No, truly: it is, Fenris thinks, struggling to bite back his grin. For an amateur who's likely never held a gun before, never mind fired one, hitting the target at all is fairly good. And though his arms had flown wildly from recoil, Astarion hadn't actually managed to injure himself or anyone else, nor indeed fall flat on his ass. Another solid point in his favor.]
It is a little harder than simply pointing and shooting.
[His grin is nowhere to be found, but there's no mistaking the faint note of amusement woven into his words. Fenris comes forward, one hand lightly gripping Astarion's shoulder to stop him from turning indignantly— or worse still, storming off in an embarrassed huff.]
You were not braced for recoil— and such things matter if you are to shoot with any kind of purpose. Now try again: and this time . . .
[Hm. He gently kicks at Astarion's ankles, one hand pressing against his lower back, urging him into shifting his weight and holding his stance just so. Hips twisting just a little, and thus his balance a little more centered: a powerful position, if not one he suspects his patriar is unused to.]
To begin with: position yourself like this. Not like an action hero who shoots with one hand and holds himself to the side, for in that way you will lose accuracy. Nor, indeed, facing wholly forward as you were. Your goal is to be balanced on all sides, so that way you do not stumble, nor sway as you take aim.
Now: raise the gun and grip it tightly.
[He settles behind him. There's an inch of space between them, and that's deliberate. He can demand good behavior out of Astarion all he wants, but it means nothing if he crosses the lines himself. So: an inch, a gap that he is so very aware of, as his hands slide over Astarion's own. Grip it tightly, his fingers pressing encouragingly atop Astarion's own.]
Aim. Look not just at the target, but the front of the gun. Ignore those two sights for now— focus instead on the very front of the barrel, for that is where your bullet will come out, and that is what you need to aim.
[The inch between them still remains, and that's important. As he leans forward and hovers over his student's shoulder in an attempt to guide his aim, his breath hot against his ear and his voice a low rumble, oh, that inch matters so very much.]
Up, now. Up until it's focused . . . good. Hold it there.
Now. Cock the hammer and fire.
[And if the recoil still hits— it shouldn't, but if it does— Fenris' arms will be there to absorb the shock.]
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That's . . . something.
No, truly: it is, Fenris thinks, struggling to bite back his grin. For an amateur who's likely never held a gun before, never mind fired one, hitting the target at all is fairly good. And though his arms had flown wildly from recoil, Astarion hadn't actually managed to injure himself or anyone else, nor indeed fall flat on his ass. Another solid point in his favor.]
It is a little harder than simply pointing and shooting.
[His grin is nowhere to be found, but there's no mistaking the faint note of amusement woven into his words. Fenris comes forward, one hand lightly gripping Astarion's shoulder to stop him from turning indignantly— or worse still, storming off in an embarrassed huff.]
You were not braced for recoil— and such things matter if you are to shoot with any kind of purpose. Now try again: and this time . . .
[Hm. He gently kicks at Astarion's ankles, one hand pressing against his lower back, urging him into shifting his weight and holding his stance just so. Hips twisting just a little, and thus his balance a little more centered: a powerful position, if not one he suspects his patriar is unused to.]
To begin with: position yourself like this. Not like an action hero who shoots with one hand and holds himself to the side, for in that way you will lose accuracy. Nor, indeed, facing wholly forward as you were. Your goal is to be balanced on all sides, so that way you do not stumble, nor sway as you take aim.
Now: raise the gun and grip it tightly.
[He settles behind him. There's an inch of space between them, and that's deliberate. He can demand good behavior out of Astarion all he wants, but it means nothing if he crosses the lines himself. So: an inch, a gap that he is so very aware of, as his hands slide over Astarion's own. Grip it tightly, his fingers pressing encouragingly atop Astarion's own.]
Aim. Look not just at the target, but the front of the gun. Ignore those two sights for now— focus instead on the very front of the barrel, for that is where your bullet will come out, and that is what you need to aim.
[The inch between them still remains, and that's important. As he leans forward and hovers over his student's shoulder in an attempt to guide his aim, his breath hot against his ear and his voice a low rumble, oh, that inch matters so very much.]
Up, now. Up until it's focused . . . good. Hold it there.
Now. Cock the hammer and fire.
[And if the recoil still hits— it shouldn't, but if it does— Fenris' arms will be there to absorb the shock.]