Bone 1: The hosts
Coming to you with a gentle reminder that these boys are versatile~
Octavian and Astarion are hosting the wedding to make sure Karlach and Shadowheart have everything they could ever imagine.
But that doesn't mean those two horndogs will behave.
As Astarion steps out of the bridal suite, the door closing softly behind him, he nearly collides with a familiar wall of warmth and muscle. His breath catches, but not from surprise—rather from the unmistakable scent that wraps around him in an instant. Fine wine laced with steel and something less tangible yet deeply intoxicating—like candle smoke caught in sunlight, celestial and comforting all at once. It's the scent of him. His husband. Astarion's lips curve into a smile before he even looks up. His arms find their way around Octavian's waist with practiced ease, sliding beneath the rich folds of his formal attire. He presses his cheek to his husband's shoulder for a lingering moment, as though grounding himself there. "Hello", he murmurs, the word barely more than a breath, spoken directly into the space between them. Octavian responds without hesitation, arms encircling him with a quiet strength that never fails to make Astarion feel both treasured and tamed. His lips brush over the tip of Astarion's ear in a whisper of a kiss, warm and intimate. "Hello", he echoes, voice low and threaded with affection. "I was looking for you." "Me?" Astarion leans back just enough to study his husband's face, head tilted in soft curiosity. "Why me?" But the question answers itself the moment Octavian's hand rises to tilt Astarion's chin upward. He kisses him—firm, sure and unhurried. Astarion melts into it with a quiet sigh through his nose, his lashes fluttering closed as his mouth parts for a deeper kiss, one that speaks of familiarity and fire in equal measure. When Octavian's hands wander down his sides to give his backside a firm squeeze, Astarion breaks the kiss with a soft, indulgent laugh. "Really?" he purrs, one brow arching with amusement. "Now?" His fingers toy with the ornate collar of Octavian's attire, tracing the intricate embroidery stitched in gleaming thread. "Aren't you supposed to be officiating the wedding, my love?"