[Oh, how his ego swells for that compliment. Insecure anxiety hasn't yet gotten a chance to flare, and now perhaps it won't at all, for Astarion wouldn't say such things if he didn't mean them. Puffed up and proud, Fenris can't bite back his pleased smirk as he draws back to regard his boyfriend.]
I— didn't.
[Is that right? The past . . . however long it's been (minutes? hours? days? nothing really exists outside of this room, least of all the passage of time) are a happy blur, and only now does Fenris try to go back and pick apart each specific action.]
I . . . it just felt good, [he says a little helplessly. With a small wince he inches forward, drawing his legs up so he can ease them out of a kneeling position and stretch them back, and then lie down properly atop Astarion.]
I suppose some of it I must have seen in the past, but . . . I just did what felt good.
[Is that what sex is? It's such a scripted affair in the Moulin Rouge, or at least it's always seemed that way. Every dance is a titillating thing, meant to allure as it alludes to what might be sold later; every bounce and jiggle is planned in meticulous detail. Only now does Fenris think that maybe sex isn't quite the same way . . . or is it? Mm, it seems a little ridiculous to think that every person in the world plans out their rutting, so . . . maybe it's only good sex that's planned? But that can't be right, for look at what they've done . . .
Maybe they're just really, really good at it, Fenris thinks, and brushes a sweat-damp curl away from Astarion's face. His expression is more than a little besotted, he knows, but for the life of him he can't help it. His heart is just so full of adoration right now, doting and sweet; it's all he can do not to fiercely nuzzle against his boyfriend every second he gets.]
How did you learn? The dirty talk alone was . . . [Maker. He swallows thickly.] It was really good, Astarion. And when you said—
[I wonder if my bodyguard would look more handsome painted slick across my belly— or his own . . . match the way you look inside. Even now, the mere memory of them is enough to stir something in the pit of his belly— and yet he can't quite say it. What was easy in the heat of the moment is a little harder in the aftermath, and he glances away for a few seconds, pleasantly embarrassed.]
[Is that the first time in his life he's ever paid a compliment that devalues his own contributions?
(Yes, and it trickles effortlessly from his chest. Uncorked at last and beautifully aged— for the vintage might be far from ancient, but the potency is steep.)]
I think my lessons might've been paying off. [He's not yet learned how to even properly kiss; Satine has only covered etiquette, posture, and enunciation, common grooming tips and fashion. Astarion would've learned the exact same thing from any children's finishing school in the city, not that he knows it.
Not that either of them know it, and it's going to be such a menacing source of irritation for every single person around them from now until they (eventually) learn better.
He forces his fingers to unlatch— a dull ache flooding in alongside feeling and the rush of blood, so he's clunky in the act of stroking hair: not fully trembling in those first few passes, just close enough that he's aware each time they skirt too light or much too heavy in their path across his lover's sweatlaced scalp.
Hello, he thinks, words coming from a lifetime away.]
Don't....[it isn't tense; he's only interrupted by the fact that he forgot to breathe first, and finds he has to take in more to finish off his sentence] don't move yet.
I want to sleep like this if—
[This time the pause is real, he doesn't know the answer to this.]
[Oh, and he breathes out the word, his green eyes widening as he considers the idea. It would be satisfying, wouldn't it? To perch atop his cock for hours on end, their bodies intertwined in the most intimate way . . . oh, he thinks again, a flush dusting high along the tips of his ears.]
No-oo . . . not hurt.
[The words are spoken slowly as Fenris tries to make sure that's an honest reply. But no, there's no pain there, not even when he wiggles a little and arches his back just to be sure. Though that has the unintentional side-effect of teasing Astarion, and he makes a little face in an apology that's mostly genuine. Sorry-not-sorry, a little spark of satisfied sadism flaring momentarily in the pit of his stomach.]
It feels . . .
[How to describe it? Not something as simplistic as good, for that doesn't begin to cover it. Satisfying, maybe, is the best word for it: there's something so innately pleasing about the feeling of being caught and kept like this, speared open and spread wide around the not-inconsiderable width of his boyfriend's prick. I'm yours, that's what this feels like. I'm yours, only yours, slick droplets of pearl glossing his rim as Astarion claims him inch by inexorable, inevitable inch . . .
It's perverse, no doubt. Filthy in a way that he would have found repulsive in anyone else. But when it's them— well. That's different, isn't it? In the same way mulsum and agreggio pavali are both technically wines, but only one of them is innately desirable within these halls.
Oh, but he owes Astarion an answer . . . he'd nearly forgotten, lulled into dozing complacency by those fingers and his prick both.]
I want to sleep like this too. And stay atop you as long as I can. And next time, you can try it— it feels really good, Astarion. Better than you'd think. I like being with you like this . . . and—
[He draws back (one hand flying up to pin Astarion's in place— don't stop petting me).]
What if I move in my sleep?
[He used to cling when he was very young, his arms wrapping so tight around Astarion that the other boy couldn't get away if he tried. Now, older and more secure, he has a tendency to twist around until he's burrowed deep within the nest of blankets and sheets that make up his bed. It's not the worst behavior a bedmate could have, but there's been complaints of sharp heels and carelessly tossed limbs before.]
I don't want to break your cock.
[It's a good cock, and they've already had one scare tonight.]
[Maybe it'd be easier if he just wiggled off Astarion? He inches forward, trying to do just that, but oh, he's so loathe to lose that claim . . . mmph. A compromise: he nips at his boyfriend's jawline.]
Don't sleep just yet, for I don't want to get off you. Tell me instead what you want to try next time we do this.
