Certainly not the savage glare his words earn, for in truth, he had not expected the goad to land so fiercely. He hadn't expected anything, too heady off his own blackened lust to dream of such things as consequences (but oh, he will, he will), but if he had, oh, not such an enraged glare. Deadly and snarling, and if they were beasts, a growl would surely be building low in Astarion's throat. And yet— instead, a panting tongue. Instead, hot breath puffing in the air between them, the brat's hand pumping all the harder. And Fenris wonders what it is, exactly, that had landed: the insinuation that he has not experienced the kind of down-and-dirty, eye-rolling thigh-trembling vigorous rutting that occupies all of Fenris' fantasies . . . or the fact that it's true?
(And he does not slant it sideways. He does not think about how it could be taken as a personal insult, you haven't earned this in anyone else, either, for in truth, all Fenris imagines right now is Astarion as a pretty thing— delicate and arrogant, it's true, but above all else: submissive).
But he doesn't expect, either, the curse that slips past his charge's lips.
Fucking hell, his voice slurred and his accent clumsy, and Fenris does not know why some part of him melts to hear it. It's surely a bit of goading and nothing more, the brat throwing his own language back at him, but gods, something in Fenris howls in response. He wants to hear more. He wants to teach Astarion the filthiest phrases in Tevene, growled in his ear as he mounts him from behind; he wants to hear those words drip off a honeyed tongue, Astarion's expression blissful and his eyes hazy, his impudent brat finally tamed as he's split atop Fenris' prick.
He wants it. He wants him, not just to fuck but to breed. He wants to run his fingers up the inside of pale thighs and watch him shiver; he wants to fill his needy little hole again and again, fucking him until all he can remember is Fenris' name, his face pushed into the mattress and his hips hoisted up, Fenris Fenris Fenris, drooling droplets of come already staining his thighs and yet he still shrieks for more—
Fuck, and the Tevene bursts out of him as he feels himself topple over the edge. His overheated cock throbs, come spilling inelegantly over his fingers as the thought of Astarion gasping his name lingers in his mind, Fenris Fenris please . . . Astarion follows suit not a moment later, and for that, he struggles to open his eyes. He drinks in the sight with a moan, thrilled to the core by the sound of a muffled, mewling cry— oh, pretty thing. Pretty thing so undone, and his own cock throbs feebly in the aftermath, twitching in vain for the sight of him with his throat bared and his body overwhelmed in pleasure . . .
And it's not enough. Not when the aftermath hits all at once: his drugged lust temporarily sated and thus his senses suddenly and swiftly returning to him, almost nauseating in their starkness. The sounds of the city buzz in his ear; the careless scrape of his hand against roughened brickwork fittingly painful. The humid summer air stings beads of sweat dripping down the line of his neck. Hastily he does up his trousers, his fingers fumbling in his haste; across from him, he can hear Astarion's ragged breathing.
And it doesn't matter that somewhere in him there's still that needful lust, for in this moment all Fenris can think of is that he has led them down a foolish path. An inciting one, and what had he been thinking? This will only encourage the brat. This will only teach him that escaping leads to all kinds of filthy escapades—
But the truth is, he wasn't thinking. He barely is now, a low buzzing in his ears and something in the back of his mind whispering filthily. And what's done is done: he will simply have to be sterner around Astarion, as stoic as he used to be to the other slaves.]
Come on.
[Addled as he is, he mutters it in Tevene first— and then, with a short, sharp exhale, corrects himself.]
Come on.
[He crosses the alley. He won't touch Astarion, not now; indeed, he won't even look at him while he's still half-undressed. Resentful shame ripples through him, anger&mdsah; a little at Astarion, mostly at himself— a smothering force to the lust.]
[They don't really talk after that. Least of all about it— not even on the night of.
Astarion, lean and undone where he still half-hunches against cold brickwork, puts his scuffed up knuckles to use in redressing himself: his blouse used to daub away the sweat and streaks of tacky slick, clearing its mess off his stomach, his clothes— bunching it into a ball between his fingers before cleaning them too— and tossing it into the gutter last, with only his slacks and shoes and jewelry left to walk him home. The expense is nothing, not even his kin would bat an eye at it. The budget carefully kept back home won't notice. Even an unraveling cuff's an excuse to toss rare silk into the trash for anyone of the patriar rank, and most people in the Lower City fetch their best wardrobes from the beautiful casualties tossed out of the upper reaches each day.
And from there, stubbornly, with his head still swimming slightly and his mood gone sedate, they walk home.
Astarion goes to sleep. Tends to his studies after that. His meals. In other words: he lives his life as usual, without trying to slip away once the sun's set— though whether that's because there isn't a worthwhile orgy to attend or a naked fountain swim he's been invited to, it's hard to say. No one should discount his nature for a second, after all. Least of all Fenris, who isn't spoken to so much as at— if at all— in the next handful of weeks: I'm going outside. I'm staying in. Stop hovering. Go the fuck away. Get out. Leave me alone.
The routine huffing of a thing with a long shadow, in essence, albeit one that knows its limits (he can't order Fenris around, but he can keep yanking him along to frustrate him. Test him. Rile him. Demand he come in close and then leave him standing watch while he fucks some pretty little treat of a servant in a shut closet. Stare at him from the dinner table whilst broaching every subject that could vex. Little nips at his figurative heels, but that's as far as it ever goes). The little sparks of animosity. The tepid traces of heat that still linger even when everything's cooled off.
They break, at least, whenever Fenris slips away to tend to his own needs.
Coming back's a different story.]
That wretched cunt barely knows the books he writes in, and you take his word over mine? I did you a favor—
['Two years until you take title, Astarion. Barely two years— and this is how you behave?'
Ah. The same argument as always, only it's catalyst different this time judging by what echoes behind shut doors. A so-called useless tutor, a so-called irresponsible student who refuses to behave. Reckless and indiscreet in his endless transgressions.
And like always it doesn't matter what Astarion has to say for himself. It doesn't matter if a blow is struck to his cheek for crude insult, or if the blow itself is the just the word that finally shuts him up; his father leaving without acknowledgment of either, only locking eyes with Fenris once he steps outside the room.
'Until I find another tutor, train him.' The finality of it: this is your role, now. One more addition to the rest, without a drop of concern spared for what a former slave might teach a highborne elf. Even a simple bid at perception would swear the man doesn't really care; it's clearly not about the lessons themselves, but the occupation of time. Odds are, he probably imagines that the less opportunity his son has to make trouble, the less trouble there'll inevitably be.
Although as today proves, that remains to be seen. 'Just make certain he stays indoors, quiet, and out of anyone else— I give you my permission to make that happen however it needs to.'
The sweep of his robes is almost silent when he leaves.
The inside of Astarion's room is fully silent.
A lofty space, still gilded and bright as ever. Those high ceilings, the attached wide balconies overlooking the Lower Reaches. No water, though. It's only the master suites that have the ocean views— and to be fair, it's not as palatial an estate as some of the literal palaces that take up whole portions of the upper city— but still. Beautiful.
And in the center of it all sits Astarion on his bed, nursing along his temper in dull solitude. He looks childish for his sulking (as anyone does), but ironically, not like the child he's been treated to be. Because buckling against the agonies of being a grown thing while handled like an annoying little upstart is—
Painful, maybe.
Like wearing clothing two sizes too small.
Like you can't even sit comfortably without feeling where restriction cuts deep into your own skin, and there's no way to relax but strip it all aside. And there's no one to confide in because there's—
[Until the door clicks. Astarion glowering coldly over his shoulder, his reddened eyes filled with a fresher bout of ire.
It's the first time that he's looked like he did that night in the alleyway.]
I didn't tell you to come in. [He scoffs defensively. Practically palpable how the hairs on the back of his neck are already standing with a bristling sense of hostility.
He wipes at his nose with the back of his fingers, the action quick and frustrated (oh, not soft. Not soft at all).]
Get out. I'm tired of looking at your wretched face.
[The weeks pass, and if you didn't look at them too closely, you might mistake them for blissful.
Certainly they're quiet. Astarion does not try to flee anymore, though whether that's because of Fenris' scolding or otherwise remains to be seen. And thus Fenris' job becomes easy, if not repetitive: silently following Astarion whenever he goes, a shadow that tries and inevitably fails to make himself unseen. It's strange to Fenris' mind, if you want the truth. Danarius was always content to ignore his prized pup unless he wanted him, but Astarion cannot seem to forget him. Little snapped out statements or pointless irritants, his newfound master (though oh, Fenris hates himself whenever he catches himself thinking of him that way) seemingly determined to try and frustrate Fenris into abandoning him.
It doesn't work. Not when Astarion ventures into far more vulgar territory (breathless giggles and a sneeringly derisive tone, don't mind him, darling, I don't think he can even get it up— and it's not the insult that turns his ears red, but the breathless moans that slip past that closed doorway. The breathless whines for more that precede the slickened sounds of that maid getting her cunt eaten out; the rapidfire slap of skin on skin as Astarion takes his prize— and afterwards, the scent of sex filling the air as they both staggered out. A study in contrasts: the maid flushing as she avoided Fenris' eye and scurried off, Astarion boldly catching it). Not when he brings up goading topics at supper, trying to see what earns a flinch or a glare.
