[hollis + benny] mint & cinnamon
Who: Hollis & Benny
When: August 18th, Thursday. Before Mike's visit.
Where: Inanna's
Rating & Warnings: PG, curses!
In which Hollis sends Benny on his vow of silence, also known, in some circles, as a "divafit."
An injured whore made no money under Shiri's roof, and he'd had too many incidents as of late. Jai was an expensive pain in the ass and threat to his life, but it was clear the rude gangster wasn't coming back. Benny had only begun to breathe easier after his visit to The Golden Hour. Olinda and Duncan had done him a solid by looking over his stitches and giving him a spread for it. Honey and garlic and lavender and red sludge didn't look so appetizing - or smell it - but it did the job well. He covered it with a strip of cloth (he'd dipped one end in perfume) and no one had been any wiser. Sometimes it hurt fiercely when the muscle pulled the wrong way, but if he was honest, his clients probably liked the random variety of little shrieks and groans it produced.
He followed his last client back down the stairs (after sleeping, of course) to Inanna's proper, rolling his shoulder as he took in the lay of the land. Medellos wasn't there, or he was busy. It was a given that Owen was busy with his Cita-fucking-damned hundred businesses he had no use for. The rest of the faces he only found vaguely familiar, and thank Cita none of them were Jai's. One such face was weathered blonde's, the Bercator that Diya had been so smug about beating. She'd threatened him earlier, too, but he was hardly afraid of her. Bercators all died young anyways, didn't they?
Deciding his arm needed a rest and his mouth could use a walk, he swaggered over to the table where she sat to investigate. "Back for a rematch so soon, love?" He bent a knee so he could prop his elbows on the table next to her, chin in one hand and angled towards her. "The way you were carrying on I thought you might never get rid of those tigers."
Here she was again, in a whorehouse. How did that keep happening? Hollis, this time, was nursing a glass of wine, but no more, wearing a pair of baggy pants that looked decidedly Not-From-This-Country, and probably Turkish in origin and a short-sleeved tunic to beat the heat, belted at the waist by worn-leather. Her arms were bare, tan, wiry, and scarred in some places, and a tell-tale mark of black ink marred her right wrist -- the hand, of course, that held the glass. The decision to be in Shiri's den certainly had nothing to do with Dominic's upcoming Courtship and a desire to be an even greater disappointment to either parent; no, certainly not. But it was convenient that there was alcohol available to take the edge off of her frustration. Quinn, perhaps, was ready for marriage. Dominic was not.
And now someone was speaking to her. Hazel eyes slid to Benny, examining him briefly with a gaze that was surprisingly intent. "Oh," she said, a trace dismissively, prompted to recognition by his reference of the tigers. "It's you, mouthy..." Hollis paused a beat. "I've recovered. Obviously."
Benny grinned in response. "Careful, my lady," he tsked and shook his head. "Around here that's a compliment."
He almost went on to inquire how she'd recovered, but he knew his advice had been sound. A little irritating that such advice was called nothing but sass by either of them, but it was an indication never to give it again unless he was being paid for it. Everything came down to worth in the end. His gaze flicked over Hollis' clothes curiously, then back to her face. "Someone so pretty shouldn't be so sour. Why're you all alone?"
Oh?" Hollis asked, with the air of one pretending to be perfectly ignorant, though the quirk of her lips suggested otherwise. The blonde's wry smirk around her glass was a dead giveaway. "And why is that?"
The whore's question gave her pause as she contemplated the answer. It was a curious way of phrasing such a thing. She stopped herself before getting too existential; a whorehouse was no place for that sort of activity. "Perhaps because I'm so sour," she suggested, finally, taking a drink and following it up with a crooked grin. "All my company just spits me right out."
"Then maybe you should be a little sweeter," he answered easily, eyebrows lifting. A finger brushed against the back of her head noncommittally. Was he trying to fuck her? He hadn't decided yet. Being idle under Shiri's eye was no way to make himself popular with his madam regardless. Talking to her for now gave him a nice filler. It was better than being forced to stare at Etienne all night long and decide all the ways he'd pounce that grizzled sack of bitter and bones if given the chance.
