[Again, he snorts out another peal of laughter, crinkling his own nose in turn.]
They share a lot more than that some nights, sweetheart. Don't judge.
[Mmm....turning his eyes up towards the ceiling spurs an estimate:] A few weeks for the transient hires? Depends on what they're like, or how full of themselves they are. [Orphaned kettle doesn't know what color he is, more news at eleven.]
[She's— well, not judging, per se, because it's not very nice and she's gone into this wanting to be open-minded, and anyway no one likes a doctor who's smug and self-assured. So she's not judging. She's just . . . having an opinion. A strong opinion. A strong opinion that happens to be about sharing underwear and the particular hygienic nature of it. But not in a judgemental way. Her nose isn't even crinkled anymore, look at how nonjudgemental she's trying to be.
(Especially when she's going to have to work to overcome so much already. She's new, she's educated, and she's a drow: three potential strikes against her).]
More that I know what it's like to try and work your way into a social group.
[Oh, yes. Noble or not, living in Menzobarazzan demands a certain grasp of socio-political comings and goings. She hesitates, and then:]
And I know how surfacedwellers look at drow. Most of them are going to be hesitant, at least at first. If you have any tips for how to fit in . . .
[How to dress, how to act, how to tease— save her, Astarion, you're her only hope.]
He's never been asked for such responsibility before. Never been tasked with such a precious burden as someone's yet-unsullied reputation, and for just the smallest of glancing seconds it shows in the bright red flush across pearl cheeks, his eyes wider than they've ever been before.]
[Astarion exclaims brightly from the dead center of his brother's rumpled bed, perched like a sexy-bishop at his equally sexy-pulpit (it was an experimental phase for the Moulin Rouge the year they debuted that gods-awful production, all right), dictating to the only two other people in the room— Dalyria and Fenris— exactly what need happen:]
We'll show her everything about how this place works, help her fit in like she was always here, and in no time whatsoever, it'll be as natural as breathing.
[It's a dubious rumble (which is a thing he can pull off without his voice breaking a solid 60 percent of the time). It's not the subject in question, who currently perches politely on the laundry chair, staring solemnly at the duo atop Fenris' bed. She seems pleasant enough and more than amenable to suggestion. But Fenris has lived here long enough to know that the only consistency among the courtesans and stagehands is that nothing is consistent. They're fickle to a fault, cooing over something one day and spurring it the next, and the only way to ever fit in is to follow whatever starling has managed to take the lead lately.
Still. With all that said . . . maybe they can help her a little. At least to calm down, for right now she looks stiff as a board and deeply uncomfortable.]
Have you ever even been in a brothel before?
['Not . . . as such,' she says with a grimace, and he nods. Vaguely he tries to recall his own first days, but childhood is a swiftly dimming memory, and most of his recollections center around Astarion: Astarion gawking at him as he'd wolfed down as much food as he could manage to take; Astarion curling up around him in bed that first night, and waking the next afternoon with their limbs all tangled together, pale fingers clenched tightly in his shirt. The cooing affection (and sharp hisses) from the courtesans, and how that had only made Fenris shy closer to his savior, overwhelmed by the noise and sights and vibrancy of the Moulin Rouge.]
Then that's the first thing you should get used to: what it's like here. Nudity is commonplace, and people flirt as easy as they breathe. They'll try and fluster you with it, [he says, wrinkling his nose, for he had not liked that portion of his early teenage years.] But beyond that . . . you should see a show tonight. We can take you to a place where you can watch it all from the rafters. It'll help you understand what we do here.
[We, Dalyria murmurs almost silently. Blinking twice, she tips her head and then nods.]
You're better at dressing and makeup and what's popular. Does she need something in regards to that?
[Fenris, himself, doesn't fuss so much about those kinds of things (or at least he thinks he doesn't), but, well, girls are different. And Astarion. Astarion and women and also the men who live in the Moulin Rouge too . . . maybe it's just Fenris that's different.]
[Maker, he's so alluring when he's cynical. That gravely quality to his voice sends shivers crawling up between Astarion's shoulders in the best of ways (he doesn't even notice when it breaks, he's so enamored), his lidded eyes and lazy smile so at ease until he's called to—
And then he's sitting upright just a measure or so taller, his own fingers brushed beneath his chin.]
If we want her to shine? I've just the thing. [Astarion gestures with those same fingertips before he's fully managed to get loose from his nesting place, motioning for Fenris to bring his makeup kit from just behind him, closer to the wall. Normally it lives in Astarion's own room, but ever since they've started sneaking in to sleep together each and every night he's started leaving his things here instead. Easier to look presentable for his lessons (a little less presentable for his chores).]
And honestly, if we're going to the theater together....