Not even the sudden burden of a task he is in no way prepared to handle— nor the fretful barks of a pup too hurt to snarl.
And understand: it isn't pity that fills his heart. Fenris has been through too much hardship to weep over the plight of a rich noble and his petulance. But he has watched the way Astarion's father has spoken around him— not at him, not once, but rather as one might speak about a pet. Ordering around bodyguards and tutors to tend to him, not bothering to meet his gaze when he spits out instructions, only ever paying him mind when he acts out . . .
Perhaps it is not such a shock, then, that Astarion is inclined towards rebellion.
He could be rough, oh yes. He could be spiteful, lording this newfound integration into his young master's life and promising him only hell to come. But as Fenris stares at reddened eyes and hears that fretful sniff, he finds that the only emotion that fills him is just a wearied sort of softness.
And so, quite gently, he ignores Astarion's commands.
And it is gently, for there's such a difference in how he might do it spitefully. He does not shove the door shut and lean up against it smugly. Instead: Fenris is careful to let the latch slip into place near-silently behind him. He meets Astarion's eye, but he does not go to him just yet. Instead: the briefest of detours into his attached bathroom, where he fills a shallow bowl with cold water and grabs a washcloth.
Then to the bed, where he (so very boldly) takes a seat, one leg tucked beneath his knee.]
You will bruise if you do not tend to this.
[It's not pitying. Perhaps it's not even sympathizing. But it's not hostile, either, and there's a gentleness to the way he catches Astarion's chin with one hand, dabbing gently the reddened mark swelling over one pale cheek with the other.
(A kindness, too, for the way he does not mention reddened eyes, for there is no need to draw attention to grief— not especially between them).
It's quiet for a time. And then, his gaze still focused on his task, Fenris murmurs:]
What did he do to earn your ire, this tutor of yours?
[It's a neutral statement, neither dripping with sympathy nor aching with protectiveness. But he is Astarion's bodyguard, at the end of the day. His bodyguard, not his jailer. And if Astarion was not at fault . . .
[The latch clicks as it fixes itself shut— and Astarion's posture stiffens.
Bare soles pad lightly across polished floors towards him, and the angle of sharp ears drop until they pin, tucked in deep against the knotwork of his curls. Wariness that doesn't stop when pathing finally sweeps Fenris past the edge of his bed. It doesn't ease off when he hears the faucet run, or the rippling plink of cold water sloshing in its basin. Against his thighs, slim fingers seem to lock around themselves like the coiling of a snake before it bites, only doubled once Fenris' tall figure sinks down across the corner of that mattress. Imposing with its armor, and buckles, and guarded lacework— and it's the first time that fact has ever lived bright behind silver eyes.
That his bodyguard does fit the role.
And then comes a hand beneath his chin.
Wet relief pushed to his cheek.
A balm he'd never asked for, already turning his skin ice cold beneath his eye (and mercilessly hot along his neck around its nape), dripping as it runs towards his shirt collar, pattering to drip from his jaw— the sloping jut of his throat— down between his legs. His pulse ricocheting through soft tissue, every corded muscle tense enough to snap, and he prays his counterpart can't feel it where he holds his chin. Tongue pushed up to the roof of his mouth like it'll save him petty shame; he's had enough of it already. He can't take more now, too. (What does Astarion expect? Cruel laughter? Snide derision? A look to rival the smugness he'd aimed at Fenris over and over again throughout the last few weeks, let alone the first night they'd met? Oh, everything, maybe. All of the above. Cause and effect come to bear, and here Fenris is: lucky enough to witness its aftermath firsthand. Payback his for the taking, if he wants it.
But—
No, that doesn't make sense.)
The rag isn't laced with anything. The look on dour features hasn't budged since he came in. And for a moment pale eyes flit from mouth, to tsavorite stare, and back again, visibly weighing something just before he licks his lips. Chin bobbing slightly in that rough-edged grasp.
(If this is a trick, it's so deeply buried that it borders on nonsensical. Or genius. Either way, Astarion's too worn down to care.
The bastard was inept. [Comes a muttered response through loosened breaths, his chin left nestled soft against those fingers in a truce that's already stowed its fury in trade for being tended to. Seen.] Barely a waste of flesh, and happy to sit on his perch collecting coin while I penned line after line of whatever drivel came into his skull for months on end.
[Lessons, he called them. But there's no point in learning anything that isn't true. Just another excuse to keep Astarion's fingers moving. His mouth shut, even when he knew better.] There was alcohol on his breath that I didn't even put there for once, and he's never known the difference between Poe and Ardunni to begin with.
He was a fraud. And a liar. And a cheat.
I don't regret chasing him off.
[Light scoff slipping in. Mouth quirking to one side by self-aware degrees, changing the angle of that rag.]
....But then nobody believes me because I'm a liar and a cheat, too. [Sober, his ensuing sigh: he knows fully what he is, and his voice sinks ever so slightly to admit it, shrugging wryly through his shoulders.] So I guess there's that.
[Well, that's the question, isn't it? The trouble is: Fenris doesn't have an answer, not really. He cannot say it's out of pity, for that isn't true and sends the wrong message: poor you, so neglected you need a hired bit of help to be your friend. And he cannot say, too, that Astarion has earned it, for the fact of the matter is that he hasn't. That look of fear before was not wholly unjustified, not really (and Fenris was not wholly sorry to see it, if you want to know the truth). He's nipped at Fenris' heels from the moment they met, delighting in petty bits of vengeance, thrilling to earn any kind of reaction— for gods' sake, the brat had outright drugged him their first night together. You can get down on your knees and entertain us, and dazed though he was, Fenris hasn't forgotten a single moment about that night.
So why, then? He's silent for a time, focusing on his task, letting his mind wander. His thoughts drift towards that tutor, hired solely to shut someone up. Not a terrible man. Not abusive or cruel or vicious, not the way some can get. Simply terribly, horribly inept, and yet paid such a lofty sum because he knew how to keep his student occupied.
No wonder the tiger throws himself against the cage's bars. No wonder he snarls and seethes at yet another keeper's arrival. And yet Fenris does not quite know how to say all that, not really. Not without delving into his own past and revealing far more than he wishes to.]
I am to be your tutor now, in addition to your bodyguard. And unlike that drunken mess, there are things I can teach you— if you are willing to learn. Things like . . .
[For a moment his mind runs blank— but ah, he is skilled. Not learned, but very, very good at what he does.]
How to defend yourself. How to wield a dagger or aim a gun without hurting yourself in the process. How to walk soundlessly if you wish, or learn how to spot an assassin a crowd. How to utilize almost any weapon, and conversely, how to counter it. How to strengthen your muscles, and in that way get rid of the excess energy I assume plagues you.
[Young thing, and mercifully, he doesn't say so, but there's something knowing in his gaze. Setting the cloth down, his fingers linger for just half a moment longer than they should against that soft chin before dropping away.]
Consider this an olive branch. Do not treat me as jailer to be seduced or humiliated out of a position, and in turn, I will . . .
[He cannot ignore his father's orders. But still Fenris hesitates, and then finally settles on:]
We will see how much freedom you are granted as the weeks pass. If nothing else, I do not intend for you to spend all your days and nights locked in your rooms.
[Surely they can go on daytrips. Drinking a pint or two at early evening. Surely his lord father doesn't intend for Astarion to be totally sterile— simply less raucous.]
[Tongue pushed hard against the backline of his teeth in hoarse diffusion.]
Of course he named you next in line. Nice to see his standards haven't risen since the last time he went hunting for a qualified lock and key. [Fenris was there. Fenris was breathing. What else does it take to ensure the heir you've given birth to stays settled on his heels? Particularly when vacancy won't do it, and the prior instructor's already halfway to Cormyr choking on his pride instead of wine, frantically trying to delete a swath of incriminating photos from his own personal accounts.
As for the rest, though....
Honestly?
It sounds like a lie.
A nice one (oh, all the best ones are), stirring up a fresher pulse of hope behind the soreness of his cheek, but— he's had others say things that sounded just as sweet before in the past, only to find out later (caught with their fingers wrapped around stacked coin or supple flesh), that it was never really true. One more thing bought and paid for just to keep him tethered to rote silence.
At least Petras talks to him, annoying prick that he is. At least the others in their group laugh with him. Have fun with him. See him as one of their own, up and coming forces that they are, no matter the trouble they get into.
But the thing is, it also makes sense.
Do not treat me as jailer to be seduced or humiliated out of a position, and Astarion can understand exactly what it is that Fenris wants out of this equation: not niceness or companionship— but security. And for some reason, unlike the others his family's directly taken on, he makes this bargain with Astarion— not his father. It's equal footing.
He can live with that.]
I've had worse tutors.
