[Don't fucking rub it in— is what he aims to growl back, only a half-shade furious compared to everything that started this, grousing in a form of exaggerated play: if he's going to keep real anger from his jealous heart, he doesn't want to think about their fight again at all, shoving once with both his hands until he feels thin forearms buckle against a stronger frame.
It lasts even less than that.
In fact, it might all be in his head, that fleeting game of retribution, because the second warm fingers close around his jaw (when the heady shock and dizzying adrenaline ebb enough for self-awareness to creep in, enough that) he can feel his head tilt back of its own accord— gently guided until softness wraps itself around his neck. Wet and slow and beckoning as that first kiss melts into a second, as the second melts into the slow lathe of an overeager tongue— teeth so tentative that he jolts beneath that first pass, his heart beating against the walls of his ribs like a wild animal. So excited that it hurts in a way, the oddest ache extending well beyond the borders of clenched fingers, curled toes, mostly rattling his chest. His breaths. He swallows hard and audible, his stare unfixed when it runs high enough to try taking in Fenris' face (his neck pulsing to the rhythm in his veins, dull yet far from distant), though with pupils blown wide beneath long lashes, all he finds is that he's seeing double. Clinging hard. If he made a noise, he can't remember. Doesn't care.
He's yanked Fenris' shirt down to his elbows; thin fabric swims around locked knuckles and cinched knees. Around the middle of his belly, highlighting every shallow breath that he sucks in. Bitterness the farthest thing from his own mind when he breathlessly manages in earnest:]
....did....did she teach you that?
[Credit where credit is due if so, even from him.]
[It's so overwhelming. Everything, all of it— every moment a burst of tastes and touches and sounds, every detail so precious that he hastily tries to commit it to memory, only to be overwhelmed in the next instant. Growing up in the Moulin Rouge had taught him that attraction was a methodical set of principles, nuanced but formulaic; he'd never dreamed that you could be attracted to the hitch in someone's breath, or the way they tremble between your thighs. The painful-pleasurable way Astarion grabs, blunt nails dragging against his skin and the heat of his breath against his ear— fasta vass, and he breathes the curse out against his neck, his body stiff as he unconsciously fights the urge to buck his hips down and grind.
He's panting when he draws back, his lips slick with spit (a crystalline line of saliva connecting them for a precious few seconds, and that shouldn't make something deep in his belly jolt with arousal). For a moment he stares down at Astarion, goosebumps rising on exposed bare skin and nothing but adoration in his eyes. And then he asks that question, all earnestness and no acidity, and yet:]
Eech, no.
[The sneering curl of his upper lip is wholly meant, if not a little exaggerated for Astarion's sake. Elise had been . . . Elise had been fine, but it's like comparing porridge to custard cake; both are foods, but there's only one Fenris will ever idly daydream about. No, Elise hadn't taught him this . . . his scowl eases, a touch of fluster replacing it as he wrinkles his nose down at Astarion.]
I just . . . I thought about it. With you. After everything.
[He'd thought about the way Astarion had jolted beneath him; he'd thought about how good it felt to sink his teeth into tender flesh, and wondered at his own desire to suckle there. He can feel self-consciousness fluttering on the edges of his heart, making him so hyperaware of everything (is he too heavy? does Astarion notice the stubborn bit of softness on his thighs? does he think he looks foolish right now, half-dressed and drooling like some simpleton rather than something worthy of desire?)— still, the look his counterpart gives him drives it all away.
So he offers up a smirk far cockier than he feels and angles himself back down, languidly arching his back as he comes close. Affectionately he nuzzles against his cheek (he can't help that), steals a swift kiss, and then murmurs:]
Mmhmm- [Is so quick an answer. The red aurora spread across his cheeks and ears all the more apparent when he tugs his own shirt lower and cocks his lean neck completely to one side, nearly shedding his upper layers if not for the way they encircle both his wrists, or the scant few buttons left still fastened round his middle. His chest isn't heaving, but every breath's apparent all the same with how hard his heart is racing— how his eyes are still so wide and glazed and dark with awestruck fascination— as if he's been tugged from the shallows of awareness into deeper ocean shoals without a chance to catch his breath. Everything that was mundane before— or that he only thought was uneventful in design (like: the way people laid their hands over each others' at fine tables, like: the lovedrunk smiles carved from pure excitement in the halls whilst whispering, like: why it mattered sitting here or there, or placing fingers in a certain spot across a shoulder even when still dressed)— all of that begins to take on a secondary meaning, as if something's been unlocked for understanding in his senses. His shivering nerves. His smoldering temperature already peppered with light sweat beneath covers that weren't desert-hot before.
And it's petty, and small (it really, really is within the grander scheme of this one moment— ) but he's burning all the brighter for that confirmation, too. Something he'll boast to Kanan later: that the tiefling had been right after all. That it was nothing, and Fenris hadn't betrayed him (oh, Astarion....selfish, spoiled little Astarion), and she was only within her rights to be too eager to kiss someone so handsome and clever as his Fenris.
The red spot on his neck hurts just a bit. Heavy with its own weight and scalding presence over otherwise unmarked skin; he hopes it stays that way forever.
Or at least a week.
He slips one leg between Fenris', bearing higher, trying to emulate the courtesans he'd seen a thousand times. Wishing he'd asked Satine more. Learned at least a little about what other men might like when being courted instead of being guided only by blind sensation. But still, the friction's nice. And the balm of febrile contact. And— ]
[Zevlor's hair is an unkempt mess between his horns when he lifts his head from Kanan's shoulder, squinting blearily into the dark of their shut room. What would be a coalhot glow is— through narrowness itself— merely a slitted glimmer of alertness shining smack dab in the center of their sleep. Exhaustion paints the corners of his features with fine lines as he casts his gaze (or what passes for a gaze when his eyelids are almost fully shut) up towards the ceiling, hearing far too many muted little noises for his liking.
And then he's face down in the junction between his husband's shoulder and chest once more, grumbling softly in the back of his own throat.]
It's too early....[Is an argument made with himself and no one else.] I'm not parenting a thing before noon.
[You deal with them today, may or may not find itself sleep-muttered into the borders of Kanan's arm.]