[Distracted by the process of disentangling one foot on the last stride forwards, he pauses, shaking covers loose just as he moves to take up his case, its metal latches clicking underneath his thumbs before either he or his belongings have settled down again.] You both should get worked over.
[Rafters or not, it's the way civilized things are done.]
You know no one is going to see us, not up in the rafters. They never do.
[He points it out because it's his job to point these things out, just as it's Astarion's job to push him into it anyway. But he still brings over the makeup case (for that's his job too, and acts of service are ever a personal favorite when it comes to showing love), and takes a seat next to his boyfriend once he's settled.]
You can pick my clothes, if it pleases you. But I am doing my eyeliner. You nearly blinded me last time.
[Ignoring all the far more successful times Astarion has put makeup on him, but what's a boyfriend for if not to archly tease? Already he's reaching for the black, ever a personal favorite; subtlety and color blending are for people who don't aim to look a mixture of dangerous and mysterious. As he grabs one of the many hand-mirrors stuffed in the case, he glances up at Dalyria.]
Sit. He does do good work, and you will be in good hands.
[It's just that those hands have more of a tendency to wander nowadays, and they both of them get distracted so easily . . . but ah, that won't be a problem with Dal. The drow still looks a little doubtful, but after a moment of deliberation she gets up and kneels before Astarion.
'It can't be anything too ostentatious. I still need to look professional.' She says it a little anxiously, as if she's afraid Astarion might make her up to look like one of the cheaper whores downstairs. Fenris snorts.]
I may have given her the wrong impression of your skills . . . prove yourself, sweetheart.
[The petname sounds a little clunky on his lips, but he's working on it. He's not sure if he's a person who uses petnames, but he does like the startled flush that splashes across Astarion's face each time he evokes them.]
[This time his expression only crumples round the edges of his cheeks, curling higher (he's tipped down to dig through his supplies, pawing through brushes and combs and glittering compacts from passed-down hands in various eras, all mashed together to form the foundation of his teenage arsenal), but there's such redness surging through the points of his ears that it glows underneath his curls.]
You were the one that moved. [He mouths out smartly in retort, already angling in towards Dalyria (and leaving Fenris to do his eyeliner, since he's so hellsbent on it)— never mind that the aforementioned last time also involved Astarion resting his knee between his bodyguard's legs to 'get a better angle.']
Darling Dal, you've nothing to fret about: I've been trained by the very best. [Or he will be; details, details.] Do you prefer your hair up or down?
—Fenris don't lose that compact.
[Fingers to Dalyria's chin, tipping it higher just to sweep something soft and powdery across her face.] That's the last bit of Kohl I have for the next month— I had to replace the drapes in the lobby with this next paycheck unless Kanan sneaks a little spending cash under the table out of pity.
[He's lost two now, though he'll argue until his face is red that it wasn't his fault— but never mind that. He's torn between putting on his own eyeliner (he's an okay hand at it) and glancing over to watch Astarion work. His boyfriend (his boyfriend, and will the title ever lose its shine?) is such a deft hand at it. He'll be trained by the very best and surely become even better, but to Fenris' star-struck eyes, he barely needs help. Maybe just a little refinement, but oh, he's so good at this.]
Why is it you always find yourself ruining the drapes?
[Again, it's only been twice, but still. He's learning how to translate his nipping affection into something more flirtatious. He pauses in his quest to draw a thick line over his lashes and glances over fully at the other two, eyes flicking over Dalyria's face. She's a pretty thing already, but the soft, glittery powder Astarion just used already adds some interest . . . or something like that. He doesn't really understand makeup, not beyond the basics; he just knows people look more interesting with it on.
'Up,' Dalyria answers automatically, and then hesitates. 'I've always worn it that way, anyway . . . unless you think down would suit better?' She might as well ask. It's not everyday an expert offers to give you a small makeover, and she rather likes the way he's doting on her. It's unusual, but pleasingly so. She blinks as he sweeps a soft brush over her cheek and nearly ruins it by reaching up to touch, only stopping herself at the last moment.
'When did you learn all this, anyway?' she adds, the question offered to them both.]
I learned far less than he has. But you pick things up when you grow up here, like it or not.
[It's an unfortunate fact that he does, indeed, know the basics of how to dance alluringly, wretchedly awkward though he may be. Their fathers believe in equal opportunity education, and that everyone ought to try something at least once to see if it suits them. Fenris can't deny the good parenting in that, nor even how becoming more aware of his body has helped his fighting, but oh, he hated those lessons so much.]
You will too, sooner or later. Don't drow wear makeup?
['Of course we do, but that doesn't mean I did,' she snips back, and Fenris hums in amusement for how comfortable she's getting already.]
