faderift | [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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They do have a mission to accomplish. Ilias is not much of an actor, but he is also not so uncomfortable about locking lips with strangers as might be expected from a man of neatly buttoned collars and infinitely layered robes. (Even out of Mortalitasi grays, his idea of fancy seems to be a scattering of silver stitches around the collar, his mask a simple satin, both by now a touch askew.)

And yet, when the first chords of Merry Widow of Wycome reach his ears, he hesitates. Mhavos is no stranger. Perhaps they could be called friends now; certainly, and of more immediate relevance, they did not meet under the sort of circumstance that make a casual kiss appropriate. Least of all with Mhavos looking like he'd rather melt into the floor

But power can always be reversed, can't it? Instead of worrying about the distance between their lips just yet, he reaches to catch Mhavos's hand in his, to draw a thumb into the dip of his own palm. A pulse point. Discreet, sensitive to pressure.

"Like reins," he explains, a little sheepish, "If you want me to stop." Just squeeze.

Then he leans down for a kiss.

Mhavos was entirely prepared to hate this and move on. There is familiarity in endurance, passively waiting until things are over. And then there is Ilias, gentle almost to the point fantasy, and Mhavos' breath gets caught in his throat. The kiss is kind, not scouring or needful. Somewhere along the way, Mhavos' breath (or his heart) gets stuck in his throat.

He does not pull the reins.

He does find himself leaning upwards, trying to bridge more of the gap in height.

It surprises him, that slight push back against his mouth. Perhaps it shouldn't; expect nothing, and you will never be disappointed. Probably Mhavos is a better actor than him. Probably that's all.

But it seems a shame to waste, if it isn't. This is a mission, yes, but it's also just the two of them — Mhavos always so self-contained, now fractionally less so; Ilias with curiosity where his caution should be. His mouth opens in answer, coaxing as much as inviting, the backs of his fingers finding the slope of a jaw.

Later, Mhavos will wonder if the gentleness of it undid him like this. Lino's kiss was awful, and the others were charades. This is the sort of thing, he'll find himself ashamed to admit, he'd want normally, outside a silly masquerade.

But in the moment, he's lost to the sensation. His eyes finally close, he can feel nothing but gentle pleasure at the touch, no fear, no desire to escape. Just... trust.

And then the pleasure becomes more pronounced, the invitation of lip and tongue, and Mhavos makes a stupid noise, needy and surprised. One hand cautiously goes to the front of Ilias' shirt, gripping the fabric, keeping him in place.

There. Ilias has the bare, fleeting thought that this is a dangerous thing to chase — the way a person's defenses begin to slip, the small and irrefutable evidence of his own existence written in ripples of need — but all that seems fantastically less important than the sound on his tongue and the hand twisting in his shirt.

Both, he leans into, chest giving a fluttering shudder to match a hitch of breath. Fingers ghost down the length of a neck to find the hand in his shirt -- fold over to close it tighter. You know, just in case his feelings on Mhavos tugging him around are otherwise unclear.

It's the intimacy of this, Mhavos thinks, that makes every mood feel like liquid fire. Of course, his thoughts aren't nearly so coherent. It's mostly a feeling of deep warmth, vulnerability, and the knowledge that perhaps his vulnerability won't be taken advantage of. He's kissing a human and a mage-- but mostly the human part sticks in Mhavos' mind, the man is several inches taller than him, and Mhavos can feel his stubble. Strange, new, enticing-- Mhavos makes a pathetic sound against Ilias' mouth.

The kiss makes Mhavos realize he's lonely.

Which is pathetic, really, and Mhavos' face continues to heat, not least because the music is starting to wind down. He can hear it. He knows this tune well. He doesn't want this to end, but- here he is. The final note, and Mhavos breaks away because conscious embarrassment always wins out over subconscious need.

He spends a long moment just staring at Ilias, eyes wide behind his now-crooked mask, face flushed. And then he tugs his hand free, whispers, "Apologies, I should-" and begins walking away before he can complete the thought.

"Mhavos—"

Ilias's hand ghosts after him, but doesn't connect. He knows what a stare like that means, just like he knows there are rooms here where no one would look for them, that the Baron is probably well enough looked after to spare two sets of eyes, and that unlocking whatever it is his friend is currently folding away means more to him than any mission, anyway. But the rest of the elf's reaction is a puzzle he hasn't yet worked out.

Walking away is clear enough, though. His shoulders deflate with an exhale, but he doesn't move to follow. He can be too much sometimes, he knows. Pry too much. Push where he shouldn't. It's not a mistake he wants to make now. Mhavos deserves a more careful hand than that.

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

b.

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rolls back in time and directly into the trash

👈😎👈

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