Worse jailers too. [His eyes following the retreat of that rag— falling on angled features instead: the strength of a face that still looks out of place in this overly extravagant world, and he's tempted to ask after it, you know. Why you. Where did you really come from. What is it you've seen?
None of that matters with an accord hanging in the balance.
The bruise on his cheek red from chill, but not inflamed pain anymore. Shining wetly in diffused sunlight. His thumb flicking at the corner of his index finger, thinking like a cat twitching its own tail.]
Do you really know how to shoot a gun?
[Focusing on the important things here, if he's taking this bargain.]
[It's something. Perhaps not the starry-eyed, overeager agreement some vague part of him might have hoped for— but then again, Fenris thinks, he probably wouldn't trust such a thing. What cause does Astarion have for cheer, after all? And there's something to be said for the fact that the lad offered him an honest reaction instead of a saccharine, overeager agreement.
So: it's something. A foundation to build upon, maybe, and Fenris nods in acknowledgement as Astarion offers that backhanded compliment.
But oh, that question, and internally, Fenris smiles. It's . . . well, it is a bit of a patronizing reaction, but he doesn't mean it that way. His intention isn't to coo over Astarion's age or lack of experience, it's just . . .
What a question to ask a living weapon.
Do you really know how to shoot a gun, and Fenris thinks of Danarius' slaves cowering from him, flinching at his shadow and whispering where they thought he couldn't hear. Of the countless hours his master spent forcibly reconditioning him, rousing him from his slumber so he could be made ever more perfect as a bodyguard and companion. Lessons in how to wield every single weapon in existence: guns and knives, swords and shotguns, and if all else failed, his body itself. Half a dozen martial arts tutors, the tactical lessons that never ended, the tests that he grew so good at passing . . . and that's to say nothing of all the magitech coursing through his veins. Lyrium was the start, not the end; nanobots swarm through his veins, their presence a constant assurance that Danarius' prized bodyguard would never succumb to poisons or sustained injuries.
Do you know how to shoot a gun, and it is the sweetest relief to be asked such an innocuous question.]
[What, now? He almost asks, like it isn't a matter of making the decision and simply going; like the same cocksure elf that'd slipped out into empty streets through an open window can't somehow just walk right through a door his kin pulled shut. But of course he can— of course he can— and more than that: it's his godsdamned right to, so long as his feet are planted on Baldurian soil, let alone his own estate.
Never to forget that disapproval isn't imprisonment, and like Fenris himself said, he isn't his bloody jailer.
So.
Right then.
Take two— this time with a little less shameful fucking naivety.
With the back of his hand, he swipes away the last few vestiges of glassy water from the fringe edge of his jaw, heavy curls carrying a few wayward droplets here and there, and all quickly dispersed. By the time it's done, he's just as straight-backed as ever. Chin resolutely lifted in a haughty show of command: not aimed or leveled at the only living thing in sight, just worn.
In other words, he's himself again.
Still livid, mind. And rife with roiling resentment hotter than the mark upon his cheek, but not a day goes by any differently, really. At least now there's something real to set his sights on. An asset worth having beside him, and a fascinating show ahead— wherever it might lead.]
Immediately.
[He orders, jewelry jangling. Cloth rustling. A light interlude spent straightening his clothes and jacket before departure.
And it's—
Not what he'd expected.
Even in the Upper City, the training range smells stringent and perfumelessly dank, yet there's more magitech inside its walls than what he's seen at the most extravagant of celebrations: from scrolling advertisements to minute readouts, to assistant-familiars meant to help select a weapon from one second to the next. Courses are marked, privacy screens obscured, running tabs for even things like ammunition or refreshments are tallied and paid for with a flick of a wrist. It's nice, but it's not that nice, which is baffling—
Before he realizes that no one here's a patriar.
At least not unless they're so well disguised as to cease existing altogether. Just assassins and servants, bodyguards and mercenaries. Well-paid fighters from the highest illegal rings. Merchant lackeys bearing their allegiance on their skin. All aside from Astarion, that is, who suddenly feels more out of place for the accessories he's sporting than he's ever felt before. Though at least that doesn't last long.
They're led into a private section of the range not much later. Muffled from outside noise. Filtered from outside contact— a thick wall of glasslike smoke the color of gunmetal outlining the borders of their given territory. A little notification bobbing latently in one far corner above a stack of weaponry and ammunition promises they could pay to broaden those boundaries, if they wished. The price for that obscured in favor of a small animated mabari, its wiry tail wagging back and forth awaiting an inquiry— or an order.
Huh.]
Is this where you come to practice?
[Question drifting in while he picks up whichever handgun's closest to him, starting to fiddle with its various fasteners and locks.]
[It is, as far as Fenris understands the concept, like coming home.
Familiar. Routine. Safe, and what an ironic word to describe a den in which the most dangerous people gather to hone their deadliest abilities. But it is safe, at least for him. No one cares about him here. No one looks at him twice, not just because such a thing might be a foolish mistake, but because he is the least interesting thing right now. What is one lyrium-enhanced bodyguard, after all, in a sea of magitech upgrades? Everyone who roams these halls are the sort always looking for an extra edge. Blades embedded beneath one's fingernails, ready to spring out with the right command; artificial eyes that will scan and catalogue every person in the room. They pass a woman Fenris knows by sight who grins at him in recognition, revealing teeth artificially sharpened to resemble a shark's toothy countenance.
And in the middle of it all, one lone little patriar, pretty and delicate and decidedly out of place.
It would be a lie to say Fenris doesn't relish it. He does, just a little. Just enough to satisfy some petty part of his soul that still lingers in the hall of that manor, hearing the echoing laughter of Astarion's friends. But ah, no more of that: a truce goes both ways, after all. Soon enough they're led into a private arena, and all the outside distractions disappear.
Fenris exhales slowly. Tension sloughs off him in waves— and it's a remarkable difference, for only now does one realize just how rigidly he otherwise holds himself. Back always straight, his shoulders always thrown back (and yet his head always dipped, a quiet deference when in face of his betters). There's no more paranoid glancing around, no wary looks towards the windows or lingering upon his ward . . . for right now, the outside world doesn't exist. Astarion's father does not exist; those vicious little vipers that he calls friends certainly don't. There's no Danarius, no debt, no grief, no pain— there's nothing right now save his own self and his weaponry.
(And Astarion, now. A quiet addition, but not, Fenris is pleased to find, an unwelcome one thusfar.)
Fenris hasn't bothered picking out his own weapon yet, but that rather works out, doesn't it? Coming over, he gently bats at those fiddling hands, encouraging him to set the gun down without outright demanding it.]
Your first lesson: treat every gun as if it is loaded. It isn't, for I have not yet paid for ammunition, but still: ignoring that rule is how one inevitably loses an eye.
[It's actually Astarion's father who pays for this, not that Astarion needs the reminder. The itemized bill all goes to some accountant somewhere, who presumably inspects it to make sure Fenris isn't secretly spending the money on whores or alcohol or some such nonsense.]
But yes, this is where I come to practice. They have a range of simulations available— I can practice my marksmanship with any number of weapons, and if I need to face an opponent for hand-to-hand, they have simulations for that too.
[He taps a screen along the wall; a few moments later, a target appears ten yards away. It's a laughably close thing, but that's rather the point.]
Now. You could watch me practice, and I would not mind that. But if you wish to learn yourself . . . start with this.
[Another few taps. The handgun Astarion had been fiddling with disappears, replaced with a far more compact pistol. It's painted a rather bland shade of refrigerator-teal, and there's far too many sights for Fenris' preference, but so it goes when you use the weaponry the range supplies for you.]
Go on. Do well, and I will allow you ones that do elemental damage. Simply line yourself up here, [his foot tapping gently at the small square set before the target,] loosen yourself, and try your best to aim. If this is to be a lesson, it would be best to know your range before I begin teaching you.
[He's too busy curling his lip to notice the change in his bodyguard's demeanor: the way he hunches forwards over the angle of his hips, spine loose and arms roughly flexed in the sort of posing usually reserved for murals depicting fearsome unseelie warriors or feral battlemages— a kind of flexion bend to fingers that curl like they have claws. Relaxed in ways that don't translate between hierarchies or cultures or—
The air leaves Astarion's nose in a rush.
Agitated and huffy, clutching that diminutive piece against his palm in a mirror to whatever movies or faff the boy and his friends take to watching when they aren't out actively hunting for wealthy game (projections bore him, truth be told, but there were a scarce few involving merchant princes with gilded belt clips or mercenary leaders that picked their teeth with ruby daggers that always kept him from wandering off), and it's that same image he's still picturing in his head when he pushes past his tutor to level his given gun at the target barely ten yards away. Thumb stiff, grip pushed snug between his palms—
Grip pushed snug against his palm.
(Revised for its small size, and the fact that it's no worldshattering thing.)]
Easy.
[He purrs over his cocked shoulder. His wiry frame twisted at an angle opposite his neck. His head. Cream-colored suit coat catching light across thin beadwork in that dim excuse for light, where the course and its target are the only thing that shines.
If Fenris won't show him first, then he'll show Fenris instead.