"You're new here, right?" From some far off land that was a near-clone of Tartessos, sans interest and mermaids. That he couldn't spell if he tried. Benny bit his lip and cocked his head, considering. "I'll give you a clue, love: no one comes to a whorehouse like this to be alone." Smirking, he leaned back to take her in fully. "You can tell me to fuck off if you'd like, or if there's anything else that you want."
"Not everyone who walks this earth can taste like honey," Hollis advised, without missing a beat. She traced a calloused fingertip around the rim of her glass, briefly contemplative. If all the pretty things were also only ever the good ones, then one who was ugly would be doubly cursed. And there would truly be no honor to be had amongst thieves and sailors, who usually weren't the most attractive lot.
"You don't strike me as the kind of boy who fucks off when he's told." The smirk was back, now, along with another lazy flicker of hazel eyes in the whore's direction. Hollis leaned back in her chair, balancing it on the back two legs. Clearly she wasn't intoxicated yet, if she could do so with impunity. "Unless you only do that when you can hide behind the pages of a book. I never said I came here to be alone. Those were your words."
His knees shifted a few inches to the side, more content to be out of her crash radius should she fall. He needed more injuries like he needed more holes in his head. Which is to say: he didn't. "What about me makes you think I'm so sassy?" The word was.. almost a compliment, when used by different people. Benny believed a large part of the word had a skewed vision on what the phrase 'backchat' meant. Questions, advice, and simple observations (tigers were not that small) did not fall into that category.
Nor did a whore simply chatting up a patron. "You still didn't tell me what you want, or why you're here."
"You're a whore, aren't you?" Hollis inquired, rhetorically: they both knew the answer to that already. "You don't seem too careful about what you say or how you say it. From what I can tell, you must really hate it when someone else gets the last word. And you're a little bit of a liar, Benny," added the sailor, dragging out the two syllables in a seafaring lilt. She didn't wait for him to ask why, merely proceeding with: "Since you smell like, besides sweat and salt and skin" -- this, a trademark of many whores -- "... a touch of honey, garlic, and if I'm not mistaken, lavender. Key ingredients of a household remedy for deep cuts. This doesn't seem like the kind of establishment where clients are allowed to play with knives, mate, and you've got no reason to be in a kitchen, nor, I daresay, a fight." So she was more observant than she usually let on, then. It didn't look that way, usually, but appearances were so deceiving. "The garlic, in particular, is a bit strong. Certainly not the smell of a man who has no problems."
After a moment more of precarious balance, she set the chair to rights. "I don't tell people what I want," said Hollis, with a vague, sardonic quirk of lips. "And why should I tell you why I'm here?"
It was hard for Benny's veneer of smug and plying not to crack during her honest assessment. It did eventually, signaled by the touch to the strip of cloth tied at his arm to adjust it. He'd thought it masked by the scent of perfume. He licked his lips while he thought of a response and swallowed the kneejerk catty comment that threatened to tumble out. No, he couldn't--
"Oh," he finally squeaked, and let the mock bandage alone. "I was mugged in the street, love. Scars are a problem for every whore, but an Adept at The Golden Hour patched me right up." All the while complaining over the 'hack' that had done his stitches. Benny had grit his teeth through the watery-eyed pain the examination caused and not said a word. He'd scratched out what he'd written to the sergeant. If he ignored Jai, the problem would go away organically.
He rubbed the back of his neck with a shy grin, looking flattered. "Life's all right right now. What a neat trick with your nose though, my lady. If only your family had more of that," to sniff out the poison that killed them all, "it might be a little larger."
Hollis' hazel eyes widened slightly, and she drained her drink, sliding a glance over at the mouthy whore. "You should use either mint or cinnamon," she said, then, with a decidedly colder edge to her voice. When she turned to look back at him her hazel eyes were narrow. "Mint masks odors and cinnamon reduces them." Now why would a noble know something like that?
The advice didn't last for long, and gone was that lazy, boyish quality; along with it, any trace of playfulness, however strange that trait was in a woman like Hollis Bercator.
