milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The sky over Milliways outside has elected to break into one of those energetic downpours that the optimistic call a 'spring shower.' Sparring in adversity is one thing, but a sword fight becomes a tricky thing when you are rapidly beoming soaked to the skin.

Therefore Puck and Havelock have called a finish for today and open the door from the bar, each carrying a sword, and shaking off water.

Havelock peels off his coat, revealing a marginally drier shirt. "That went well, I thought," he says breezily, heading for the bar.

"Oh, I quite agree," Puck replies, who himself appears remarkably unconcerned by the fact that he is dripping all over the floor. "I am amazed, but it does seem your tutelage begins to stick."

(This might be putting it slightly optimistically, but at least Puck remembered to actually attempt to formulate his own sequence of attacks rather than just mimicking Havelock's.)

"It would seem so," the assassin agrees gravely, navigating around a table full of patrons. "Soon your technique will match your speed, and then I'm afraid I'll be no challenge at all."

Puck bats his eyelashes. "You flatter me," he says cheerfully. "Bar darling, could you see your way to a bit of cocoa?"

A few moments later sees the pair drying by the fire, Puck having been coaxed into a fresh shirt and breeches and Havelock with a towel, idly rubbing at his hair. The swords - both cleaned and dried before Havelock started on himself - are still in evidence.

[OOC: A combo post for all your threading needs! Merc and I are both here, taggable, and good for slowtimes!

EDIT: And now I am abed! Threads continue tomorrow? <3!]

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Havelock has, against all odds, found a shadowy corner to pause in, safely out of the doorway where he might have been outlined against the light.

He doesn't stay there long - his clothes, though black, aren't suited to stealth, and neither is the brightly-polished sword - but moves forward again, eyes sharp.

--Ooh. Sword.

That's handy, right at this moment.

Puck wonders idly if Havelock shall run him through if he surprises him, but then takes a gamble that Havelock himself is aware of this possibility and shall take pains to avoid it. He flickers close, close enough to be safe from the compass of any errant blade, though he's still hiding himself from mortal view.

(Havelock, by now, can undoubtedly tell he's there anyway.)

He laughs softly and puts a hand to Havelock's chest, pushing insistently towards the nearest wall and seeking out his lips for a kiss.

There's a moment where Havelock holds himself ready, sword angled to strike - but it's only precaution before he confirms to himself from the sound of the laughter in the air who is coming near.

The blade remains held upright, apparently ready to strike, but he does not turn it against the invisible presence before him, even as it corners him against the wall.

His eyes flicker around the hallway, before looking down dead ahead where he knows another pair of eyes must be.

Havelock is altogether too keen, Puck notes as he pulls back, and he can't quite help laughing again.

"Sic erit," he murmurs against his ear, leaning in on tiptoe. His chest is flush against Havelock's-- for balance, he might argue, and to make up for his current invisibility-- and his lips close over Havelock's earlobe between the words. "Haeserunt tenues-- in corde sagittae ..."

Havelock remains very still, apparently just leaning back against the wall, head leant back against the wall, gazing at... nothing in particular.

He doesn't react at first, but then raises the sword lazily into what looks like en guarde position, around Puck's invisible yet very tangible presence, flat of the blade just touching his shoulder.

"--Et possessa ferus pectora versat Amor," he continues softly, as if to himself.

This time Puck's laughter is pouring softly into his ear, and he thinks he might shift back into view, but then again-- why bother? Havelock, it seems, can tell just as well either way.

He shifts against him instead.

"You kiss," he says with an audible grin, "by the book."

Eyes open but seeing nothing or eyes shut - it's remarkably similar for this purpose.

"Do I now?" he murmur, amused.

"... By a book, at any rate," Puck decides, hands beginning at Havelock's hips and sliding slowly up his sides.

He realizes that when he tilts his head, it is rather an empty gesture.

"Though perhaps 'tis I who do."