[Next time, and despite himself, a little thrill runs through him for the thought. There will be a next time, won't there? And another, and another . . .]
Oh, the shiver that rockets through him at that (unintended) teasing. Oh gods the stars that burst across his eyes, shattering the slate of his awareness and leaving him clinging tight to Fenris— his stare unfixed and glassy, his fingernails dug in, shuddering like a wet cat.
It's only when he recovers that he knocks his cheek against his boyfriend's, letting one chastising scrape of skin-against-warm-skin serve as both scolding and acceptance all at once. How dare you mixed into I forgive you, menace.
He isn't really angry, after all.]
You won't break my cock. [Confident enough at first blush, his fingertips (the ones attached to his caught hand, anyway) resuming their slow petting. And then, amending:] ....at least I don't think you will.
You seem to like the way it feels, so I bet your subconscious would too.
[That sounds logical, right?]
Mmmm....but what I want to see next time.... [He's thinking. He's really thinking.] I hear blowjobs are amazing. That'd be nice. Maybe even....
Tying you up? —or blindfolds? The old silk ones are getting worn out, I heard Kanan say. It wouldn't be hard to borrow one without anyone noticing.
[Look how learned he is, Fenris. Look how much he knows about sex.]
[There's a small part of Fenris that still has some healthy doubts about Astarion's cock, but, well, so be it. They aren't sleeping just yet, and he does like the way this feels, thank you very much. It's all he can do not to squirm around experimentally; he has to settle for kneading gently against Astarion's chest, every touch a new wonder to be explored.
But oh, a blowjob— oh, those suggestions, and with each one Fenris' eyes grow wider and his cheeks warmer. He barely knows what a blowjob is, but it doesn't matter; anything that Astarion says he wants to try Fenris is more than game for.]
You—
[Tying you up or blindfolds . . . he'd known, vaguely, that those were things that people did during sex (for there was only so much Kanan and Zevlor could keep from them). But knowing it happened to others and considering it for himself are two very different things, and Fenris spends a precious few seconds trying to imagine what exactly that would look like. Though . . .]
Pick one to try.
[He tips his head, eyes narrowing in familiar competitiveness.]
Tie me up or blindfold me . . . but whatever you don't pick, I get to try on you.
[So flustered that it threads into his voice for half a second, breathy and completely uncomposed. His long ears sunken shyly underneath his curls until they twitch— and then jolt upright, all bashfulness wiped away by a short series of counterbalancing blinks.
(There's also the matter of the tension trapped low along his belly that still lingers, but he keeps his hands braced somewhere around either side of Fenris' shoulders now, and at least he can anchor himself through the way his fingertips curl just slightly over skin. Clinging and functioning like foundation all at once.)]
I mean— [Competitiveness. Competitiveness he can do, even distracted. An increasingly steady slant forming at the corner of his fresher grin insists on it, in fact.] of course. That's exactly what I had in mind, too.
That way we both can enjoy ourselves.
[Erh. No. Wait. Doesn't that imply that it wouldn't be pleasurable if they weren't taking turns?]
Try new things.
[ —Yes, there we go.]
Start making lists of all our favorites....just like the ones I've seen downstairs.
[Oh, Fenris' eyes gleam as Astarion flusters. He looks so sweet in those precious seconds, glimmering eyes wide and a pretty blush lighting up his cheeks . . . cute, Fenris thinks, and grins as his boyfriend regains his composure. Adorable how he flusters the moment the tables are turned on him, even if Fenris himself fares little better.]
I want to blindfold you first.
[The thought of Astarion with his hands drawn up over his head, lithe body drawn taut as he squirms in overstimulated impatience is, mm, a fantastic one, but Fenris likes the thought of him blind better. Going from arrogantly demanding things to gasping from the least little touch . . . oh, he likes the thought of that a lot, Fenris decides. And given they'll inevitably try everything from either end of the equation, he might as well demand what's on his mind first.]
That way we can start there . . . and go down any list we please.
[His eyes scan up and down Astarion's face, and then, in a burst of impulsive courage, he adds:]
I want to see you in lingerie. So. Add that to your list too. And I want to see you give me a blowjob too— maybe both of them at once.
[And maybe first, so that way Fenris can understand what exactly blowing someone entails.]
A handjob is when you use your hands for sex....probably. (Because he's never heard of a dickjob or an assjob come to think of it, and not for lack of listening in, either, so if he puts the logic of that together, and then applies that to the rest of it, then he knows exactly what to do.) And the thing is— when he thinks about it, it sounds hot. Imagining himself blindfolded, wearing the sort of expensive jewels and lace that the aristocracy drools openly for (borrowed without Kanan knowing, of course) in the depths of some shoddy backstage room, hoisting Fenris' cock towards his lips via a few carefully curled fingertips and gently blowing across its tip—
It sends prickles of sensation skittering across his skin. Wakes him up against the drowsy-sweet flow of exhaustion he's been fighting in the wings of his own consciousness, closer to the dawn than dusk.]
You'll be my first customer, then.
[Says the lovestruck boy busy weaving their ankles together, imitating whorish odalisquery the way a lion cub tackles grass for prey.]
[He means it to come out more emphatically than it does, but exhaustion (and the heavy, assuring swell of Astarion's cock) is lulling him into a sleepy stupor. He tucks his face into the crook of Astarion's neck, burying himself there with a little groan. There's a vague thought for draping the sheets over them both, but, well, eh. Astarion has more dexterity like this, Fenris thinks unfairly, and so he can be the one to tuck them both in.