[There's sunlight breaking round thick curtains when he wakes in Fenris' bed, clutching his counterpart tight across the middle. Blankets, sheets and shirts are all knotwork patterns swirled between their arms and legs to the point of proving unrecognizable in disarray, but pleasant comfort's buzzing through his body, and when he shifts— mm, there's the little pang of tender welling on his throat. The surest sign that last night had absolutely happened, and that they hounded each other till exhaustion took well over: mellowing adrenaline minute by minute that they'd spent kissing, touching, teasing— until it was all hazy and listless. Until he remembers draping against one another, and saying....hm, he doesn't know. Maybe that he's glad they made up. Maybe that he liked this, or that he was sorry again for what he'd said, reiterating that he'd never meant it. Murmuring until they fell asleep.
Now that afternoon is here, he can't remember much beyond that afterglow. That lingering sensation of contentment, now feathered in Fenris' dark hair. Denned down like the light that limns it alongside all those handsome features. The ones that've shifted across the years. Grown stronger. Sharper.
He's tired, but he can't stop staring. Tracing with his eyes the nonexistent slant from Fenris' forehead towards his nose, dipping lower into softset lips still kissed with warmer hues.
[And why should they? What's the point of being the two adopted sons of the owners if you can't sleep in once in a while?
It's not something Fenris would ever profess, but something along those lines plays out in his mind as he, entirely unwillingly, begins to stir. The afternoon sunlight plays a part in his rousing, but it's the movement that truly awakens him: some part of him waking when he feels lithe limbs gliding against his body. Cool to the touch and so familiar that they only faintly register as safe; it's only once he cracks open his eyes that he realize it's Astarion in his bed. Why . . . for a long few seconds Fenris stares dazedly up at him, vaguely pleased and utterly baffled both as to why they're entangled. Was there a storm again . . .? Or—
Oh. Oh, and the memories don't flood back so much as drift: pleasing little recollections rediscovered one after another, each more satisfying than the last. He beams at up Astarion (he tries, anyway, though it's probably more of a dazed thing than anything) and leans in to try and nuzzle at him. He ends up sort of mushing his face against his bare collarbone, but that's all right too.]
Hi . . .
[No, that's not enough. He feels around until he can latch his fingers around the back of his neck, gently urging him to lie back down. There's a multitude of jobs they need to attend to, and that's to say nothing of all the menial work Zevlor had given them as punishment, but oh, can't they have this? Just one afternoon. Just one more hour of this blissful, sleepy state . . .]
Lie down. Lie down with me . . .
[What could be more important than this? Astarion glimmering in the golden light, his hair shining and his cheeks warmed, still wearing all those pretty little marks Fenris had bitten in last night . . . no, they shouldn't do anything today, Fenris decides. For once in his life he's going to be selfish. For once in his life he'll be the one to demand they take a day off. For once in his life—]
[Kanan's voice is loud, but that's only because he knows how deeply Fenris sleeps. And true, the boy's never once overslept, but there's a first time for everything. He raps sharply at the door twice. There's the sound of sheets moving, a sharp hiss of inhaled breath, but no answer. Nothing substantial— and in his defense, he'd normally respect his privacy (especially as both boys enter their teenage years), but one, again, he’s watched Fenris sleep through an entire brass band playing, never mind a sharp knock, and two, he lost a lot of privileges this week. Oversleeping is the last straw. So he opens the door, and—]
[It's a yowl of protesting outrage, Fenris sitting up and snarling even as he scrambles to, what, cover Astarion? But there's no getting around it, and anyway, his panic only makes it worse— it's not as if it's the first time they've been caught in bed, and as long as they play it cool—
But it's too late, for Kanan's sharp eye is already taking in the lack of shirts and the little reddened marks peppered all over Astarion's skin . . . not to mention the way Fenris has gone red as he never has before.
Oh, I see.
He says archly, and Fenris actually bares his teeth in agonized humiliation.]
Get out, get out—!
[Five minutes, or I'm coming back up with Zevlor this time, Kanan says serenely, utterly unfazed by his son's yowling. There's an unbearable smirk plastered on his face and the most awful little gleam in his eye— oh, he's outright grinning as he turns to close the door again. Oh, sweetheart, he calls, the most obnoxious little lilt in his voice.
Which leaves Fenris wide awake now, sitting up and glaring fiercely at the door. His hair is mussed, black strands sticking up every which way and his expression the picture of indigence. Yes, okay, they woke up late, and yes, okay, they have jobs to do, but also: what the fuck. And this isn't what he wanted to start his day, and this isn't how he wanted their guardians to know (if they ever would! maybe he just wouldn't tell them at all!), and—]
. . . and Astarion is still beside him, looking pale and pretty and perfect, and how can he stay fussed after that?
Fenris exhales sharply and slides one palm over a pale shoulder, the motion soft and fond.]
Well, now they know.
[He says it more resignedly than upset— though even that is tempered by the small, private little smile he wears as he stares down at his— well. At his, whatever he may turn out to be.]
[It's not the first time they've spent the night together, but it's the first time spending the night together ever ended like that. And really, he's surprised (in all things, apparently), to find he's not ashamed at all. Not embarassed or flustered by the flicker-quick glimpse of a grin he'd spied from over Fenris' shoulder as Kanan turned to leave. In fact, to the sensation of warm, rough fingers falling just across his shoulder, he finds he feels quite proud. A prelude to the listless smile he aims towards his counterpart, taking him in in the most literal new light he's ever known.]
So what? [Crinkles the edge of his sharp nose, one canine fully visible whilst he sets himself to wrapping a palm around Fenris' hand— tugging.]
That's what we do here at the Moulin Rouge.
[No, it's what they sell there, and he's still too young to grasp the difference. Dramatic little rumble in his throat all pride, all drowsy-sweet contentment, when everything feels bright and new (and his own elated mind is now convinced it'll always be this way).
He has to twist a little to kick down the covers wrapped down around his ankles. Somehow he manages it without breaking contact with his notional twin.]
They heard us fighting, now they get to know we've made up.
[He hums a reply to that prideful little purr, his own response more doubtful. There's a quiet part of him that's eternally convinced he'll lose the things that make him happiest (and he knows why, and it doesn't matter that he knows, for the fear is there all the same). Even little things like Christmas presents or a shirt he particularly likes, all of it seems so fragile. And something so momentously wonderful, so awe-inspiringly thrilling as this? To speak of it seems the most foolish of actions. As if, by keeping it between them in this little room, he might somehow protect it.
