels the way that talking to him does.

"Yeah?"

Matthias brightens at the compliment. Or else, he takes it as a compliment. How else would she mean it? There's a pleased self-consciousness to the way that he lifts his hand and touches his fingertips against the downward wing of the mask. It feels insubstantial under his touch, something out of a dream.

"Thanks," he says, and again he's glad for the span of the mask, that it's enough to conceal the pink on his cheeks. Stupid. He ought to let his hair grow long so they can be hidden too when color rises in them and betrays him. "It's fire. I mean, it reminded me of fire. Um, did you hear, about--" No, he doesn't want to go there, all the rumors that are circulating about the true purpose of this party. It would be nice to fall into that bit of gossip. Useless, too, but easy. Only he can't, so he doesn't--only then he doesn't know what else to say. Floundering, he reaches for what's easy. "D'you want to try dancing?"

Well, maybe not that easy.

"Yes." It looks smooth as well as lustrous, and the word fire makes her wonder if the surface is warm to the touch. Matthias fumbles for something to say, and she does not mind; she watches him, waiting for the bit of gossip he plans to bring forth. More about pig diseases, perhaps, or just how many barrels of wine were purchased for the party.

The question stops her short. Laura pauses, considering her options: Say no, and watch Matthias walk off. Say yes, and draw unnecessary attention to them on the floor, thus compromising the mission. It is reckless to want to choose the latter, entirely unwise, and she knows better. So instead, she asks, "Do you know how to dance?"

If he does, she might be able to follow along. And if not...at least she will not be the first to admit ignorance.

"Yeah," Matthias says, with great conviction. Well. Honesty moves him a moment later: "Sort of, yeah. Um, we did these lessons, sort of. Riftwatch did. A bit ago. In case we were--well, in a place like this, actually. Good on the man that thought this might be useful. And like I've danced before," he adds, quickly, in case she's underestimated him, "you know, for fun. Not formally or anything. But I still can. Er--"

He looks out to the dance floor proper, where the guests are whirling about. Laughter and music spills out from the floor, builds something like a wall. You're either dancing, or you're not. Matthias chews at the inside of his mouth.

"You don't have to," he says, eventually. "If you don't want to. Or whatever. I bet you're good. S' like, graceful." The dance, or Laura? No, he doesn't want to elaborate or define it--move on-- "But we don't have to. At all."

Laura follows his gaze. Everyone dancing looks satisfied with their choices, or at least so focused on moving correctly that they do not have time for anything else. If they made an attempt, it might draw unnecessary attention to them, making later investigation of the rooms more difficult. Moreover, they will not gather any useful information: she already knows Matthias will not assassinate the baron, and he presumably realizes the same thing about her. It will not further their objectives.

But she does not want to excuse herself from Matthias' presence. It is not a sensation she is familiar with, the desire to keep talking to a man (a boy) despite the fact that she does not have to. To touch his face--or near his face, rather, something on top of it--and consider the possibility of his arm around her, despite the fact that there is no material gain for either of them.

If he teaches her what he knows of dancing, she decides, she will be able to use that later in the night, with others. There would be value in that, if they did not make obvious that she required the lesson. It improves her cover story and thereby justifies itself. But he is retracting his offer. Something in her ribcage tightens.

"We should dance." I want to dance. This is the difference between a need and a want--but she does not think she will tell Mhavos she understands. "If you tell me how."

"Yeah?"

Matthias' mask jabs at his cheek as a grin spreads across his face. He doesn't care. He isn't thinking about this. Dancing with another member of Riftwatch is likely the opposite of what they're here to be doing, but who's going to notice? And the baron is all right. Half of Riftwatch is here, watching him. If they dance for one song, like--

"'Course I'll tell you how. Or I'll try to, anyways. Dunno how good of a teacher I'll be as I never had the chance to find out. Um, I mean--"

Wait. Here. Manners. He steps away from Laura so his back is to the dance floor, and, with a flourish--one he's putting on, one he doesn't mean at all seriously, which explains the mischievous tint his grin has taken, when he looks at her.

