(A note on mechanics: Moira is a bard, probably around 6th level; plot-relevantly, she's got Cure Wounds, Suggestion, and Geas at her disposal. Suggestion ends when the target is hurt, hence her warning to be gentle with Caleb. Also, one of the material components is honeycomb, and while feeding it to him is not strictly necessary to the mechanics of the spell... I thought it would be creepy-hot.)
---
It's nothing Juneau hasn't seen before, but it turns her stomach every time. Still: it's dangerous enough to work in a place like this herself, even if she spends most of her time in the kitchen, without picking fights with the patrons.
"Alright, folks, you know the rules," Moira says, standing on one of the long benches. She's greeted by cheers and a few whistles. "First taste's free, but if you're looking for a more permanent arrangement, you come and see me."
"Where do you find your little dolls?" Lucas says. He reaches out to touch the man standing by Moira's feet. The man doesn't resist. (They rarely do.)
"This little morsel was a sorry sight when I found him," Moira says. She tangles her fingers in the man's hair and forces his head back. "He was banged up -- weren't you, love? And filthy, to boot. I had to heal him and fix him up pretty. But it was worth the effort, wasn't it?" She raises her voice at the end. There's some more cheering, shouted assent. Moira does like to make her wares pretty, regardless of gender, and it's not as though they have any say in the matter.
The man is human, slender, maybe even thin under the third-hand gown Moira's dressed him in. And Juneau will bet he's got no shift on under it, nor any other kind of smallclothes. It was a nice dress once, and the colors suit him well enough: tealy-blue, mossy-green. (It's anybody's guess whether Moira picks the clothes to suit the people or picks the people based on what she can get from the rag-and-bone man who comes down with cast-offs from the better part of town.) His lips are painted berry-red, like Moira's own, though he'll surely have it smeared across his face before the night's through.
"Nobody be too rough with him, now, or he won't be so sweet," Moira goes on. Another formality. Most everyone here has heard this before, knows how it works. "And if you pay me to take him home and want him with more fight in him, well, that's your business, but don't ruin it for everyone, aye?" More agreement, some grudgingly given.
"I assume you've tried him out," Nadine says. She's half-drow, sharp-featured and to-the-point. She gets the toe of her boot under the hem of the man's dress and draws it up. Juneau catches sight of pale, skinny legs, lightly dusted with hair as red as the hair on the man's head. She shouldn't be watching, no, she knows she shouldn't, and it makes her sick, but --
But it's always hard to look away, too, especially knowing that no one's going to look back at her through the kitchen door when there's something better to watch.
"No fool, am I? He's got a good mouth on him, I'll tell you that," Moira says. Nadine grins back at her. "Go on, have a go, he won't prove me a liar."
"Have you got a name?" Nadine says as she stands and unlaces the front of her leather trousers. There are some wolf-whistles and she gestures rudely in return.
"Caleb," the man says. "What about you?" As though it's a normal conversation. His voice is lightly accented. Juneau feels a pang. Bad enough luck to fall into a situation like this, but surely worse as a stranger to the place.
"Polite of you to ask," Nadine says approvingly, though she doesn't answer. Another one of Moira's, a girl, had come back to the tavern half-mad and bent on revenge. Better not to give the man -- Caleb -- and easy time finding her again. She shoves her trousers down around her ankles. Nobody whistles. It's not a tease or a joke anymore. "So I'll be polite in return. Do you want a taste of me?"
"Alright," Caleb says. He goes to his knees easily when Nadine puts a hand on his shoulder. There's no mistaking what she wants from him, and she shudders when he slides his tongue along the lips of her cunt. What he can reach with her still standing, anyway. It's not a good position to try get his tongue inside her, but he can get at her clit.
"Gods bless you, Nadine, you do know how to put on a show," Lucas says.
"Shut up, will you, I'm trying to enjoy myself," Nadine grumbles back. She grips Caleb's hair tightly enough to keep him in place, but not too tightly. She's not about to risk hurting him and bringing him to his senses; there'd be a very good chance of something tender getting bitten. She comes quickly and silently, clenching her teeth against it. She tugs Caleb's head back and then pets his head as she might a dog's. "That's enough, now. There's plenty of others who're eager to meet you tonight."