But that's foolishness. Childishness. And given they do now all know (in one way if not another), well. They might as well lean in.]
And if they don't, you'll tell them, hm?
[It's an affectionate rumble as he leans down and kisses the top of Astarion's head— and then, cupping his cheek, turns his head up so he can catch his mouth. Five minutes, Kanan had warned, but how long does it really take to put on a pair of pants and run a brush through his hair?]
Tell me what duties they have assigned to you today, so that I may know where to sneak off to each time I find a spare minute.
Already in trouble and you're looking to slack off more? [As much as Kanan's had been, those silver eyes are glittering now— salivating with a self-centered flare of keen excitement that arches him a few degrees higher, catching Fenris' lower lip between his teeth; he'd always been the one to have to beg his brother to misbehave in any sense. To bribe or plead or play on pity and then promise that they won't get caught.
Now they're caught in every sense, and every fiber of his being shivers like plucked strings to think of it (again, and again, and again). So when he ends the kiss he'd stolen, it's with one single, craning nuzzle. Something half remembered from last night, half completing the action Fenris started with that rumble, fighting just to keep him close a little longer.]
Who are you and what've you done with Fenris?
[No more distant than Fenris' coy murmur, barely a sliver of sunlight to spare in the empty space between them.]
[He chuckles for what is, he can admit, a very fair tease— though the sound cuts out halfway through, the sharp bite of Astarion's teeth earning one fierce shiver. Gods, he forgot how good that felt, for last night was both so recent and so utterly distant, and a handful of hours aren't nearly long enough to commit sensation to memory. More, he thinks, needy as any pup— and yet in the next instance knocks his nose against Astarion's cheek, just as thrilled by that nuzzling.]
I'm looking to not be caught. We need not get in trouble if we're careful, hm?
[And yet he's already leaning forward, one arm extending to pin by Astarion's hip, his head tipping to catch him in a deeper kiss. He can't help it, not when this is all so new. His heart is thrumming at a fierce pace and there's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, but unlike last night, he isn't nervous. He doesn't feel gawky or inexperienced or overwhelmed. It's kissing, just kissing, and with his favorite person in the world— Maker, how can this feel anything but wonderful?]
But if you wish me to be good, Astarion, just say the word.
[Surely it's only been a minute. Surely they have a little more time— just one more kiss, Fenris thinks. One more kiss, one more minute, because yes, of course they're still in trouble, but it doesn't feel like it. He's higher by the minute, overwhelmed with adoration and affection, and it seems impossible to think that anything bad could happen right now. Surely Zevlor and Kanan will understand if they're a few minutes late. Surely they won't mind—
Except there are two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs now, and with a groan Fenris draws back. It isn't shyness, exactly, but . . . mm, he isn't willing to be caught by them twice.]
I'm coming.
[He calls it out as he scans the floor for a moderately clean pair of pants, his lips aching all the while. He shimmies into them while turning around to face Astarion, eager to keep him in his sightlines (and only later will he groan about his own besotted expression, wholly open and adoring).]
I'll find you today—
[— and understand, he means to. He means to sneak away the moment he's done with sorting through all of last year's costumes (an endless array of badly folded fabric that smells vaguely of sweat and dust and, inexplicably, lilac, sorted into two piles for reusable and scrap). Except there seems to be at least five costumes for every performer at minimum, and each of them needs to be poured over, testing seams and taking note of what needs repair. It's tedious and dull and will take days, not hours, which is almost precisely the point.
At least they have nights together. He waits until their guardians are asleep before he slips between Astarion's sheets that night, in part because he will always prefer privacy, and in part because it's exciting to sneak around. Like pretending they're one of those star-crossed couples from whatever romance is in season, urged to stay away and yet drawn to one another nonetheless. They talk and they kiss and— for now— leave it at that. Wandering hands and slow explorations are more than enough for now, and besides: there's something wonderful about being able to drink in each slow boundary crossed, inch by gradual inch.
And of course, everyone knows. They'd known from the first day, for gossip almost has a life of its own in the Moulin Rouge, secrets and rumors flying from lips to ears so fast that there's no point in trying to hide. And yet still, Fenris might have opted for something more subtle— but the boy he's dating (his brother, his darling, his companion in arms, his best friend and greatest ally) is so showy.
To wit: Fenris is sitting in one of the plush seats in the main hall, half-listening to rehearsals as he tries to figure out how the till total from last night keeps coming out wrong. No easy task when he's distracted, especially when Brienne keeps fucking up her lines (again and again and again, at this point even Fenris knows the words). The others are whispering catty little remarks just loud enough that Fenris can hear, and he's on the verge of getting up and finding somewhere quiet when—
—oh, and suddenly there's an elf sprawling in his lap and arms draped around his neck, and suddenly Fenris could care less about the till.]
Hi.
[A little breathless. A little overwhelmed. A little embarrassed, frankly, at the way suddenly all the dancers are looking at them instead of Brienne, and yet he still wraps an arm around Astarion's hips.]
[They've never been that careful, or that good. Or— Astarion never has been, which doesn't help the rumors in the slightest when he keeps turning up like a cat on a sill: hungry and insistent, leading with his mouth in shameless greeting. Oh, not to speak (which only incites a fresh wave of tittering laughter from the onlooking performers waiting for their turn— and a harsher shh— from Zevlor who, whilst not looking behind him, has ears and common sense enough to know exactly what's transpiring in rough estimate. And enough of both to demand everyone hush as the play's leads read both their lines, fumbling recollection here and there (gods above, there's dress rehearsal in four weeks, they should be past this point by now).
To Astarion's credit, the squeeze of his thighs over Fenris' lap might be heavy, but the kisses he leans into are quite chaste: one to his forehead, another set to his cheeks and the tip of his nose before the last lands on his lips. Innocuous in form, but not intent, as his whispered grin soon swears:]
Maths again? [He clucks, tongue sharp against the backs of his own teeth. Criticism from the boy who was asked only once to balance the books, and then did such a piss poor job (and yowled so much in dire petulance), that Zevlor never bothered since to put him to the task.
He is, in essence, the sort to swear on tiktok that he's gay and therefore can't do math.] You're going to be here for a year at this rate.
[His silk shirt's still too large for his shoulders; he'd begged Kanan for it for years, and attests he'll grow into it soon enough to warrant saving it from selling off, but it bunches round his throat and collar all the same, little faux diamonds glittering from glimpses of reflected stagelight.
