The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Coquette Blacquin]

"It's my drow blood," she says sleepily. "I'm part elf and part drow, it compromised on moonbeam silver."

[The Iron Bull]

"Huh. That's neat," he replies, wondering what the fuck a drow is. "You ever think about dying stripes in it? Not a lot, moonbeam is right and moonbeams are great. Just like a little of it, kinda like a ribbon almost."

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Perhaps in house colors?" she wonders, sleepily. 

[The Iron Bull]

"Uh, sure? I mean, I dunno what those are, but I figure if you did up your house with'em, you must like'em. So yah, sound good," he decides, rubbing her head briefly in emphasis. Hair finally gathered together, he picks up the brush and starts working on it. After a moment, he clears his throat. "So, uh, keeping it simple for now, but, ummm," Gods, think of something so you stop thinking about how beautiful her face is when she's so relaxed and-- "what's your normal day like?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"I get up around five bell, perhaps five and a half," she begins, and slowly she rambles her way through her typical day: breakfast, unstructured time, luncheon, some household responsibilities, unstructured time, dinner, time with the wife, bed. 

[The Iron Bull]

Unstructured time? Fuck, Dick Wife really do treat her like a kid. Wait. "Uh, kinda random, yah, but how old are you?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"Twenty and eight. Why?"

[The Iron Bull]

"Seriously? Wow, you look real good for it. Umm." He coughs. "Anyways. Just, uh, getting to know you?" he offers, then admits, "don't quite get some of the Alessian stuff, you know, like the whole lesser wife deal. Kinda comes out like as if yer being treated like a kid sometimes."

[Coquette Blacquin]

"I suppose you'll find out sooner or later, but... I didn't choose to be married. My father had me declared incompetent and basically sold me to Varisia like a spent racehorse."

[The Iron Bull]

"That's seriously fucked up," Bull declares, hands still in her hair for a moment while he reins in his temper. "You know tha, right? That he and her both are dicks of the highest order?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"I know," she sighs. "But it's been my life for years now. I can't spend all my time angry about it."

(You could try, argues Cedric, with a glower.) 

[The Iron Bull]

"Yah, that makes sense," Bull agrees with a sage nod. "Rage is way better crushed down into a twisted, tortured ball, chained up so it has to ripen and seethe, and then finally unleashed as a torrent of rapturous pain upon your foe."

[Coquette Blacquin]

"...that sounds ominous. And specific." A pause. "You stopped brushing," she says casually. 

[The Iron Bull]

"So I did," Bull realizes with a start. He resumes the brushing after giving the top of her head a ruffle. He hums softly, then frowns. "Was I saying something?"

[Coquette Blacquin]

"No," she says, shrugging a shoulder. "nothing at all." I'll keep an eye on him. But for now... this is nice. I don't want to ruin the mood.

Soon enough, regretfully, it's time for the next phase: the bruise balm on her ass, thighs, and lower back. At least this won't sting as bad, she thinks, pouting mulishly.