[He'd state his rebuff loud and clear if not for the immediate overtake of all his senses from the very moment his foot is planted on the ground— left first— feeling the dry whip of the open wind buffeting his arch whilst his sole makes peace with flaky shale pushed snug between his toes.
Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
[Adorable— and this time Fenris does allow himself that thought. It's patronizing and belittling and he wouldn't dare say it aloud, but that's the word that slips through his mind as Astarion stares up at him so dolefully. His ears low and his eyes so wide, looking like a pup miserable in the rain: his expression woefully miserable but not disobedient.
(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]
[Astarion wasn't Cazador's only spawn; he knows what a grin looks like (and the quirk of what lies beneath Fenris' hand implies enough that) there's a momentary narrowing of crimson eyes, peppered with toothless irritation— the tepid flicking of a cats tail once-startled, not inclined to swiftly wend back to even those it loves, now supecting them of being the perpetrator of its woes.
....but like rarely resents like. Beasts of mischief least of all.
If this is a game at his expense, he only has himself to blame for falling for it without a second, bare-soled thought: shifting over on tender obeisance (again, his movements run slow and finicky), graceless from the pads of his feet on outwards save for the agility nearly lost underneath it. The slack, steady traction of his joints, present despite any wobbling from bracing with his other foot.
Somehow, perhaps in penance for prior sin, he manages not to ask once more if this truly isn't a fetish Fenris might silently be nursing along— ]
Of course it feels different: I'm not wearing shoes outdoors in a city that seems designed to be a breeding ground for rust, old nails, broken bottles and raw smut.
[(The aged definition. Not the newer one.)]
—it'd be fine if it was a kink of yours, you know. I wouldn't judge.
[At the risk of making it sound like a fetish thing: Astarion's feet are so soft. It's not strange in the sense of being odd, but it reminds Fenris of nothing so much as the delicate hands of noble ladies. Not a callous or a cut in sight, their skin always kept safe by kid gloves and the dutiful fussing of a maidservant. He stares in curiosity for a few moments, his head cocked and his eyes soft—
[And then Astarion says that and his expression goes scrunched.]
It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
[Still: it's embarrassment and waspish annoyance, but not anger, for he's still gentle as he drops the other elf's foot. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to stave off his embarrassment (for obvious reasons) and annoyance (for being so embarrassed in the first place, is he forty-three or thirteen, that he should be so embarrassed by a bit of teasing— but it's different with Astarion). Taking two steps back, he firmly ignores the heat still flooding his ears and waves a beckoning hand.]
Now put your knife up and tell me if you're any faster, unless you find yourself too delicate to fight where your feet might be exposed to dust. And be grateful I do not ask you if it is a kink of yours, fussy thing.
[Thank the gods for that bark. Fenris', not the dog's— otherwise they'd be wading dangerously close to the end result of what a dry mouth and a palpitating heart might bring. As things are, he can already feel his pulse down thrumming deep down in his belly.
It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
[Oh, he wants to know. Why he can't say, not just yet, for it's a split-second realization, a sudden lightning that he doesn't have time to explore before Astarion darts forward. He's sluggish in lurching back, his mind torn between lingering on the implications of that statement and the present, and yet—
Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
[Enslavement was a piss poor damper: there are countless things Astarion's longed for in his long, bleak facsimile of life. Freedom chief amongst them— though the only thing his desires ever had in common was their fondness for driving him to salivating desperation in the absence of all hope.
He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
[Like a wounded dog, it's the sad, wet eyes that rise up first from where he's fallen, limply raising the arm that'd been held out of trust alone, no matter the pain he suffers. There, you see? And the offering is pitiful because it is a bid at magnetism— the long draw inwards where the distance between them finally begins to shrink down, concern settled at the forefront—
And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
[It works perfectly. Fenris' guard is dropped, the deception utterly believed, and it takes him so much longer than it should to realize what's happening. There's a flurry of motion and cool fingers aganist the back of his neck, and by the time his drunken mind manages to catch up—
He's caught.
Astarion's knife no less deadly a threat for being sheathed (and Fenris feels such a giddying little thrill as it digs into his skin, no matter that the tip is blunted and dulled by leather), and not one he can escape from. Not by normal means, anyway.