But oh, right, he was saying something, wasn't he? Fenris tips his head up, blinking just a little blearily down at his boyfriend (and knocking his ankles back happily against that inviting coil).]
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
[And spent though he is, never doubt he knows the weight of those words. Not him.]
Not a customer. Not somebody you put on a farce to be around. I'm your bodyguard, and you're my Diamond— but you're also my boyfriend. And even if I—
[He hesitates for a moment. Jealousy gnaws sullenly at the back of his throat, but it's an easier pill to swallow when it's all conjecture. Still: there's a look of resignation in his eyes as he continues:]
Even if I have to share your, your expertise, I won't share your heart. Not with anyone.
[Again, he finds himself taken by surprise. Again, the forefront of his mind slips away into the gap between shock and sheer bewitchment— there, Fenris' face against his neck, cold with night sweat and flush with heat suffused underneath his skin all at once. There, the weight of sinew and muscle all real and undeniable no matter how his (formerly, he'd attest) juvenile mind defaults to thinking it's not real. It can't be real. It's too good, too tangible, too sharp with rampant clarity compared to the dullness of his life.
There, the words that leave him tight in the chest until he forgets that he's supposed to breathe.
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
He'd only meant it as a joke.
Or— no, not really. Not at all. Maybe he told himself it was a joke, but some part of him wanted it to be true: that Fenris would be his first customer. The only one that mattered. The only one that'd count. (Now the sentiment is small and pale. It's withered in its formerly perceived greatness, like a bite of apple that's too old to be anything but dry and spongy on the tongue.) He doesn't want to share his heart. Or himself. Or this.
Not with anyone that isn't Fenris.]
So you won't have to. [His head turns, cheek bearing against cheek as he tries to press a kiss to whatever edge of Fenris' face or temple or ear that he can find— less mouth to skin for the angle, but he can kiss the air and call it his lover too so long as they're the only ones here.] Not ever.
[He has to reach around strong shoulders to find the mess that was their bedding, tugging up a corner and a middle-section all at once. They're hopelessly intertwined; no straightening it out as he gives up and drags the bundle relatively over them in all the places where it counts, at least, with only an elbow or a foot or two left wanting for warm shelter.
Good enough, he thinks, collapsing across rucked pillows and slumping back into the boy who owns his heart, a few fingers threading through damp hair once more.]
You're my bodyguard....and I'm just yours.
[Even if he can't feel his fingertips, he likes the way straight strands twist between the pads of them.]
No, Fenris thinks distantly, surely not. Surely jealousy isn't so easily quelled; surely there will come a time when Astarion looks at some customer the way he's only meant to look at his Fenris, and that will hurt so badly. But . . . maybe it is, some small part of him whispers. It's the part that's currently melting beneath the way delicate fingers play with this hair; it's the part of him that rumbles softly in contentment as he settles beneath the covers and returns that clumsy kiss.
After all, isn't that how it's always worked between them? Ever since the beginning, back when Astarion had found him shattered into a hundred thousand pieces and offered him a handhold in the darkness. It's okay, you're okay, and though he'd known better even then to trust in such promises, Astarion has always had a way of achieving the impossible.
So why should this be any different?
It won't be, he thinks, his eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion begins to creep over him. He won't get jealous, and Astarion won't ever make him share. They'll be okay, because they're always okay. It won't be any different . . .]
It isn't any different than anyone else's first portraits.
[He cocks his head as he says it. It is, to his expert eye, a fairly good poster. The artist Zevlor hired knows how to arrange things just so, so that one's gaze is naturally drawn from the tangle of gleaming pearls wrapped carelessly around Astarion's hands down to the glass of bubbling champagne before him, and from there to the name of the establishment itself. Pale skin glows brightly against a black backdrop, and particular attention has been lovingly paid to the lines of Astarion's neck and collarbone.
None of that is the problem, of course, but still: it's a good painting.]
There's a wild-incredulous gleam within pale eyes as they turn to fix on Fenris, whipped away from the purported 'masterpiece'— his mouth hanging open, an eyebrow twitching.]
My fucking FACE for starters, Fenris!! I expected to see my own fucking FACE!
[Back and forth his hands snap between Fenris and the canvas: DO YOU SEE. THE ISSUE. HERE.
(Tiredly, Zevlor interjects that it's an advertisement for the establisment at large, not Astarion, but said interjection goes largely unheard beneath the cacophony unleashed by the youngest future-entertainer-in-waiting in the room.)]
To be fair to Astarion: it's not as if he's the only performer who's ever thrown a fit about not having his face in a poster. It's just that none of the others have ever mattered half so much as Astarion has, nor has anyone been quite so amusingly adorable in their puffed up rage. Biting his bottom lip to hide his grin, he glances just once at Zevlor before smoothly slipping one arm around Astarion's waist.
(It's not that Zevlor doesn't know (about them being a thing, anyway, though Fenris isn't sure if he knows about them having sex). But all of this is so new, and it's strange to try to find what new limitations and boundaries there are. For his part, Zevlor merely raises his brows for half a second, then turns his focus back towards Astarion.]
It's not your show.
[Blunt, but not unsympathetic. Nonetheless, there's the reason. Besides, it really is a nice poster . . . his hands a particularly well done touch, Fenris thinks. Clever fingers and defined tendons that offset the soft gleam of pearls . . . Fenris stares for a few seconds, caught by them, before remembering he's meant to be soothing.]
And anyway, did you not tell me that mystery was part of any diamant's allure?
