♟ In the Room where it Happens♟
The space that made up the ‘guest room’; little more than a curtained off quarter of the studio loft. Was filled to the brim. Everything crammed within it made the space seem large and small at once. A lounge worthy gray, tweed loveseat consumed an entire section of wall where Syrus lay. The man draped his legs over one end and propped his torso against the curve of the other; surrounded by splays of study items and neatly organized account files. Books heavy on end tables, his pen both in his mouth and in his hand at once for how often he moved to correct something in red, traded it for a highlighter in a paragraph, crossed out several egregious and bulky add-ons — language even he found unnecessary for how it missed the point of the papers purpose entirely.
Syrus did this all with warm lighting at his back, bright lighting before him, where the boudoir/vanity’s haloed glow lit up a pair of bodies just right. Syrus found it hilarious how Waru couldn’t dress himself if someone forced him to — at gunpoint — but for a friend? For a girl? For the people he loved?! Suddenly the man could catch sense and catch a look (picked by others always, but still, it was the effort that counted!)— a mix of thrifted vintage. The blacks and greens Syrus knew him for intertwined with pops of color, burnished oranges that’d sunned for far too long. Aramis had talked Waru into the types of beads in his dreads that he liked to joke as ‘rattlesnake tails’; for the sound when the locs were loose and unbound, for the way they looked like tigers eyes in the light.
Syrus remembered why exactly he admired Waru sometimes, the man couldn’t work a dictionary, but vests? A corset? A crowd? All those talents wound in blissful ignorance and a dedication to looking the way he felt; the way true wolves looked like bears at a distance and even more massive up close. He hummed some soft-wantful sigh as he watched while working, with raptured awe, the way Waru snatched Aramis in— remembered that the himbo he and Aramis shared had more bust than some women, and maybe knew a thing or two about playing that up when ‘more’ was desired in the space of absence.
Senshi of bondage and all that jazz, running around in barely a bra— Not that Syrus could’ve said anything for his own nigh-nakedness. He prayed the ‘master tailor’ would treat him better come his next grab for power.
“It’s tight—“ Aramis hissed out a breath, adjusting the ‘enhancements’ in the bodice slightly, “But it could be more, *umph*, am I right?” a wave of nails, as if searching for the word, a twist that became some displeased sound — and much as Waru and Syrus had learned to leave Aramis patiently to their hair when she had her scissors out, when she came at them with a comb and frown that neither of them could’ve called ugly — Aramis and Syrus knew to leave Waru to a task when he got so focused he quit fidgeting entirely. When the talking stopped and there was blessed silence—
Aramis pulled a glow enhancing highlight stick from her makeup stand, a softer blush, the hues tinted with the sheerest blues that would only reflect violet in just the right kinds of light.
“Oui, mon amant,” the patience in Waru’s answer clear, the different framing of desire. Aramis was always the lover, the paramour, the mistress — Syrus sometimes sighed for how he got tueur, glacé, mon esprit — quiet pet names held close, sensible ones, Syrus thought; for what thoughts would the Waru have without him? Syrus didn’t dare to wonder that. Felt some sharp sort of compliment for how Waru valued him, knew he could’ve asked for more and had it given, but sometimes he so wanted it given without needing to do the asking—
The words on the page before him suddenly became more interesting than the hitch of Armis breath, a higher sound, the particular hiss and creak of corded binds being pulled through metal eyelets. A pause in all the happenings as Aramis twisted to dare and ask how she looked over one poised shoulder (as if the answer weren’t obvious), before she rolled into standing, all sorts of dress and undress between the three of them; but for her especially only halfway done with donning a *look*. She went up, nearly on her toes, adopting a better walk that deserved heels.
“Pretty—“ Waru assured, and something had clearly shorted out in Waru’s brain - the way his eyes went wide, round, enthralled. His soft ‘oh’ of a mouth for once struck speechless for longer than five seconds. Syrus would’ve sworn on his life that he could actively hear the dying embers of their shared friends' braincells catch and sizzle out into the horniest of thoughts. The equivalent of humanity dying with a whimper instead of a roar; little more than a sputtering hiss of neurons to show it’d ever existed at all.
“Just pretty?” Aramis sneered meanly for it, (*prettily* Waru would’ve said), her lips drawn into a plush mauve line the way they both liked. The way even her falsetto smiles looked like frowns when she was being slightly disapproving. It was all in the eyes, dark glitter, the way the makeup pulled the shape and deepened every expression. She was always herself like this — the closest to right she felt — with her cute little tits on and the scent of polished leather and feel fresh boning compressing everything into readable curves that begged for fingers around them.