[Amusement flocks his soft expression, smiling as the pair of them— not bicker, it isn't bickering per se, just the puppish grousing that comes from slackened guards and close companionship. Cute, in other words, he thinks.
Shimmer brush and powder put away, he directs Dalyria to shut her eyes, and moves on to daubing a cool, faintly creamy royal eyeshadow over the span of her lids.]
And they're ugly.
[Why their fathers insist on the most dusty shade of maroon velvet, he'll never understand. Crimson suits a place like this better— and he heard the courtesans talking last month, too: all the newest cabarets use crimson.
(Though truth be told, he wasn't watching where he was going whilst ferrying supplies from the back room. Two wrong steps carried him and everything else in his way careening violently to the floor. Not a critique of color theory so much as a testament to how much he can't stop staring at his boyfriend.)]
Mm. [To Dalyria:] You'll look pretty either way, so we can decide on style once we're finished.
[Which then prompts curiosity in the depth of all his work, chin canting closer to his shoulder.]
Why not wear makeup? If it's common, is that not part of the expectation of presentability....?
[Fenris snorts for that explanation about the curtains, not buying it for a moment. He has an inkling of an idea just why he was so distracted, and the thought is both flattering and pleasing. It's not as if he himself is any better; Zevlor had beaten him so swiftly the other week that the tiefling had actually paused to see if his son had the flu— only to scowl in annoyance as he'd realized just where Fenris' focus kept straying. But is it his fault if Astarion looks alluring when he's practicing his posture with Satine? Drawn upright, back arched and neck elongated, his hips jutting out just so . . .
Ah. Anyway, and he busies himself with his eyeliner again, for he can't look at Astarion just now.
'It is. I've worn it when meeting with the Matriarchs— or when they were meeting with my mother, anyway,' Dalyria says. She tips her head, unconsciously copying Astarion as she answers. 'But no one looks at me enough to care most days, and it isn't as if my teachers minded. Makeup tends to get in the way when I have to wipe blood and pus off my face every other minute.']
Every other minute?
['An exaggeration,' she says just a little witheringly. But then, more curiously to both of them: 'Do you have to? As the sons of the owner . . . are you expected to present a certain way?'
[It's a simultaneous snort as well: both boys echoing in unison, with Fenris still the louder (and that too is impressive; his voice is growing deeper every day, with such a wry, wiry scratch to it that Astarion finds fascinating)—
He shakes his head, wiping pale fingers against tissue and seeing only half the powder come off. A sign of quality.]
They want us happy. [Has an air of imitation to it. Kanan's words.]
I think they're almost afraid of us getting into the family business.
[And are two teenage boys going to examine that sentiment deeply? No.]
[On the one hand, his eyes look amazing. The green looks so striking when framed by a heavy black, long enough that even with Astarion's call he still takes a moment to admire his own reflection (in the compact which he did not lose).
On the other hand, such thick lines take a fair bit of pigment. Leto pulls a mildly apologetic place as he hands back a stick that's become more of a stub, with just the faintest traces of kohl left.]
Er . . . there's still enough left for one of you.
[The look Astarion gives back can only be described as the very same characteristic squint that Zevlor wears when the word aghast falls short of all serviceable description.
And then he makes a noise that sounds something like a rat being run over, holding the now-starved kohl betwixt his fingers.
They'll talk about this later.]
Shut your eyes, princess, and distract me from my grief by telling me what it is your mother does for a living.
[As the last bits of midnight color smooth over her long lashes.]
[It's an apology, sort of. He will steal some for him, but they are most certainly going to Talk About This Later. Still: he doesn't feel bad enough to slink off, and indeed, instead shifts to face the other two more fully. Dalyria closes her eyes, white lashes stark against glittering purple skin, and obediently upturns her face.
'She runs a boutique,' Dalyria says casually. 'A particularly high-end one, at that.' No, they aren't nobility, but they're something close to it. Jumped-up merchant princess, someone had sneered once, and promptly gotten a fierce beating from her eldest sister. Dalyria's eyes flicker, her discomfort at having something dull slipped over her lashes apparent. 'Most of the noble houses commission her, especially for special occasions.'
She opens her eyes the moment the pressure abates (whether or not that coincides with Astarion being done is a different matter entirely). 'She'd like it here, she adds honestly. 'Though she might be rude about it being on the surface, but still. She likes attention paid to little details.']
And wind up with me taking the fall? Tsh. [Omits the fact that the tally stacks overwhelmingly in Fenris' favor when it comes to being blamed for his boyfriend's antics. Taken beyond face value, however, Astarion's huffing and puffing only loosely translates to don't get caught— which is the motto both of them seem to strive to live by, and doubly so now that both Dalyria and Fenris are looking quite fetching compared to the unkempt albinic thing bustling about between them.
