illithidnapped | little hands and quick work

[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.

[Bid for attention or not, it's still helpful. Still: Kanan doesn't answer right away, flicking another few pins deftly through sheer fabric, before he glances up again.]

You'll do no such thing.

[Mild, that, but only because he doesn't think Astarion means it. But then he sighs and sets his project down in his lap.]

You have to stop, Astarion. There's no way this ends well for you— and you cannot keep unfairly punishing her for nothing.

[Oh, as if it will be as easy as that— but at least this will introduce the subject, if nothing else.]

Then what about fairly punishing her? [He asks, tipping his chin up in the middle of his efforts, managing to almost sound hopeful— not to mention innocent.

Almost.

He mimics Kanan's efforts, stabbing a few pins into the costume in key places along the h— ah. No. Just stabbing. And stabbing.]

Anyway you don't need to lie to me. You and Zevlor work here, so— not sweet, not always— but kind people do just fine.

[Stab. Stab. Absent, idle stab.]

I won't hurt her for being a misery inducing cunt.

You won't hurt her at all, intentionally or otherwise. Stop that—

[Stabbing the garment, he means. It doesn't leave such a big hole, but on the other hand, it would be nice to have a costume that doesn't seem inclined to fall apart on the third night in.]

She did nothing wrong, Astarion, no matter that your heart is still sore. Count yourself lucky she was inclined to play rather than strike you down, for she could have easily. She still could, and will, unless you mind yourself. You've seen it happen plenty of times, I know you have.

[From Elise, yes, but Brienne too, and Etudíe, and Violet, and Satine, and all the others who have come and gone through these halls. Vicious as harpies and keenly aware of the social pecking order, and it's just the way of things. Entering into the Moulin Rouge's employment means learning that and adapting to it— or not.

But the boys haven't had to learn it, not yet. Exempt from the hierarchy by virtue of being the two sons of the proprietor, they've gotten to enjoy years of wandering around with no limits nor leashes. After all: no one is going to put a toddler nor a child in their place, not when they could tease and dote upon them. Even when they began to hit puberty, there was a grace period where no one looked at them as anything but gangling, gawky little things, nonthreatening and relatively unimportant.

But now . . . now, things are shifting. It began yesterday, Kanan realizes, and he was foolish not to realize it.]

You cannot keep antagonizing people here on a whim. Especially not if those people are to be your coworkers— and especially not if you want any of them to see you as anything other than the temperamental child they watched grow up.

Sulking and pouting won't win you their respect, Astarion. And picking a fight over nothing is only going to make things harder in the long run.

I know— [comes out so much harsher than he means, even if it is nothing more than a whine— he hears himself and wilts into the covers, correcting himself before Kanan feels like he has to, letting his arms and wrists go slack as he sinks into the crook of them, face-down.] I know....but it's just—

[A muffled grunt of frustration, eyebrows locked together when he lifts his head again, glaring into nothing.]

They weren't my coworkers before.

[Poor thing, Kanan thinks mildly. Poor vexed thing, struggling with the growing pains they all of them have to go through— and it's not that Astarion shouldn't, but oh, his are a uniquely difficult set, aren't they? Fated to try and carve out a niche within a world that's watched him go from bossy toddler to lanky-limbed Diamond-in-training . . . Kanan leans over, running his fingers through his hair just once, back to front.]

They weren't. And you had many years to get used to tugging their tails as you pleased.

[It's hard. And it's not that Zevlor can't be sympathetic in his own way, but oh, his husband is a blunter thing. Compassionate, but not one to let either of their boys wallow overlong. Kanan has a little more room for that— which is why it's he, not Zevlor, that Astarion so often goes to when he's fretful.]

But you have time to learn again. And, [he adds, tweaking one downtipped ear,] it doesn't mean you can never spar with them. Simply . . . gentler. Less presumptuous. And not until you earn your place among them.

[Which is all very good in the longer sense, of course, but Astarion needs some more immediate course-correcting.]