Caleb stays on his knees until Nadine's got her trousers back on. His lipstick's a hopeless cause already. There are hands ready to steady him as he stands. Hands ready to do more than that.
---
It's not that he doesn't understand what is happening or what has happened. The timeline of events is clear. He was exhausted, magic depleted, in the back alleys of a town he didn't know. They'd split up on purpose, the better to avoid being followed or noticed, but he didn't know the lay of the land well enough to find them quickly. He knows which way is north, now and always, but he didn't know which way to go...
Then a woman with wine-colored lips, saying lost, are we, dear? and grappling him, getting the better of him, binding him and taking him back to a room with a big copper tub. Scrubbing him down. Dressing him up. Plying him with honey threaded through with something bitter. She had to hold his nose and mouth closed to force him to swallow it.
What's harder to understand now is why he fought her so much. It's not as though she wanted him to do anything bad.
---
It's Kellan who gets his hands around Caleb's waist and draws him close. Kellan, who tried to court Juneau's cousin two years back, and gods be praised that she accepted someone else's offer of marriage instead. He kisses the side of Caleb's neck and Caleb tilts his head to allow it.
"Feeling romantic?" Moira says. She's back on solid ground now, hands on her hips and grinning. "I could keep him sweet for you for a month."
"Could not," Kellan says. "You could make it hurt him to try to kill me, but that's no guarantee of sweetness." He remembers that one girl, too. Lucky he hadn't been there when she came back. "I'll take what I can get here and now. Should be plenty." He hikes up Caleb's skirt up to the knees, to the thighs and Juneau was right. (Juneau hates that she was right and hates that she's seen this enough to know.) There's nothing under the dress but pale skin, scrubbed pink in places. "Maybe I should let Lucas have a go first. Our friend might find him disappointing after me." A round of jeers and clapping.
Juneau finally finds her feet, turns her body and her gaze back to what's in need of scrubbing. It doesn't stop her from hearing, though. A soft, faintly surprised ah!, followed by a low chuckle. Gods, but you're tight, aren't you, lad? Wet sounds that she shouldn't be able to hear, not at this distance, not with the ambient noise, but she knows to expect them from other times. She hates it, wants to put poison in Moira's cup so she never has to hear it again --
She half-turns and looks back through the doorway.
Caleb's bent over one of the tables, skirt up around his waist now, and Kellan behind him. Other hands are stroking his hair, his back, his arms, waiting their turn but not patient enough to let him alone. Caleb makes sounds that are still more surprised than pleased, but they're not pained or unhappy. They will be later, when he's right in his mind. Most of Moira's wares are still here when they come back to themselves, too weak and worked-over to do much but cry. Only rarely will someone actually pay to keep them. Moira does this mostly for the cruel pleasure of it. For the proof of her power and mastery.
Two more take a turn with Caleb like that before someone hauls him up, lays him out on a bench, and rides him. When they bother to ask, he agrees, still quite polite. Juneau watches and doesn't watch and watches again. It doesn't make a bit of difference either way.
Someone else will look after him, she thinks. It doesn't have to be me, at the end of the night. But she waits all the same. It's always her, or almost always, who takes a damp rag and wipes their faces clean of paint and come. A long night made longer by misery.
Caleb's laid out across someone's lap when the commotion starts. Moira won't be using the dress again -- there's a rent up one side from hem to hip, much too long for a mending cantrip to fix. There's shouting at the door. A woman's voice, brash and loud.
"Someone said they saw him around here," the voice says. "And you've got no reason not to let me in unless you've got something to hide. Maybe I just need a fucking drink, okay?" The owner of the voice comes into view, pushing through the front door. A woman in blue. A monk? Unlikely. Maybe she'd bought the robes secondhand, or taken them from a corpse. "Pretty quiet in here. Where I'm from, the party'd just be getting started around this time of night."