"Now fuck off."
This is why he rarely fucked women. Their pride was as delicate as crystal and one small chip became a blinding crack. Medellos could insult him all night, but it didn't stop the Tartessian Lord from begging just as loudly for a hot touch and words in kind. With the fairer sex, anything could happen. A switch was suddenly pressed inside them, and they either clawed walls and faces like his madam or clammed up like the Little Sailor That Could next to him.
Still, the change in demeanour was as unsettling. The blonde had a knack for ice, and he found himself shifting uncomfortably to make sure his balls were still hanging free. "Thanks for the advice." How strange for one like her to know, but then again.. Bercator. It wouldn't surprise him if he was staring their killer in the face now. Nobility loved to pull shit like that on each other. He forced a polite smile and rose to his feet, wincing at the pull in his arm. "I'll leave you to be alone."
Nobody comes to a whorehouse to be alone. Why was she here? "As strange as it is."
Had she killed anyone? Really drawn blood; truly gone for the throat. Ended. Poison didn't precisely seem to be Hollis' style. And yet she'd still reacted viciously, gliding from bitch to bitchiest in a fraction of a moment. Perhaps the deaths did bother her. Or perhaps not. A noble's nest was no better than a viper's den, after all. The duchess was merely the latest in a long and bloody history.
"That desire for the last word, Benny," Hollis said, coolly, signaling for a refill with a lift of one slender hand in the direction of the bar, "will be the end of you, someday."
His jaw had dropped open with the intention to confirm he did not, infact, always need the last word, and then he paused. She had a point, however small. The oh-so subtle threat to his life did not go unnoticed. He'd gotten many of those as of late, some with painful results. Was his charm wearing off? He was only nineteen - in theory - he was too young to be washed up. Maybe he had too much charm. Nobles and gangsters putting threats on his pretty head meant his words had an affect on them. He was just a whore, didn't they realise that? There was nothing to get so excited about.
It was still too early in the day to be so thoughtful. Benny frowned at the blonde in her chair and shuffled away, blessedly silent for once. He needed to find mint and cinnamon.
When: August 18th, Thursday. Before Mike's visit.
Where: Inanna's
Rating & Warnings: PG, curses!
In which Hollis sends Benny on his vow of silence, also known, in some circles, as a "divafit."
An injured whore made no money under Shiri's roof, and he'd had too many incidents as of late. Jai was an expensive pain in the ass and threat to his life, but it was clear the rude gangster wasn't coming back. Benny had only begun to breathe easier after his visit to The Golden Hour. Olinda and Duncan had done him a solid by looking over his stitches and giving him a spread for it. Honey and garlic and lavender and red sludge didn't look so appetizing - or smell it - but it did the job well. He covered it with a strip of cloth (he'd dipped one end in perfume) and no one had been any wiser. Sometimes it hurt fiercely when the muscle pulled the wrong way, but if he was honest, his clients probably liked the random variety of little shrieks and groans it produced.
He followed his last client back down the stairs (after sleeping, of course) to Inanna's proper, rolling his shoulder as he took in the lay of the land. Medellos wasn't there, or he was busy. It was a given that Owen was busy with his Cita-fucking-damned hundred businesses he had no use for. The rest of the faces he only found vaguely familiar, and thank Cita none of them were Jai's. One such face was weathered blonde's, the Bercator that Diya had been so smug about beating. She'd threatened him earlier, too, but he was hardly afraid of her. Bercators all died young anyways, didn't they?
Deciding his arm needed a rest and his mouth could use a walk, he swaggered over to the table where she sat to investigate. "Back for a rematch so soon, love?" He bent a knee so he could prop his elbows on the table next to her, chin in one hand and angled towards her. "The way you were carrying on I thought you might never get rid of those tigers."