—bang—
A pop. A scream of zipping movement from the barrel of his gun as it whips back, barely kept from catching his own cheek.
There's a mark on the target's conjured screen. It takes a moment to come fully into view, but still, it's there. A single, isolated, narrow little bullet mark punched into the lowest left corner.
Any further out, and it'd have gone right into dead air.]
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.]
[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.]
[And even though his wrist feels numb and his shoulder aches, he fights to hold onto that tangled grip between them once the timer's sung its last.]
—wait.
[He grins, sweat strung faint along his temples. Head tipped back into the cushion of a taller shoulder, pushing his brow closer to that brightly tattooed neck, perfectly unaware of how long it's been since they both started.]
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 . . .]
[There are other things worth being at for an hour.
Which is why it's funny, obviously. That's the literal joke— but Astarion's mind's as good as brinesoaked parchment right about now with exhaustion gnawing at his throat, and he's more focused on the thought that his tutor might've laughed for just a second. Or something like it, anyway.
Slack through his shoulders without thinking. Melting into Fenris' instead, it's not a ploy to say that the formalities are drawn aside along with dourness itself.]
With you?
[It's a drawl because he's weary, not because he's trying to be cute. That, at any rate, comes entirely on its own:]
I'd do a lot more than linger.
[Still, it makes the unsubtle glance he next casts Fenris' way feel more akin to wandering fingers against cloth— even though his own are holding that rough pistol (its oily grit under his fingerbeds; a hundred little cuts and grooves from communal use scraping whenever his grip shifts), shrugging down to hang loosely by their hips. Numbness crawls in afterwards. Uncomfortable and spiny and sharp where it stabs along the corners of his awareness.
He doesn't mind.
He also doesn't want to go home.]
We're all alone. Don't tell me you're not tempted.
[Is there something that tempts Fenris....? When he isn't drugged or worked up into a frenzy, that is. It's hard not to remember the sight of him huddled and resentful. Slickened from the inside out. Harder not to wonder if the reasoning for that was more acute than broad.
But Astarion isn't reaching. Isn't shifting. This isn't like the party, and it's no substitute for an apology (one he's never felt inclined to give, and might never, knowing him), but there's a kind of ancillary proof involved in proving where the boundaries lie.
That, or he just can't move his arms. Or his legs. Or his head.]
[And that's the trouble with letting down his guard.]
Would you, now . . .?
[It's a filler statement, murmured even as he silently scolds himself for his carelessness. Fasta vass— but what had he expected? The two of them tangled up so warmly, his body framing Astarion's own and his foot wedged so that he can't close his legs . . . of course the whelp was going to make another pass at him. Of course he was going to see what he might get, for pure seduction doesn't go against the terms of their agreement— and, Fenris thinks, the boy likely isn't thinking too far ahead. He does not imagine any consequences to this, not really. A slap on the wrist, and indeed, perhaps that's all Fenris would get—
But perhaps not.
But Astarion isn't moving. He isn't wiggling his hips or turning his head so he might slip that wicked tongue against a curling tendril of lyrium. He's asking, not demanding— and so while the danger is still ever-present, Fenris need not react like a virgin caught with his pants down.
No, he could say curtly. Or he could be more playful with it: yes, I'm tempted, and pretend he'd interpreted Astarion's statement as a question concerning more advanced weaponry. But the former is a lie and the latter feels stupid— and anyway, Fenris doesn't want to treat Astarion as his tutor did. Settle down, know your place, dismissive and patronizing in turn, no, that will not be his way.
Fenris draws back: not too far, but just enough that he can catch Astarion's eye.]
I will tell you that your attempts at flirtation are not going to work.
[But then, more honestly:]
Tell me truly: are you even attracted to me? Or do you merely see this as another potential conquest you can later brag about to your friends?
[Some people wear silver jewelry. Fenris wears iron resolve.
(And it looks just as nice on him, too— if not a little tight).]
Does it have to be one or the other?
[Asked in the gap between where Fenris was and where he is now: the irony being that the less Astarion can feel of him the more that he can see. Up close this time. In full. How he's not— old, so much as older: worn more by the darkened angles underneath his eyes or the paper-edge crows' feet adorning their angled outer span (or the way his frown pulls tight against his jawline, or the nicks scattered like constellatory waypoints over slightly roughened skin), than he is any real amount of age. The angles of his throat, for example, or the vivid shade of silver just above his ears, aren't the proof of handfuls of measured centuries like the tired Patriars with stiffened hands. And if his joints are stiff (Astarion doubts it) instead of limber, then the culprit's more likely to be from wear and tear by his best guess, not time.
So think of it as a layered answer when he shows his teeth and grins.
Pink across his nose and cheeks and lifted ears, which has the added effect of making his blunt teeth look even whiter. The edges of his salt-soaked curls, too, particularly where they've tangled in his lashes. A little out of hand, as far as exploratory tête-à-tête goes, salvaged barely by increasing distance (like they're not still more than in arm's reach. Like Astarion couldn't just turn his wrist, and catch something hard between soft thighs).]
Or do you actually think you don't warrant the kind of attraction I'd have to try not to brag about?
[They're close, yes. Close enough for Fenris to drink in the droplets of sweat that dampen Astarion's curls, leaving them to tumble in front of his face (pretty in the most unassuming way: not the polished poise of before, but something earnest, and thus all the more attractive to Fenris' mind). Close enough that he can take in the faint smear of kohl just beneath one eye (old makeup from the night before not properly wiped away); the glint of mischief in the curl of that grin, white teeth gleaming as his precocious student thrills in this new game.
Close enough that Fenris' hand is nigh invisible when he strikes: one swift sharp movement that ends with Astarion's jaw being loosely gripped between calloused thumb and pointer finger. Not fully scolding, nor even intending to be demeaning, but rather as a means of grabbing attention: aht, the way you might grip an errant pup who's so clearly thinking about tearing into a bag of treats. Don't you dare.
And it's a mistake to touch him. It's a mistake to be so familiar with him, but Fenris cannot be perfect within every moment. And there's something so satisfying about slowly tipping Astarion's chin up by fragile degrees, forcing him to look up at Fenris as he takes a half-step closer. Listen now, pup.]
I think the best tumbles are the ones you do not feel the need to brag about so that your peers might offer you fleeting clout.
[It's level. Even. Not upset, but there's a roughened edge in his tone if Astarion seeks it. For that's all it is, isn't it? That pack won't stay impressed for long, for they never do. It's all about who can top the last feat: who can throw the more spectacular party, who can bed the most exotic conquest . . . and it builds. People grow numb to splendor and decadence, til at last all that thrills them is the worst sorts of depravities . . .
Not that Astarion is there yet. Whelp of a thing, tamed by his father and by his position alike, he is not what Fenris has fled from. His grip loosens just a little.]
And I think I have too much respect for myself to reduce myself to mere notch on your bedpost. I am not going to fuck you, little noble— but if I was, it would not be so you could have the wicked thrill of seducing yet another tutor and proving your own worth.
[And yet the soft skin beneath banded fingertips feels so keenly warm. And yet he hasn't let him go, not yet. His head cocks, his eyes considering as he stares down at the other elf.]
He's lucky he's been caught by the jaw instead of anywhere else, when even a knuckle pushed against the soft stretch of muscle marking where his chin and the underside of his throat converge is too full of vascular leywork not to hammer with the evidence of what he's thinking about. Letting his backteeth salivate for.
Scolding on playgrounds leads to escalation, after all. A teething cosset inclined to snarl will only lunge into a bite if that initial attempt to scruff isn't tight enough to cow him first. Anger and excitement are the same thing for some— like prey drive— and it's the fact he can't sit still that sees him clipped around his red-tipped ears so often that his cheek still shines with his last censure.
He doesn’t pull away from this one, though.
(I am not going to fuck you, little noble—
—oh, but he wishes that he would.)]
....Twenty four.
[Astarion exhales in the next beat, voice struck through with acclimating tension. There's more that could be said, and yet the lanky little instigator lets that number hang in dead air while they're both standing there stock-still. His fingers twitching around the grip of that old gun, painting this like the stand off it conceptually is.
Because he's stopped blinking, now. Slowed his breathing.
If there's any kind of reaction to that answer to pluck from Fenris' expression, he wants to see it firsthand. Particularly when he adds:]
Could have a nice, even number with you. Maybe even leave it there— change my stripes.
Like molasses. Like those heavy moments that last an eternity in memory's eye, the kind where a thousand thoughts have time to race across the mind before a single breath is exhaled. Twenty-four, and Fenris expects himself to scoff. To say something casually cruel about sluttishness, perhaps, or roll his eyes in a derisive way. Or maybe he'd be nicer about it: a little grimace that suggests he isn't impressed, but that Astarion's business is his own.
He doesn't expect the anger.
He doesn't expect the sudden, nigh-overwhelming urge to snarl.
