illithidnapped | little hands and quick work

. . . 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.

[He murmurs it against his lips.]

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.]

Uh— I, yeah.

[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?

Edited 2025-07-30 06:25 (UTC)

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.

Oh, is that what we’re calling it?

[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—

Edited 2025-08-04 18:32 (UTC)

[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?']

Edited 2025-08-05 04:15 (UTC)

[He tries to play it off. He really does. Partake in a modicum of Kanan's effortless grace or Satine's impassiveness or even Zevlor's calculating calm, bolstered by Fenris' support— and to his credit, he almost succeeds.

....If not for the way his ears lie flat like an angry cat about to bite. The brief spark of embarrassed shock in widened eyes, his pupils blowing out before they narrow. There's a twitch in his smile, and it wrinkles his nose on one side.

(He wonders how hard he'd have to lunge to slap his palm against the center of her face.)]

Then why'd you kiss him in the first place? [Is hot. Accusatory as it cuts across his tongue. It steers the topic just a bit, but that's all instinct rather than sense. He's leaning over Fenris' lap, angling too much pressure on one side.]

['Because he was there,' she says carelessly. Which isn't wrong, and it certainly isn't as if Fenris had cared about her either, but still: rude, and it only makes his scowl deepen. Astarion thrums with fury in his lap, his ears pinned back and his teeth ready to be bared, and though Fenris is absolutely ready to fight for him— still, he smooths one hand against his hip.

Settle. She means nothing, and he hopes it comes through.]

Better someone untrained than someone who kisses anyone available, [he says, mustering as much scornful disdain in his tone as he can manage.] Don't you have standards?

[She ignores him. He's less interesting to rile than Astarion, and besides: there's only a minute or two left before Zevlor calls them all back to practice. 'Do you want me to tell you who I kiss next? Seems like all you're really interested in is whoever I'm done with.']

[It's the nature of young things still gathering their bearings. Still learning what has weight and where and just how much matters— not just to themselves (irritation prickling along the back of Astarion's neck, and yet for what? Just because he's angry and protective doesn't make Elise the villain in this story when she bites back at their shamelessly unsubtle overtures: one foot in the antics they've grown up around and breathed in like a second language, the other in their own oh-so-serious hearts), but to those around them it's not particularly innocuous either, their flirting and atticborne howling and diminutive disturbances. Of course they're thrilling in each other, self-aware most often when perceived, but the execution is so so heavy handed, and their perspectives capped below the knees (Fenris significantly less so, but still).

Elise isn't wrong Astarion's easier to rile, in short. For him, this circling is deathly serious. A kitten puffing up its fur in mortal outrage over nothing but a handful of lazy, listless shots across the bow.]

I'd be more interested if everyone you consorted with was of Fenris' caliber, but I don't see them lining up around the block. Run out of paying clients willing to shell out for your goods?

Having to resort to—

Astarion!! [A pang of irritation in his temples (throbbing just beneath his spectacles) as Zevlor finds little wisps of churlish conversation drifting into his long ears, briefly turning away from the jeweled column he'd been attempting to reposition before: ] Go. Do. Your. Work. If you've time enough to bother my performers then I'll have no choice but to find more to keep you busy.

[The briefest pause precedes one final slap upon the wrist.]

Or perhaps trim down your lessons with Satine.

What?!

So your dancers can take breaks but when I do the same—

[The noise Zevlor makes is hard edged and unquestioning. Astarion's half-grunt half-whine answers back in assent as finally he takes his cue to fully slink from Fenris' lap, resentful and still so stubborn that the only person he locks eyes with is the only one he'd been touching, mouthing out the words find me later when you're free.

It's Elise who rolls her eyes with a slight smirk, still cupping her chin in her palm. Elise who waves goodbye to the scowling elf skulking away with his otherwise loose shirt collar drawn round his throat in retreat, clutched close like an heiress' silk scarf. No longer the child stomping around the theater's ankles in a rage, and yet still so much the same.

Even at their most aggravating (and insulting), the boys are hard to resent.]

She's a bitch.

[Astarion grits out from his perch on Kanan's bed, lounging with his ankles tucked across each other as the tiefling works.]

I don't know why Zevlor even hires people like that.

[He plucks at a few strands of thread on a freshly mended garment, sequins nipping at his fingers.]

Sweet, kind people don't last long in this business.

[He focuses on his task with a frown, two fingers holding a seam together while his other hand works on pinning things together without stabbing himself. But he takes a moment to glance up, raising one eyebrow at his teenage son.]

She wasn't half as nasty to you as she could have been, and you know it. Though she might resort to it if you keep picking fights.

[Astarion isn't in trouble, and Kanon isn't angry— but nor will he be blindly supportive, thank you very much.]

Isn't it enough you're spiking Zevlor's blood pressure anytime he sees you in Fenris' lap?

You weren't there, Kanon, you didn't hear the awful things she was saying about Fenris!

[In other words: no. It's absolutely not enough.

He sits up on his elbows, eyebrows knitting in the middle before he reaches out to fix one of the sections of that garment that's gone and tangled— helping, yes, but in the way that any child helps when what they're really after is attention.

Or a break from the monotony of their chores.

Or both.]

Maybe I should poison her.

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