Here she was again, in a whorehouse. How did that keep happening? Hollis, this time, was nursing a glass of wine, but no more, wearing a pair of baggy pants that looked decidedly Not-From-This-Country, and probably Turkish in origin and a short-sleeved tunic to beat the heat, belted at the waist by worn-leather. Her arms were bare, tan, wiry, and scarred in some places, and a tell-tale mark of black ink marred her right wrist -- the hand, of course, that held the glass. The decision to be in Shiri's den certainly had nothing to do with Dominic's upcoming Courtship and a desire to be an even greater disappointment to either parent; no, certainly not. But it was convenient that there was alcohol available to take the edge off of her frustration. Quinn, perhaps, was ready for marriage. Dominic was not.
And now someone was speaking to her. Hazel eyes slid to Benny, examining him briefly with a gaze that was surprisingly intent. "Oh," she said, a trace dismissively, prompted to recognition by his reference of the tigers. "It's you, mouthy..." Hollis paused a beat. "I've recovered. Obviously."
Benny grinned in response. "Careful, my lady," he tsked and shook his head. "Around here that's a compliment."
He almost went on to inquire how she'd recovered, but he knew his advice had been sound. A little irritating that such advice was called nothing but sass by either of them, but it was an indication never to give it again unless he was being paid for it. Everything came down to worth in the end. His gaze flicked over Hollis' clothes curiously, then back to her face. "Someone so pretty shouldn't be so sour. Why're you all alone?"
Oh?" Hollis asked, with the air of one pretending to be perfectly ignorant, though the quirk of her lips suggested otherwise. The blonde's wry smirk around her glass was a dead giveaway. "And why is that?"
The whore's question gave her pause as she contemplated the answer. It was a curious way of phrasing such a thing. She stopped herself before getting too existential; a whorehouse was no place for that sort of activity. "Perhaps because I'm so sour," she suggested, finally, taking a drink and following it up with a crooked grin. "All my company just spits me right out."
"Then maybe you should be a little sweeter," he answered easily, eyebrows lifting. A finger brushed against the back of her head noncommittally. Was he trying to fuck her? He hadn't decided yet. Being idle under Shiri's eye was no way to make himself popular with his madam regardless. Talking to her for now gave him a nice filler. It was better than being forced to stare at Etienne all night long and decide all the ways he'd pounce that grizzled sack of bitter and bones if given the chance.
"You're new here, right?" From some far off land that was a near-clone of Tartessos, sans interest and mermaids. That he couldn't spell if he tried. Benny bit his lip and cocked his head, considering. "I'll give you a clue, love: no one comes to a whorehouse like this to be alone." Smirking, he leaned back to take her in fully. "You can tell me to fuck off if you'd like, or if there's anything else that you want."
"Not everyone who walks this earth can taste like honey," Hollis advised, without missing a beat. She traced a calloused fingertip around the rim of her glass, briefly contemplative. If all the pretty things were also only ever the good ones, then one who was ugly would be doubly cursed. And there would truly be no honor to be had amongst thieves and sailors, who usually weren't the most attractive lot.
"You don't strike me as the kind of boy who fucks off when he's told." The smirk was back, now, along with another lazy flicker of hazel eyes in the whore's direction. Hollis leaned back in her chair, balancing it on the back two legs. Clearly she wasn't intoxicated yet, if she could do so with impunity. "Unless you only do that when you can hide behind the pages of a book. I never said I came here to be alone. Those were your words."
His knees shifted a few inches to the side, more content to be out of her crash radius should she fall. He needed more injuries like he needed more holes in his head. Which is to say: he didn't. "What about me makes you think I'm so sassy?" The word was.. almost a compliment, when used by different people. Benny believed a large part of the word had a skewed vision on what the phrase 'backchat' meant. Questions, advice, and simple observations (tigers were not that small) did not fall into that category.
Nor did a whore simply chatting up a patron. "You still didn't tell me what you want, or why you're here."
"You're a whore, aren't you?" Hollis inquired, rhetorically: they both knew the answer to that already. "You don't seem too careful about what you say or how you say it. From what I can tell, you must really hate it when someone else gets the last word. And you're a little bit of a liar, Benny," added the sailor, dragging out the two syllables in a seafaring lilt. She didn't wait for him to ask why, merely proceeding with: "Since you smell like, besides sweat and salt and skin" -- this, a trademark of many whores -- "... a touch of honey, garlic, and if I'm not mistaken, lavender. Key ingredients of a household remedy for deep cuts. This doesn't seem like the kind of establishment where clients are allowed to play with knives, mate, and you've got no reason to be in a kitchen, nor, I daresay, a fight." So she was more observant than she usually let on, then. It didn't look that way, usually, but appearances were so deceiving. "The garlic, in particular, is a bit strong. Certainly not the smell of a man who has no problems."