It's so sudden that there's a lurching moment of uncertainty, fury flaring in his gaze before his eyes dart to the side as Fenris struggles to smother it. Visions of past trysts flicker past his mind's eye (Astarion sprawled atop a desk, his legs spread as roughened hands grip his thighs too tightly; Astarion with his fingers tucked up beneath a woman's skirt, his breath hot against her throat as he murmurs all kinds of filthy promises. Astarion staring up dutifully as a too-thin tutor fucks his mouth with irregular rhythm, all in the service of proving to his father that yet another keeper could be corrupted)—
And his hand doesn't tighten its grip on Astarion's jaw. His frame is wracked with tension, but none of it is directed towards the boy in his hand— for it isn't Astarion he's angry at, he realizes.]
And how many of them were worth anything?
[It's low. Roughened, as his eyes finally dart back at Astarion. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to drag Astarion in close, his arms wrapping fiercely around him; he wants to set out into the darkness and hunt down every idiotic tutor and selfish caretaker that had ever fallen for sweet charms and a pouting mouth. He wants to nuzzle fiercely against this young thing, and then again he wants to scruff him like an errant pup, nipping at him until he learns better.
He settles for stroking his thumb against the line of Astarion's jaw, and it's far more soothing than he means it to be.]
How many of them—
[And the dots connect only belatedly. Too belatedly, maybe, and he's being too protective (why? but that fierce anger isn't subsiding, that snarling seething growl that glares out at the world), but that can't be helped right now.]
Your last tutor, too. The one I replaced.
[The bastard was inept, and oh, what an idiot he'd been to buy that story, but Fenris isn't used to a master lying to him like that.]
The one who was inept. Who made you write lines of drivel so he could drink.
Not this. Not anything remotely close to the way Fenris' expression suddenly twists.
And maybe it's why Astarion misreads the situation by a mile, sore senses grasping loosely at whatever fraying threads of (learned) predictable logic he can find to explain the sharpness in green eyes. The odd glimpse of anger just behind it.
This is....new. Strange. So real he can't unlock the track of where it's headed. The fingers on his jaw have tensed. Is it jealousy?
No. That seems wrong. But— what else is there, really?]
They didn't hold a candle to you.
[It's a line....in the sense that it's vestigial estimation of what he should do: flatter and endear. Find ways to stoke the ego of his counterpart. But the thing is, in this case he actually means it. Despite the angry back and forth, the animosity they've shared, he'd been the first out of twenty five to treat him like a person— the first since Talindra, in fact. A babysitter with a spine, he'd called him on the night that they first met, not expecting it to be true.
It is true.
Even the fledgling patriar Astarion runs with spend more time on smoke and bragging rights than any actual amount of conversation. (Gods he fucking hates Petras. They can't be in the same room together for more than five minutes without bickering.
And he talks to him the most out of everyone.)]
Him too. [He turns his fingers over, letting a half-numb arm carry his touch across armored wrists. Confused by handsome features, studying them up close. Too serious.
So, to fix that:]
How else do you think I got him deposed?
[Hes grinning. Searching for an echo of predictable acceptance. See? Nothing to be angry about: I won. I beat him.
[They didn't hold a candle to you, and he hears that line for what it is. Tentative confusion and an attempt at peacekeeping— a sailor struggling to navigate by an unfamiliar star, but the problem is, that only makes it worse. The fact that no one in his life has ever objected to this—
Or perhaps he is being too bold. Perhaps it isn't as broad as that.
Perhaps no one has ever cared.
What does his lord father worry about, after all? His image. How it looks to have his eldest son fucking his way through every hired hand, and, perhaps, how much money it will cost to cover up such a minor scandal. How such a thing affects Astarion's future prospects and their good name, and the risk that comes of not breaking his son of such a habit before he comes of age.
But not that his son so easily seduces all that cross his path. Not that his son, still so young even at seventy-five, has found that two dozen different tutors and bodyguards are so easily swayed from their duties by the lure of pale thighs and a sharp grin. And Fenris can't articulate why, exactly, the thought offends him so, save that it isn't real. Save that such people should have known better, no matter that their charge might have sulked or panted or seduced with all his might.]
You should have told me.
[It's a strained thing, his mouth a thin line as he finally looks back at Astarion. The grip on his jaw eases and then drops, though some part of Fenris mourns the loss of contact. But he doesn't pull away from those slender fingers caressing his wrist, and that's something.]
I'm here for your protection. That includes tutors who do not know better than to keep their hands to themselves. And you deserve better than to have to resort to such things in order to be rid of someone so inept.
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
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Certainly not the savage glare his words earn, for in truth, he had not expected the goad to land so fiercely. He hadn't expected anything, too heady off his own blackened lust to dream of such things as consequences (but oh, he will, he will), but if he had, oh, not such an enraged glare. Deadly and snarling, and if they were beasts, a growl would surely be building low in Astarion's throat. And yet— instead, a panting tongue. Instead, hot breath puffing in the air between them, the brat's hand pumping all the harder. And Fenris wonders what it is, exactly, that had landed: the insinuation that he has not experienced the kind of down-and-dirty, eye-rolling thigh-trembling vigorous rutting that occupies all of Fenris' fantasies . . . or the fact that it's true?
(And he does not slant it sideways. He does not think about how it could be taken as a personal insult, you haven't earned this in anyone else, either, for in truth, all Fenris imagines right now is Astarion as a pretty thing— delicate and arrogant, it's true, but above all else: submissive).
But he doesn't expect, either, the curse that slips past his charge's lips.
Fucking hell, his voice slurred and his accent clumsy, and Fenris does not know why some part of him melts to hear it. It's surely a bit of goading and nothing more, the brat throwing his own language back at him, but gods, something in Fenris howls in response. He wants to hear more. He wants to teach Astarion the filthiest phrases in Tevene, growled in his ear as he mounts him from behind; he wants to hear those words drip off a honeyed tongue, Astarion's expression blissful and his eyes hazy, his impudent brat finally tamed as he's split atop Fenris' prick.
He wants it. He wants him, not just to fuck but to breed. He wants to run his fingers up the inside of pale thighs and watch him shiver; he wants to fill his needy little hole again and again, fucking him until all he can remember is Fenris' name, his face pushed into the mattress and his hips hoisted up, Fenris Fenris Fenris, drooling droplets of come already staining his thighs and yet he still shrieks for more—
Fuck, and the Tevene bursts out of him as he feels himself topple over the edge. His overheated cock throbs, come spilling inelegantly over his fingers as the thought of Astarion gasping his name lingers in his mind, Fenris Fenris please . . . Astarion follows suit not a moment later, and for that, he struggles to open his eyes. He drinks in the sight with a moan, thrilled to the core by the sound of a muffled, mewling cry— oh, pretty thing. Pretty thing so undone, and his own cock throbs feebly in the aftermath, twitching in vain for the sight of him with his throat bared and his body overwhelmed in pleasure . . .
And it's not enough. Not when the aftermath hits all at once: his drugged lust temporarily sated and thus his senses suddenly and swiftly returning to him, almost nauseating in their starkness. The sounds of the city buzz in his ear; the careless scrape of his hand against roughened brickwork fittingly painful. The humid summer air stings beads of sweat dripping down the line of his neck. Hastily he does up his trousers, his fingers fumbling in his haste; across from him, he can hear Astarion's ragged breathing.
And it doesn't matter that somewhere in him there's still that needful lust, for in this moment all Fenris can think of is that he has led them down a foolish path. An inciting one, and what had he been thinking? This will only encourage the brat. This will only teach him that escaping leads to all kinds of filthy escapades—
But the truth is, he wasn't thinking. He barely is now, a low buzzing in his ears and something in the back of his mind whispering filthily. And what's done is done: he will simply have to be sterner around Astarion, as stoic as he used to be to the other slaves.]
Come on.
[Addled as he is, he mutters it in Tevene first— and then, with a short, sharp exhale, corrects himself.]
Come on.
[He crosses the alley. He won't touch Astarion, not now; indeed, he won't even look at him while he's still half-undressed. Resentful shame ripples through him, anger&mdsah; a little at Astarion, mostly at himself— a smothering force to the lust.]
Dress yourself and let us go.
Do not make me drag you.
no subject
Astarion, lean and undone where he still half-hunches against cold brickwork, puts his scuffed up knuckles to use in redressing himself: his blouse used to daub away the sweat and streaks of tacky slick, clearing its mess off his stomach, his clothes— bunching it into a ball between his fingers before cleaning them too— and tossing it into the gutter last, with only his slacks and shoes and jewelry left to walk him home. The expense is nothing, not even his kin would bat an eye at it. The budget carefully kept back home won't notice. Even an unraveling cuff's an excuse to toss rare silk into the trash for anyone of the patriar rank, and most people in the Lower City fetch their best wardrobes from the beautiful casualties tossed out of the upper reaches each day.
And from there, stubbornly, with his head still swimming slightly and his mood gone sedate, they walk home.