"I crave the boon of this next dance, m'lady, please and thank you. Your humble servant. Or something. But you've already said yes--so this is only a formality--"

He waves the hand that had been doing the flourishing, waiting for her to take it. His fingers feel charged with electricity already, like the bit of time where magic courses all through you. Only there's no magic, not really. Just-- a dance. For Riftwatch.

"First dance'll be easy. It's like three steps. I promise."

She is bemused, watching him dramatically ask her to dance. It is...it is funny, she decides, the way Matthias always is, but in a surprising way. What makes it surprising, she can't seem to put into words, so she doesn't try, just watches seriously and extends her hand, letting it close around his.

If she has touched Matthias' skin since allowing him to touch her claw, she does not recall it. And even that felt different to her, a means to an end. The entire purpose here is holding Matthias' hand, warm like she imagines his mask.

Laura looks away, giving the other dancers a quick glance. They stand near each other, resting their free hands on each others' shoulders or backs--presumably this is the most tactically convenient place, should they be interrupted and need to fight. One smooth motion down, and they will have the swords they have foolishly chosen not to wear. Her own needs are far less specific than theirs, but the people around them do not know about the claws, so she should copy their movements.

This requires standing very close to Matthias, her eyes at his throat until she tips her head up slightly to verify that her stance is correct. It is...not uncomfortable, having her hand on his shoulder (upper arm, more accurately), looking up at his bright mask and the mouth that inevitably gives away whether he is pleased or displeased. "Now what?"

Her hand is very warm in his, and Matthias feels-- well, who knows what he feels? A little like he might be sick, but sick with excitement, like running down a hill feels. That swoop where your guts are down and the rest of you is still up, like someone put a hook in your stomach and pulled you along by it: that. Plus a buzzing in his arm where her hand is laid.

"We," he says, and his grin goes stupid, but he can't help that, "dance. Like--"

He hauls on her to one side. Left, dragging her along a little as he demonstrates, slow and purposeful, too slow for the music so she can get the hang of it. "S' three steps, see--one, two, three," sinking his weight back a step and pulling her with him. They're out on the dance floor now, still at the fringe, but surrounded by pairs and sometimes even trios, which is mysterious to Matthias--who says you can dance with three people-- "And then you turn and go the other way--one, two, three," and here's where she ought to sink her weight into her back step, only Matthias stumbles a little, nearly trips into her, "Sorry--sorry--"

One of the nearby couples does a tight twirl, backs right into them, pushing Matthias closer to Laura. The man makes an angry sound; the woman is glaring over his shoulder at Matthias. He can feel it, in the back of his neck, like a knife. He smiles at Laura, apologetic and goony and stupid.

"I always piss posh folk off," he confesses in an undertone, "s' like a special gift of mine-- Sorry! Sorry!"

This one's to the couple, who is making to twirl off again, in a whirl of skirts and crisp doublet and glittering masks and high offense.

They step one, and then two, and then three, Laura attempting to look at Matthias' feet and his face at the same time and mostly failing. She will learn this by feel, she decides.

The movements are simple, not unlike stances for fencing, though she suspects she will need several attempts before she has them in line with the music. The idea of dancing still feels so foreign to her. Move, and move with an otherwise unrelated sound, and with a person you happen to be touching, with great purpose. That is possible. That is not too many things to keep in mind at once.

Until, that is, they are knocked off their wobbly one-two-three by another couple.

Laura sees their masks turned judgmentally towards Matthias and herself and growls without thinking, her grip on Matthias tightening in both hands. And then she remembers that they have parts to play, and more importantly, that hers does not involve threatening others overtly. She feels her skin prickle with some heated sort of discomfort, one without a name she can easily place.

Trying not to feel it, she stares resolutely at the knot in Matthias' throat that moves when he swallows and tries to find the first step again. They have to begin again. The effort is complicated by the fact that, somewhere beyond them both, the music shifts suddenly to a song Laura has never heard before.