And if this were a proper fight, he'd use his lyrium. Hell, if they were sparring properly, he'd use his lyrium— but there's a difference between teaching and showing off, and of the two of them, Fenris needs the victory the least. Besides: he's proud of Astarion, he realizes. A grin that matches Astarion's own creeps over his face, his amusement and pride growing as he realizes just how well the other elf had sold his wound.]
Clever.
[Breathed out as he tips his head back, offering his throat in blatant submission. You win.]
You will not fool me like that so easily next time— but I suspect you will manage to fool many like that. Clever, [he says again, because it was.] Far more important in a fight than brute strength is the ability to use what you can, whenever you can.
Now tell me what you wish to hear first, and I will give you your reward.
[He's proud. More than that: euphoric. Granted his body here might not be built for hunting as it was back—
No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
[What was easy to offer in the heat of the moment now becomes . . . hm. Not uncomfortable, for drunk as he is, discomfort is easily pushed away. But his grin falters just a little, his ears darkening as heat creeps over his face for reasons he can't (or won't) understand. It's irritating and silly; since when does he blush over talking about sex? He might not bring it up often, but that doesn't mean it flusters him. It never has before.
So. Positions, then, and his eyes dart over Astarion's expression, drawn to it despite himself (and absurd it may be, but not when he's just as wasted; he'll remember it as alluring and nothing more).]
From behind, if I had to pick a favorite. To have her on all fours or sprawled out over the sheets with her ass in the air . . . though there is something to be said for being ridden. Whether I am raised up or lying back, to get to watch someone bounce atop me is, mm, enjoyable indeed. The view is incomparable.
[Every word makes it easier, though he does prudently cross one leg over the other. It takes more than a few filthy words to rouse him, but still.]
And simple as it is, there's something to be said for being face to face . . . it's intimate, which can be good or bad, but I enjoyed the connection. Or having her on her knees while I sat on the bed . . . though I suspect I'd enjoy that act regardless of position.
[Hmm. He cocks his head, a little smirk on his lips.]
[There's a dilation (and an initial narrowing) of pupils in widened eyes as that lounging victor listens to Fenris' recount— having expected a typical: on hands and knees, or from behind, or just maybe a scoffing confession comprised of 'oral, mostly.' To his own credit, like a well-played game of Wicked Grace, nothing else in his demeanor shows through. Not even when he shifts more onto his elbows than before, defly letting one leg slide over in front of the other; raised eyebrows doing the (in)decent work of conveying an appropriate dose of surprise for any typical conversation between comrades. Compatriots.
Companions that are presently sitting roughly five feet apart.]
And a great deal more, thank you very much. [Exhale squeezed comfortably tight between tongue and grinning teeth. Strewth, little fighter.] Especially from an elf claiming the company of his horse is all he's kept for a good long while.
[In recovery, he gestures towards whatever's left of that bottle they'd been sharing. Come here.] Tempted to pay you in sovereigns for the lovely night's sleep I'll no doubt find tonight.
[He notices the shifting, because of course he does. It's hard not to, aware as he is of Astarion. But much like before, the real meaning passes him by: he thinks Astarion squirms because it's a thrilling thing to imagine a woman like that, and who doesn't get a little excited over the thought? Certainly it isn't anything to do with Fenris, for why would it?]
I won't say no.
[Drawled out as he scoots closer to Astarion and reaches for the bottle, happily accepting his earned prize. It's little more than dregs now, sour and sharp, but he drinks it nonetheless, thrilling in the last little wave of drunkenness as it washes over him.]
What was the other . . . an account of all the times I've spread another's legs. I would argue you've heard it already— or do you need me to be more explicit, and tell you from start to finish each time I laid with Isabela?
[He tips his head and adds shamelessly:]
I would rather hear your favorite positions.
[Despite the fact it was a prize earned. Despite the fact that ordinarily Fenris wouldn't dream of asking for such a thing, worried about the memories it might bring up.]
Substitute your answer with that promised Celestine red and I'll tell you anything you like. [Selfishly tugs the bottle free, dregs sloshing hard against the bottom in their journey from Fenris' lips to Astarion's own. Barely anything left to sip, but the droplets smell faintly of ozone beneath their soured composition— and that's close enough, he thinks, grinning sidelong.]