[For whatever it's worth, Zevlor tries very hard not to know. In fact, the flattened expression and elsewhere aimed eyes in overt dismission are a sign that despite believing this is the byproduct of misdirected sibling bonding, and despite being grateful for Fenris' interference, he's in favor of assuming it will end soon. Young infatuation is a novelty, especially in this line of work.
Infatuation that, at present, looks a great deal like snarling pups.]
I am supposed to be the mystery! [He snaps back with something more akin to a whine than a snarl, increasingly pacified by the arm round his waist— moreover when it's chanced in front of Zevlor of all people. He is still riled. Still upset at the unveiling that he'd expected to go snubbing half of Paris with, and now instead will have to quibble over moles and the shape of his décolletage about, but....]
Tsk [ is a sinking against Fenris' side, oozing into his own posture in a way that resembles nothing of painted elegance or grace.
Only sulking.]
....I was supposed to be the mystery.
I bragged about this all week.
['You're not even a diamond yet,' Zevlor exhales, filing the paperwork for the latest set of portraitures. The ire that it earns (oh the glare angled Zevlor's way from the bastion of Fenris' comfort), could burn the Moulin Rouge down if left with kindling.]
[He murmurs it in Astarion's ear, equal parts flirtatious and mollifying. The gesture earns another quick glance towards Zevlor, there and gone, but . . . well, if the man wants to ignore them for the time being, let him. That suits Fenris just fine, frankly. Kanan's been the opposite: almost unnervingly amused by their newfound relationship status, constantly teasing (mostly Astarion) about flirtations and notable bruises, and that embarrasses Fenris.
Turning his head, he nuzzles just once against perfumed curls. There, there, dearest heart . . .]
Anyway, you can still brag, can you not? Simply tell them you planned this. They won't know the difference, and you can still preen to your heart's content.
[A majority of the performers won't be fooled, but some of the younger ones might. Maybe. If Astarion sells it right, but his boyfriend is remarkably good at acting when he wants to be (or lying, if you look at it another way).]
Or don't. But there will be other posters, and soon enough with your face on them.
Fenris glances over uncertainly at Zevlor, and then, carefully, adds:]
[There's something palpable about the way Astarion melts in Fenris' arms, almost rumbling in his throat for how he's been so thoroughly pacified by only a few whispered words and the feeling of one soothing, pressed-in nuzzle.
Zevlor, on the other hand, might as well embody the concept of exasperation when he asks with pointed precision:
[Well, that's— that's a very good question, isn't it? Perfectly normal. And the answer Fenris has— and he has an answer, mind you— is perfectly normal too. Definitely not weird, or perverted, or covetous; he has a normal, ordinary reason for wanting a poster of his boyfriend, just like every other normal, ordinary, definitely not recently-sex-obsessed teenager in Paris.
There is a pause. And then, slowly:]
To . . . memorialize it. It's his first poster.
[8/10 on reasoning, 5/10 on delivery. Zevlor does not look any more impressed by Fenris' logic than he had when he was a child; it's the same flat, expectant expression. 'Is that why,' he says, and what he means is: no it fucking well isn't why, and we both know it.]
Can I have it or not?
['No,' Zevlor says firmly, and turns back to seemingly survey the poster. There's a rigidity to his posture that speaks of coiled tension; it's the same way he looks when he's three days away from firing an actor. 'You may not,' he adds somewhat obnoxiously, and Fenris scowls.]
Why?
[It's the wrong move. Zevlor's voice grows more taut, his amber eyes blazing as he finally glances over at them both. 'Because neither of you need any more encouragement,' he says firmly. 'And I don't intend to be the one to give it to you.']
Oh good, [Astarion huffs out in peripherally activated offense,] so now you're shunning both your sons— what's next, then, for the unsupportive father-et-employer of the year? Perhaps you'd like to dock our salaries too whilst you're at it? Take away our evening bread and gruel—
['You ate ham roast this morning.' Zevlor wearily exhales.]
—leave us starving in the streets?? Unknown. Unwanted. Unrecognized—
[There it is. The inevitable leap back round to the painting, coaxing a few irritated flicks out of the Moulin Rouge's impressively put-upon owner.
Then again, if one's truly keeping score, between both Fenris and Astarion it's not as if they ever left the subject, come to think of it.
Right, then.
There's a dust-filled snap of tallied pages as Zevlor shuts his ledger tight between his claws, narrowing more than just the slits of his pupils when his bifocals slide lower down his face.
'I was holding off on introductions until you both had finished your inspection of our latest show posters, but I can see now you're full of it already. This was not the only brokered arrangement brought to fruition tonight.'
Astarion's gasp is audible.]
—I knew it.
[His excitement doubly so.]
What is it?? Is it another painting? A special premiere edition— no, wait—! It's a copy, isn't it? You had two made, to privately commemorate—
['Fenris, Astarion,' There's a deliberate intent behind the order of their names, 'I'd like you to meet Dalyria. Our newest— and, apart from you two, youngest— hire.']
['Unless either of you have aspirations to heal instead of either defend or act, no,' Zevlor replies. Somehow he manages to convey a general sense of rolling his eyes without actually doing it; it's quite impressive, Dalyria thinks, and takes note of it to try and imitate later.
For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
A gimmick? [Finds itself possessed of a k like a kick: not aggressive outright, but there's enough consonant present to outweigh the rest of the entire word. Couple that with Astarion's still-folded arms and the brow he's left cocked high, and all that can be said is that he's more protective than defensive, at least, and attempting to project that through the basics of his tone.
The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
no subject
I— didn't.
[Is that right? The past . . . however long it's been (minutes? hours? days? nothing really exists outside of this room, least of all the passage of time) are a happy blur, and only now does Fenris try to go back and pick apart each specific action.]