Astarion goes to sleep. Tends to his studies after that. His meals. In other words: he lives his life as usual, without trying to slip away once the sun's set— though whether that's because there isn't a worthwhile orgy to attend or a naked fountain swim he's been invited to, it's hard to say. No one should discount his nature for a second, after all. Least of all Fenris, who isn't spoken to so much as at— if at all— in the next handful of weeks: I'm going outside. I'm staying in. Stop hovering. Go the fuck away. Get out. Leave me alone.
The routine huffing of a thing with a long shadow, in essence, albeit one that knows its limits (he can't order Fenris around, but he can keep yanking him along to frustrate him. Test him. Rile him. Demand he come in close and then leave him standing watch while he fucks some pretty little treat of a servant in a shut closet. Stare at him from the dinner table whilst broaching every subject that could vex. Little nips at his figurative heels, but that's as far as it ever goes). The little sparks of animosity. The tepid traces of heat that still linger even when everything's cooled off.
They break, at least, whenever Fenris slips away to tend to his own needs.
Coming back's a different story.]
That wretched cunt barely knows the books he writes in, and you take his word over mine? I did you a favor—
['Two years until you take title, Astarion. Barely two years— and this is how you behave?'
Ah. The same argument as always, only it's catalyst different this time judging by what echoes behind shut doors. A so-called useless tutor, a so-called irresponsible student who refuses to behave. Reckless and indiscreet in his endless transgressions.
And like always it doesn't matter what Astarion has to say for himself. It doesn't matter if a blow is struck to his cheek for crude insult, or if the blow itself is the just the word that finally shuts him up; his father leaving without acknowledgment of either, only locking eyes with Fenris once he steps outside the room.
'Until I find another tutor, train him.' The finality of it: this is your role, now. One more addition to the rest, without a drop of concern spared for what a former slave might teach a highborne elf. Even a simple bid at perception would swear the man doesn't really care; it's clearly not about the lessons themselves, but the occupation of time. Odds are, he probably imagines that the less opportunity his son has to make trouble, the less trouble there'll inevitably be.
Although as today proves, that remains to be seen. 'Just make certain he stays indoors, quiet, and out of anyone else— I give you my permission to make that happen however it needs to.'
The sweep of his robes is almost silent when he leaves.
The inside of Astarion's room is fully silent.
A lofty space, still gilded and bright as ever. Those high ceilings, the attached wide balconies overlooking the Lower Reaches. No water, though. It's only the master suites that have the ocean views— and to be fair, it's not as palatial an estate as some of the literal palaces that take up whole portions of the upper city— but still. Beautiful.
And in the center of it all sits Astarion on his bed, nursing along his temper in dull solitude. He looks childish for his sulking (as anyone does), but ironically, not like the child he's been treated to be. Because buckling against the agonies of being a grown thing while handled like an annoying little upstart is—
Painful, maybe.
Like wearing clothing two sizes too small.
Like you can't even sit comfortably without feeling where restriction cuts deep into your own skin, and there's no way to relax but strip it all aside. And there's no one to confide in because there's—
No one.]
2/2
It's the first time that he's looked like he did that night in the alleyway.]
I didn't tell you to come in. [He scoffs defensively. Practically palpable how the hairs on the back of his neck are already standing with a bristling sense of hostility.
He wipes at his nose with the back of his fingers, the action quick and frustrated (oh, not soft. Not soft at all).]
Get out. I'm tired of looking at your wretched face.
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Certainly they're quiet. Astarion does not try to flee anymore, though whether that's because of Fenris' scolding or otherwise remains to be seen. And thus Fenris' job becomes easy, if not repetitive: silently following Astarion whenever he goes, a shadow that tries and inevitably fails to make himself unseen. It's strange to Fenris' mind, if you want the truth. Danarius was always content to ignore his prized pup unless he wanted him, but Astarion cannot seem to forget him. Little snapped out statements or pointless irritants, his newfound master (though oh, Fenris hates himself whenever he catches himself thinking of him that way) seemingly determined to try and frustrate Fenris into abandoning him.
It doesn't work. Not when Astarion ventures into far more vulgar territory (breathless giggles and a sneeringly derisive tone, don't mind him, darling, I don't think he can even get it up— and it's not the insult that turns his ears red, but the breathless moans that slip past that closed doorway. The breathless whines for more that precede the slickened sounds of that maid getting her cunt eaten out; the rapidfire slap of skin on skin as Astarion takes his prize— and afterwards, the scent of sex filling the air as they both staggered out. A study in contrasts: the maid flushing as she avoided Fenris' eye and scurried off, Astarion boldly catching it). Not when he brings up goading topics at supper, trying to see what earns a flinch or a glare.
Not even the sudden burden of a task he is in no way prepared to handle— nor the fretful barks of a pup too hurt to snarl.
And understand: it isn't pity that fills his heart. Fenris has been through too much hardship to weep over the plight of a rich noble and his petulance. But he has watched the way Astarion's father has spoken around him— not at him, not once, but rather as one might speak about a pet. Ordering around bodyguards and tutors to tend to him, not bothering to meet his gaze when he spits out instructions, only ever paying him mind when he acts out . . .
Perhaps it is not such a shock, then, that Astarion is inclined towards rebellion.
He could be rough, oh yes. He could be spiteful, lording this newfound integration into his young master's life and promising him only hell to come. But as Fenris stares at reddened eyes and hears that fretful sniff, he finds that the only emotion that fills him is just a wearied sort of softness.
And so, quite gently, he ignores Astarion's commands.
And it is gently, for there's such a difference in how he might do it spitefully. He does not shove the door shut and lean up against it smugly. Instead: Fenris is careful to let the latch slip into place near-silently behind him. He meets Astarion's eye, but he does not go to him just yet. Instead: the briefest of detours into his attached bathroom, where he fills a shallow bowl with cold water and grabs a washcloth.
Then to the bed, where he (so very boldly) takes a seat, one leg tucked beneath his knee.]
You will bruise if you do not tend to this.
[It's not pitying. Perhaps it's not even sympathizing. But it's not hostile, either, and there's a gentleness to the way he catches Astarion's chin with one hand, dabbing gently the reddened mark swelling over one pale cheek with the other.
(A kindness, too, for the way he does not mention reddened eyes, for there is no need to draw attention to grief— not especially between them).
It's quiet for a time. And then, his gaze still focused on his task, Fenris murmurs:]
What did he do to earn your ire, this tutor of yours?
[It's a neutral statement, neither dripping with sympathy nor aching with protectiveness. But he is Astarion's bodyguard, at the end of the day. His bodyguard, not his jailer. And if Astarion was not at fault . . .
Well. One thing at a time.]
1/?
Bare soles pad lightly across polished floors towards him, and the angle of sharp ears drop until they pin, tucked in deep against the knotwork of his curls. Wariness that doesn't stop when pathing finally sweeps Fenris past the edge of his bed. It doesn't ease off when he hears the faucet run, or the rippling plink of cold water sloshing in its basin. Against his thighs, slim fingers seem to lock around themselves like the coiling of a snake before it bites, only doubled once Fenris' tall figure sinks down across the corner of that mattress. Imposing with its armor, and buckles, and guarded lacework— and it's the first time that fact has ever lived bright behind silver eyes.
That his bodyguard does fit the role.
And then comes a hand beneath his chin.
Wet relief pushed to his cheek.
A balm he'd never asked for, already turning his skin ice cold beneath his eye (and mercilessly hot along his neck around its nape), dripping as it runs towards his shirt collar, pattering to drip from his jaw— the sloping jut of his throat— down between his legs. His pulse ricocheting through soft tissue, every corded muscle tense enough to snap, and he prays his counterpart can't feel it where he holds his chin. Tongue pushed up to the roof of his mouth like it'll save him petty shame; he's had enough of it already. He can't take more now, too. (What does Astarion expect? Cruel laughter? Snide derision? A look to rival the smugness he'd aimed at Fenris over and over again throughout the last few weeks, let alone the first night they'd met? Oh, everything, maybe. All of the above. Cause and effect come to bear, and here Fenris is: lucky enough to witness its aftermath firsthand. Payback his for the taking, if he wants it.
But—
No, that doesn't make sense.)
The rag isn't laced with anything. The look on dour features hasn't budged since he came in. And for a moment pale eyes flit from mouth, to tsavorite stare, and back again, visibly weighing something just before he licks his lips. Chin bobbing slightly in that rough-edged grasp.
(If this is a trick, it's so deeply buried that it borders on nonsensical. Or genius. Either way, Astarion's too worn down to care.
He wants this to be real.)]
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[Lessons, he called them. But there's no point in learning anything that isn't true. Just another excuse to keep Astarion's fingers moving. His mouth shut, even when he knew better.] There was alcohol on his breath that I didn't even put there for once, and he's never known the difference between Poe and Ardunni to begin with.
He was a fraud. And a liar. And a cheat.
I don't regret chasing him off.
[Light scoff slipping in. Mouth quirking to one side by self-aware degrees, changing the angle of that rag.]
....But then nobody believes me because I'm a liar and a cheat, too. [Sober, his ensuing sigh: he knows fully what he is, and his voice sinks ever so slightly to admit it, shrugging wryly through his shoulders.] So I guess there's that.
