It's a roughened thing, collaring his overactive imagination and dragging it unwillingly back towards safer grounds. Once, twice, and it becomes a mantra as the minutes tick past, the word shuddering through him in time with the reverberating recoil from the gun. Don't, don't you dare——
Don't notice the way Astarion's legs stay spread at Fenris' insistence, his haughty little patriar obedient as anything one he has a disciplined hand at the back of his neck. Don't notice the way he smells (lilac and just a hint of sweat, the salt-sting of it a welcome addition to Fenris' mind). Don't linger on the way Astarion's lithe frame is so small between muscled arms, his hands so very soft beneath Fenris' own calloused palms. Don't think about how warm he is, nor the startled noise of excitement he makes each time his bullet hits the target.
(Don't think about how he sounded that night in the alley, his lips parted and his eyes dark as pitch, his hand rhythmically tugging at himself with obscene grace. Don't think about the firm press of his thigh caught between Fenris' own, hard pressure rubbing seductively against his cock and sending white-hot sparks roiling through his frame. Don't think about pale shoulders and delicate collarbones, long legs and lithe limbs in front of cold glass. Don't think about Astarion with his back snapped into a sharp arch and his thighs trembling wildly, biting at his own fingers to keep quiet as he stares up pleadingly at Fenris, more, I need more. And don't you dare think about the infuriating, intoxicating fantasy of being on his knees in the middle of a crowd, his lips wrapped around a thick, overheated cock as a cooing voice offers him praise. What a good boy you are, taking it so eagerly— this is what you wanted, isn't it? To be of use? Pretty little pet, turn around and show everyone here just how well you swallowed—)
Don't.
Focus on the lesson— and to be fair, he is. The fantasies might be flitting around the back of his mind, but that's only one part of it, for Fenris is enjoying this. Astarion is a decent student when he puts his mind to it, taking corrections well and eagerly fixing upon his past errors. He's no marksman and he won't be for a long while— but there is steady improvement. It's thrilling to see, and some part of Fenris swells with pride each time Astarion manages to absorb another lesson: loosen your arms, tighten your grip, like that, like that, his normally dour expression softening as the minutes pass.
It's too easy to grow comfortable that way.
He forgets the danger. As the minutes tick by and Astarion settles into his arms, he forgets that he is meant to be stiff and removed. Lonely heart that is, starved for companionship beneath all his fear, he enjoys this too much. He doesn't remember that his life rests upon a knife's edge; that to displease Lord Ancunín in any way means ruin. And he doesn't remember that the surest way to keep himself safe is to treat Astarion as coldly and as distantly as any of his other tutors.]
You have been at it for over an hour.
[His voice is too richly amused; the smile that tugs irresistibly at his lips might as well be a grin. And though he knows he ought to pull back, he doesn't just yet. Thirty seconds, nothing more; surely he can indulge in that.]
You are improving, though. Once this becomes more routine, then it will be a mere matter of muscle memory and speed.
[But oh . . . what is there to go home to? Sterility and a muted sense of dull boredom; standing at attention while servants tend to Astarion's every need. And it's only early afternoon . . .]
no subject
It's a roughened thing, collaring his overactive imagination and dragging it unwillingly back towards safer grounds. Once, twice, and it becomes a mantra as the minutes tick past, the word shuddering through him in time with the reverberating recoil from the gun. Don't, don't you dare——
Don't notice the way Astarion's legs stay spread at Fenris' insistence, his haughty little patriar obedient as anything one he has a disciplined hand at the back of his neck. Don't notice the way he smells (lilac and just a hint of sweat, the salt-sting of it a welcome addition to Fenris' mind). Don't linger on the way Astarion's lithe frame is so small between muscled arms, his hands so very soft beneath Fenris' own calloused palms. Don't think about how warm he is, nor the startled noise of excitement he makes each time his bullet hits the target.
(Don't think about how he sounded that night in the alley, his lips parted and his eyes dark as pitch, his hand rhythmically tugging at himself with obscene grace. Don't think about the firm press of his thigh caught between Fenris' own, hard pressure rubbing seductively against his cock and sending white-hot sparks roiling through his frame. Don't think about pale shoulders and delicate collarbones, long legs and lithe limbs in front of cold glass. Don't think about Astarion with his back snapped into a sharp arch and his thighs trembling wildly, biting at his own fingers to keep quiet as he stares up pleadingly at Fenris, more, I need more. And don't you dare think about the infuriating, intoxicating fantasy of being on his knees in the middle of a crowd, his lips wrapped around a thick, overheated cock as a cooing voice offers him praise. What a good boy you are, taking it so eagerly— this is what you wanted, isn't it? To be of use? Pretty little pet, turn around and show everyone here just how well you swallowed—)
Don't.
Focus on the lesson— and to be fair, he is. The fantasies might be flitting around the back of his mind, but that's only one part of it, for Fenris is enjoying this. Astarion is a decent student when he puts his mind to it, taking corrections well and eagerly fixing upon his past errors. He's no marksman and he won't be for a long while— but there is steady improvement. It's thrilling to see, and some part of Fenris swells with pride each time Astarion manages to absorb another lesson: loosen your arms, tighten your grip, like that, like that, his normally dour expression softening as the minutes pass.
It's too easy to grow comfortable that way.
He forgets the danger. As the minutes tick by and Astarion settles into his arms, he forgets that he is meant to be stiff and removed. Lonely heart that is, starved for companionship beneath all his fear, he enjoys this too much. He doesn't remember that his life rests upon a knife's edge; that to displease Lord Ancunín in any way means ruin. And he doesn't remember that the surest way to keep himself safe is to treat Astarion as coldly and as distantly as any of his other tutors.]
You have been at it for over an hour.
[His voice is too richly amused; the smile that tugs irresistibly at his lips might as well be a grin. And though he knows he ought to pull back, he doesn't just yet. Thirty seconds, nothing more; surely he can indulge in that.]
You are improving, though. Once this becomes more routine, then it will be a mere matter of muscle memory and speed.
[But oh . . . what is there to go home to? Sterility and a muted sense of dull boredom; standing at attention while servants tend to Astarion's every need. And it's only early afternoon . . .]
Do you truly wish to linger?