After a moment more of precarious balance, she set the chair to rights. "I don't tell people what I want," said Hollis, with a vague, sardonic quirk of lips. "And why should I tell you why I'm here?"
It was hard for Benny's veneer of smug and plying not to crack during her honest assessment. It did eventually, signaled by the touch to the strip of cloth tied at his arm to adjust it. He'd thought it masked by the scent of perfume. He licked his lips while he thought of a response and swallowed the kneejerk catty comment that threatened to tumble out. No, he couldn't--
"Oh," he finally squeaked, and let the mock bandage alone. "I was mugged in the street, love. Scars are a problem for every whore, but an Adept at The Golden Hour patched me right up." All the while complaining over the 'hack' that had done his stitches. Benny had grit his teeth through the watery-eyed pain the examination caused and not said a word. He'd scratched out what he'd written to the sergeant. If he ignored Jai, the problem would go away organically.
He rubbed the back of his neck with a shy grin, looking flattered. "Life's all right right now. What a neat trick with your nose though, my lady. If only your family had more of that," to sniff out the poison that killed them all, "it might be a little larger."
Hollis' hazel eyes widened slightly, and she drained her drink, sliding a glance over at the mouthy whore. "You should use either mint or cinnamon," she said, then, with a decidedly colder edge to her voice. When she turned to look back at him her hazel eyes were narrow. "Mint masks odors and cinnamon reduces them." Now why would a noble know something like that?
The advice didn't last for long, and gone was that lazy, boyish quality; along with it, any trace of playfulness, however strange that trait was in a woman like Hollis Bercator.
"Now fuck off."
This is why he rarely fucked women. Their pride was as delicate as crystal and one small chip became a blinding crack. Medellos could insult him all night, but it didn't stop the Tartessian Lord from begging just as loudly for a hot touch and words in kind. With the fairer sex, anything could happen. A switch was suddenly pressed inside them, and they either clawed walls and faces like his madam or clammed up like the Little Sailor That Could next to him.
Still, the change in demeanour was as unsettling. The blonde had a knack for ice, and he found himself shifting uncomfortably to make sure his balls were still hanging free. "Thanks for the advice." How strange for one like her to know, but then again.. Bercator. It wouldn't surprise him if he was staring their killer in the face now. Nobility loved to pull shit like that on each other. He forced a polite smile and rose to his feet, wincing at the pull in his arm. "I'll leave you to be alone."
Nobody comes to a whorehouse to be alone. Why was she here? "As strange as it is."
Had she killed anyone? Really drawn blood; truly gone for the throat. Ended. Poison didn't precisely seem to be Hollis' style. And yet she'd still reacted viciously, gliding from bitch to bitchiest in a fraction of a moment. Perhaps the deaths did bother her. Or perhaps not. A noble's nest was no better than a viper's den, after all. The duchess was merely the latest in a long and bloody history.
"That desire for the last word, Benny," Hollis said, coolly, signaling for a refill with a lift of one slender hand in the direction of the bar, "will be the end of you, someday."
His jaw had dropped open with the intention to confirm he did not, infact, always need the last word, and then he paused. She had a point, however small. The oh-so subtle threat to his life did not go unnoticed. He'd gotten many of those as of late, some with painful results. Was his charm wearing off? He was only nineteen - in theory - he was too young to be washed up. Maybe he had too much charm. Nobles and gangsters putting threats on his pretty head meant his words had an affect on them. He was just a whore, didn't they realise that? There was nothing to get so excited about.
It was still too early in the day to be so thoughtful. Benny frowned at the blonde in her chair and shuffled away, blessedly silent for once. He needed to find mint and cinnamon.