"Oh, there's a party," Moira says in her nasty, insinuating way. She inclines her head toward the night's entertainment. The woman in blue catches sight of him. She freezes, and then she moves to fast it's hard to see her.
fill: "under the influence" Caleb/others, E, suggestion spell, cw: noncon, 1/2
---
It's nothing Juneau hasn't seen before, but it turns her stomach every time. Still: it's dangerous enough to work in a place like this herself, even if she spends most of her time in the kitchen, without picking fights with the patrons.
"Alright, folks, you know the rules," Moira says, standing on one of the long benches. She's greeted by cheers and a few whistles. "First taste's free, but if you're looking for a more permanent arrangement, you come and see me."
"Where do you find your little dolls?" Lucas says. He reaches out to touch the man standing by Moira's feet. The man doesn't resist. (They rarely do.)
"This little morsel was a sorry sight when I found him," Moira says. She tangles her fingers in the man's hair and forces his head back. "He was banged up -- weren't you, love? And filthy, to boot. I had to heal him and fix him up pretty. But it was worth the effort, wasn't it?" She raises her voice at the end. There's some more cheering, shouted assent. Moira does like to make her wares pretty, regardless of gender, and it's not as though they have any say in the matter.
The man is human, slender, maybe even thin under the third-hand gown Moira's dressed him in. And Juneau will bet he's got no shift on under it, nor any other kind of smallclothes. It was a nice dress once, and the colors suit him well enough: tealy-blue, mossy-green. (It's anybody's guess whether Moira picks the clothes to suit the people or picks the people based on what she can get from the rag-and-bone man who comes down with cast-offs from the better part of town.) His lips are painted berry-red, like Moira's own, though he'll surely have it smeared across his face before the night's through.
"Nobody be too rough with him, now, or he won't be so sweet," Moira goes on. Another formality. Most everyone here has heard this before, knows how it works. "And if you pay me to take him home and want him with more fight in him, well, that's your business, but don't ruin it for everyone, aye?" More agreement, some grudgingly given.
"I assume you've tried him out," Nadine says. She's half-drow, sharp-featured and to-the-point. She gets the toe of her boot under the hem of the man's dress and draws it up. Juneau catches sight of pale, skinny legs, lightly dusted with hair as red as the hair on the man's head. She shouldn't be watching, no, she knows she shouldn't, and it makes her sick, but --
But it's always hard to look away, too, especially knowing that no one's going to look back at her through the kitchen door when there's something better to watch.
"No fool, am I? He's got a good mouth on him, I'll tell you that," Moira says. Nadine grins back at her. "Go on, have a go, he won't prove me a liar."
"Have you got a name?" Nadine says as she stands and unlaces the front of her leather trousers. There are some wolf-whistles and she gestures rudely in return.
"Caleb," the man says. "What about you?" As though it's a normal conversation. His voice is lightly accented. Juneau feels a pang. Bad enough luck to fall into a situation like this, but surely worse as a stranger to the place.
"Polite of you to ask," Nadine says approvingly, though she doesn't answer. Another one of Moira's, a girl, had come back to the tavern half-mad and bent on revenge. Better not to give the man -- Caleb -- and easy time finding her again. She shoves her trousers down around her ankles. Nobody whistles. It's not a tease or a joke anymore. "So I'll be polite in return. Do you want a taste of me?"
"Alright," Caleb says. He goes to his knees easily when Nadine puts a hand on his shoulder. There's no mistaking what she wants from him, and she shudders when he slides his tongue along the lips of her cunt. What he can reach with her still standing, anyway. It's not a good position to try get his tongue inside her, but he can get at her clit.
"Gods bless you, Nadine, you do know how to put on a show," Lucas says.
"Shut up, will you, I'm trying to enjoy myself," Nadine grumbles back. She grips Caleb's hair tightly enough to keep him in place, but not too tightly. She's not about to risk hurting him and bringing him to his senses; there'd be a very good chance of something tender getting bitten. She comes quickly and silently, clenching her teeth against it. She tugs Caleb's head back and then pets his head as she might a dog's. "That's enough, now. There's plenty of others who're eager to meet you tonight."
