"Well?" the violet princess asked, planting a hoof on a stool to pull up one of his stockings. "The design's not quite finished, and I understand I'm no Miss Ruby, but how do I look?"
"You look like one of those Fairplanes boy toys," Vixen mused with a smile. Indeed, the Striders of the Fairplanes -- though you may prefer to call them "horsies" -- were known for their effeminate, submissive young male escorts, who tended to doll themselves up with very similar attire; a perceived "problem" that had many would-be studs and older women in public stations chomping at the bit.
Prancer gave her a sidelong glare. "Put yours on and maybe we'll find a bicurious dallier!" he joked. The curled miss giggled scandalously. "They would need to be a masochist to take you on, sugar plum," she teased, gesturing to rather an inadequately-covered set of sugar plums indeed.
Prancer's face reddened and he adjusted his costume with closed legs, as though he'd begun to itch. "I-I-I am a perfect lady in the art of love, Miss Vixen!" he protested, sending her into a giggle fit and prompting him to leave that train of discussion right then and there.
The sound of jinglebells - one would think Kinsmend Village would be sick of hearing these by now - and a clunk and an "Agh!" preceded the entry of a large and hunky man into the room, rubbing one of his thunderbolt-shaped horns. "Alright, let's get this over with--" He froze mid-step upon sighting Prancer. The effeminate artiste waved sheepishly and took a large fabric swatch to cover himself. "H-hi Donner." Vixen looked between the two, hands over her mouth, snorting from her nose.
Donner crossed his arms uncomfortably. "I hope you're not expecting me to lead the guard in one of those," he half-joked. As Vixen doubled over into cackles, Prancer looked down with a bashful smile. "Oh! Oh no, not at all. I, I, I just--"
Donner held up a hand. "It's fine. You're lucky you make me look so good. Anyway, you know the rules, pretty boy. Hands off the merchandise, female ladies only, E.T.C." He always pronounced these letters because he couldn't remember what they stood for.
Still holding the swatch over his front, Prancer bowed, pigeon-hooved, and gestured to one of the adjacent rooms, over which was written "FITTING". "I'll-put-on-something-more-and-be-with-you-shortly." As he scurried away quickly, Vixen looked up, still struggling for breath and fanning herself with a sketch pad. "I suppose - I'd best - take my leave, then?"
Donner scowled, then grinned. "Don't leave me to the sugar plum fairy, Vix. I'd much rather a pretty thing like you check my numbers than --"
"-- than a pretty thing like Prancer~?" Vixen cooed. "Come now, he likes you! It isn't his fault your tailoring must make special accommodations for your... features."
Donner tensed and cleared his throat, as though this would make his face any less red. "A-hem-um-well-that's flattering-but um. Ah."
"Besides, he's fixed what was causing that auto-measurer of his to wallop us in the groin every time - though he certainly waited to get a good thwack himself - so he shan't need to touch you!" Vixen gave a mildly sadistic giggle, recalling to herself Prancer's squeak when his enchanted yardstick launched up into his delicates like a witch's misbehaving broom, or a very creatively-placed rake.
"I guess so," Donner relented with a sigh as Prancer stumbled back into the room in a button shirt and plaid skirt, running a hand through his hair like a nervous schoolgirl.
"Ah, there you are Prancer. Oh you're just precious. Now if you'll pardon me," Vixen crooned, "I've had to interrupt a luxurious bath, and the two of us can't bear to be apart any longer." She rose, turned, and sashayed out of the boutique.
Donner glanced at Prancer's adoring gaze and sighed again.