Aramis’s gaze drifted then— left Waru to huff wholeheartedly about missing the mark by a micrometer, and landed on the lazy stretch of slim black slacks and loose jersey cotton study attire that made up Syrus — all over her gray tweed couch. “Let’s try again—Syrus, you lanky b***h. Any thoughts?”
“You look like a woman,” delivered deadpan, with a roll of mismatched eyes, and the smile he wanted to hide came later, got buried behind work he wasn’t actually looking at anymore. He never needed to look at Aramis to know the right answers.
“See Waru? That’s a compliment. Ten points to Slytherin,” the words cooed with all affection, the lilt of it angled just north of teasing condescension; there was genuine praise there and she threaded it through Syrus bangs in passing, slid those jeweled nails down to give him a gentle tap across his cheek—- Syrus caught the compliment, fluttering his lashes over mixed red and blue orbs, blowing the most obnoxiously gaudy kiss her way. Aramis pretended to catch it and keep it in her heart, trapped right behind her embellished bosom. Before moving on to finish with the process of getting ready.
Waru wasn’t one to let that stand, the second Aramis got further than the beige beaded divider hung over thick plain ceiling curtains, the himbo was on Syrus. A scuffle of papers flying faster than the curses that were traded in a myriad of colorful languages, limbs and study materials all hitting shaved brown shag carpeting with a thump. Aramis hadn’t even made it to the closet before she was shouting back–
“Waru!! Play nice with the brains of our operation—the only brain, mind you!“ Aramis shouted from beyond--
“Yes mom! I’ll be nice to the ice-viper-ow!! He bit me!! ********, rat — do it again?” Syrus’s beleaguered and slightly squished groan was followed by vulgar cackling, the kind that held the promise of malice shaped like toy roaches hidden within Syrus’s cabinets and fridge and *everything* for weeks to come. The kind that also held loving warmth; the sticky, gooey, mushy kind that would lead to the pair never getting off the floor if Aramis didn’t eventually intervene.
When she was damn good and ready? She finally did. Laced up and decked out, wearing a dress that revealed just enough to let her show off her thigh highs; because side slits in backles velvet contrast gowns were as lovely as bright blue ballet laces up the backs of ‘******** me’ boots. She needed those seen, needed the black-rose lace of boy-short cut underwear to peek over nylon pantyhose. She needed golden pearls, thick, looped, dangling from her ears; dripping from the belt she cinched it all together with. Someday she’d invest in something backless, today? She’d let the velvet laying over the corset build her a kinder illusion for her own eyes—-
“Enough you two, and you? Waru! We’re leaving, you’re driving –” directed at Waru with pointed nails before she started rummaging the rack of purses nailed to the wall above a bin of still more– “Sy’, dearest dove, you’re sure you’re staying in tonight?” Aramis asked openly, and Syrus knew she would’ve liked the pair of them – one on each arm – an entire show. He had to shake his head for it though; even as he tapped out of Waru’s hold. He did legitimately have work to do, studying, editing of case-loads.
“I’m the worst, I know, but I can’t — and you should take the blue clutch. It’ll match your shoes,” Syrus added, because someone had to compliment Aramis’s good taste in attire! Waru wouldn’t know how even if the idea bit him, if Syrus bit it into him. So it was up to him to offer appropriate suggestions for Aramis.
“Thank you.” Aramis offered softly, Syrus always kissed her hand, and Aramis always anointed his forehead with something he knew would need washing off – except tonight her lipstick was matte so maybe his skin would survive the brand of it.
“Always, be safe you two – Waru?” and as Syrus asked Aramis turned and they both had to give the man a look; the way he seemed strange more often than not now. The shadows lived in lines that showed strain, the way he seemed too alert even in the spaces he should’ve been relaxing – like he was waiting for some other ominous shoe to drop.
“Mnh? M’good–” and how Waru could be distracted and focused at once, both trying to organize the shuffle of a mess he’d made poorly, while watching the pair like a man in a hide trying not to spook the deer. Waru finally gave up, straightened up, smiled like he wasn’t hiding a years worth of strain beneath the chance at a good time – syrus hoped Aramis could indulge him enough to let him relax, the way she was removed from the chaos of the other side of their lives. “We’ll be fine,” the promise sounded far too severe, it seemed to catch them all off guard, “I love you Sy. G’luck with alluv the words n such yeh?” Then they were waving Sy off and he was left listening for the click of a lock at the front door; frowning as he pulled out his phone and started up a new string of texts.
WC: 1820