I . . . it just felt good, [he says a little helplessly. With a small wince he inches forward, drawing his legs up so he can ease them out of a kneeling position and stretch them back, and then lie down properly atop Astarion.]
I suppose some of it I must have seen in the past, but . . . I just did what felt good.
[Is that what sex is? It's such a scripted affair in the Moulin Rouge, or at least it's always seemed that way. Every dance is a titillating thing, meant to allure as it alludes to what might be sold later; every bounce and jiggle is planned in meticulous detail. Only now does Fenris think that maybe sex isn't quite the same way . . . or is it? Mm, it seems a little ridiculous to think that every person in the world plans out their rutting, so . . . maybe it's only good sex that's planned? But that can't be right, for look at what they've done . . .
Maybe they're just really, really good at it, Fenris thinks, and brushes a sweat-damp curl away from Astarion's face. His expression is more than a little besotted, he knows, but for the life of him he can't help it. His heart is just so full of adoration right now, doting and sweet; it's all he can do not to fiercely nuzzle against his boyfriend every second he gets.]
How did you learn? The dirty talk alone was . . . [Maker. He swallows thickly.] It was really good, Astarion. And when you said—
[I wonder if my bodyguard would look more handsome painted slick across my belly— or his own . . . match the way you look inside. Even now, the mere memory of them is enough to stir something in the pit of his belly— and yet he can't quite say it. What was easy in the heat of the moment is a little harder in the aftermath, and he glances away for a few seconds, pleasantly embarrassed.]
You truly are a Diamond.
no subject
[Is that the first time in his life he's ever paid a compliment that devalues his own contributions?
(Yes, and it trickles effortlessly from his chest. Uncorked at last and beautifully aged— for the vintage might be far from ancient, but the potency is steep.)]
I think my lessons might've been paying off. [He's not yet learned how to even properly kiss; Satine has only covered etiquette, posture, and enunciation, common grooming tips and fashion. Astarion would've learned the exact same thing from any children's finishing school in the city, not that he knows it.
Not that either of them know it, and it's going to be such a menacing source of irritation for every single person around them from now until they (eventually) learn better.
He forces his fingers to unlatch— a dull ache flooding in alongside feeling and the rush of blood, so he's clunky in the act of stroking hair: not fully trembling in those first few passes, just close enough that he's aware each time they skirt too light or much too heavy in their path across his lover's sweatlaced scalp.
Hello, he thinks, words coming from a lifetime away.]
Don't....[it isn't tense; he's only interrupted by the fact that he forgot to breathe first, and finds he has to take in more to finish off his sentence] don't move yet.
I want to sleep like this if—
[This time the pause is real, he doesn't know the answer to this.]
....it doesn't hurt, does it?
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No-oo . . . not hurt.
[The words are spoken slowly as Fenris tries to make sure that's an honest reply. But no, there's no pain there, not even when he wiggles a little and arches his back just to be sure. Though that has the unintentional side-effect of teasing Astarion, and he makes a little face in an apology that's mostly genuine. Sorry-not-sorry, a little spark of satisfied sadism flaring momentarily in the pit of his stomach.]
It feels . . .
[How to describe it? Not something as simplistic as good, for that doesn't begin to cover it. Satisfying, maybe, is the best word for it: there's something so innately pleasing about the feeling of being caught and kept like this, speared open and spread wide around the not-inconsiderable width of his boyfriend's prick. I'm yours, that's what this feels like. I'm yours, only yours, slick droplets of pearl glossing his rim as Astarion claims him inch by inexorable, inevitable inch . . .
It's perverse, no doubt. Filthy in a way that he would have found repulsive in anyone else. But when it's them— well. That's different, isn't it? In the same way mulsum and agreggio pavali are both technically wines, but only one of them is innately desirable within these halls.
Oh, but he owes Astarion an answer . . . he'd nearly forgotten, lulled into dozing complacency by those fingers and his prick both.]
I want to sleep like this too. And stay atop you as long as I can. And next time, you can try it— it feels really good, Astarion. Better than you'd think. I like being with you like this . . . and—
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[He draws back (one hand flying up to pin Astarion's in place— don't stop petting me).]
What if I move in my sleep?
[He used to cling when he was very young, his arms wrapping so tight around Astarion that the other boy couldn't get away if he tried. Now, older and more secure, he has a tendency to twist around until he's burrowed deep within the nest of blankets and sheets that make up his bed. It's not the worst behavior a bedmate could have, but there's been complaints of sharp heels and carelessly tossed limbs before.]
I don't want to break your cock.
[It's a good cock, and they've already had one scare tonight.]
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[Maybe it'd be easier if he just wiggled off Astarion? He inches forward, trying to do just that, but oh, he's so loathe to lose that claim . . . mmph. A compromise: he nips at his boyfriend's jawline.]
Don't sleep just yet, for I don't want to get off you. Tell me instead what you want to try next time we do this.
[Next time, and despite himself, a little thrill runs through him for the thought. There will be a next time, won't there? And another, and another . . .]
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Oh, the shiver that rockets through him at that (unintended) teasing. Oh gods the stars that burst across his eyes, shattering the slate of his awareness and leaving him clinging tight to Fenris— his stare unfixed and glassy, his fingernails dug in, shuddering like a wet cat.
It's only when he recovers that he knocks his cheek against his boyfriend's, letting one chastising scrape of skin-against-warm-skin serve as both scolding and acceptance all at once. How dare you mixed into I forgive you, menace.
He isn't really angry, after all.]