Havelock suppresses an amused smile and tracks the motion absently from the sound of Puck's voice, by leaning his head to one side which his eyes remain watching the corridor.

Caution is a habit he has never troubled to be rid of.

"Which book, I wonder?"

Now here's a question:

What is the sound of one fae pouting?

"A thoroughly deplorable one, I imagine," he murmurs gravely. He is still leaning lightly against Havelock-- lightly only because he is himself rather bird-boned by nature-- but has, for the moment, held back from kissing him again.

Like that'll last.

One Havelock is most familiar with, as it happens.

"I'm a deplorable person," he says amiably.

As if in punctuation, the sword slides gently over Puck's shoulder, still held flat against him.

Puck laughs, surprised, and lets out a murmurous sigh at the touch of the sword; the little release is tangible.

It should come as no surprise to Havelock that at this juncture, there are invisible lips at his neck once more, nuzzling gently into his throat.

"It is," he says, against his neck, "one of your most charming qualities."

"I'll have to remember that," Havelock says, thoughtful and soft as he carefully doesn't shiver.

(He's only half joking. Anything potentially useful is worth remembering.)

The hand not currently holding a sword appears half-raised in consideration, to the outside observer, but has in fact gone to rest against Puck's chest.

"Mmm," Puck agrees pleasantly, lips brushing down along the line of muscle in his neck-- down, in fact, to the unfortunate place where Havelock's shirt intervenes.

He would have the buttons off with his teeth, but it is his understanding that in the long run, that creates slight inconvenience.

(Havelock may hear the slightly frustrated noise anyway, a soft hmph, and feel something suspiciously like slender fingers vanishing from his side and tugging delicately at his top button.)

Minor inconvenience, yes.

Havelock reaches reprovingly up to catch the investigating hand by the wrist, but lets the arm holding his sword relax and fall to his side.

He does object, if mildly, to being disrobed in the corridors.

The noise that the nothing in the corridor makes now is suspiciously akin to a whine.

Yes, yes, it's all very tragic.

Havelock pushes away from the wall, firmly walking the invisible presence along before him, still holding onto one slender wrist.

(A part of him notes that this probably looks most peculiar from the outside.

It also doesn't care much, but points it out either way.)

He quirks a politely questioning smile, downwards and remarkably accurate.

Puck snorts, stepping obligingly backwards to allow Havelock to move-- and, more to the point, allows himself to be moved by him, back and back and not even remotely attempting to get away.

That's a fun game too.

(It turns out that blank, cheerful inquiry is doubly blank when the inquirer cannot be seen. Though again, Havelock's aim is tremendous.)

Havelock stops once they are standing clear of walls, alone in the middle of the corridor.

Then he carefully and calmly lifts Puck's wrist to his mouth, tracing his lips gently along the soft skin on the inside before kissing just where his palm begins.

And then just as calmly, he releases him and busies himself sheathing the sword without hitting any invisible presences with it.

Puck gives an invisible shiver, though both it and the slightly tremulous laugh that accompanies are no doubt perfectly perceptible.

He flickers into view, shirt and breeches and all, his hair slightly and inexplicably more askew than it seemed to be downstairs.

"Oh, please," he says with a wry smile, tugging at Havelock's elbow once the immediate task of sheathing seems done with.

"Please. I pray you come quickly."

Havelock gives him a mildly incredulous look, but plays along, allowing himself to be tugged.

(It's hardly something he's against, generally speaking.)

"Patience," he says, very sage, "Is suppose to be a virtue, you know."

"And I have none I did not learn from you," Puck laughs, beginning to draw him down the hall step by step.

Whether he means virtue or patience is anyone's guess.

"I'm a poor teacher, then," Havelock sighs, raising his eyes mock-ruefully to the ceiling.

"I'll try harder."

Puck rolls his eyes.

"Well. It was docendo discere, was it not?"

Havelooooock.

The borderline-eyeroll transitions smoothly into what is almost a smirk.

"It was indeed."