It is, for the record, the exact sort of clothing he always opts to do his chores in, not wanting to look unfashionable for a second. Not unrelated to the way he smells like floor oil rather than perfume.]
[A lapful of Astarion is still a new thing, to be fair to Fenris. It doesn't matter how shameless his boyfriend is (pushing Fenris up against the wall to kiss him in plain sight of Elise; tumbling them both in a closet he knows won't stay forgotten for long), he's still getting used to it— to all of it. And right now, having lithe thighs press heavily in his lap and a soft voice murmuring in his ear is distracting.
Not to the point of stupidity, though. He blinks once or twice (ears a little darker than they were ten seconds ago), then offers Astarion a near-silent scoff.]
A year? Try another half-hour at most. Simply because mathematics escapes your grasp doesn't mean the rest of us are so challenged.
[. . . probably. Maybe. He considers this, drinking in the sight of a tantalizing bare shoulder and the delicate, exposed expanse of pale throat, and adds:]
It doesn't count if you intend on distracting me.
[Not that he's opposed to such things, mind you. But there are rules set in place for every little scuffle they have, no matter how pointless. Fenris tucks his pencil behind his ear so he can tug vaguely at the hanging line of Astarion's collar, not so much covering him up as simply playing with it. Hello, precious thing.]
Already done. [Oozes pride alongside that softer scent of lemon when he leans closer, opting to pester his counterpart with a nuzzle that scrapes up hard along the side of one cheek— coy, yes, flirtatious through the contact's depth (and leaving ample room for those tanned fingers to keep toying with his shirt, basking in those little flickers of skin-to-skin contact when rough knuckles catch around the hem), but there's enough force behind momentum to evoke the jostling between young littermates: always too pushy, always angling closer with too much force, trying to get a rise out of the other creatures they hold dear.
Their argument the other day was so intense as to evoke red ears and quaking tears, and yet now it's as good as forgotten in Astarion's bright eyes. Volatility transmuted into even more mercurial affection, all rumbling, all sweet—
And chased by a swift, hard bite to the side of Fenris' throat, mirroring the shadow of that hickey on his own.]
Did Zevlor give you more to do as punishment, or are you still the golden child of the Moulin Rouge?
[Thank the Maker he has more than enough self-control to keep quiet, for all of Fenris is sitting up and shrieking right now. His fingers clench in spasmodic sympathy and grip Astarion’s hip too tight; his nerves sing shrilly, pain-pleasure sparking white behind his eyes, as a dark flush coats his cheeks.
He glances around hastily, but no, no one is looking. Two teenagers, no matter how endearing, aren’t half as interesting as a colleague faltering and being scolded. Fenris swallows thickly— he isn’t upset, nor even displeased (not when his throat still stings pleasantly and Astarion looks so damned attractive smirking like that). It's just that compared to the morals and standards of most in the Moulin Rouge, he's an exceedingly private person.]
Astarion …
[It’s a hissed protest that fails utterly to sound anything but pleased. With a soundless grumble he turns his head, jostling against his mate, nosing against his cheek as he gently pinches one thigh in scolding.]
As if he’s ever so lenient.
[Murmured in Astarion’s ear, for it’s not such a good idea to gossip when one’s target is not twenty feet away.]
I have props to polish, inventory to sort, and bartending all night tonight— and all week, too. When have I ever been golden boy, bitey thing?
[This is what real trouble looks like: a smug smirk that isn't sorry in the slightest for the no-doubt throbbing sting still lingering under Fenris' skin, unapologetic and delighted to be on the receiving end of a dogged little pinch— though the shiver that palpably runs up along his spine might just be from the sound of Fenris' voice against his ear up close. Chaste or not, he likes it too much for his own good.]
Since I brought you home and Zevlor stopped letting me get away with everything. [Isn't a lie in the slightest.] He looks at you and goes all soft around the edges— I'm the one still getting tuts and sighs, scrubbing down floors and banisters like Cinderella.
[Woe is him, the first-adopted son who still has studies to attend to.]
[He scoffs, but quietly so. The scent of Astarion's shampoo fills his senses, sweet and flowery with just a hint of something sharper, and it's all he can do not to lean in and bury his face in his hair. Or nuzzle against his cheek. Or catch his face and tip it towards him so he can catch him in a hungry kiss—
Focus, and his eyes flick towards the stage, vaguely attempting to pay attention (and keep himself grounded).]
As if Kanan isn't the same with you. Don't try and angle for sympathy, not when I have lived with you as long as I have. Besides: did you not hear me just say I have chores too?
[Ah, but he can't resist. Glancing over, he bumps his nose against his cheek, nuzzling him just once in indulgent adoration. Hot exhales ghost against cool skin as he tips his head (heart beating a little more rapidly, for he is so new to flirting) and whispers:]
Or is all that unsubtle whining a hint that you want me to sweep you off your feet?
[It doesn't come out half as smoothly as he thought it would, but he's learning. Fenris settles back with a little grin, eyes flicking forward as he focuses on the play and tries to cover for his fluster (though he doubts he fools Astarion). They've finally managed to move on to the next set of lines, but the blocking is all off, and Zevlor heaves the most put-upon sigh as he gets to his feet and heads up to help.]
[It is new. Everything about this is, which is why it's so addictive. Why he can't keep his fingers from seeking out any part of Fenris within reach, nothing too mundane to be exhilarating— even the sound of his voice (deeper than last year or the year before), catches in his veins like kindling. Waiting until Zevlor's footsteps trail away along with his calls for this or that to be arranged correctly, far enough from earshot to be harmless to their game.
The slow crawl of Astarion's grip to the middle of that shirt, fighting the urge to unbutton it. Smirking all the while.]
Mmm.
[Yes, Kanan's a soft touch for him. He couldn't argue if he tried.]
You'd have to topple me first, sweetheart. [Sweetheart, not Fenris; he's trying it out these days, emulating the smooth drip drop trickle of honeyed words the other courtesans like using.
This time, it sounds like it fits.
Or maybe he's just found out what it's like to want someone's focus so badly you'd do anything to link their heart to yours.]
I came here to sweep you off -yours-.
[Somewhere along the way, he's moved the ledger book elsewhere completely. It might well have settled up and vanished for how swiftly it ceased to exist between them. Beside them. Nowhere to be seen at all.]