[Oh, more wine sounds like a fantastic idea, no matter that he doesn't relish having to get up. Not just yet though, Fenris thinks, his gaze resting idly on the line of Astarion's throat as he swallows.]
Home. In Danarius' old wine cellar.
[Mm, but the sooner they get up, the sooner they can drink again . . . with a little groan, Fenris sits up.]
Come. We have only a mile or so to go, but it will be quicker up here than down there.
[Will it? Well, alcohol makes the journey seem fast, anyway, and that will have to be good enough. They jump the gaps between buildings and make their way Uptown, stepping in and out of the shadows of chimneys and water towers, until at last they climb down a balcony and reach the mansion.
And oh: it isn't until Fenris unlocks the door and steps inside does he realize how wretched the mansion must seem. Even more dilapidated than it had been years ago, with dead leaves and dust long since settled on most of the surfaces. There's a small path back to the room he lives in, and it's there he leads Astarion: gesturing to the fireplace (where a set of logs and tinder are neatly stacked) in silent bid to get it started while he disappears to find the wine.]
There were two bottles.
[He announces it as he comes back. Who knows if they'll drink both, but it's a nice assurance to have it on hand.]
Don't tell me you want to tussle for the other. [Hollow passageways swallowing any intonation it might've held almost instantly, and replacing it with the soft hiss of city noise seeped in steadily from outside— the odd crunch of debris caught underneath his (once more) booted heels, though the feeling of dustbound decay persists between his toes thanks to whatever he hadn't been able to wipe clean before descent.
But his head's tilted upwards as they channel through; gloved hand trailed across each wall— aside from where skeletal holes in plaster break that pleasant constant— jumping from flat surface to flat surface until they reach their destination. Until he has to call out to make certain that he's heard, despite withering boards and slanted archways. What nominal barrier they provide.]
I doubt I can enact an encore of tonight's performance without getting you blackout drunk first.
Possibly not even then. [Is that an admission of his battle prowess' limitations?
Perhaps.
But there'll be time to delve into that later once Astarion finishes struggling with the hearth: first fighting to open the flu, then fighting to wedge the level he's just broken clean off back into place before Fenris notices what he's done.
Which is why we will train you soon enough. A ploy like that only works so often.
[Vaguely said as he sets the bottles down on a nearby table. There are glasses around here . . . somewhere, he thinks, and promptly gives up on finding them the moment they don't instantly appear. They'll just drink from the bottle, it's not as if either of them are so worried about propriety . . . mm, yes, and with that decided, Fenris busies himself with finessing the cork out. It's a slow process, hampered mostly by the fact his attention is suddenly shifted upwards.
Call it instinct, maybe: that anytime anyone wants to go unnoticed, there's something about their body language that just shrieks don't look and draws attention all the more.]
Is it giving you trouble?
[Said as he crosses the room, fingers still absently prying at the cork, and only belatedly realizes:]
Do you know how to start a fire?
[Has he noticed the lever? Apparently not just yet, though there's still time.]
[Hastily, body covering the mouth of the fireplace as much as physically possible. Cast iron lever sinking at a laborious tilt every time Astarion finds some way to make it look the way it was. On the upside, the flue is open now— only with the addition of an added gap from where damper's lever tore itself away.
It dangles on next attempt, precariously swaying to the sound of padding footfalls drawn nearer, and then— success— oh it stays. Dangling like a doll's arm held on by a thread, but still it looks secure which is all that truly matters (provided the stare that takes it in isn't fluently versed in architecture of this shade).
And then a thought.]
Actually, no.
[Turns him around at a crouch to glance behind him. Shifting from flat delivery to something sheepish and demure, delayed. Enough delayed, in fact, that like a rubber band it snaps across its throttled tone, only settling after he's done the diligence of clearing his own throat. (And swallowing. And dropping his brows so that hangdog eyes soon lift.)] I was a prostitute, you know. I've never learned this sort of....banality.
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Suddenly he's not dressed in a poet's shirt and slacks and night-dark gloves; suddenly he's wearing only the expressive reflection of sensory dismay, apparent from the cattish drooping of his ears right down to the slouch along his spine.]
It's so....
[Then the other foot, and it feels no better in the climb towards upright status: deepening the image of a child tasting something new, unsure of what the make of it might be(— aside from wishing for a return to being back in his boots, caught against Fenris' lithe front). Behind red eyes, gears turn for a long, long while.