3/3
....why are you being so nice to me?
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So why, then? He's silent for a time, focusing on his task, letting his mind wander. His thoughts drift towards that tutor, hired solely to shut someone up. Not a terrible man. Not abusive or cruel or vicious, not the way some can get. Simply terribly, horribly inept, and yet paid such a lofty sum because he knew how to keep his student occupied.
No wonder the tiger throws himself against the cage's bars. No wonder he snarls and seethes at yet another keeper's arrival. And yet Fenris does not quite know how to say all that, not really. Not without delving into his own past and revealing far more than he wishes to.]
I am to be your tutor now, in addition to your bodyguard. And unlike that drunken mess, there are things I can teach you— if you are willing to learn. Things like . . .
[For a moment his mind runs blank— but ah, he is skilled. Not learned, but very, very good at what he does.]
How to defend yourself. How to wield a dagger or aim a gun without hurting yourself in the process. How to walk soundlessly if you wish, or learn how to spot an assassin a crowd. How to utilize almost any weapon, and conversely, how to counter it. How to strengthen your muscles, and in that way get rid of the excess energy I assume plagues you.
[Young thing, and mercifully, he doesn't say so, but there's something knowing in his gaze. Setting the cloth down, his fingers linger for just half a moment longer than they should against that soft chin before dropping away.]
Consider this an olive branch. Do not treat me as jailer to be seduced or humiliated out of a position, and in turn, I will . . .
[He cannot ignore his father's orders. But still Fenris hesitates, and then finally settles on:]
We will see how much freedom you are granted as the weeks pass. If nothing else, I do not intend for you to spend all your days and nights locked in your rooms.
[Surely they can go on daytrips. Drinking a pint or two at early evening. Surely his lord father doesn't intend for Astarion to be totally sterile— simply less raucous.]
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[Tongue pushed hard against the backline of his teeth in hoarse diffusion.]
Of course he named you next in line. Nice to see his standards haven't risen since the last time he went hunting for a qualified lock and key. [Fenris was there. Fenris was breathing. What else does it take to ensure the heir you've given birth to stays settled on his heels? Particularly when vacancy won't do it, and the prior instructor's already halfway to Cormyr choking on his pride instead of wine, frantically trying to delete a swath of incriminating photos from his own personal accounts.
As for the rest, though....
Honestly?
It sounds like a lie.
A nice one (oh, all the best ones are), stirring up a fresher pulse of hope behind the soreness of his cheek, but— he's had others say things that sounded just as sweet before in the past, only to find out later (caught with their fingers wrapped around stacked coin or supple flesh), that it was never really true. One more thing bought and paid for just to keep him tethered to rote silence.
At least Petras talks to him, annoying prick that he is. At least the others in their group laugh with him. Have fun with him. See him as one of their own, up and coming forces that they are, no matter the trouble they get into.
But the thing is, it also makes sense.
Do not treat me as jailer to be seduced or humiliated out of a position, and Astarion can understand exactly what it is that Fenris wants out of this equation: not niceness or companionship— but security. And for some reason, unlike the others his family's directly taken on, he makes this bargain with Astarion— not his father. It's equal footing.
He can live with that.]
I've had worse tutors.
Worse jailers too. [His eyes following the retreat of that rag— falling on angled features instead: the strength of a face that still looks out of place in this overly extravagant world, and he's tempted to ask after it, you know. Why you. Where did you really come from. What is it you've seen?
None of that matters with an accord hanging in the balance.
The bruise on his cheek red from chill, but not inflamed pain anymore. Shining wetly in diffused sunlight. His thumb flicking at the corner of his index finger, thinking like a cat twitching its own tail.]
Do you really know how to shoot a gun?
[Focusing on the important things here, if he's taking this bargain.]
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So: it's something. A foundation to build upon, maybe, and Fenris nods in acknowledgement as Astarion offers that backhanded compliment.
But oh, that question, and internally, Fenris smiles. It's . . . well, it is a bit of a patronizing reaction, but he doesn't mean it that way. His intention isn't to coo over Astarion's age or lack of experience, it's just . . .
What a question to ask a living weapon.
Do you really know how to shoot a gun, and Fenris thinks of Danarius' slaves cowering from him, flinching at his shadow and whispering where they thought he couldn't hear. Of the countless hours his master spent forcibly reconditioning him, rousing him from his slumber so he could be made ever more perfect as a bodyguard and companion. Lessons in how to wield every single weapon in existence: guns and knives, swords and shotguns, and if all else failed, his body itself. Half a dozen martial arts tutors, the tactical lessons that never ended, the tests that he grew so good at passing . . . and that's to say nothing of all the magitech coursing through his veins. Lyrium was the start, not the end; nanobots swarm through his veins, their presence a constant assurance that Danarius' prized bodyguard would never succumb to poisons or sustained injuries.
Do you know how to shoot a gun, and it is the sweetest relief to be asked such an innocuous question.]
Yes.
[A slight half-smile.]
Very well, in fact.
[A beat, and then:]
Shall I prove it to you?
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Never to forget that disapproval isn't imprisonment, and like Fenris himself said, he isn't his bloody jailer.
So.
Right then.
Take two— this time with a little less shameful fucking naivety.
With the back of his hand, he swipes away the last few vestiges of glassy water from the fringe edge of his jaw, heavy curls carrying a few wayward droplets here and there, and all quickly dispersed. By the time it's done, he's just as straight-backed as ever. Chin resolutely lifted in a haughty show of command: not aimed or leveled at the only living thing in sight, just worn.
In other words, he's himself again.
Still livid, mind. And rife with roiling resentment hotter than the mark upon his cheek, but not a day goes by any differently, really. At least now there's something real to set his sights on. An asset worth having beside him, and a fascinating show ahead— wherever it might lead.]
Immediately.
[He orders, jewelry jangling. Cloth rustling. A light interlude spent straightening his clothes and jacket before departure.
And it's—
Not what he'd expected.
Even in the Upper City, the training range smells stringent and perfumelessly dank, yet there's more magitech inside its walls than what he's seen at the most extravagant of celebrations: from scrolling advertisements to minute readouts, to assistant-familiars meant to help select a weapon from one second to the next. Courses are marked, privacy screens obscured, running tabs for even things like ammunition or refreshments are tallied and paid for with a flick of a wrist. It's nice, but it's not that nice, which is baffling—
Before he realizes that no one here's a patriar.
At least not unless they're so well disguised as to cease existing altogether. Just assassins and servants, bodyguards and mercenaries. Well-paid fighters from the highest illegal rings. Merchant lackeys bearing their allegiance on their skin. All aside from Astarion, that is, who suddenly feels more out of place for the accessories he's sporting than he's ever felt before. Though at least that doesn't last long.
They're led into a private section of the range not much later. Muffled from outside noise. Filtered from outside contact— a thick wall of glasslike smoke the color of gunmetal outlining the borders of their given territory. A little notification bobbing latently in one far corner above a stack of weaponry and ammunition promises they could pay to broaden those boundaries, if they wished. The price for that obscured in favor of a small animated mabari, its wiry tail wagging back and forth awaiting an inquiry— or an order.
Huh.]
Is this where you come to practice?
[Question drifting in while he picks up whichever handgun's closest to him, starting to fiddle with its various fasteners and locks.]
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Familiar. Routine. Safe, and what an ironic word to describe a den in which the most dangerous people gather to hone their deadliest abilities. But it is safe, at least for him. No one cares about him here. No one looks at him twice, not just because such a thing might be a foolish mistake, but because he is the least interesting thing right now. What is one lyrium-enhanced bodyguard, after all, in a sea of magitech upgrades? Everyone who roams these halls are the sort always looking for an extra edge. Blades embedded beneath one's fingernails, ready to spring out with the right command; artificial eyes that will scan and catalogue every person in the room. They pass a woman Fenris knows by sight who grins at him in recognition, revealing teeth artificially sharpened to resemble a shark's toothy countenance.
And in the middle of it all, one lone little patriar, pretty and delicate and decidedly out of place.
It would be a lie to say Fenris doesn't relish it. He does, just a little. Just enough to satisfy some petty part of his soul that still lingers in the hall of that manor, hearing the echoing laughter of Astarion's friends. But ah, no more of that: a truce goes both ways, after all. Soon enough they're led into a private arena, and all the outside distractions disappear.
Fenris exhales slowly. Tension sloughs off him in waves— and it's a remarkable difference, for only now does one realize just how rigidly he otherwise holds himself. Back always straight, his shoulders always thrown back (and yet his head always dipped, a quiet deference when in face of his betters). There's no more paranoid glancing around, no wary looks towards the windows or lingering upon his ward . . . for right now, the outside world doesn't exist. Astarion's father does not exist; those vicious little vipers that he calls friends certainly don't. There's no Danarius, no debt, no grief, no pain— there's nothing right now save his own self and his weaponry.
(And Astarion, now. A quiet addition, but not, Fenris is pleased to find, an unwelcome one thusfar.)