Tossing the nub of useless wood and remnant pitch into the trash before tilting Dal's chin higher, motioning for her to relax her lips so he can line them.]
And you....went from that sort of prestige to stuffing gauze into cocks up here on the surface?
[As far as he knows, no one's ever actually had gauze stuffed up their cocks here as any sort of medical procedure. But then as far as he knows, there's probably not no medical procedure that involves stuffing gauze into cocks, so....]
[Fenris barks out a laugh as Dalyria chokes. Truly and actually chokes on her own spit, the most absurd noise emerging from her throat as she jerks back— and oh, there goes the lip liner, but she can't be bothered with that right now.]
I don't— that isn't—
[SIR.]
What kind of medical attention have you been receiving??
[Like, he's probably joking, but also: maybe not! People are fucking idiots sometimes! She has no idea of the standards of care here, and also, why did he go to that specifically.]
['Shut it—' comes rattling via a fist beat against Fenris' door in passing, followed by a different (arguably softer) voice than the first, which summarily tacks on that 'some of us have customers tonight' in a fashion reserved for cousins and siblings under the same roof at either the earliest or latest of hours. Passing chastisement, in other words, though it does nothing to dampen the curl flexing at either corner of Astarion's grin. Made wider thanks to a certain someone's laughter in the background.
It stays as he picks up a kerchief, wets it, and begins wiping at the extra line drawn round Dalyria's mouth.
Whilst leaving her enough room to speak, of course.]
What kind of medical attention have you been getting? [He all but cackles, letting it scrunch one side of his nose more than the other— casting a glance towards Fenris' delight— demeanor clearly riled up like an overly encouraged pup at playtime.]
Anyway I don't know. I hear some stuff can get pretty gnarly.
[Or maybe that's just backstage ghost story talk.]
[She starts as someone bangs on the door— and then throws both boys a quizzical look as they continue to snicker and snort. The tone was fond, yes, but the warning clear, and she doesn't understand why they're ignoring it. Is it because they're the proprietor's sons? Logic points that way, but Zevlor had seemed so stern during her interview . . .
Well, it won't be her that gets in trouble. Dalyria's voice is pitched lower, her fingers kneading against her thighs as Astarion works. It's kind of him to wipe away that mark, she thinks. An unexpected kindness, just as all this fussing has been.]
Not like that.
[She's more still this time, speaking only when he seems to have paused.
'Then like what? Have you ever worked on a male before?' Fenris asks, not unkindly. 'Or's that going to be your first lesson here? How to handle a cock.' He aims a little smirk right back at Astarion, and oh, the two of them constantly making eyes at one another is going to get very tiring very quickly.]
I have. But I know enough not to shove anything up a man's urethra, thank you.
[Rather primly said, her tone slightly undercut by the way she purses her lips to try and see what Astarion has drawn. But oh, that answer isn't good enough, not when they're goading her.]
But . . . my teacher one knew a man who once broke his— thing.
['He broke it? How?' Fenris asks, an appropriate look of horror on his face. Good.]
By having sex too carelessly. You can't just do anything, you know. It can get torn and broken like any other body part, and then it'll take a lot more than gauze to undo the damage.
[You'd have thought she just told these boys that if they touch their pricks they'll spontaneously combust for the looks on both their faces: Astarion's forgotten everything he'd been doing in favor of standing rigid as a stalk with his lips peeled back in terror and his balls caught in his own throat.
Or his pulse.
Or both.
At this point even he doesn't know.]
You're fucking with us.
[Seems like a better world of logic than the one in which she's actually somehow telling the truth.]
[Smugly said as she glances between both boys and their matching expressions of horror.]
It goes all black and you have to go into surgery right away, or else your member might be broken forever. Or you won't be able to get hard, or it'll always curve—
['Why would it curve,' Fenris says flatly. He's crossed his legs a little tightly, and that amuses her as much as Astarion's bewildered expression.]
Because it's broken, and someone didn't fix it right. You can even break it all on yourself if you masturbate wrong—
['HOW?' is a yelp that earns another scolding knock from someone next door.]
[At this rate they're never going to get to the theater; Astarion has all but shrunken into his own skin let alone stepped back a good handful of inches as if Dalyria herself might somehow lash out at the tail end of this story, the way someone lunges after telling a particularly terrifying tale— only this time, he's now afraid his cock might shatter against his leg if he jumps too hard.
(If he does anything too hard, apparently.)]
—no. No that's not—
I've seen plenty of curved dicks before. They can't all be....
[....oh gods, maybe they are.]
WHY WOULD YOU TELL US THIS!?
[Another, louder bang. At this rate they're going to get an utter earful from someone, even if it's not Kanan or Zevlor.]
[She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, that same smirk still on her lips.]