Caleb stays on his knees until Nadine's got her trousers back on. His lipstick's a hopeless cause already. There are hands ready to steady him as he stands. Hands ready to do more than that.
---
It's not that he doesn't understand what is happening or what has happened. The timeline of events is clear. He was exhausted, magic depleted, in the back alleys of a town he didn't know. They'd split up on purpose, the better to avoid being followed or noticed, but he didn't know the lay of the land well enough to find them quickly. He knows which way is north, now and always, but he didn't know which way to go...
Then a woman with wine-colored lips, saying lost, are we, dear? and grappling him, getting the better of him, binding him and taking him back to a room with a big copper tub. Scrubbing him down. Dressing him up. Plying him with honey threaded through with something bitter. She had to hold his nose and mouth closed to force him to swallow it.
What's harder to understand now is why he fought her so much. It's not as though she wanted him to do anything bad.
---
It's Kellan who gets his hands around Caleb's waist and draws him close. Kellan, who tried to court Juneau's cousin two years back, and gods be praised that she accepted someone else's offer of marriage instead. He kisses the side of Caleb's neck and Caleb tilts his head to allow it.
"Feeling romantic?" Moira says. She's back on solid ground now, hands on her hips and grinning. "I could keep him sweet for you for a month."
"Could not," Kellan says. "You could make it hurt him to try to kill me, but that's no guarantee of sweetness." He remembers that one girl, too. Lucky he hadn't been there when she came back. "I'll take what I can get here and now. Should be plenty." He hikes up Caleb's skirt up to the knees, to the thighs and Juneau was right. (Juneau hates that she was right and hates that she's seen this enough to know.) There's nothing under the dress but pale skin, scrubbed pink in places. "Maybe I should let Lucas have a go first. Our friend might find him disappointing after me." A round of jeers and clapping.
Juneau finally finds her feet, turns her body and her gaze back to what's in need of scrubbing. It doesn't stop her from hearing, though. A soft, faintly surprised ah!, followed by a low chuckle. Gods, but you're tight, aren't you, lad? Wet sounds that she shouldn't be able to hear, not at this distance, not with the ambient noise, but she knows to expect them from other times. She hates it, wants to put poison in Moira's cup so she never has to hear it again --
She half-turns and looks back through the doorway.
Caleb's bent over one of the tables, skirt up around his waist now, and Kellan behind him. Other hands are stroking his hair, his back, his arms, waiting their turn but not patient enough to let him alone. Caleb makes sounds that are still more surprised than pleased, but they're not pained or unhappy. They will be later, when he's right in his mind. Most of Moira's wares are still here when they come back to themselves, too weak and worked-over to do much but cry. Only rarely will someone actually pay to keep them. Moira does this mostly for the cruel pleasure of it. For the proof of her power and mastery.
Two more take a turn with Caleb like that before someone hauls him up, lays him out on a bench, and rides him. When they bother to ask, he agrees, still quite polite. Juneau watches and doesn't watch and watches again. It doesn't make a bit of difference either way.
Someone else will look after him, she thinks. It doesn't have to be me, at the end of the night. But she waits all the same. It's always her, or almost always, who takes a damp rag and wipes their faces clean of paint and come. A long night made longer by misery.
Caleb's laid out across someone's lap when the commotion starts. Moira won't be using the dress again -- there's a rent up one side from hem to hip, much too long for a mending cantrip to fix. There's shouting at the door. A woman's voice, brash and loud.
"Someone said they saw him around here," the voice says. "And you've got no reason not to let me in unless you've got something to hide. Maybe I just need a fucking drink, okay?" The owner of the voice comes into view, pushing through the front door. A woman in blue. A monk? Unlikely. Maybe she'd bought the robes secondhand, or taken them from a corpse. "Pretty quiet in here. Where I'm from, the party'd just be getting started around this time of night."
"Oh, there's a party," Moira says in her nasty, insinuating way. She inclines her head toward the night's entertainment. The woman in blue catches sight of him. She freezes, and then she moves to fast it's hard to see her.