You won't break my cock. [Confident enough at first blush, his fingertips (the ones attached to his caught hand, anyway) resuming their slow petting. And then, amending:] ....at least I don't think you will.
You seem to like the way it feels, so I bet your subconscious would too.
[That sounds logical, right?]
Mmmm....but what I want to see next time.... [He's thinking. He's really thinking.] I hear blowjobs are amazing. That'd be nice. Maybe even....
Tying you up? —or blindfolds? The old silk ones are getting worn out, I heard Kanan say. It wouldn't be hard to borrow one without anyone noticing.
[Look how learned he is, Fenris. Look how much he knows about sex.]
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But oh, a blowjob— oh, those suggestions, and with each one Fenris' eyes grow wider and his cheeks warmer. He barely knows what a blowjob is, but it doesn't matter; anything that Astarion says he wants to try Fenris is more than game for.]
You—
[Tying you up or blindfolds . . . he'd known, vaguely, that those were things that people did during sex (for there was only so much Kanan and Zevlor could keep from them). But knowing it happened to others and considering it for himself are two very different things, and Fenris spends a precious few seconds trying to imagine what exactly that would look like. Though . . .]
Pick one to try.
[He tips his head, eyes narrowing in familiar competitiveness.]
Tie me up or blindfold me . . . but whatever you don't pick, I get to try on you.
[There's really no wrong answer here.]
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[So flustered that it threads into his voice for half a second, breathy and completely uncomposed. His long ears sunken shyly underneath his curls until they twitch— and then jolt upright, all bashfulness wiped away by a short series of counterbalancing blinks.
(There's also the matter of the tension trapped low along his belly that still lingers, but he keeps his hands braced somewhere around either side of Fenris' shoulders now, and at least he can anchor himself through the way his fingertips curl just slightly over skin. Clinging and functioning like foundation all at once.)]
I mean— [Competitiveness. Competitiveness he can do, even distracted. An increasingly steady slant forming at the corner of his fresher grin insists on it, in fact.] of course. That's exactly what I had in mind, too.
That way we both can enjoy ourselves.
[Erh. No. Wait. Doesn't that imply that it wouldn't be pleasurable if they weren't taking turns?]
Try new things.
[ —Yes, there we go.]
Start making lists of all our favorites....just like the ones I've seen downstairs.
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I want to blindfold you first.
[The thought of Astarion with his hands drawn up over his head, lithe body drawn taut as he squirms in overstimulated impatience is, mm, a fantastic one, but Fenris likes the thought of him blind better. Going from arrogantly demanding things to gasping from the least little touch . . . oh, he likes the thought of that a lot, Fenris decides. And given they'll inevitably try everything from either end of the equation, he might as well demand what's on his mind first.]
That way we can start there . . . and go down any list we please.
[His eyes scan up and down Astarion's face, and then, in a burst of impulsive courage, he adds:]
I want to see you in lingerie. So. Add that to your list too. And I want to see you give me a blowjob too— maybe both of them at once.
[And maybe first, so that way Fenris can understand what exactly blowing someone entails.]
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Right?
A handjob is when you use your hands for sex....probably. (Because he's never heard of a dickjob or an assjob come to think of it, and not for lack of listening in, either, so if he puts the logic of that together, and then applies that to the rest of it, then he knows exactly what to do.) And the thing is— when he thinks about it, it sounds hot. Imagining himself blindfolded, wearing the sort of expensive jewels and lace that the aristocracy drools openly for (borrowed without Kanan knowing, of course) in the depths of some shoddy backstage room, hoisting Fenris' cock towards his lips via a few carefully curled fingertips and gently blowing across its tip—
It sends prickles of sensation skittering across his skin. Wakes him up against the drowsy-sweet flow of exhaustion he's been fighting in the wings of his own consciousness, closer to the dawn than dusk.]
You'll be my first customer, then.
[Says the lovestruck boy busy weaving their ankles together, imitating whorish odalisquery the way a lion cub tackles grass for prey.]
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[He means it to come out more emphatically than it does, but exhaustion (and the heavy, assuring swell of Astarion's cock) is lulling him into a sleepy stupor. He tucks his face into the crook of Astarion's neck, burying himself there with a little groan. There's a vague thought for draping the sheets over them both, but, well, eh. Astarion has more dexterity like this, Fenris thinks unfairly, and so he can be the one to tuck them both in.
But oh, right, he was saying something, wasn't he? Fenris tips his head up, blinking just a little blearily down at his boyfriend (and knocking his ankles back happily against that inviting coil).]
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
[And spent though he is, never doubt he knows the weight of those words. Not him.]
Not a customer. Not somebody you put on a farce to be around. I'm your bodyguard, and you're my Diamond— but you're also my boyfriend. And even if I—
[He hesitates for a moment. Jealousy gnaws sullenly at the back of his throat, but it's an easier pill to swallow when it's all conjecture. Still: there's a look of resignation in his eyes as he continues:]
Even if I have to share your, your expertise, I won't share your heart. Not with anyone.
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There, the words that leave him tight in the chest until he forgets that he's supposed to breathe.
You're mine, just like I'm yours.
He'd only meant it as a joke.
Or— no, not really. Not at all. Maybe he told himself it was a joke, but some part of him wanted it to be true: that Fenris would be his first customer. The only one that mattered. The only one that'd count. (Now the sentiment is small and pale. It's withered in its formerly perceived greatness, like a bite of apple that's too old to be anything but dry and spongy on the tongue.) He doesn't want to share his heart. Or himself. Or this.
Not with anyone that isn't Fenris.]