It's something to avoid— at least now you know it's possible. And you haven't seen curved dicks like the ones when people break them, or else you would have known long before this. Besides: I doubt a brothel has much use for someone who can't even get it up.
[Now it's a little easier to slip into the vulgar vocabulary the boys have— to a point, anyway. But so long as she has their attention . . .]
Wait a moment.
[For her to cross the hall into the room her bags are deposited. It takes a little rummaging, but soon enough she's found the book she's looking for. One finger stuck within the pages, she returns, sitting with a little grin.]
Do you want to see?
[And then, on the tail of that:]
Don't scream if the answer is yes. You're going to get us all in trouble if you don't hush.
[Reluctantly, his hands clasp over his mouth from both sides, already squashing the idea of shrieking well before it's so much as begun considering he's standing more than a foot away. There is, after all, a very real risk involved in letting curiosity sate the proverbial cat. Especially when it's one who's about to peer into a tome full of grim, impossible to unsee nightmares.
As a matter of fact....
There's a shuffling— the sound of it audible where Astarion isn't— as he scoots himself around to stand fully behind Fenris instead, letting his bodyguard go first. Peeking around the outline of his shoulder with sharp ears tucked flat.
And, you know. Scooting him forward a bit. Just to make sure they don't miss out on vital information.]
[One brotherly, waspish hiss, for why should he have to be the one to see it first? But such is the role of a bodyguard. Whether it's storming through groping patrons to rescue his beloved or having to look at something he's half-convinced isn't real, it's all in a day's work. So with one short, sharp sigh, Fenris grimly fixes his gaze on the girl in front of him.
She's grinning. She should not be grinning, some part of him thinks with mild offense. She can't know how just how important a man's cock is, of course, but still. He wouldn't tease if you could, you know, break your cunt. Just saying. Wait, can you—?
He's getting off topic.
'Don't fuss,' she says again, and flips open the book. And it's—]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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They share a lot more than that some nights, sweetheart. Don't judge.
[Mmm....turning his eyes up towards the ceiling spurs an estimate:] A few weeks for the transient hires? Depends on what they're like, or how full of themselves they are. [Orphaned kettle doesn't know what color he is, more news at eleven.]
Why? Worried you won't fit in with us?
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(Especially when she's going to have to work to overcome so much already. She's new, she's educated, and she's a drow: three potential strikes against her).]
More that I know what it's like to try and work your way into a social group.
[Oh, yes. Noble or not, living in Menzobarazzan demands a certain grasp of socio-political comings and goings. She hesitates, and then:]
And I know how surfacedwellers look at drow. Most of them are going to be hesitant, at least at first. If you have any tips for how to fit in . . .
[How to dress, how to act, how to tease— save her, Astarion, you're her only hope.]
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Oh a request for help? From him?
He's never been asked for such responsibility before. Never been tasked with such a precious burden as someone's yet-unsullied reputation, and for just the smallest of glancing seconds it shows in the bright red flush across pearl cheeks, his eyes wider than they've ever been before.]
2/2
[Astarion exclaims brightly from the dead center of his brother's rumpled bed, perched like a sexy-bishop at his equally sexy-pulpit (it was an experimental phase for the Moulin Rouge the year they debuted that gods-awful production, all right), dictating to the only two other people in the room— Dalyria and Fenris— exactly what need happen:]
We'll show her everything about how this place works, help her fit in like she was always here, and in no time whatsoever, it'll be as natural as breathing.
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[It's a dubious rumble (which is a thing he can pull off without his voice breaking a solid 60 percent of the time). It's not the subject in question, who currently perches politely on the laundry chair, staring solemnly at the duo atop Fenris' bed. She seems pleasant enough and more than amenable to suggestion. But Fenris has lived here long enough to know that the only consistency among the courtesans and stagehands is that nothing is consistent. They're fickle to a fault, cooing over something one day and spurring it the next, and the only way to ever fit in is to follow whatever starling has managed to take the lead lately.
Still. With all that said . . . maybe they can help her a little. At least to calm down, for right now she looks stiff as a board and deeply uncomfortable.]
Have you ever even been in a brothel before?
['Not . . . as such,' she says with a grimace, and he nods. Vaguely he tries to recall his own first days, but childhood is a swiftly dimming memory, and most of his recollections center around Astarion: Astarion gawking at him as he'd wolfed down as much food as he could manage to take; Astarion curling up around him in bed that first night, and waking the next afternoon with their limbs all tangled together, pale fingers clenched tightly in his shirt. The cooing affection (and sharp hisses) from the courtesans, and how that had only made Fenris shy closer to his savior, overwhelmed by the noise and sights and vibrancy of the Moulin Rouge.]