To save you from all this dreary, endless toiling— you're welcome for caring, by the way.
[Sweetheart, some part of his mind sings. Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart, and he is too familiar with the performers to think it isn’t blatant imitation of the way they talk, but still. He is that, isn’t he? Alongside a thousand other pet names they might or might not ever use, but that belong only to them.
(Oh, possessive, fool hearts that they both are; it’s just that Fenris hides it better.)
His hand gropes blindly for the suddenly vanished ledger book, some part of him vaguely aware he should have that on him— but then Astarion’s fingers are gliding against his chest, cool through thin fabric, and suddenly he isn’t thinking of the book at all.]
Because I think you just want me to yourself. I think, [and he leans in, one broad hand slowly palming up Astarion’s thigh,] you’re bored. I think you wish for me to shirk all my responsibilities just so that I might save you from having to suffer from a second of doing anything you don’t. I think you’re dying for me to take you backstage, lay you down, pin you to the floor, and—
[Have you finished the ledger? Zevlor’s voice calls from the stage, his every word ringing with crisp reprimand, and with a little start Fenris jerks his hand away.]
Er— mostly.
[See that you do. The tiefling ignores the giggles around them, choosing instead to give Fenris one more pointed look before turning his attention to Astarion. And you cannot possibly be done with all your chores just yet.
Give him credit, for pointed humiliation isn’t his style nor intention, merely firm correction— and yet right now it barely matters, for some part of Fenris wants to simply melt into the floor and never be seen again.]
Ahahaaa.... [Isn't sheepish per se— he'd need to be shy or ashamed of being caught red-handed (and history's a testament to his lack of fretfulness for that, tinged one distinctive shade of maraschino pink)— but he creeps away from the buttons he'd been fiddling with all the same, slinking to the edge of Fenris' lap as if he'd never been there in the first place, smile wide and deferential, chin tipped faintly downwards to match the low slant of his ears.
In other words: Fenris is free to melt into the flooring if he pleases.]
Of course not, Zevlor. I just wanted a short break to rest my hands, is that such a terrible crime when I'm getting blisters on my blisters?
[Zevlor, whose hands knew nothing but calluses from the day he first picked up a sword, says nothing: already pretending to be fully preoccupied with blocking out the stage. It gives the performers a chance to stretch their legs a little. Rest their heels. Sip water and cast soft glances sideways over the slant of their shoulders.
It gives Elise a chance to sit beside them, one arm draped over theater seats and all that faintly weathered velvet. 'Having fun?' she asks.]
How would you know~? [Astarion answers in the most sing-song, knife-edged little purr.]
[It's exactly the person he didn't want to see, especially with Astarion in his lap, especially-especially so soon after all the drama. He still hasn't decided how to feel about her or what he ought to do (apologize? ignore it? he'd been leaning towards the latter, though Maker only knows why he thought that would fly in these halls). But they're all here now, and Astarion's in the mood to fight, if Fenris knows his darling's tones.
But so is Elise, if the little smile she offers Astarion is anything to go by. 'Because I know what Fenris looks like when he's excited,' she says, tossing her dark hair over one dainty shoulder. It's not that she cares at all about Fenris, but there's such indignity to thinking two boys were fighting over you, only to see them in each other's arms instead. It feels dangerously close to losing, and no one here likes that.
She waits a deliberate beat before adding sweetly: 'Do you?']
Elise—
['Well, he's new at this!' she pouts. 'It's only fair I give him a little help . . . maybe show him how to actually kiss instead of whatever attempts he's tried so far. Doesn't he need the practice?']
He does not. He's better than y—
['Aht— careful what you claim,' she interrupts, her eyes glittering. 'It's a bad idea to brag about someone untested . . . and you're not exactly a seasoned judge, are you?']
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
It lasts even less than that.
In fact, it might all be in his head, that fleeting game of retribution, because the second warm fingers close around his jaw (when the heady shock and dizzying adrenaline ebb enough for self-awareness to creep in, enough that) he can feel his head tilt back of its own accord— gently guided until softness wraps itself around his neck. Wet and slow and beckoning as that first kiss melts into a second, as the second melts into the slow lathe of an overeager tongue— teeth so tentative that he jolts beneath that first pass, his heart beating against the walls of his ribs like a wild animal. So excited that it hurts in a way, the oddest ache extending well beyond the borders of clenched fingers, curled toes, mostly rattling his chest. His breaths. He swallows hard and audible, his stare unfixed when it runs high enough to try taking in Fenris' face (his neck pulsing to the rhythm in his veins, dull yet far from distant), though with pupils blown wide beneath long lashes, all he finds is that he's seeing double. Clinging hard. If he made a noise, he can't remember. Doesn't care.
He's yanked Fenris' shirt down to his elbows; thin fabric swims around locked knuckles and cinched knees. Around the middle of his belly, highlighting every shallow breath that he sucks in. Bitterness the farthest thing from his own mind when he breathlessly manages in earnest:]
....did....did she teach you that?
[Credit where credit is due if so, even from him.]
no subject
He's panting when he draws back, his lips slick with spit (a crystalline line of saliva connecting them for a precious few seconds, and that shouldn't make something deep in his belly jolt with arousal). For a moment he stares down at Astarion, goosebumps rising on exposed bare skin and nothing but adoration in his eyes. And then he asks that question, all earnestness and no acidity, and yet:]
Eech, no.
[The sneering curl of his upper lip is wholly meant, if not a little exaggerated for Astarion's sake. Elise had been . . . Elise had been fine, but it's like comparing porridge to custard cake; both are foods, but there's only one Fenris will ever idly daydream about. No, Elise hadn't taught him this . . . his scowl eases, a touch of fluster replacing it as he wrinkles his nose down at Astarion.]
I just . . . I thought about it. With you. After everything.
[He'd thought about the way Astarion had jolted beneath him; he'd thought about how good it felt to sink his teeth into tender flesh, and wondered at his own desire to suckle there. He can feel self-consciousness fluttering on the edges of his heart, making him so hyperaware of everything (is he too heavy? does Astarion notice the stubborn bit of softness on his thighs? does he think he looks foolish right now, half-dressed and drooling like some simpleton rather than something worthy of desire?)— still, the look his counterpart gives him drives it all away.
