illithidnapped: (Default)
Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ ([personal profile] illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
doggish: you're a tool (talk ⚔ upon further reflection)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-05 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)
[Who better indeed? Astarion does seem to thrive in the spotlight. It's why they work well together: when Fenris shies away from the cacophony, Astarion is there to take it all instead, deflecting it and absorbing it happily. And— Fenris thinks this fondly— he's such a peacock, too. They've been caught pawing through the wardrobes more than once, but it's Astarion who suggests they go, not Fenris; it's Astarion who dresses them both up, thrilling in play-acting out imaginary scenes and snippets of dialogue from whatever play is in season.

He nods as he draws his hands back (he can still feel the ghost of his fingertips atop his own), affirming that statement: yes, it does suit, doesn't it?]


I'll help you, if ever you need it. If you want it.

[How? He has no idea. But he wants to, with all the earnestness and loyalty of a child. Astarion is his only friend, and that's worth so much.]

Zevlor likes you already, that will be a good start.

[Ah, but:]

What about the current diamond?

[Fenris hasn't ever even met her, that's how elite she is.]

She isn't that old. She won't be dead when we're grown. Do they retire?
doggish: you're a tool (talk ⚔ upon further reflection)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-06 06:44 pm (UTC)(link)
[He gives the icebox a brief worried glance, but . . . well, there's nothing more they can do, and anyway, once they walk away, who's going to know it was them? Apart from, say, a particularly canny tiefling that knows exactly what kinds of boys he's taken in . . . mm, but maybe he won't be the one to open it. Maybe whomever opens it won't care. It'll be fine, probably.

And speaking of distant consequences: they should go and do some of the endless chores that need to get done . . . bu-ut Zevlor is busy right now, and why not take advantage of that? Hopping off his bar stool, he nudges at Astarion's elbow, leading him upwards. There's a hidden nook in the rafters that Fenris has found and unofficially claimed— one where no one bothers him, but where he can see the entire stage and most of the main hall. It's dusty and forgotten, and thus perfect for a boy still struggling to acclimate to how just about everything in his life has changed.]


No . . .

[Not Zevlor's job. Fenris is new, yes, but even to him, the thought of the tiefling not being around is . . . disquieting. He's as much a fixture of the Moulin Rouge as the lights or the music; to have him not be there would be wrong, somehow.

But where does that leave Fenris? He ponders it as they clamber upwards, climbing ladders and balancing along light fixtures; only once they're settled, watching the glittering figures move down below, does he answer.]


Maybe a stagehand . . . I like working with my hands. Or a bouncer . . . I'm good at fighting. I was training before I left . . . does Zevlor train bouncers, too?

[Where do you even learn how to fight? Fenris had been soaking up every bit of scrap information he could from anyone he could, from fellow servants to the drunks that lingered outside the bars and thought it funny to see a boy try and fight . . . and of course, he thinks, glancing at scabby knuckles, practice makes perfect. But the bouncers at the Moulin Rouge are so quick about it, especially the ones that linger in the halls, waiting for if one of the workers needs them.

(He'd seen it once, only a few days after he'd come to live here. Some man put his hands on a girl in a way he wasn't supposed to. She'd yelled, the bouncer charged in, and oh, it was so breathtakingly fast the way he hauled him out and guided him out the door, somehow managing not to rouse the attention of anyone else there. It was a work of art, if you've the mind for such a thing, and far better than Fenris himself could have handled it. He's been thinking about it ever since: the way he grabbed the man just here and here, yanking him upright and guiding him out the door . . . it's hard to practice on yourself, but he's tried anyway).]


I could be your guard, if you became a diamond.
doggish: not a sit of doubting (talk ⚔ it's a leap of faith)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-07 11:53 pm (UTC)(link)
[Oh . . . and suddenly there's a shift in the air, a heavy weight to the conversation, though if pressed he couldn't say how or when or why. But this conversation matters in a way it hadn't a few seconds ago. The air between them feels charged, time slowing in the same way it had all those weeks ago when Astarion had said why don't you live here?

This is a choice that will matter.

Does he want to? But what else would he do? To go anywhere else feels wrong in a way he instinctively recoils from, for being near Astarion is about the only thing that makes sense nowadays. And yet: it isn't fear that fuels him. He doesn't linger because he shies away from the open door; it's a deliberate choice. It has to be a deliberate choice, for nothing else would satisfy.]


Yes.

[He says it firmly, solemnly, for he means it. He means it as much as he's ever meant anything, and he doesn't know why, save only that it feels right.  

