[He's awash in pressure before he knows it. Exhaling doesn't help expel the heat lodged deep inside the back of his throat or the hollow chambers of his stomach over nothing but sheer proximity alone: that tipping point where an inch is somehow better than sitting flush against each other, mind rattling more hoarsely than his breath while it imagines how tailored clothes might make his instructor's cock feel pushed tight against him— if he could map out every inch, or maybe— maybe just that subtle stiffness. The occasional pulse of a heartbeat that knows just how to travel, overwriting every thought of the tutors he used to have (one was tall. One was thin. One had sparse eyelashes and was starved enough for compliments to the point she'd come to them, whimpering as she bit into her lip. One he— one quit, today. A better one took his place).
Hells, it's hard to focus.
No— scratch that, he can't focus like this.
Everything in him's fiercely funneled towards the waypoints where they're barely touching, and not the way it usually would. The hand pushed against the middle of his spine is one thing, but it's their heels that are driving him crazy for reasons he can't untangle. Their soles. That noticeable dig of contact between toe and obscured arch. Fenris has left one foot pushed against the corner of Astarion's from where he'd forcibly nudged his legs apart, and there's something about that unintended intimacy that spools him into senselessness against everything he thought he knew about his appetites. Knowing he can't close his legs as long as that foot stays there (and not wanting to, he thinks faintly through the backfed notion of indulgence): the pit of his belly jolting, his cock twitching as it stirs—
No.
No, come on, Astarion.
(Don't be the whelp. Don't be the neophytic pup he thinks you are. Wake up. Catch him in your claws; make him feel the restless outpour of desire he won't slake if he tries to keep his hands off you.) A truce might be struck between them, and he'll keep fast to their agreement when it comes to sabotage or hostility, never forgetting the cool press of a rag to swollen skin— but Fenris could (will) only respect Astarion on his knees, his hair matted and soaked through, his skin glistening with drying salt, chest heaving from exhaustion (tongue and lips painted a searing shade of pearl each time he tries to pant or lick to suck in air). Half-hard, all spent, and still the mastery of his keeper demands he give up more.
Then, he'll see his patriar differently. Then, he'll look at the little lordling beside him with the kind of loyalty and hunger his father warrants.
—and aside from that?
Well, it's just a pleasant thought.
So it's not intentional that he isn't fully looking at the target through discussion he half-hears, or that his head tilts closer towards the lips hovering near a reddened ear (they're always a darker shade of pink; stark against a sea of curls), but he's not against it, either. Warm fingers squeezed down over metal, imagining something just as hard. Breathe deep. Ignore his palm. And—
—bang—
—bang bang bang—
Time goes fast. His fingerpads are swollen by the end of it from the texture of that grip, and the enchanted target's littered with puncture marks (some good, some....well....) that outline the spikes and pitfalls of their lessons, all better than what his day had been slated for otherwise, even at their lowest.]
no subject
Hells, it's hard to focus.
No— scratch that, he can't focus like this.
Everything in him's fiercely funneled towards the waypoints where they're barely touching, and not the way it usually would. The hand pushed against the middle of his spine is one thing, but it's their heels that are driving him crazy for reasons he can't untangle. Their soles. That noticeable dig of contact between toe and obscured arch. Fenris has left one foot pushed against the corner of Astarion's from where he'd forcibly nudged his legs apart, and there's something about that unintended intimacy that spools him into senselessness against everything he thought he knew about his appetites. Knowing he can't close his legs as long as that foot stays there (and not wanting to, he thinks faintly through the backfed notion of indulgence): the pit of his belly jolting, his cock twitching as it stirs—
No.
No, come on, Astarion.
(Don't be the whelp. Don't be the neophytic pup he thinks you are. Wake up. Catch him in your claws; make him feel the restless outpour of desire he won't slake if he tries to keep his hands off you.) A truce might be struck between them, and he'll keep fast to their agreement when it comes to sabotage or hostility, never forgetting the cool press of a rag to swollen skin— but Fenris could (will) only respect Astarion on his knees, his hair matted and soaked through, his skin glistening with drying salt, chest heaving from exhaustion (tongue and lips painted a searing shade of pearl each time he tries to pant or lick to suck in air). Half-hard, all spent, and still the mastery of his keeper demands he give up more.
Then, he'll see his patriar differently. Then, he'll look at the little lordling beside him with the kind of loyalty and hunger his father warrants.
—and aside from that?
Well, it's just a pleasant thought.
So it's not intentional that he isn't fully looking at the target through discussion he half-hears, or that his head tilts closer towards the lips hovering near a reddened ear (they're always a darker shade of pink; stark against a sea of curls), but he's not against it, either. Warm fingers squeezed down over metal, imagining something just as hard. Breathe deep. Ignore his palm. And—
—bang—
—bang bang bang—
Time goes fast. His fingerpads are swollen by the end of it from the texture of that grip, and the enchanted target's littered with puncture marks (some good, some....well....) that outline the spikes and pitfalls of their lessons, all better than what his day had been slated for otherwise, even at their lowest.]