So you won't have to. [His head turns, cheek bearing against cheek as he tries to press a kiss to whatever edge of Fenris' face or temple or ear that he can find— less mouth to skin for the angle, but he can kiss the air and call it his lover too so long as they're the only ones here.] Not ever.
[He has to reach around strong shoulders to find the mess that was their bedding, tugging up a corner and a middle-section all at once. They're hopelessly intertwined; no straightening it out as he gives up and drags the bundle relatively over them in all the places where it counts, at least, with only an elbow or a foot or two left wanting for warm shelter.
Good enough, he thinks, collapsing across rucked pillows and slumping back into the boy who owns his heart, a few fingers threading through damp hair once more.]
You're my bodyguard....and I'm just yours.
[Even if he can't feel his fingertips, he likes the way straight strands twist between the pads of them.]
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Can it be so easy as that?
No, Fenris thinks distantly, surely not. Surely jealousy isn't so easily quelled; surely there will come a time when Astarion looks at some customer the way he's only meant to look at his Fenris, and that will hurt so badly. But . . . maybe it is, some small part of him whispers. It's the part that's currently melting beneath the way delicate fingers play with this hair; it's the part of him that rumbles softly in contentment as he settles beneath the covers and returns that clumsy kiss.
After all, isn't that how it's always worked between them? Ever since the beginning, back when Astarion had found him shattered into a hundred thousand pieces and offered him a handhold in the darkness. It's okay, you're okay, and though he'd known better even then to trust in such promises, Astarion has always had a way of achieving the impossible.
So why should this be any different?
It won't be, he thinks, his eyes fluttering closed as exhaustion begins to creep over him. He won't get jealous, and Astarion won't ever make him share. They'll be okay, because they're always okay. It won't be any different . . .]
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[He cocks his head as he says it. It is, to his expert eye, a fairly good poster. The artist Zevlor hired knows how to arrange things just so, so that one's gaze is naturally drawn from the tangle of gleaming pearls wrapped carelessly around Astarion's hands down to the glass of bubbling champagne before him, and from there to the name of the establishment itself. Pale skin glows brightly against a black backdrop, and particular attention has been lovingly paid to the lines of Astarion's neck and collarbone.
None of that is the problem, of course, but still: it's a good painting.]
What did you expect?
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[What did he expect??
There's a wild-incredulous gleam within pale eyes as they turn to fix on Fenris, whipped away from the purported 'masterpiece'— his mouth hanging open, an eyebrow twitching.]
My fucking FACE for starters, Fenris!! I expected to see my own fucking FACE!
[Back and forth his hands snap between Fenris and the canvas: DO YOU SEE. THE ISSUE. HERE.
(Tiredly, Zevlor interjects that it's an advertisement for the establisment at large, not Astarion, but said interjection goes largely unheard beneath the cacophony unleashed by the youngest future-entertainer-in-waiting in the room.)]
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To be fair to Astarion: it's not as if he's the only performer who's ever thrown a fit about not having his face in a poster. It's just that none of the others have ever mattered half so much as Astarion has, nor has anyone been quite so amusingly adorable in their puffed up rage. Biting his bottom lip to hide his grin, he glances just once at Zevlor before smoothly slipping one arm around Astarion's waist.
(It's not that Zevlor doesn't know (about them being a thing, anyway, though Fenris isn't sure if he knows about them having sex). But all of this is so new, and it's strange to try to find what new limitations and boundaries there are. For his part, Zevlor merely raises his brows for half a second, then turns his focus back towards Astarion.]
It's not your show.
[Blunt, but not unsympathetic. Nonetheless, there's the reason. Besides, it really is a nice poster . . . his hands a particularly well done touch, Fenris thinks. Clever fingers and defined tendons that offset the soft gleam of pearls . . . Fenris stares for a few seconds, caught by them, before remembering he's meant to be soothing.]
And anyway, did you not tell me that mystery was part of any diamant's allure?
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Infatuation that, at present, looks a great deal like snarling pups.]
I am supposed to be the mystery! [He snaps back with something more akin to a whine than a snarl, increasingly pacified by the arm round his waist— moreover when it's chanced in front of Zevlor of all people. He is still riled. Still upset at the unveiling that he'd expected to go snubbing half of Paris with, and now instead will have to quibble over moles and the shape of his décolletage about, but....]
Tsk [ is a sinking against Fenris' side, oozing into his own posture in a way that resembles nothing of painted elegance or grace.
Only sulking.]
....I was supposed to be the mystery.
I bragged about this all week.
['You're not even a diamond yet,' Zevlor exhales, filing the paperwork for the latest set of portraitures. The ire that it earns (oh the glare angled Zevlor's way from the bastion of Fenris' comfort), could burn the Moulin Rouge down if left with kindling.]
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[He murmurs it in Astarion's ear, equal parts flirtatious and mollifying. The gesture earns another quick glance towards Zevlor, there and gone, but . . . well, if the man wants to ignore them for the time being, let him. That suits Fenris just fine, frankly. Kanan's been the opposite: almost unnervingly amused by their newfound relationship status, constantly teasing (mostly Astarion) about flirtations and notable bruises, and that embarrasses Fenris.
Turning his head, he nuzzles just once against perfumed curls. There, there, dearest heart . . .]
Anyway, you can still brag, can you not? Simply tell them you planned this. They won't know the difference, and you can still preen to your heart's content.
[A majority of the performers won't be fooled, but some of the younger ones might. Maybe. If Astarion sells it right, but his boyfriend is remarkably good at acting when he wants to be (or lying, if you look at it another way).]
Or don't. But there will be other posters, and soon enough with your face on them.