Below them, the music has started up again. It's a pretty thing from some opera, lighthearted and melodious, meant to act only as background for when meals are served. It's a love song, little pup, Brienne had told him teasingly when he'd asked what it was about. No one cares what the words mean, so long as they like how it sounds. It does sound pretty, he thinks inanely, his eyes still locked on Astarion and all of him focused forward. It drifts through his ears, and much like his own intense certainty, he doesn't know why some part of him fixates on it— only that he does.]


I'll protect you. I'll keep you safe. And— and when you get bored and want to go off to Bah-li, I'll come with you, and protect you there too.

I promise.
doggish: (stand by the door)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-08 09:06 pm (UTC)(link)
[Again, there's a pause: not of hesitation, but contemplation, for there's no point if he doesn't give Astarion a wholly honest answer. But this comes easier, now.]

Then I'll stay.

[He tips his head to one side, his ears twitching upwards as something a little lighter weaves through his tone.]

You'll have to deal with them, not me— and if you hate them, I get to fight them, so. [That rather works out for him.] And you can drink sherry, and I'll have beer, and you'll sing, and dance, and do whatever else a diamond does— and we'll live here.

I like it here. And I would not mind staying, so long as— as you're here too.
doggish: by dogs and i mean i get it (happy ⚔ the man is just utterly endeared)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-09 02:38 am (UTC)(link)
[He grins right back at him, his heart elated. If the past few months have taught him anything, it's that life is anything but predictable. One minute he was living with his mother and sister, serving their master, and the next they were all gone; one minute he was a slave, and the next free. Once he had nothing, and now . . .

Now, he has someone. He has a home, a real home, and people who watch out for him. The future is theirs if they want it to be, and for the first time in his life, he's allowed to do something so audacious as dream.]


You're gonna have to do what I tell you to do.

[He says it as he grips his hand, amused by the stickiness.]

That's how I keep you safe. By making sure nobody can get near you, not unless you want them . . . and by making sure you're not putting yourself in danger.

[Something like that, anyway.]
doggish: for a bandit hat (disbelief ⚔ you modified a tube sock)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-11 07:46 pm (UTC)(link)
[Maybe they should, Fenris thinks in those first desperate few seconds. Maybe they should just hide up here forever, scurrying away from familiar footsteps until at last Zevlor's ire has faded, his attention caught by some other disobedient staff member. They can't be the only ones, after all. Surely not. Surely someone else will steal something, or break something, or forget a line, and then they'll be in the clear . . .

But then again: maybe not. And the longer you wait, the worse it gets; Fenris knew that even before coming here.]


Come on.

[Said with the grim air of one facing the firing squad— though before Astarion can rise, Fenris' hand darts out. Grabbing his wrist, he gives him a little look.]

Don't scream this time.

[Sticky palm meets slick tongue as Fenris laps at what remains of the sherry. It's not, like, great in terms of hiding the evidence, but at least it's not so obvious either. He shudders just once from the taste, gives Astarion another little look (you're welcome is the subtext there, look at how clever a bodyguard he is already), and scrambles to the ladder.

He can see Zevlor now: the tiefling stands rigidly by the bar they abandoned, his arms crossed and every line in his body radiating anger. The bottle is next to him, damnably incriminating (and yet, Fenris thinks stubbornly, not so out of place that you can really tell anything's wrong— well, beyond the ripped foil, but still). Fenris' ears are low, his shoulders rising up despite himself— for no matter how many times the tiefling yells, still, he never grows used to it.

(And yet: what he isn't yet used to is how mild it is. The first time they'd tracked mud all over the main stage, Zevlor had yelled, oh, yes. But when he'd seen how Fenris stoically braced himself, he'd softened. Dismissed Astarion and knelt down, one warm hand settling on his shoulder. 'I'll never sell you, Fenris,' he'd said firmly. 'I'll never beat you, or hurt you, or give you away. What punishments you earn will fit the crime— but they will never involve you being treated the way you once were.'

It was stunning. Baffling, almost, and he'd stared at the tiefling with a mixture of trepidation and uncertainty, wary of this strange, kind man. Zevlor had only smiled, then. 'You'll see soon enough,' he'd promised, and run a fond hand through his hair before dismissing him.)]


Don't try and talk us out of it. That only makes it worse.

