ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀs ᴏғ ᴋɪɴɢs ʀᴜɴ ғᴇʀᴀʟ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ғᴏʀᴇsᴛ （ｃｌｏｓｅｄ）

[milagros]

CHARACTERS ▶ Mila Gallo, Benji Ryans & Dorian Pavus
LOCATION ▶ Benji's private room in the domestic levels.
SUMMARY ▶ Dorian tags along to hold Mila's hand while Benji tattoos her on the boob.
WARNINGS ▶ Titties.
NOTES ▶

The first appointment had been free, a part of the celebrations of the truce week, something Mila had done on impulse and because it gave her pleasure to do. The artwork is unfinished, though, elaborately, extensively delicate, this mid-motion bird coming apart into petals above her heart, and in addition to the fabulous moustache that she totes along behind her, she doesn't come empty-handed a second time. A price had not, per se, been negotiated; she failed entirely to be consternated by that realization, taking time instead to weigh and consider what felt appropriate. The dress she has cleaned and folded and tucked under her arm is something she would've passed by, in the life that wasn't hers; something sold somewhere she'd never have been in the first place, probably.

It reminded her of someone she doesn't talk about when she was given it, a year and a half ago here in Zion, and she's worn it a handful of times since - loose-fitting, light fabric a pale but warm brown rather than dull grey, a sash shades darker at the waist to give shape to asymmetric skirt, heavy with small stones sewn in to clink together or flair apart, long enough on Mila that it'll still be long on longer, equally willowy limbs. It reminded her of Benji when she looked at it a few nights ago, squinted, imagined her wearing it in woods that don't exist, surrounded by birds that don't fly.

"I'll regret giving away something this loose when I can't wear a bra for a week," she remarks in aside to Dorian, rapping sharp knuckles on the door.

(False; she likes pain, a little, still.)

Comments

[goldshitting]

Adding to the ever growing list of things that would cause Halward Pavus to a) shit himself, b) go into hysterics before demanding to be carried to the silk-lined fainting couches, c) file for disownment, d) possibly entertain notions of blood magic or e) all of the above, Dorian stands just outside Benji Ryans' door, talking to a regal young woman about her soon to be sore tits. The last seven months of Zion has been a trip.

And even still, the thought still pings a sensitive place in him, thinking fondly even of his father's tirades over the smallest of things. He tries not to linger too much, these days, on the 'maybe they were all programs' concept, but it does sneak it's way in time to time. Luckily, people like Mila and things like the dilemma of her sore boobs distract very well. Also, tattooing in general, considering Benji had already decorated his person a short while back with something to lighten the homesickness. Maybe he'll try adding on something else too. Probably not involving nipples, though. He'll leave that bright new frontier to Mila.

"Looking on the bright side, you could always take advantage of your ailment, and spend the next week topless, citing medical necessity as your excuse for unabashed nudity." He comments thoughtfully, hand on his chin, while waiting for Benji to get to the door. A beat, and his head tilts, frown tugging at one corner of his lips. "Or preformance art."

[cestrumnocturnum]

There is an unknown hesitation of the person on the other side of the hefty steel door. Benji has her hands on the lock before she pauses around the sound of a man, "...medical necessity as your excuse for unabashed nudity. Or performance art."

Well, this will be a day.

She smiles thin and tolerantly amused, set in place in her expression as she tugs the door open. Tall and long-limbed, there's still a wall-flower quality to her, encouraged by the usual drab grey of Real world clothing standard fare -- shapeless and many times repaired, leggings beneath a long drape of cotton, feet in hemp sandals. Behind her, the room is an exact replica of every other room on this level, made larger for the fact it accommodates only her as opposed to, say, a family of four, and barren for having only just gotten it.

There is, though, an artwork already on the wall. You are likely to find a lot in the way of sunset landscapes (and depictions of other such things that do not exist anymore) when it comes to cheap canvas hangings, but it does something to brighten up the room of metal and gloom.

"Whoever said you need an excuse," is mild, shy affect with game rapport. "Hello, Mila. Dorian," is added, mild surprise. Pleasant surprise. "Come in."

[milagros]

Thus invited, Mila accepts - she's slightly charmed by the novelty of looking up at Benji, still, and moreso by what touches of personality there are in otherwise spartan surroundings. The sight of the room is reinforcement of her decision on what gift to bring, and she offers it forward, now, hands upturned; "In the event you don't wish to join me in that, you might find this useful."

Medically necessary nudity, one presumes. Her tone is droll, and she doesn't smile, but there's a crinkle at the corner of her eyes that hints at warmth the disciplined way she holds herself rarely does.

(Regal, yes; it isn't militaristic or warlike, for all that she is battle-tested. She lifted her chin to young lady once, as a child, and has never since lowered it.)

[goldshitting]

"Ah, Zion." Dorian sighs out, with a careless smile, before wafting a hand about in mock-grandeur, as if gestures to all of the city. "Land of the spiritually and physically baring. An inspiration to us all."

Invitation given, he slips into the modest dwelling behind Mila, pausing to drop a hand lightly on the artist's shoulder in mild greeting, brief.

"Benji, my dear. Always a pleasure." For the, what, two or three times he's actually met with her? Well, she has been a pleasure each of those times. Shy, but amiable, and endearing in her quiet ways, especially in the fact she never once told Dorian to shut up once he got on one of his ramlbing kicks. Such as now. "Is that a whisper of a whisper of a smile? I feel like we've witnessed a unicorn."

Eyes pass over Mila, as she offers the dress, and there's a more understated lift at the corner of his lips and softness in his eyes as he watches the exchange. Mila's fond of quiet, mild Benji, even with the blankness of her expression that conceals little hints of warmth. It's touching, to see small, human interactions like this in a place so dark as Zion, still. He'll meander his way further in, to examine the sunset piece on the wall pensively, more to let the two have their moment.

[cestrumnocturnum]

Benji's hands go out to receive the present, a ready smile in place as she unfolds it partially to see what it is; a little surprise colours her features, for its fineness, for the thought in it, and for the little stone bead embellishments sought out by curious fingertips. She chases a glance after Dorian.

"But, you mustn't frighten it away," on the topic of mythical creatures, and the look back to Milagros has faint apology for joining in the gentle mockery. "Thank you, it's lovely."

She closes the door after them, sealing it with its heavy, mechanised locking system as a matter of course and privacy, before crossing to find a place to tuck away the dress, taking care. There's an obvious place for Milagros to go, the padded lounge-like chair dragged out cattycornered, an extra light or two positioned to banish away the central shadows.

"Would either of you like anything to drink? There's a little wine left."

Where human civilisation flourishes, so too will alcohol.

"I won't be having any."

[milagros]

Although her expressions are always a little understated, it's not difficult to see that the reception for her gift pleases her; it will suit Benji better than it did her, she thinks, and there is always a certain satisfaction in having been right. She doesn't mind indulging it harmlessly, from time to time, in the hopes that that satisfaction will keep her from indulging it less harmlessly elsewhere. (She is a born manager, and she starts with herself, first of all.)

Sitting down, there's no hesitation or modesty involved when she leans forward to tug her shirt off over her head, only bare skin and incomplete art underneath. It is entirely likely that she wouldn't carry herself in such a way as to beg questions, if she decided to be medically nude for a bit; here is her body. What about it? (It's not always been true, or nearly so effortless. Mila prefers to be given credit for the work she's done than having something taken for natural gift.)

But as for the drink--

"Afterwards," she decides, tying the sleeves of her shirt loosely around her hips so she doesn't forget it, later. "I'd definitely like a drink afterwards." Not much of one, if she doesn't want to bleed the rest of the day, but even so.