Then that's the first thing you should get used to: what it's like here. Nudity is commonplace, and people flirt as easy as they breathe. They'll try and fluster you with it, [he says, wrinkling his nose, for he had not liked that portion of his early teenage years.] But beyond that . . . you should see a show tonight. We can take you to a place where you can watch it all from the rafters. It'll help you understand what we do here.
[We, Dalyria murmurs almost silently. Blinking twice, she tips her head and then nods.]
You're better at dressing and makeup and what's popular. Does she need something in regards to that?
[Fenris, himself, doesn't fuss so much about those kinds of things (or at least he thinks he doesn't), but, well, girls are different. And Astarion. Astarion and women and also the men who live in the Moulin Rouge too . . . maybe it's just Fenris that's different.]
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And then he's sitting upright just a measure or so taller, his own fingers brushed beneath his chin.]
If we want her to shine? I've just the thing. [Astarion gestures with those same fingertips before he's fully managed to get loose from his nesting place, motioning for Fenris to bring his makeup kit from just behind him, closer to the wall. Normally it lives in Astarion's own room, but ever since they've started sneaking in to sleep together each and every night he's started leaving his things here instead. Easier to look presentable for his lessons (a little less presentable for his chores).]
And honestly, if we're going to the theater together....
[Distracted by the process of disentangling one foot on the last stride forwards, he pauses, shaking covers loose just as he moves to take up his case, its metal latches clicking underneath his thumbs before either he or his belongings have settled down again.] You both should get worked over.
[Rafters or not, it's the way civilized things are done.]
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[He points it out because it's his job to point these things out, just as it's Astarion's job to push him into it anyway. But he still brings over the makeup case (for that's his job too, and acts of service are ever a personal favorite when it comes to showing love), and takes a seat next to his boyfriend once he's settled.]
You can pick my clothes, if it pleases you. But I am doing my eyeliner. You nearly blinded me last time.
[Ignoring all the far more successful times Astarion has put makeup on him, but what's a boyfriend for if not to archly tease? Already he's reaching for the black, ever a personal favorite; subtlety and color blending are for people who don't aim to look a mixture of dangerous and mysterious. As he grabs one of the many hand-mirrors stuffed in the case, he glances up at Dalyria.]
Sit. He does do good work, and you will be in good hands.
[It's just that those hands have more of a tendency to wander nowadays, and they both of them get distracted so easily . . . but ah, that won't be a problem with Dal. The drow still looks a little doubtful, but after a moment of deliberation she gets up and kneels before Astarion.
'It can't be anything too ostentatious. I still need to look professional.' She says it a little anxiously, as if she's afraid Astarion might make her up to look like one of the cheaper whores downstairs. Fenris snorts.]
I may have given her the wrong impression of your skills . . . prove yourself, sweetheart.
[The petname sounds a little clunky on his lips, but he's working on it. He's not sure if he's a person who uses petnames, but he does like the startled flush that splashes across Astarion's face each time he evokes them.]
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You were the one that moved. [He mouths out smartly in retort, already angling in towards Dalyria (and leaving Fenris to do his eyeliner, since he's so hellsbent on it)— never mind that the aforementioned last time also involved Astarion resting his knee between his bodyguard's legs to 'get a better angle.']
Darling Dal, you've nothing to fret about: I've been trained by the very best. [Or he will be; details, details.] Do you prefer your hair up or down?
—Fenris don't lose that compact.
[Fingers to Dalyria's chin, tipping it higher just to sweep something soft and powdery across her face.] That's the last bit of Kohl I have for the next month— I had to replace the drapes in the lobby with this next paycheck unless Kanan sneaks a little spending cash under the table out of pity.
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[He's lost two now, though he'll argue until his face is red that it wasn't his fault— but never mind that. He's torn between putting on his own eyeliner (he's an okay hand at it) and glancing over to watch Astarion work. His boyfriend (his boyfriend, and will the title ever lose its shine?) is such a deft hand at it. He'll be trained by the very best and surely become even better, but to Fenris' star-struck eyes, he barely needs help. Maybe just a little refinement, but oh, he's so good at this.]
Why is it you always find yourself ruining the drapes?
[Again, it's only been twice, but still. He's learning how to translate his nipping affection into something more flirtatious. He pauses in his quest to draw a thick line over his lashes and glances over fully at the other two, eyes flicking over Dalyria's face. She's a pretty thing already, but the soft, glittery powder Astarion just used already adds some interest . . . or something like that. He doesn't really understand makeup, not beyond the basics; he just knows people look more interesting with it on.
'Up,' Dalyria answers automatically, and then hesitates. 'I've always worn it that way, anyway . . . unless you think down would suit better?' She might as well ask. It's not everyday an expert offers to give you a small makeover, and she rather likes the way he's doting on her. It's unusual, but pleasingly so. She blinks as he sweeps a soft brush over her cheek and nearly ruins it by reaching up to touch, only stopping herself at the last moment.