He doesn't, at first, associate the growl with Laura. Her grip makes him think there's something wrong, and then he thinks, it's the animal, she's seen it--because at first he thinks there's an animal somewhere, growling. When he looks back at her, trying to catch her eye, that's when he puts it together, and surprised, starts in with a gentle, "Hey," and she's looking at his throat, firm, and he almost shakes loose so he can touch his fingertips there, see if there's a reason she's looking, but--

But, the Widow, right. Matthias knows the song. And even if he didn't recognize it straight off, there's this ripple of excitement that goes through the crowd, like a wind tearing through the trees. There's a few groans, too, and rueful laughter to the tune of we might as well, when in Wycome, all very pleased to be resigned to this requirement before giving in.

And now Matthias really feels like he's going to throw up, unless he falls down first. Everyone around them has leaned in for that kiss as the music goes on, and on--and he shoots Laura a smile, nervous and apologetic, gives her an, "Um," with a laugh, and then, well-- all right.

All right. All right, gathering himself up, so he can then all at once, lean in and kiss her.

It's--a kiss. Rushed into and then lingering while the music goes on. Very forward-facing, mashing together noses and clashing their masks, and Matthias shuts his eyes to help ground himself--and because that's what you do, when you kiss, you shut your eyes, presumably because everyone needs that same moment of centering, when everything falls off and away and you're just, you know, kissing. Gripping at her hand like he might topple over without it because he very well might, and the hand he'd laid carefully at her back is now pressed there too, palm to dress, by Andraste, how long does this go on, has it been a minute or a second or what. Is it okay? He knows what he's doing. It's okay. It's--can he think good? Is it good? Yes, and no, and yes again.

Now she knows the song, now that the couples and trios around them have stopped in favor of an embrace. And the rules of the evening were clear: Kiss when cued. No claws. If she fails to comply, she fails in her mission, and that is unacceptable.

Matthias looks down at her as she looks up at him--tall, his mouth a curve that does not feel quite like a smile from him, the mask a flicker as he shifts toward her--and then they are kissing. The alternative is failure.

Laura knows from experience how to kiss, but she does not know how to avoid her cheek being poked by a man's mask, or how to keep her mask from poking him back. They were not the fashion in Cumberland, and they're an impediment now, even when she angles her head slightly, the hand on Matthias' arm moving to the nape of his neck in hopes of pulling him down just a little further toward her.

She focuses on the mission, on learning the song, on making this an acceptable demonstration of affection and thereby meeting the expectations of the host--but the only thing she can actually keep thinking about is what it feels like to have Matthias' lower lip caught between hers. The tip of his nose knocking awkwardly against hers. What his mouth tastes like. The way his hand has flattened against her spine. The smell of soap and magic and nerves and candle smoke--and most of all, the realization that keeps clawing its way up like darkspawn breaching the surface world, I do not want the music to end.

When it does, it's so some unfortunate soul can be dramatically revealed and ejected, to the sounds of laughter and a bit of applause. Laura hardly notices. She struggles with conversation at the best of times; right now, all she can manage is a breathless stare from behind a mask that feels like it might come alight by her cheeks and burn away.

At one point Matthias had grinned, during the kiss. A grin of great self-consciousness before he'd realized, self-consciously, that grinning was ruining the kiss--only he was grinning because it was stupid, that his mask was poking her, just the way hers was poking his--it was stupid to be wearing a mask, and then, no, what's stupid is ruining a perfectly good kiss by grinning in the middle of it, are you an actual numpty, Matthias, and then her fingers were pressed in that soft valley at the back of his neck, and Matthias' whole form had reacted to that, following along with the pressure. And then he had forgotten all about masks and songs and parties, all of it was at the end of this tunnel, and the hooked feeling in his guts was getting worse, and also, better, letting him soar along--and all the while, kissing, until--

Breaking apart feels like clearing the surface of the water. A soft gasp, and then he feels stupid about it. There's color in his cheeks and his eyes are still shut, a moment longer. He makes them open. Laura is still there, very close--he could lean down and kiss her again, if he wanted--she's there, looking up at him, her eyes this liquid green behind her mask.