Longer still, before:]
....dusty.
[:( ]
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(And what a thing it is, some quiet part of him murmurs, to be so free that dusty feet are Astarion's biggest worry. A minor inconvenience, discomfiting but not painful. That, too, he will not point out aloud, but his heart beats a little faster to know that Astarion is experiencing the wonder of such mundane inconveniences now).]
It is the ground.
[Is he laughing? Sort of. One hand rubs at his mouth, halfheartedly hiding an irrepressible grin that he only barely tries to bite back.]
There are elves who wear shoes if you truly loathe the experience. But at least see if you can move a little more quickly before that.
[He comes over, curious despite himself. It is dusty, he notices. He barely registers the ground beneath his feet anymore, too used to the softness of dirt roads or the grit of the rooftops, but Astarion isn't wrong.]
Does it feel differently than you are used to? Let me see—
[He braces one leg forward, tapping at his thigh to indicate Astarion ought to hoist his foot up. Curiosity wins over dignity when he's drunk— though his expression twists as a thought crosses his mind. His eyes dart up and back, debating on whether to say anything, but surely speaking will make it worse.
It's just that this isn't a fetish thing, and yet the surest way to ensure it becomes weird is to specifically deny that it's a fetish thing. Only people who have fetishes do that, probably. Almost assuredly. And now he's thinking about this again, Maker damn it all.]
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....but like rarely resents like. Beasts of mischief least of all.
If this is a game at his expense, he only has himself to blame for falling for it without a second, bare-soled thought: shifting over on tender obeisance (again, his movements run slow and finicky), graceless from the pads of his feet on outwards save for the agility nearly lost underneath it. The slack, steady traction of his joints, present despite any wobbling from bracing with his other foot.
Somehow, perhaps in penance for prior sin, he manages not to ask once more if this truly isn't a fetish Fenris might silently be nursing along— ]
Of course it feels different: I'm not wearing shoes outdoors in a city that seems designed to be a breeding ground for rust, old nails, broken bottles and raw smut.
[(The aged definition. Not the newer one.)]
—it'd be fine if it was a kink of yours, you know. I wouldn't judge.
[Oh. Nope. There it is.]
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It is not a fetish thing!
[Oh, he said that far too loudly. Loud enough that a dog nearby starts barking excitedly; loud enough that there's no way people on the street didn't hear. He didn't mean to, but alcohol doesn't do well with volume moderation.]
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[Still: it's embarrassment and waspish annoyance, but not anger, for he's still gentle as he drops the other elf's foot. He rubs a hand over his mouth, trying to stave off his embarrassment (for obvious reasons) and annoyance (for being so embarrassed in the first place, is he forty-three or thirteen, that he should be so embarrassed by a bit of teasing— but it's different with Astarion). Taking two steps back, he firmly ignores the heat still flooding his ears and waves a beckoning hand.]
Now put your knife up and tell me if you're any faster, unless you find yourself too delicate to fight where your feet might be exposed to dust. And be grateful I do not ask you if it is a kink of yours, fussy thing.
4/4
Is it?
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It doesn't need to go any lower.
So he can't help it that he laughs just as loudly— all teeth— slipping back into his own space wreathed in a flourish of renewed vigor: alert as only adrenaline could leave him, and trickling his blade between his fingers like a busker with a coin.]
Win, and I'll tell you what I'm into, if you'd like.
[Is such a smooth bit of subterfuge it'd likely do half his dirty work for him, provided he didn't immediately wince at the feeling of stepping on a pebble, squirming (readjusting). Rolling his ankle first and his balance second in a lurching launch forwards that carries one long, sweeping swipe from the tip of his dagger.
It's very lopsided, for the record.]
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Mmph. A slow reaction meets a lopsided rush forward: they're evenly matched in the most embarrassing way. The tip of the dagger nearly catches at his chest; he leaps back with a grin, his eyes flicking down to watch Astarion's feet. And yes, poor thing: they are delicate, aren't they? Wincing from a mere pebble and flinching from the grit of the roof, oh, no wonder he's struggling. But practice is the only way forward, and those callouses will build soon enough.]
And what do you get if you win, hm?