'When did you learn all this, anyway?' she adds, the question offered to them both.]
I learned far less than he has. But you pick things up when you grow up here, like it or not.
[It's an unfortunate fact that he does, indeed, know the basics of how to dance alluringly, wretchedly awkward though he may be. Their fathers believe in equal opportunity education, and that everyone ought to try something at least once to see if it suits them. Fenris can't deny the good parenting in that, nor even how becoming more aware of his body has helped his fighting, but oh, he hated those lessons so much.]
You will too, sooner or later. Don't drow wear makeup?
['Of course we do, but that doesn't mean I did,' she snips back, and Fenris hums in amusement for how comfortable she's getting already.]
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[Amusement flocks his soft expression, smiling as the pair of them— not bicker, it isn't bickering per se, just the puppish grousing that comes from slackened guards and close companionship. Cute, in other words, he thinks.
Shimmer brush and powder put away, he directs Dalyria to shut her eyes, and moves on to daubing a cool, faintly creamy royal eyeshadow over the span of her lids.]
And they're ugly.
[Why their fathers insist on the most dusty shade of maroon velvet, he'll never understand. Crimson suits a place like this better— and he heard the courtesans talking last month, too: all the newest cabarets use crimson.
(Though truth be told, he wasn't watching where he was going whilst ferrying supplies from the back room. Two wrong steps carried him and everything else in his way careening violently to the floor. Not a critique of color theory so much as a testament to how much he can't stop staring at his boyfriend.)]
Mm. [To Dalyria:] You'll look pretty either way, so we can decide on style once we're finished.
[Which then prompts curiosity in the depth of all his work, chin canting closer to his shoulder.]
Why not wear makeup? If it's common, is that not part of the expectation of presentability....?
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Ah. Anyway, and he busies himself with his eyeliner again, for he can't look at Astarion just now.
'It is. I've worn it when meeting with the Matriarchs— or when they were meeting with my mother, anyway,' Dalyria says. She tips her head, unconsciously copying Astarion as she answers. 'But no one looks at me enough to care most days, and it isn't as if my teachers minded. Makeup tends to get in the way when I have to wipe blood and pus off my face every other minute.']
Every other minute?
['An exaggeration,' she says just a little witheringly. But then, more curiously to both of them: 'Do you have to? As the sons of the owner . . . are you expected to present a certain way?'
This time Fenris' snort is louder.]
In theory, perhaps. In reality . . .
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He shakes his head, wiping pale fingers against tissue and seeing only half the powder come off. A sign of quality.]
They want us happy. [Has an air of imitation to it. Kanan's words.]
I think they're almost afraid of us getting into the family business.
[And are two teenage boys going to examine that sentiment deeply? No.]
—Fenris, the kohl.
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[On the one hand, his eyes look amazing. The green looks so striking when framed by a heavy black, long enough that even with Astarion's call he still takes a moment to admire his own reflection (in the compact which he did not lose).
On the other hand, such thick lines take a fair bit of pigment. Leto pulls a mildly apologetic place as he hands back a stick that's become more of a stub, with just the faintest traces of kohl left.]
Er . . . there's still enough left for one of you.
[Ssssssssssssssssssorry?]
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And then he makes a noise that sounds something like a rat being run over, holding the now-starved kohl betwixt his fingers.
They'll talk about this later.]
Shut your eyes, princess, and distract me from my grief by telling me what it is your mother does for a living.
[As the last bits of midnight color smooth over her long lashes.]
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I'll steal some for you later.
[It's an apology, sort of. He will steal some for him, but they are most certainly going to Talk About This Later. Still: he doesn't feel bad enough to slink off, and indeed, instead shifts to face the other two more fully. Dalyria closes her eyes, white lashes stark against glittering purple skin, and obediently upturns her face.
'She runs a boutique,' Dalyria says casually. 'A particularly high-end one, at that.' No, they aren't nobility, but they're something close to it. Jumped-up merchant princess, someone had sneered once, and promptly gotten a fierce beating from her eldest sister. Dalyria's eyes flicker, her discomfort at having something dull slipped over her lashes apparent. 'Most of the noble houses commission her, especially for special occasions.'
She opens her eyes the moment the pressure abates (whether or not that coincides with Astarion being done is a different matter entirely). 'She'd like it here, she adds honestly. 'Though she might be rude about it being on the surface, but still. She likes attention paid to little details.']
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Tossing the nub of useless wood and remnant pitch into the trash before tilting Dal's chin higher, motioning for her to relax her lips so he can line them.]