And right then he knows that he has to break the silence between them. It's as heavy as if there's something else there, between them, or someone else--and Matthias stumbles into a laugh. He almost covers his mouth to hide it--only then he'd have to let go of her, and he doesn't want to do that just yet.

"Wow," he says, instead. Which is stupid. Stupid. Keep going, keep going-- "That's-- We'll blend in, certainly. They won't throw us out. You're," shit, how does that sentence end, what does he say--lamely, he goes with, "good," and that sounds so bad that he actually winces behind his mask. "I mean, not like--in a weird way. Just. Yeah."

Be cool. Be cool, be cool, be cool, don't ruin this--not worse than it's already been ruined, at least--

She does not know what to say. Laura never knows what to say, but in this moment, it's different: she feels like she still hasn't taken a breath, even in the middle of inhaling. Everyone around them is going back to normal, or starting to, and she's still overwhelmingly aware of her every sense. She's holding Matthias' hand and watching his muddled smile, the scent and taste of him still inescapable.

Some part of her, the piece that can't stop her vigilance even when she wants to, is aware that they will have to dance or leave the area soon, but she doesn't care. She needs...something. She is not sure what, but something to make herself feel less like she might drown in this moment.

It's talking that truly ruins it, and it isn't Matthias' fault, and it happens anyway. When he says she's good, he does not mean it the way others have--worth the money--but her stomach still clenches at the sound of it.

"I--" It's hardly more than a breath, and nothing follows it. What explanation is there? Especially at an Orlesian-style party, where anyone might hear her speak. There are no words for it, anyway, this overwhelming desire to kiss him again or possibly throw up, whatever hazy sense it is that makes her arms feel too light and her throat close around her breath. She wants to kiss him again, and the longer she stands before him in her borrowed gown and looks at his jawline, the more world-ending it feels.

She shakes her head once, trying to clear it, and lets her hand slip free of his. This is--she only wants one thing, and that is to be alone with her claws until she does not feel this way anymore. Whatever this way is, this mix of shame and yearning and overwhelming self-consciousness. She needs to go. She needs to be somewhere that doesn't require her to feel anything. Worming away from Matthias, she turns and pushes her way through the other partygoers, breaking into a run as soon as there's room for it.

The moment sours right in front of him. One minute they're close and then Laura is looking at him strangely--and Matthias almost says something then, starts to apologize--but the damage is done and Laura's hand is free of his and then she's going, leaving, pushing through the crowd around them.

"Hey," he calls, after her, and then more urgently, "Hey, wait, don't-- Laura! Sorry! Hey!"

The music doesn't do anything to disguise this commotion. Other dancers are turning to look--someone laughs, and Laura goes out a door, and Matthias goes after her, pushing aside the couples and trios, whose masks and formal attire now look a little nightmarish, a glittering wall hemming him in. Everything is wrong, and if he hadn't said anything, if it had just been a dance, and a kiss--

The hallway beyond the door is cool and dark, marble pillars and polished floor. Sconces lend their glow, patches of light amid the swathing shadows. There are people out here, laughing and kissing and talking. Matthias moves past them, trying to look without looking, to see if he can find Laura--but Laura isn't there. She's gone.

Dejected, Matthias slumps against one of the pillars and shoves his mask off his face. The skin beneath it feels soft and warm, and he rubs his wrist against his eyebrows, scowling. Then he shoves off and starts back down the hallway, his only goal finding some wine to soothe the sting of this moment. If he's stupid and clumsy enough to drive away a friend--a girl that he kissed--then he might as well get properly stupid.

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[ota] nobody's gonna have an orgy in their mansion all over their nice furniture

PERFECT.

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