So he offers up a smirk far cockier than he feels and angles himself back down, languidly arching his back as he comes close. Affectionately he nuzzles against his cheek (he can't help that), steals a swift kiss, and then murmurs:]
Should I do it again?
1/?
And it's petty, and small (it really, really is within the grander scheme of this one moment— ) but he's burning all the brighter for that confirmation, too. Something he'll boast to Kanan later: that the tiefling had been right after all. That it was nothing, and Fenris hadn't betrayed him (oh, Astarion....selfish, spoiled little Astarion), and she was only within her rights to be too eager to kiss someone so handsome and clever as his Fenris.
The red spot on his neck hurts just a bit. Heavy with its own weight and scalding presence over otherwise unmarked skin; he hopes it stays that way forever.
Or at least a week.
He slips one leg between Fenris', bearing higher, trying to emulate the courtesans he'd seen a thousand times. Wishing he'd asked Satine more. Learned at least a little about what other men might like when being courted instead of being guided only by blind sensation. But still, the friction's nice. And the balm of febrile contact. And— ]
2/?
And then he's face down in the junction between his husband's shoulder and chest once more, grumbling softly in the back of his own throat.]
It's too early....[Is an argument made with himself and no one else.] I'm not parenting a thing before noon.
[You deal with them today, may or may not find itself sleep-muttered into the borders of Kanan's arm.]
3/3
Now that afternoon is here, he can't remember much beyond that afterglow. That lingering sensation of contentment, now feathered in Fenris' dark hair. Denned down like the light that limns it alongside all those handsome features. The ones that've shifted across the years. Grown stronger. Sharper.
He's tired, but he can't stop staring. Tracing with his eyes the nonexistent slant from Fenris' forehead towards his nose, dipping lower into softset lips still kissed with warmer hues.
He doesn't want to go to work.
He really doesn't want to get up.]
1/?
It's not something Fenris would ever profess, but something along those lines plays out in his mind as he, entirely unwillingly, begins to stir. The afternoon sunlight plays a part in his rousing, but it's the movement that truly awakens him: some part of him waking when he feels lithe limbs gliding against his body. Cool to the touch and so familiar that they only faintly register as safe; it's only once he cracks open his eyes that he realize it's Astarion in his bed. Why . . . for a long few seconds Fenris stares dazedly up at him, vaguely pleased and utterly baffled both as to why they're entangled. Was there a storm again . . .? Or—
Oh. Oh, and the memories don't flood back so much as drift: pleasing little recollections rediscovered one after another, each more satisfying than the last. He beams at up Astarion (he tries, anyway, though it's probably more of a dazed thing than anything) and leans in to try and nuzzle at him. He ends up sort of mushing his face against his bare collarbone, but that's all right too.]
Hi . . .
[No, that's not enough. He feels around until he can latch his fingers around the back of his neck, gently urging him to lie back down. There's a multitude of jobs they need to attend to, and that's to say nothing of all the menial work Zevlor had given them as punishment, but oh, can't they have this? Just one afternoon. Just one more hour of this blissful, sleepy state . . .]
Lie down. Lie down with me . . .
[What could be more important than this? Astarion glimmering in the golden light, his hair shining and his cheeks warmed, still wearing all those pretty little marks Fenris had bitten in last night . . . no, they shouldn't do anything today, Fenris decides. For once in his life he's going to be selfish. For once in his life he'll be the one to demand they take a day off. For once in his life—]
no subject
[Kanan's voice is loud, but that's only because he knows how deeply Fenris sleeps. And true, the boy's never once overslept, but there's a first time for everything. He raps sharply at the door twice. There's the sound of sheets moving, a sharp hiss of inhaled breath, but no answer. Nothing substantial— and in his defense, he'd normally respect his privacy (especially as both boys enter their teenage years), but one, again, he’s watched Fenris sleep through an entire brass band playing, never mind a sharp knock, and two, he lost a lot of privileges this week. Oversleeping is the last straw. So he opens the door, and—]
no subject
[It's a yowl of protesting outrage, Fenris sitting up and snarling even as he scrambles to, what, cover Astarion? But there's no getting around it, and anyway, his panic only makes it worse— it's not as if it's the first time they've been caught in bed, and as long as they play it cool—
But it's too late, for Kanan's sharp eye is already taking in the lack of shirts and the little reddened marks peppered all over Astarion's skin . . . not to mention the way Fenris has gone red as he never has before.
Oh, I see.
He says archly, and Fenris actually bares his teeth in agonized humiliation.]
Get out, get out—!
[Five minutes, or I'm coming back up with Zevlor this time, Kanan says serenely, utterly unfazed by his son's yowling. There's an unbearable smirk plastered on his face and the most awful little gleam in his eye— oh, he's outright grinning as he turns to close the door again. Oh, sweetheart, he calls, the most obnoxious little lilt in his voice.
Which leaves Fenris wide awake now, sitting up and glaring fiercely at the door. His hair is mussed, black strands sticking up every which way and his expression the picture of indigence. Yes, okay, they woke up late, and yes, okay, they have jobs to do, but also: what the fuck. And this isn't what he wanted to start his day, and this isn't how he wanted their guardians to know (if they ever would! maybe he just wouldn't tell them at all!), and—]
4/4
Fenris exhales sharply and slides one palm over a pale shoulder, the motion soft and fond.]
Well, now they know.
[He says it more resignedly than upset— though even that is tempered by the small, private little smile he wears as he stares down at his— well. At his, whatever he may turn out to be.]
no subject
So what? [Crinkles the edge of his sharp nose, one canine fully visible whilst he sets himself to wrapping a palm around Fenris' hand— tugging.]
That's what we do here at the Moulin Rouge.
[No, it's what they sell there, and he's still too young to grasp the difference. Dramatic little rumble in his throat all pride, all drowsy-sweet contentment, when everything feels bright and new (and his own elated mind is now convinced it'll always be this way).
He has to twist a little to kick down the covers wrapped down around his ankles. Somehow he manages it without breaking contact with his notional twin.]
They heard us fighting, now they get to know we've made up.
no subject
But that's foolishness. Childishness. And given they do now all know (in one way if not another), well. They might as well lean in.]
And if they don't, you'll tell them, hm?
[It's an affectionate rumble as he leans down and kisses the top of Astarion's head— and then, cupping his cheek, turns his head up so he can catch his mouth. Five minutes, Kanan had warned, but how long does it really take to put on a pair of pants and run a brush through his hair?]