[He advises it as they reach the bottom of the ladder. Is Astarion still mad about the licking thing? Hopefully not. But probably he is. Either way: Fenris shifts himself a little, positioning himself in front of Astarion. It's a little protective, though from what he'd be hard-pressed to say.]
Edited 2025-06-11 19:46 (UTC)
doggish: (somewhere deep in the dark)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-15 12:51 am (UTC)(link)
[He frowns a little, aware that Zevlor is teasing him but not quite certain as to how. It's one of the many new and often baffling experiences of the Moulin Rouge: the adults are nicer as a rule, but too often they think it gives them leave to tease and patronize as they see fit, and that Fenris has little patience for.

The other issue, now that they're here, is that there's a reason it's always Astarion who does the talking. He's so much better at it than Fenris— far less inclined to simply duck his head and take whatever punishment their guardian sees fit to dole out. But if he's a bodyguard, Fenris thinks, that means protection . . . and protection isn't always about fists and beatings. Sometimes it's about covering, too. Probably. Maybe. He's very new at this.]


You can address me.

[One eyebrow ticks up further, but though there's amusement dancing in his eyes, he's too well-trained to smile. 'Can I,' he says evenly. 'Very well, then. How do you explain this?'

One clawed hand sweeps over the scene of the crime: the bottle, the cork unevenly jammed back in, and scattered around it little bits of gold foil. The bar is sticky with leftover sherry, there's a stained rag left haphazardly on one (of two) drawn out stools, and there are two used glasses still lingering on the bar. Ah . . .]


It was not us.

['Yes, it was,' Zevlor replies swiftly, his voice even. It isn't an argument, simply a statement of fact, and Fenris shifts his weight uncomfortably.]

Well . . . maybe, but . . .

[Um. He glances behind him for a moment, then continues:]

Even if it was, you can't prove it. So. [And then, feeling himself on slightly firmer ground, continues:] If there's no evidence, you can't say it was us. And it wouldn't be fair to punish us for it.

[Fairness is a new concept for Fenris, honestly, especially when it comes to crime and punishment. But it holds weight here, apparently, and he might as well and try it.

'You two are the only ones with hands small enough to match all the prints left on the bar,' Zevlor counters serenely. 'There's foil on your hands, Fenris, and I expect even more would be found on beneath Astarion's fingernails, if he would come out of hiding and show them. And there's no one else here who thinks they have the right to get into whatever stores they please.'

It's a damning argument, to be sure. A perfect retort. Fenris hesitates, turns around again to whisper something to Astarion, and then tries:]


It wasn't even that good. Nobody would've ordered it anyway, probably. So it wasn't even a waste.

['And you would know that . . . how, exactly?'

Fenris' nose wrinkles as he frowns.]


Because it was my idea. And I made him do it. So if you're gonna punish somebody, you should punish me, not Astarion.

[He's a bodyguard, not a lawyer— and while being clever with words is hard, at least he can keep his friend safe.]
doggish: can i paraphrase my suicide note? (talk ⚔ can you paraphrase it?)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-15 03:44 am (UTC)(link)
—bodyguard.

[Oh, there's not a hint of hesitation. Perhaps they had the idea only minutes ago, but something about it feels so right— and who cares what others think of it? He's good at fighting already, better than almost anyone in the entire Moulin Rouge, probably, so let them talk. Let them laugh, if they're so foolish as to underestimate him. He'll show them all.

Zevlor doesn't laugh. He looks surprised for a few seconds before his expression softens once more.

'Is that right,' he says, quietly amused by Fenris' fervent nod. 'And when did you decide this, hm?'

A few minutes ago is not that impressive an answer, and Fenris shrugs awkwardly.]


We— I— just did.

['I see,' he says again. From behind them, a voice drifts through the air, the words indistinct but the tone light; it's followed by peels of laughter. Kanon is busy with some of the girls, ostensibly measuring them for their newest costumes, but more than likely teasing them for whatever fuss occurred earlier. Zevlor glances towards backstage with a little smile, rubs one hand over his mouth, and then returns his attention to his two unruly children.

'Then perhaps the first thing you should learn is that a bodyguard is not a whipping boy— and taking the blame for Astarion's crimes won't do either of you any favors.']


I wasn't—

['Yes, you were.' It isn't a question. Zevlor kneels down, then, and tips his head at Fenris. 'And if you truly wish for such a thing, you'll need training. We can arrange for that— after you both finish making up for what you did. No,' he says, holding up one clawed hand to stave off the inevitable protest from Astarion. 'You weren't trying to stop me from being ripped off, don't try to sell that. You tried that lie last month with the wine, and it was no truer then than it is now.'

He rises to his feet, glancing between the two of them. 'Astarion, you'll be helping Laira for the next two weeks when she cleans after the guests— don't argue. And as for you, Fenris: Kanon needs someone to hold his pins and scissors while he designs the costumes. You'll give him a hand in what he needs, and serve as model if you must.'