[But it's no fun just to play keepaway forever. He reaches back, a knife slipping into his hand: a small thing, plain and worn but still sharp, kept on hand solely for nights when he doesn't feel like lugging around his sword.
Now it's a fight. No longer purely defensive, he circles warily around Astarion, torn between watching his body (sensible, smart, trying to track his next move) and watching his eyes (which keep drawing him back, for he's eager to keep drinking the other elf in).]
Do you wish for a ranking of my favorite positions? An account of all the times I've spread another's legs?
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[Is an earnest question. One that twists this way and that, trying to keep track of Fenris' location though the tax on his heels is steep (or perhaps sharp: one stubborn piece of smooth-edged glass keeps jabbing hard into his left footpad, right between his toes)— he can't waste precious seconds readjusting without leaving himself wide open to attack. Ignore the prickle of excitement arching up across his neck. Ignore the rampant rush of chemical allure grown stronger at the sight of that dagger in bright hands. Ignore the memory of one minute ago, or the climb up here, or the way Fenris' smile glittered in pub lights—
No. No, really, ignore that. His heart is underneath his chin and aching from overuse, but when he licks his lips and finds Fenris staring, too, well....
It makes it easy to ignore the sensory nightmare underfoot, and angle instead towards a scattering of advancing strikes. Light through the wrist, testing shallow waters.]
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[It's a dance now. A little slower, a little easier: Astarion's strikes the first swaying spin now that they've found their rhythm. Easily spotted and dodged as Fenris does his level best to watch for an opening— but oh, it's so hard when their conversation is so interesting. Thrilling in a way that Fenris does not understand, not yet; he attributes every excitable leap of his heart to the closeness of Astarion's blade and his own near-misses.
But he tires of playing defense. He's seen how well Astarion can attack; now it's time to shake things up. The next time he strikes Fenris darts forward, ducking instead of drawing back, his knife flashing sloppily as his foot strikes out and hooks behind Astarion's own—
— and with any luck, down they both go. Not hard, not when Fenris' other hand catches Astarion's hip, slowing his fall, but still: they're both sprawled on the roof, scrambling and grappling for the chance to come out on top. Until Fenris has him in a sloppy hold; until he's panting above him, grinning as he pins his wrist to the roof (and yet not done, not yet, not when he's leaving so many deliberate openings for Astarion to turn the tides— this is too much fun to end so quickly.)]
If you win, Astarion, I'll let you have both.
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He's no less outmatched here. Reduced to a set of recklessly soused reflexes aware of scarcely anything between swings, but even they feel the whiff of cold air cut across the edge of his blade, funneling harsh along his knuckles. Motivated swipes coming close solely by luck's slanted mercy, making him fortunate if he can manage to stay on his feet, let alone catch a glancing nick or two along the way.
And yet he's convinced he's never wanted anything more.
After all, he's already free now, isn't he? What's left but the odd new rush that starts with a sudden pitch towards the ground— punctuates itself with iron fingers laced over his hip, his wrist— and ends with the words I'll let you have both. The hands he hated never felt like this; the rote innuendos scarcely earned his anorexic focus. What he didn't loathe, he felt nothing for. What beckoned him, he hated.
He doesn't hate this.
There's a daggering flash of teeth when his back hits stone, and the feeling of the fine bones of his wrist aching in warning as adrenaline cedes to raw sensation. The air is thick with foundry smoke and soot— but he wants to win. He wants to win. (How? How, when he's too new to this body, this form, these frail synapses? How, when his opponent might be drunk, but is a hardier thing with ingrained talent? All Astarion has is his ability to perform. To lie, and cheat, and beckon with sheer falsehoods— ) ]
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Right.
It takes no less than a flicker of a heartbeat for Astarion to yelp out the most pitiful rasping cry: twisting through his shoulder and angling away from his pinned wrist— as if the impact might've shattered something. Damaged something in his fragile, ill-prepared state. Bare toes scuffling in dry dust as a byproduct of the way half-trapped legs struggle underneath his companion, battling for room at all to breathe.]
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In an instant he's leapt back, his expression startled as his mind whirs— he must have been too harsh. Drunk and overeager as he is, it isn't such a shock that he's played too hard, nipped too roughly: not irreversible damage, no, but still, it isn't a good look. And what an awful thing for Astarion, on his very first real night out, to suffer through a broken wrist at the hands of the elf he plans to journey with— Maker's breath, and Fenris curses himself silently as he watches Astarion writhe.
