"is It Good." Thomas Repeated With A Soft, Amused Chuckle Of Disbelief. "is It Good? This Is My Third

"is it good." thomas repeated with a soft, amused chuckle of disbelief. "is it good? this is my third plate so i think it's safe to say it's pretty good." calling it a plate was being a bit generous. the familiar had some much food huddled and hoarded together on his dish that he could have spread it out on one of the large trays they were carrying drinks around on and still had a layer or two of food.

"here," reaching out, he nudged the edge of his collection closer to the center of the counter he was leaning against to offer some to the newcomer. "try it for yourself." while there was a considerable amount of fruits piled together-- bananas, strawberries, blueberries-- it quickly became clear that there was nothing but sweets on thomas's plate; even the fruit was drizzled with various dark, milk, and white chocolates. cupcakes, petit fours, cookies, pastries, were stacked high and he had every intention of eating all of it.

"sorry," he chuckled as he realized that his plate was lacking of any real substance; it was all sugar, upon sugar, upon sugar. "i get a bit of a sweet tooth when i'm drinking. or after a nap. or after i go for a run, or work out. or in the afternoons; and mornings; and most nights... yeah," thomas nodded with a smile. "i guess i just have a bit of a sweet tooth."

"i can go grab you something, though, if you want actual food. they have this really good little finger sandwiches and a few charcuterie boards floating around... or you're more than welcome to help me tackle all of this."

he had debated on showing up at all, being so new to the town and only knowing his bandmates. in fact he would have much rather been back in his room with a book in his lap, notebook by the side as he got inspiration for their next album. oz may have been the more creative leader and face for the band but carver had just as much creative liberties even if he kept it behind the scenes. it was his name alongside oz's in the songs and that was all he cared about, more into the music than getting laid because of it. for a while growing up carver even thought about becoming a ghost writer for musicians and bands not wanting to really be seen by thee world or putting them at risk with his screams. yet the musically gifted had met oz and now he was spotted occasionally on streets when he went to get groceries which still felt funny to him. it's one reason he had kept to himself since arriving a few weeks ago only really leaving his room when needed and tonight it was the call of hunger that drove him out.

after realizing he was out of food and it was too late to go get something fresh, he had remembered the invitation of the ball that arrived at his door. they had to be food there, right? slipping on the given mask, watching it shift from plain and boring to one that mimicked an open mouth skull carver headed down to the ball slowly as if he was walking to a firing squad. really he was just going to grab food and leave. maybe even enough that he wouldn't have to leave his room again until dinner time the next day. really it wasn't that he didn't like people or was trying to be a recluse it was just...well talking to people was hard to carver to the point that sometimes he couldn't talk at all when his anxiety got overwhelming.

go in, grab food and get out. it was carver's plan and he kept repeating to himself so eagle eyed focused on the food he hadn't even realized that someone had spoken to him at first. turning his head to look at him, eyes were wide almost like a deer in a headlights. shit someone was speaking to him. did they recognize him? did they want something from him? did-- oh it was about the food. that fear fell from his face and he smiled some and nodded his head in agreement. "shame...is it." carver forced himself to clear his throat and try not to sound too much like the little green alien from star wars as he said, "i came here...for food....is it...good?" it looked like it by the way the other was eating instead of partying like everyone else but his therapist had encouraged him to keep conversation going if he was in moments like this where he could feel the anxiety but still able to speak. baby steps.

event: masquerade ball location: the chateau muse: alston gerringer

suffocating. the suit he was wearing, the mask that allowed him some anonimity, even the party itself. it was all suffocating. stubbornly refusing to move away from the wall in one of the main rooms downstairs, as people laughed and danced around him making him and his sourness stand out, alston pulled and fussed at the tightness of his suit much like a toddler might. he was acting like a big baby all because he had to get dressed up... and because he was uncomfortable around this many people.

most of them were supernatural of some kind, which did allow him some ease, but the were-bear could still smell their stench beneath the sweetness of the food in the air and the earthiness of magic. humans. of course they were here too.

glaring through his mask, still acting like a child throwing a tantrum in a corner, he snatched a tray of drinks from a passing waiter and kept it for himself; it took one look at him for the waiter to throw his hands up and resign to not argue. he wasn't trying to be rude, mind you, he just needed the liquid encouragement to relax before he clawed his way out of his suit and ran for the door.