Two tasks that they both hate; two chores that they'd probably be happier to exchange, which is why they both serve well as punishments. Fenris, who had grown brighter at the thought of training, visibly deflates, pulling a little face.]


Ugh.

[The noise slips out of him before he can help it, and for a long moment Fenris stares up at Zevlor in shock. It's the first time he's ever expressed such annoyance, never mind in response to a punishment, and the consequences . . . you aren't supposed to do that. You aren't ever supposed to do that, and despite himself, Fenris tenses. Kindly or not, surely Zevlor won't take to such sass, not from him—

And yet all the tiefling does is chuckle softly. 'Go on,' he urges, and nods at Astarion. 'You too. I'm not changing my mind.']
doggish: at every floor (talk ⚔ on the way down)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-16 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
You want me more, you mean.

[He doesn't look up as he says it, and that's deliberate. Astarion in heels isn't anything new, not really, but Fenris noticing Astarion in heels is. It's odd: one day it hadn't been anything more than an amusement, and now . . . now, Fenris finds he takes special note of the way his spine arches and his hips sway, his ass pushed out pleasingly.

He has to be careful not to stare. Then again: he has to be careful not to stare at anyone here, not because it isn't allowed, but because there's no one more merciless than a whore with someone to tease. And now that Fenris has grown a bit, well. All the gloves have come off.

But Astarion is different. He doesn't know why, but he is. Being caught staring at Brianna makes for an irritating afternoon, but being caught staring at his friend is . . . well. It's discomfiting.]


And you'll be fine. Just attempt not to antagonize anyone— strange a sensation as that may be for you.

[He straightens up, lifting the box and setting it down on the counter. It's a little easier to face him this way, though the sight of Astarion actually being his height is startling. He's gotten too used to him being short.

Another thing that hasn't changed: those damned magic iceboxes still leave everything unpleasantly slick. Fenris rolls up his sleeves, catching Astarion's eye as he does.]


What has you so fretful? You've taken lessons before. What makes this so different?
doggish: but keep talking (talk ⚔ i can't hear you now)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-16 05:00 am (UTC)(link)
You are an amateur.

[Blunt and dry, that's his style— but even as he says it, Fenris knows already what his answer will be. It's no fun to be the least experienced at something, and gods know he's had more than enough experience at that lately. Knowing how to scrap and brawl is one thing, but acting as vigilant guard is quite another, and he's had more than a few humbling experiences lately.

His hands pick up the pace, swiftly drawing bottles out of a crate and placing them haphazardly on the bar. It's messy work, it's not where they're supposed to go, and he's going to end up having to wipe the bar down all over again for how they're leaving little puddles of condensation, but . . .]


Do you have a spot in mind?

[The answer is yes, even if he hasn't said it yet.]

And if I get in trouble, you're doing whatever tasks Zevlor ends up assigning me. And you owe me a favor.
doggish: (talk ⚔ you're DOD GAM RIGHT)

[personal profile] doggish 2025-06-16 06:12 am (UTC)(link)
I'm not fussy.

[They hit the same line at different emphasis points, but the petulant little nose wrinkle is the same. But protesting really does make him sound as though he is, and that's annoying. Annoying, too, the way his stomach has started to flutter, his heart beating a little faster as they work.

Intimacy is such a lax affair within the Moulin Rouge. Sex and all that comes with it are easily exchanged, offered up between performers and prostitutes as stress relief or to stave off boredom. Even Fenris has gotten propositioned more than once, though he's never taken anyone up on the offer. There are petty jealousies, of course, and rivalries that only grow more heated when it comes to who chooses what bed to lie in, but still: no one thinks of it as anything personal.

And nor will they, he tells himself firmly. This isn't anything more than practice, and the fact that they two are so comfortable with one another is just bonus. There's no reason to be nervous. There's no reason for his words to stick in the back of his throat, nor for his palms to stay a little damp even after he's wiped them off on his trousers.]


I— [A swift swallow, and then:] I simply do not relish the thought of having to wake up early tomorrow because of you.

[He jerks his head as he comes around the bar. The bottles are, if not neatly put away, at least marginally acceptable, and that will have to do for now. Fenris leads the way back, his head half-turned as he speaks.]

What is there to focus on, anyway?

[It's a real question, even as he hops up on the ladder and takes it two rungs at a time. Their secret spot is still pleasingly secluded, even now, and he feels a sense of satisfaction as he ducks past a wooden beam and settles in there.]

Most people manage it without any training at all.