He doesn't dare approach, not when those legs had kicked and struggled so fiercely. Instead, he leans forward in a half-kneel: cautiously present without crowding, his hands held out a little helplessly as he peers at Astarion.]
What is it? Your wrist?
[Let me see, he bites back, for he would not blame Astarion for not wanting to show it to him— and anyway, what the hell does he know about treating a broken wrist?]
There are a few healers still open, I think—
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And the second Fenris is in arms' reach, up comes that dagger from his other hand— 'wounded' one suddenly upsurging to try and catch him by the scruff— so that the sheathed tip of his blade can pin itself against the side of the other man's throat in befanged warning. What would be lethal were this real.
Whether it fails or succeeds, he's grinning like a damned fool.]
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He's caught.
Astarion's knife no less deadly a threat for being sheathed (and Fenris feels such a giddying little thrill as it digs into his skin, no matter that the tip is blunted and dulled by leather), and not one he can escape from. Not by normal means, anyway.
And if this were a proper fight, he'd use his lyrium. Hell, if they were sparring properly, he'd use his lyrium— but there's a difference between teaching and showing off, and of the two of them, Fenris needs the victory the least. Besides: he's proud of Astarion, he realizes. A grin that matches Astarion's own creeps over his face, his amusement and pride growing as he realizes just how well the other elf had sold his wound.]
Clever.
[Breathed out as he tips his head back, offering his throat in blatant submission. You win.]
You will not fool me like that so easily next time— but I suspect you will manage to fool many like that. Clever, [he says again, because it was.] Far more important in a fight than brute strength is the ability to use what you can, whenever you can.
Now tell me what you wish to hear first, and I will give you your reward.
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No, not home, is what catches him in the segue of withdrawing that fine knife from Fenris' thrumming pulse. Calling Toril home asserts that Cazador was home. That misery was home. That his folly and failures all were tantamount to where he belongs, and whether or not that's true, for the first time in two long centuries he has a choice.
And what he chooses, offering one last playful nudge to the shadow lurking underneath Fenris' throat with a loosely held pommel (sinking back across his shoulders, and forgetting that his heels feel dry and ragged in the dust; that specks of debris and broken rock bite back into soft muscle right through silk), is that his home is what he sees before him.
Everything else had been a waiting room. Nothing more.]
You say that now, but I should remind you it takes a shocking amount of confidence not to leap to the aid of something pretty and wounded. [Implication clear, it wears a muted flourish of splayed fingertips— a facsimilie of a bow, though it lacks the key component when he's laying down like this— black leather shining in the moonlight.
(Honestly, if he wasn't drunk enough to slack his posture wildly to one side, it might be downright bewitching in effect; sleek lines and rustled hems. Dangerous white fangs jutting from his curling lips, offset by wine-flush, and the far more vivid crimson left scandalously hooded just to spite its focus.
As things are, he just looks a touch absurd.)]
But I'll take my payment starting with positions first.
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So. Positions, then, and his eyes dart over Astarion's expression, drawn to it despite himself (and absurd it may be, but not when he's just as wasted; he'll remember it as alluring and nothing more).]
From behind, if I had to pick a favorite. To have her on all fours or sprawled out over the sheets with her ass in the air . . . though there is something to be said for being ridden. Whether I am raised up or lying back, to get to watch someone bounce atop me is, mm, enjoyable indeed. The view is incomparable.
[Every word makes it easier, though he does prudently cross one leg over the other. It takes more than a few filthy words to rouse him, but still.]
And simple as it is, there's something to be said for being face to face . . . it's intimate, which can be good or bad, but I enjoyed the connection. Or having her on her knees while I sat on the bed . . . though I suspect I'd enjoy that act regardless of position.
[Hmm. He cocks his head, a little smirk on his lips.]
Is that what you had in mind?
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Companions that are presently sitting roughly five feet apart.]
And a great deal more, thank you very much. [Exhale squeezed comfortably tight between tongue and grinning teeth. Strewth, little fighter.] Especially from an elf claiming the company of his horse is all he's kept for a good long while.