But for now, you could start by not flaunting Fenris around like a prize. No one wants to see that.

[Zevlor included, and perhaps it's not a shock his husband's temper is a little more strained than it might otherwise be.]

[His hair sticks up the opposite way, little white fingers of curls going this way or that, which winds up matching the way he twists around where he lies to squint over his shoulder at Kanan. His lip pinched up on one side over his teeth, his brow knotted up tighter than the jewelry in his washroom cabinet— a tight-wound sign he's struggling to process what he's just heard.

Not the first part.

The second.]

In the Moulin Rouge?

[Is so incredulous that his tiny voice breaks all on its own.]

Where pople pay good money to see flaunti—

[He gasps. Scoots up onto his hands and knees, leaning to view Kanan eye-to-eye like a dog squinting at an unfamiliar hound.]

—are you just saying that because of Zevlor??

No.

[Though that's in no small part why he's saying it here and now, but never mind that. Kanan sets the costume down so he can tick off each crisp point on slender fingers, one after the other.]

First of all: people pay good money to see beautiful, experienced courtesans enact rehearsed displays of flaunted lewdity, carefully choreographed and expertly delivered. Secondly: they pay to see adults. You'll note nowhere in there did I say they wanted to watch two teenage boys shoving their tongues inelegantly down one another's throats with no thought for anyone's pleasure but their own.

And thirdly, no one in this company is paying to see you two. Point in fact, I'd wager one or two of them would pay to not see you go at it— and that, my dear, is where Zevlor comes in.

Have mercy on him. He's still getting used to you being a teenager, never mind dallying with Fenris. Have mercy on all of us, who have to live and breathe sex and sensuality without having to endure it on our off-times. And if nothing else, Astarion . . .

[A little more affectionate, then:]

Savor keeping such things private. There won't be much chance of that the further you get in your training— and you deserve to have something to yourself.

[The well-defeated grumble underneath his breath roughly translates to 'fine' by any and all adolescent standards, and the thing is— he's not so childish that he can blatantly ignore all the telltale hallmarks of Kanan's heartfelt reaching, intermingled with the rest. The way he counts off on his fingers might be coy, but the rest? The interthreaded emotion, the hint of something bordering on heartbreak or happiness, too unfamiliar to be read with any expert deftness by a younger creature lacking in experience, but it catches all the same. Bounces off awareness like a tuning fork, leaving slight ripples in its wake.

He sits back on his heels. He thinks. And for a moment, he's retreated fully inward: consumed by thoughts left unconveyed.

And then, in pure defiance of the frustration that'd seen needles plunged through sequin scales (oh so much the child that he was before these last few years), his grin is bright and shining. A shimmer in pale silver eyes, electric when he throws his arms round Kanan's throat, past those still-raised fingers.]

—Thank you, Kanan.

[He gets it, now, he does. The point of all this, strung between the last conversation that they'd had and this one. The faceted, important bottom line he'd overlooked like the foolish thing he was.]

[He corners Fenris once the theater's cleared out. Nothing but paper scraps and dust and the props that need to be wiped down and put away before the evening crowds descend. Like dawn, the sunset portion of the day is oddly quiet what with most of the cast off getting in their washing and meals and rest, and it has the added effect of pouring Astarion's slight voice around within that empty space, making it louder than it should be.

Or maybe just as loud.

His arms are folded around the plush velvet of a theater seat from behind, grinning hard enough to show all his teeth as Fenris sweeps.]

I know what I have to do now.

[Oh yes, he'd deciphered his parent's cryptic code. He's grasped the secrets of maturity and beyond and tapped into the Rosetta Stone of Maturity that they'd both lacked, all underlining why it's been so vexing and so hard.]

To fix all this. Get Zevlor and everyone off our backs and make it so we can do what we want without getting punished for it.

[He pulls his hands back, palms together facing downwards in a steeple, tapping his fingertips against the seat back the way that someone reveals an earth-shattering play.]

I have to get better at sex.

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