Tell me what duties they have assigned to you today, so that I may know where to sneak off to each time I find a spare minute.
[He murmurs it against his lips.]
no subject
Now they're caught in every sense, and every fiber of his being shivers like plucked strings to think of it (again, and again, and again). So when he ends the kiss he'd stolen, it's with one single, craning nuzzle. Something half remembered from last night, half completing the action Fenris started with that rumble, fighting just to keep him close a little longer.]
Who are you and what've you done with Fenris?
[No more distant than Fenris' coy murmur, barely a sliver of sunlight to spare in the empty space between them.]
no subject
I'm looking to not be caught. We need not get in trouble if we're careful, hm?
[And yet he's already leaning forward, one arm extending to pin by Astarion's hip, his head tipping to catch him in a deeper kiss. He can't help it, not when this is all so new. His heart is thrumming at a fierce pace and there's a fluttering in the pit of his stomach, but unlike last night, he isn't nervous. He doesn't feel gawky or inexperienced or overwhelmed. It's kissing, just kissing, and with his favorite person in the world— Maker, how can this feel anything but wonderful?]
But if you wish me to be good, Astarion, just say the word.
[Surely it's only been a minute. Surely they have a little more time— just one more kiss, Fenris thinks. One more kiss, one more minute, because yes, of course they're still in trouble, but it doesn't feel like it. He's higher by the minute, overwhelmed with adoration and affection, and it seems impossible to think that anything bad could happen right now. Surely Zevlor and Kanan will understand if they're a few minutes late. Surely they won't mind—
Except there are two sets of footsteps coming up the stairs now, and with a groan Fenris draws back. It isn't shyness, exactly, but . . . mm, he isn't willing to be caught by them twice.]
I'm coming.
[He calls it out as he scans the floor for a moderately clean pair of pants, his lips aching all the while. He shimmies into them while turning around to face Astarion, eager to keep him in his sightlines (and only later will he groan about his own besotted expression, wholly open and adoring).]
I'll find you today—
[— and understand, he means to. He means to sneak away the moment he's done with sorting through all of last year's costumes (an endless array of badly folded fabric that smells vaguely of sweat and dust and, inexplicably, lilac, sorted into two piles for reusable and scrap). Except there seems to be at least five costumes for every performer at minimum, and each of them needs to be poured over, testing seams and taking note of what needs repair. It's tedious and dull and will take days, not hours, which is almost precisely the point.
At least they have nights together. He waits until their guardians are asleep before he slips between Astarion's sheets that night, in part because he will always prefer privacy, and in part because it's exciting to sneak around. Like pretending they're one of those star-crossed couples from whatever romance is in season, urged to stay away and yet drawn to one another nonetheless. They talk and they kiss and— for now— leave it at that. Wandering hands and slow explorations are more than enough for now, and besides: there's something wonderful about being able to drink in each slow boundary crossed, inch by gradual inch.
And of course, everyone knows. They'd known from the first day, for gossip almost has a life of its own in the Moulin Rouge, secrets and rumors flying from lips to ears so fast that there's no point in trying to hide. And yet still, Fenris might have opted for something more subtle— but the boy he's dating (his brother, his darling, his companion in arms, his best friend and greatest ally) is so showy.
To wit: Fenris is sitting in one of the plush seats in the main hall, half-listening to rehearsals as he tries to figure out how the till total from last night keeps coming out wrong. No easy task when he's distracted, especially when Brienne keeps fucking up her lines (again and again and again, at this point even Fenris knows the words). The others are whispering catty little remarks just loud enough that Fenris can hear, and he's on the verge of getting up and finding somewhere quiet when—
—oh, and suddenly there's an elf sprawling in his lap and arms draped around his neck, and suddenly Fenris could care less about the till.]
Hi.
[A little breathless. A little overwhelmed. A little embarrassed, frankly, at the way suddenly all the dancers are looking at them instead of Brienne, and yet he still wraps an arm around Astarion's hips.]
no subject
To Astarion's credit, the squeeze of his thighs over Fenris' lap might be heavy, but the kisses he leans into are quite chaste: one to his forehead, another set to his cheeks and the tip of his nose before the last lands on his lips. Innocuous in form, but not intent, as his whispered grin soon swears:]
Maths again? [He clucks, tongue sharp against the backs of his own teeth. Criticism from the boy who was asked only once to balance the books, and then did such a piss poor job (and yowled so much in dire petulance), that Zevlor never bothered since to put him to the task.
He is, in essence, the sort to swear on tiktok that he's gay and therefore can't do math.] You're going to be here for a year at this rate.[His silk shirt's still too large for his shoulders; he'd begged Kanan for it for years, and attests he'll grow into it soon enough to warrant saving it from selling off, but it bunches round his throat and collar all the same, little faux diamonds glittering from glimpses of reflected stagelight.
It is, for the record, the exact sort of clothing he always opts to do his chores in, not wanting to look unfashionable for a second. Not unrelated to the way he smells like floor oil rather than perfume.]
no subject
[A lapful of Astarion is still a new thing, to be fair to Fenris. It doesn't matter how shameless his boyfriend is (pushing Fenris up against the wall to kiss him in plain sight of Elise; tumbling them both in a closet he knows won't stay forgotten for long), he's still getting used to it— to all of it. And right now, having lithe thighs press heavily in his lap and a soft voice murmuring in his ear is distracting.
Not to the point of stupidity, though. He blinks once or twice (ears a little darker than they were ten seconds ago), then offers Astarion a near-silent scoff.]
A year? Try another half-hour at most. Simply because mathematics escapes your grasp doesn't mean the rest of us are so challenged.
[. . . probably. Maybe. He considers this, drinking in the sight of a tantalizing bare shoulder and the delicate, exposed expanse of pale throat, and adds:]
It doesn't count if you intend on distracting me.
[Not that he's opposed to such things, mind you. But there are rules set in place for every little scuffle they have, no matter how pointless. Fenris tucks his pencil behind his ear so he can tug vaguely at the hanging line of Astarion's collar, not so much covering him up as simply playing with it. Hello, precious thing.]