"hey," his lips pulled back, revealing his teeth, as a low growl vibrated in his chest and throat as he caught the glimpse of a hand reach for a drink on his stolen tray out of his peripheral. "those are mine."

great job alston. really making yourself approachable. you definitely aren't going to struggle making any friends here.

@unveilstarters

in a place where supernatural creatures were able to roam freely need might have been the most dangerous thing they were capable of. man-- humans-- had destroyed civilizations, wiped their own kind off the face of the earth, lost everything in all consuming wars all for lust; for need. over the course of his years wyne had grown to disregard humanity for letting something so basic, a feeling, control them so powerfully.

in this moment, though, he was having a change of heart. lips clashing as fingers and hands drag and grip at any stretch of skin they can, right then he intimately understood how desperate need could make you feel; how desperate it made him feel. the taste of the other on his lips damned him to feel like this and all he could do was chase after more.

tracing his teeth tauntingly over the pulse point in the other's neck, his breath ragged and strangled as if the two of them had been at this for hours, wyne craned his head back just so he could look up at the other-- so their eyes could meet-- as he gently bit against his shoulder.

there was no point in denying it or trying to hide it. the intensity between the two of them already had the half-ghost achingly hard but, for now, he was wyne's priority. smiling, breathlessly, as he felt the hand settle on the top of his head the blonde offered no resistance as he was pushed down. working his way over the valleys of the other's body, tracing the lines of his muscles with lingering kisses and hungry swipes of his tongue, he mapped a path for himself down the other's chest until he finally settled into place on his knees before him as if he were worshipping him.

looking up, his eyes clouding with more desire as he admired how good the other looked standing over him, wyne's hands found their way to the clasp of the man's pants as he spoke. "mmm," the blonde hummed in agreeance as he leaned forward, the tent in the other's pants pressing against and into his cheek as wyne smothered his face against him and took a deep breath. "i wouldn't expect any less." he whispers, his voice hushed despite their privacy, as he once again casts his eyes up to look at the man over him as he unfastens his pants and finally frees his hardness from it's restrictive confines.

keeping his hands gripping onto the man's waist, wyne let's the hardened length thud against his cheek. turning his head to the side, he places a soft kiss against the other's groin before slowly pulling his head back; his tongue trailing it's way down the side of his shaft until the tip was positioned against his lips.

eagerly, the blonde opened his lips and swallowed over half the other's length into the velvety warmth of his throat with ease.

need.

it's a funny thing, what people need. how a simple emotion, a simple thing can become all consuming. it spreads like a wildfire instead of crackling like a self contained burn. that's what this feels like, in a sense. need burns and burns and burns and, sometimes, it's enough to warm someone up and other times it's enough to burn them out.

cas doesn't mind either options. he's been made a church for someone to pray to, he's been burned down by their need before, hallowed ground is nothing new for the witch.

hands move up, cupping the back of the man's neck, scratching down his spine as greedy kisses turn hungrier. cas swallows down the sounds the man makes, his moans filling his own lungs only to echo out moments later. he can feel himself hardening beneath his pants and his own hands travel down the front of the stranger, pushing and cupping and palming.

"fuck," casimiro moans out when their kiss breaks apart, when his back hits something firm and surfaced, only to moan once more when lips attached against his neck. "mmm." he arches, exposing more of his neck. then, grinning, he lifts a hand and starts to push the man down, guiding him down his exposed chest waiting for kisses, then to the tent in his pants waiting for a hungry mouth. "gonna fuck your throat." cas tells him, confidently, "then you're gonna fuck mine."

— Jean Rhys