[In recovery, he gestures towards whatever's left of that bottle they'd been sharing. Come here.] Tempted to pay you in sovereigns for the lovely night's sleep I'll no doubt find tonight.
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I won't say no.
[Drawled out as he scoots closer to Astarion and reaches for the bottle, happily accepting his earned prize. It's little more than dregs now, sour and sharp, but he drinks it nonetheless, thrilling in the last little wave of drunkenness as it washes over him.]
What was the other . . . an account of all the times I've spread another's legs. I would argue you've heard it already— or do you need me to be more explicit, and tell you from start to finish each time I laid with Isabela?
[He tips his head and adds shamelessly:]
I would rather hear your favorite positions.
[Despite the fact it was a prize earned. Despite the fact that ordinarily Fenris wouldn't dream of asking for such a thing, worried about the memories it might bring up.]
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Where do you keep it?
[Probably not on a foundry roof, for starters.]
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Home. In Danarius' old wine cellar.
[Mm, but the sooner they get up, the sooner they can drink again . . . with a little groan, Fenris sits up.]
Come. We have only a mile or so to go, but it will be quicker up here than down there.
[Will it? Well, alcohol makes the journey seem fast, anyway, and that will have to be good enough. They jump the gaps between buildings and make their way Uptown, stepping in and out of the shadows of chimneys and water towers, until at last they climb down a balcony and reach the mansion.
And oh: it isn't until Fenris unlocks the door and steps inside does he realize how wretched the mansion must seem. Even more dilapidated than it had been years ago, with dead leaves and dust long since settled on most of the surfaces. There's a small path back to the room he lives in, and it's there he leads Astarion: gesturing to the fireplace (where a set of logs and tinder are neatly stacked) in silent bid to get it started while he disappears to find the wine.]
There were two bottles.
[He announces it as he comes back. Who knows if they'll drink both, but it's a nice assurance to have it on hand.]
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But his head's tilted upwards as they channel through; gloved hand trailed across each wall— aside from where skeletal holes in plaster break that pleasant constant— jumping from flat surface to flat surface until they reach their destination. Until he has to call out to make certain that he's heard, despite withering boards and slanted archways. What nominal barrier they provide.]
I doubt I can enact an encore of tonight's performance without getting you blackout drunk first.
Possibly not even then. [Is that an admission of his battle prowess' limitations?
Perhaps.
But there'll be time to delve into that later once Astarion finishes struggling with the hearth: first fighting to open the flu, then fighting to wedge the level he's just broken clean off back into place before Fenris notices what he's done.
Shit.]
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[Vaguely said as he sets the bottles down on a nearby table. There are glasses around here . . . somewhere, he thinks, and promptly gives up on finding them the moment they don't instantly appear. They'll just drink from the bottle, it's not as if either of them are so worried about propriety . . . mm, yes, and with that decided, Fenris busies himself with finessing the cork out. It's a slow process, hampered mostly by the fact his attention is suddenly shifted upwards.
Call it instinct, maybe: that anytime anyone wants to go unnoticed, there's something about their body language that just shrieks don't look and draws attention all the more.]
Is it giving you trouble?
[Said as he crosses the room, fingers still absently prying at the cork, and only belatedly realizes:]
Do you know how to start a fire?
[Has he noticed the lever? Apparently not just yet, though there's still time.]
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[Hastily, body covering the mouth of the fireplace as much as physically possible. Cast iron lever sinking at a laborious tilt every time Astarion finds some way to make it look the way it was. On the upside, the flue is open now— only with the addition of an added gap from where damper's lever tore itself away.
It dangles on next attempt, precariously swaying to the sound of padding footfalls drawn nearer, and then— success— oh it stays. Dangling like a doll's arm held on by a thread, but still it looks secure which is all that truly matters (provided the stare that takes it in isn't fluently versed in architecture of this shade).
And then a thought.]
Actually, no.
[Turns him around at a crouch to glance behind him. Shifting from flat delivery to something sheepish and demure, delayed. Enough delayed, in fact, that like a rubber band it snaps across its throttled tone, only settling after he's done the diligence of clearing his own throat. (And swallowing. And dropping his brows so that hangdog eyes soon lift.)] I was a prostitute, you know. I've never learned this sort of....banality.
Never had the chance.
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