Weren't you meant to help oil the floor today?
no subject
Their argument the other day was so intense as to evoke red ears and quaking tears, and yet now it's as good as forgotten in Astarion's bright eyes. Volatility transmuted into even more mercurial affection, all rumbling, all sweet—
And chased by a swift, hard bite to the side of Fenris' throat, mirroring the shadow of that hickey on his own.]
Did Zevlor give you more to do as punishment, or are you still the golden child of the Moulin Rouge?
no subject
He glances around hastily, but no, no one is looking. Two teenagers, no matter how endearing, aren’t half as interesting as a colleague faltering and being scolded. Fenris swallows thickly— he isn’t upset, nor even displeased (not when his throat still stings pleasantly and Astarion looks so damned attractive smirking like that). It's just that compared to the morals and standards of most in the Moulin Rouge, he's an exceedingly private person.]
Astarion …
[It’s a hissed protest that fails utterly to sound anything but pleased. With a soundless grumble he turns his head, jostling against his mate, nosing against his cheek as he gently pinches one thigh in scolding.]
As if he’s ever so lenient.
[Murmured in Astarion’s ear, for it’s not such a good idea to gossip when one’s target is not twenty feet away.]
I have props to polish, inventory to sort, and bartending all night tonight— and all week, too. When have I ever been golden boy, bitey thing?
no subject
Since I brought you home and Zevlor stopped letting me get away with everything. [Isn't a lie in the slightest.] He looks at you and goes all soft around the edges— I'm the one still getting tuts and sighs, scrubbing down floors and banisters like Cinderella.
[Woe is him, the first-adopted son who still has studies to attend to.]
no subject
Focus, and his eyes flick towards the stage, vaguely attempting to pay attention (and keep himself grounded).]
As if Kanan isn't the same with you. Don't try and angle for sympathy, not when I have lived with you as long as I have. Besides: did you not hear me just say I have chores too?
[Ah, but he can't resist. Glancing over, he bumps his nose against his cheek, nuzzling him just once in indulgent adoration. Hot exhales ghost against cool skin as he tips his head (heart beating a little more rapidly, for he is so new to flirting) and whispers:]
Or is all that unsubtle whining a hint that you want me to sweep you off your feet?
[It doesn't come out half as smoothly as he thought it would, but he's learning. Fenris settles back with a little grin, eyes flicking forward as he focuses on the play and tries to cover for his fluster (though he doubts he fools Astarion). They've finally managed to move on to the next set of lines, but the blocking is all off, and Zevlor heaves the most put-upon sigh as he gets to his feet and heads up to help.]
no subject
The slow crawl of Astarion's grip to the middle of that shirt, fighting the urge to unbutton it. Smirking all the while.]
Mmm.
[Yes, Kanan's a soft touch for him. He couldn't argue if he tried.]
You'd have to topple me first, sweetheart. [Sweetheart, not Fenris; he's trying it out these days, emulating the smooth drip drop trickle of honeyed words the other courtesans like using.
This time, it sounds like it fits.
Or maybe he's just found out what it's like to want someone's focus so badly you'd do anything to link their heart to yours.]
I came here to sweep you off -yours-.
[Somewhere along the way, he's moved the ledger book elsewhere completely. It might well have settled up and vanished for how swiftly it ceased to exist between them. Beside them. Nowhere to be seen at all.]
To save you from all this dreary, endless toiling— you're welcome for caring, by the way.
no subject
[Sweetheart, some part of his mind sings. Sweetheart, sweetheart, sweetheart, and he is too familiar with the performers to think it isn’t blatant imitation of the way they talk, but still. He is that, isn’t he? Alongside a thousand other pet names they might or might not ever use, but that belong only to them.
(Oh, possessive, fool hearts that they both are; it’s just that Fenris hides it better.)
His hand gropes blindly for the suddenly vanished ledger book, some part of him vaguely aware he should have that on him— but then Astarion’s fingers are gliding against his chest, cool through thin fabric, and suddenly he isn’t thinking of the book at all.]
Because I think you just want me to yourself. I think, [and he leans in, one broad hand slowly palming up Astarion’s thigh,] you’re bored. I think you wish for me to shirk all my responsibilities just so that I might save you from having to suffer from a second of doing anything you don’t. I think you’re dying for me to take you backstage, lay you down, pin you to the floor, and—
2/2
[Have you finished the ledger? Zevlor’s voice calls from the stage, his every word ringing with crisp reprimand, and with a little start Fenris jerks his hand away.]
Er— mostly.
[See that you do. The tiefling ignores the giggles around them, choosing instead to give Fenris one more pointed look before turning his attention to Astarion. And you cannot possibly be done with all your chores just yet.
Give him credit, for pointed humiliation isn’t his style nor intention, merely firm correction— and yet right now it barely matters, for some part of Fenris wants to simply melt into the floor and never be seen again.]
1/2
In other words: Fenris is free to melt into the flooring if he pleases.]
2/2
[Zevlor, whose hands knew nothing but calluses from the day he first picked up a sword, says nothing: already pretending to be fully preoccupied with blocking out the stage. It gives the performers a chance to stretch their legs a little. Rest their heels. Sip water and cast soft glances sideways over the slant of their shoulders.
It gives Elise a chance to sit beside them, one arm draped over theater seats and all that faintly weathered velvet. 'Having fun?' she asks.]
How would you know~? [Astarion answers in the most sing-song, knife-edged little purr.]
no subject
But so is Elise, if the little smile she offers Astarion is anything to go by. 'Because I know what Fenris looks like when he's excited,' she says, tossing her dark hair over one dainty shoulder. It's not that she cares at all about Fenris, but there's such indignity to thinking two boys were fighting over you, only to see them in each other's arms instead. It feels dangerously close to losing, and no one here likes that.
She waits a deliberate beat before adding sweetly: 'Do you?']
Elise—
['Well, he's new at this!' she pouts. 'It's only fair I give him a little help . . . maybe show him how to actually kiss instead of whatever attempts he's tried so far. Doesn't he need the practice?']
He does not. He's better than y—
['Aht— careful what you claim,' she interrupts, her eyes glittering. 'It's a bad idea to brag about someone untested . . . and you're not exactly a seasoned judge, are you?']
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/
2/
3/
4/4
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
2/2
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/3
(no subject)
3/3
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
3/3
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/3
2/4
(no subject)
(no subject)
5/5
(no subject)
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
(no subject)
2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
(no subject)
(no subject)
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1/2
(no subject)
1/2
2/2
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)