And you....went from that sort of prestige to stuffing gauze into cocks up here on the surface?
[As far as he knows, no one's ever actually had gauze stuffed up their cocks here as any sort of medical procedure. But then as far as he knows, there's probably not no medical procedure that involves stuffing gauze into cocks, so....]
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I don't— that isn't—
[SIR.]
What kind of medical attention have you been receiving??
[Like, he's probably joking, but also: maybe not! People are fucking idiots sometimes! She has no idea of the standards of care here, and also, why did he go to that specifically.]
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It stays as he picks up a kerchief, wets it, and begins wiping at the extra line drawn round Dalyria's mouth.
Whilst leaving her enough room to speak, of course.]
What kind of medical attention have you been getting? [He all but cackles, letting it scrunch one side of his nose more than the other— casting a glance towards Fenris' delight— demeanor clearly riled up like an overly encouraged pup at playtime.]
Anyway I don't know. I hear some stuff can get pretty gnarly.
[Or maybe that's just backstage ghost story talk.]
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Well, it won't be her that gets in trouble. Dalyria's voice is pitched lower, her fingers kneading against her thighs as Astarion works. It's kind of him to wipe away that mark, she thinks. An unexpected kindness, just as all this fussing has been.]
Not like that.
[She's more still this time, speaking only when he seems to have paused.
'Then like what? Have you ever worked on a male before?' Fenris asks, not unkindly. 'Or's that going to be your first lesson here? How to handle a cock.' He aims a little smirk right back at Astarion, and oh, the two of them constantly making eyes at one another is going to get very tiring very quickly.]
I have. But I know enough not to shove anything up a man's urethra, thank you.
[Rather primly said, her tone slightly undercut by the way she purses her lips to try and see what Astarion has drawn. But oh, that answer isn't good enough, not when they're goading her.]
But . . . my teacher one knew a man who once broke his— thing.
['He broke it? How?' Fenris asks, an appropriate look of horror on his face. Good.]
By having sex too carelessly. You can't just do anything, you know. It can get torn and broken like any other body part, and then it'll take a lot more than gauze to undo the damage.
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Or his pulse.
Or both.
At this point even he doesn't know.]
You're fucking with us.
[Seems like a better world of logic than the one in which she's actually somehow telling the truth.]
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[Smugly said as she glances between both boys and their matching expressions of horror.]
It goes all black and you have to go into surgery right away, or else your member might be broken forever. Or you won't be able to get hard, or it'll always curve—
['Why would it curve,' Fenris says flatly. He's crossed his legs a little tightly, and that amuses her as much as Astarion's bewildered expression.]
Because it's broken, and someone didn't fix it right. You can even break it all on yourself if you masturbate wrong—
['HOW?' is a yelp that earns another scolding knock from someone next door.]
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(If he does anything too hard, apparently.)]
—no. No that's not—
I've seen plenty of curved dicks before. They can't all be....
[....oh gods, maybe they are.]
WHY WOULD YOU TELL US THIS!?
[Another, louder bang. At this rate they're going to get an utter earful from someone, even if it's not Kanan or Zevlor.]
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[She lifts one shoulder in a half-shrug, that same smirk still on her lips.]
It's something to avoid— at least now you know it's possible. And you haven't seen curved dicks like the ones when people break them, or else you would have known long before this. Besides: I doubt a brothel has much use for someone who can't even get it up.
[Now it's a little easier to slip into the vulgar vocabulary the boys have— to a point, anyway. But so long as she has their attention . . .]
Wait a moment.
[For her to cross the hall into the room her bags are deposited. It takes a little rummaging, but soon enough she's found the book she's looking for. One finger stuck within the pages, she returns, sitting with a little grin.]
Do you want to see?
[And then, on the tail of that:]
Don't scream if the answer is yes. You're going to get us all in trouble if you don't hush.
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As a matter of fact....
There's a shuffling— the sound of it audible where Astarion isn't— as he scoots himself around to stand fully behind Fenris instead, letting his bodyguard go first. Peeking around the outline of his shoulder with sharp ears tucked flat.
And, you know. Scooting him forward a bit. Just to make sure they don't miss out on vital information.]
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[One brotherly, waspish hiss, for why should he have to be the one to see it first? But such is the role of a bodyguard. Whether it's storming through groping patrons to rescue his beloved or having to look at something he's half-convinced isn't real, it's all in a day's work. So with one short, sharp sigh, Fenris grimly fixes his gaze on the girl in front of him.
She's grinning. She should not be grinning, some part of him thinks with mild offense. She can't know how just how important a man's cock is, of course, but still. He wouldn't tease if you could, you know, break your cunt. Just saying. Wait, can you—?
He's getting off topic.
'Don't fuss,' she says again, and flips open the book. And it's—]
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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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