Fenris glances over uncertainly at Zevlor, and then, carefully, adds:]
How long is going to stay up for?
[Just. Curious.]
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Zevlor, on the other hand, might as well embody the concept of exasperation when he asks with pointed precision:
'Why.']
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There is a pause. And then, slowly:]
To . . . memorialize it. It's his first poster.
[8/10 on reasoning, 5/10 on delivery. Zevlor does not look any more impressed by Fenris' logic than he had when he was a child; it's the same flat, expectant expression. 'Is that why,' he says, and what he means is: no it fucking well isn't why, and we both know it.]
Can I have it or not?
['No,' Zevlor says firmly, and turns back to seemingly survey the poster. There's a rigidity to his posture that speaks of coiled tension; it's the same way he looks when he's three days away from firing an actor. 'You may not,' he adds somewhat obnoxiously, and Fenris scowls.]
Why?
[It's the wrong move. Zevlor's voice grows more taut, his amber eyes blazing as he finally glances over at them both. 'Because neither of you need any more encouragement,' he says firmly. 'And I don't intend to be the one to give it to you.']
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['You ate ham roast this morning.' Zevlor wearily exhales.]
—leave us starving in the streets?? Unknown. Unwanted. Unrecognized—
[There it is. The inevitable leap back round to the painting, coaxing a few irritated flicks out of the Moulin Rouge's impressively put-upon owner.
Then again, if one's truly keeping score, between both Fenris and Astarion it's not as if they ever left the subject, come to think of it.
Right, then.
There's a dust-filled snap of tallied pages as Zevlor shuts his ledger tight between his claws, narrowing more than just the slits of his pupils when his bifocals slide lower down his face.
'I was holding off on introductions until you both had finished your inspection of our latest show posters, but I can see now you're full of it already. This was not the only brokered arrangement brought to fruition tonight.'
Astarion's gasp is audible.]
—I knew it.
[His excitement doubly so.]
What is it?? Is it another painting? A special premiere edition— no, wait—! It's a copy, isn't it? You had two made, to privately commemorate—
['Fenris, Astarion,' There's a deliberate intent behind the order of their names, 'I'd like you to meet Dalyria. Our newest— and, apart from you two, youngest— hire.']
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ᴛʜᴇ.
FUCK.
3/3
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For now, she tips her chin back and stares at the two elven boys, their expressions equal parts bafflement and curiosity.
'A drow?' the dark-haired boy says bluntly, which earns him a chiding click from Zevlor. 'You find yourself far from home— is that not true?' he adds defensively to his father, who doesn't look any less unimpressed.]
Menzoberranzan has a limited amount of use for a healer. And the best ones to apprentice under tend to flock to Paris or Baldur's Gate.
[Not that she's apprenticing somewhere prestigious. Not that she's managed to get one of those coveted internships over at the Parisian Institute, but never mind that. Bodies are bodies, and working at a bawdy house will give her plenty of hands-on experience. The fact that the proprietor is a tiefling is a bonus; he hadn't blinked at the sight of a drow showing up in his office, never mind one looking to fill the position of healer.
And he pays her. That's important too.
'Fenris is training to become a bodyguard, Zevlor continues, 'and Astarion is on his way to becoming a courtesan. They also both happen to be my sons.'
If she's surprised by that, she doesn't let herself show it. Zevlor's eyes skim over both boys, warm pride and fond exasperation both flickering over his face. For a moment he hesitates in thought, then: 'Astarion will show you around,' he states. 'Fenris, go find Laira. She'll need your help unpacking stock— and when you're done, we'll have a lesson.'
The latter addition turns his irritable scowl into excitement; with one last lingering look towards the poster, he untangles himself from Astarion and heads for the door. Zevlor nods faintly, then turns towards Astarion. 'Introduce her to the others,' he orders. 'She'll be working with Talindra and Maude, but it would be good for her to know the insides and out. Her rooms are adjacent to theirs— you know what to do.'
He squeezes Astarion's shoulder in friendly dismissal, offers Dalyria a respectful nod, and strides out the door, already calling for someone to help him deal with the lighting.
Which just leaves her with this boy. This strange, vain little boy (who can't be more than a year younger than her, if that). She carefully tucks one silver strand of hair behind her ear, then asks:]
Is he really your brother, or is that another gimmick here?
[No judgement! No, really: drow are a lot more flexible about these kinds of things, or at least the nobility are, up to a certain point. But it's nice to know what the dynamics are early-on.]
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The showing around portion will come after he's finished sniffing around this unfamiliar (figuratively) stray cat, as far as he's concerned.]
We were both adopted at different times. From different places.
[He doesn't say I found him on the streets and brought him home and taught him to use a fork, but if she sticks around here for anything longer than a month she'll hear it anyway. The Moulin Rouge bares more than just skin behind closed doors; when clothing is tantamount to small talk, there's no such thing as privacy. Secrets.]
He's my boyfriend— [squares up in how he measures her (delicate features, pretty enough to do more than stringent medical work, but with a keenness to her eyes.
Taller, too. But he's not fussed about it.
Much.)
She's one of the first drow he's ever seen, although hushed stories come to mind. Crooks his head towards his shoulder before he moves towards the door and gestures back for her to follow.] Zevlor doesn't know yet.
[There's a poster on the wall that debates that.
Astarion sounds only (slightly) petulant when he asks:]
Is the doctor thing a gimmick?
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2/2 me realizing I really need to just commit and make us more icons
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2/2 PLEASE I WOULD LOVE THIS
THEN IT WILL HAPPEN....SOON >:]
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