Fenris hasn't bothered picking out his own weapon yet, but that rather works out, doesn't it? Coming over, he gently bats at those fiddling hands, encouraging him to set the gun down without outright demanding it.]
Your first lesson: treat every gun as if it is loaded. It isn't, for I have not yet paid for ammunition, but still: ignoring that rule is how one inevitably loses an eye.
[It's actually Astarion's father who pays for this, not that Astarion needs the reminder. The itemized bill all goes to some accountant somewhere, who presumably inspects it to make sure Fenris isn't secretly spending the money on whores or alcohol or some such nonsense.]
But yes, this is where I come to practice. They have a range of simulations available— I can practice my marksmanship with any number of weapons, and if I need to face an opponent for hand-to-hand, they have simulations for that too.
[He taps a screen along the wall; a few moments later, a target appears ten yards away. It's a laughably close thing, but that's rather the point.]
Now. You could watch me practice, and I would not mind that. But if you wish to learn yourself . . . start with this.
[Another few taps. The handgun Astarion had been fiddling with disappears, replaced with a far more compact pistol. It's painted a rather bland shade of refrigerator-teal, and there's far too many sights for Fenris' preference, but so it goes when you use the weaponry the range supplies for you.]
Go on. Do well, and I will allow you ones that do elemental damage. Simply line yourself up here, [his foot tapping gently at the small square set before the target,] loosen yourself, and try your best to aim. If this is to be a lesson, it would be best to know your range before I begin teaching you.
no subject
The air leaves Astarion's nose in a rush.
Agitated and huffy, clutching that diminutive piece against his palm in a mirror to whatever movies or faff the boy and his friends take to watching when they aren't out actively hunting for wealthy game (projections bore him, truth be told, but there were a scarce few involving merchant princes with gilded belt clips or mercenary leaders that picked their teeth with ruby daggers that always kept him from wandering off), and it's that same image he's still picturing in his head when he pushes past his tutor to level his given gun at the target barely ten yards away. Thumb stiff, grip pushed snug between his palms—
Grip pushed snug against his palm.
(Revised for its small size, and the fact that it's no worldshattering thing.)]
Easy.
[He purrs over his cocked shoulder. His wiry frame twisted at an angle opposite his neck. His head. Cream-colored suit coat catching light across thin beadwork in that dim excuse for light, where the course and its target are the only thing that shines.
If Fenris won't show him first, then he'll show Fenris instead.
—bang—
A pop. A scream of zipping movement from the barrel of his gun as it whips back, barely kept from catching his own cheek.
There's a mark on the target's conjured screen. It takes a moment to come fully into view, but still, it's there. A single, isolated, narrow little bullet mark punched into the lowest left corner.
Any further out, and it'd have gone right into dead air.]
no subject
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.]
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.]
2/2
—wait.
[He grins, sweat strung faint along his temples. Head tipped back into the cushion of a taller shoulder, pushing his brow closer to that brightly tattooed neck, perfectly unaware of how long it's been since they both started.]
Wait, I can keep going.
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?
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Which is why it's funny, obviously. That's the literal joke— but Astarion's mind's as good as brinesoaked parchment right about now with exhaustion gnawing at his throat, and he's more focused on the thought that his tutor might've laughed for just a second. Or something like it, anyway.
Slack through his shoulders without thinking. Melting into Fenris' instead, it's not a ploy to say that the formalities are drawn aside along with dourness itself.]
With you?
[It's a drawl because he's weary, not because he's trying to be cute. That, at any rate, comes entirely on its own:]
I'd do a lot more than linger.
[Still, it makes the unsubtle glance he next casts Fenris' way feel more akin to wandering fingers against cloth— even though his own are holding that rough pistol (its oily grit under his fingerbeds; a hundred little cuts and grooves from communal use scraping whenever his grip shifts), shrugging down to hang loosely by their hips. Numbness crawls in afterwards. Uncomfortable and spiny and sharp where it stabs along the corners of his awareness.
He doesn't mind.
He also doesn't want to go home.]
We're all alone. Don't tell me you're not tempted.
[Is there something that tempts Fenris....? When he isn't drugged or worked up into a frenzy, that is. It's hard not to remember the sight of him huddled and resentful. Slickened from the inside out. Harder not to wonder if the reasoning for that was more acute than broad.
But Astarion isn't reaching. Isn't shifting. This isn't like the party, and it's no substitute for an apology (one he's never felt inclined to give, and might never, knowing him), but there's a kind of ancillary proof involved in proving where the boundaries lie.
That, or he just can't move his arms. Or his legs. Or his head.]
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Would you, now . . .?
[It's a filler statement, murmured even as he silently scolds himself for his carelessness. Fasta vass— but what had he expected? The two of them tangled up so warmly, his body framing Astarion's own and his foot wedged so that he can't close his legs . . . of course the whelp was going to make another pass at him. Of course he was going to see what he might get, for pure seduction doesn't go against the terms of their agreement— and, Fenris thinks, the boy likely isn't thinking too far ahead. He does not imagine any consequences to this, not really. A slap on the wrist, and indeed, perhaps that's all Fenris would get—
But perhaps not.
But Astarion isn't moving. He isn't wiggling his hips or turning his head so he might slip that wicked tongue against a curling tendril of lyrium. He's asking, not demanding— and so while the danger is still ever-present, Fenris need not react like a virgin caught with his pants down.
No, he could say curtly. Or he could be more playful with it: yes, I'm tempted, and pretend he'd interpreted Astarion's statement as a question concerning more advanced weaponry. But the former is a lie and the latter feels stupid— and anyway, Fenris doesn't want to treat Astarion as his tutor did. Settle down, know your place, dismissive and patronizing in turn, no, that will not be his way.
Fenris draws back: not too far, but just enough that he can catch Astarion's eye.]
I will tell you that your attempts at flirtation are not going to work.
[But then, more honestly:]
Tell me truly: are you even attracted to me? Or do you merely see this as another potential conquest you can later brag about to your friends?
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(And it looks just as nice on him, too— if not a little tight).]
Does it have to be one or the other?
[Asked in the gap between where Fenris was and where he is now: the irony being that the less Astarion can feel of him the more that he can see. Up close this time. In full. How he's not— old, so much as older: worn more by the darkened angles underneath his eyes or the paper-edge crows' feet adorning their angled outer span (or the way his frown pulls tight against his jawline, or the nicks scattered like constellatory waypoints over slightly roughened skin), than he is any real amount of age. The angles of his throat, for example, or the vivid shade of silver just above his ears, aren't the proof of handfuls of measured centuries like the tired Patriars with stiffened hands. And if his joints are stiff (Astarion doubts it) instead of limber, then the culprit's more likely to be from wear and tear by his best guess, not time.
So think of it as a layered answer when he shows his teeth and grins.
Pink across his nose and cheeks and lifted ears, which has the added effect of making his blunt teeth look even whiter. The edges of his salt-soaked curls, too, particularly where they've tangled in his lashes. A little out of hand, as far as exploratory tête-à-tête goes, salvaged barely by increasing distance (like they're not still more than in arm's reach. Like Astarion couldn't just turn his wrist, and catch something hard between soft thighs).]
Or do you actually think you don't warrant the kind of attraction I'd have to try not to brag about?
[Teacher, please.]
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Close enough that Fenris' hand is nigh invisible when he strikes: one swift sharp movement that ends with Astarion's jaw being loosely gripped between calloused thumb and pointer finger. Not fully scolding, nor even intending to be demeaning, but rather as a means of grabbing attention: aht, the way you might grip an errant pup who's so clearly thinking about tearing into a bag of treats. Don't you dare.
And it's a mistake to touch him. It's a mistake to be so familiar with him, but Fenris cannot be perfect within every moment. And there's something so satisfying about slowly tipping Astarion's chin up by fragile degrees, forcing him to look up at Fenris as he takes a half-step closer. Listen now, pup.]
I think the best tumbles are the ones you do not feel the need to brag about so that your peers might offer you fleeting clout.
[It's level. Even. Not upset, but there's a roughened edge in his tone if Astarion seeks it. For that's all it is, isn't it? That pack won't stay impressed for long, for they never do. It's all about who can top the last feat: who can throw the more spectacular party, who can bed the most exotic conquest . . . and it builds. People grow numb to splendor and decadence, til at last all that thrills them is the worst sorts of depravities . . .
Not that Astarion is there yet. Whelp of a thing, tamed by his father and by his position alike, he is not what Fenris has fled from. His grip loosens just a little.]
And I think I have too much respect for myself to reduce myself to mere notch on your bedpost. I am not going to fuck you, little noble— but if I was, it would not be so you could have the wicked thrill of seducing yet another tutor and proving your own worth.
[And yet the soft skin beneath banded fingertips feels so keenly warm. And yet he hasn't let him go, not yet. His head cocks, his eyes considering as he stares down at the other elf.]
How many have there been before me?
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He's lucky he's been caught by the jaw instead of anywhere else, when even a knuckle pushed against the soft stretch of muscle marking where his chin and the underside of his throat converge is too full of vascular leywork not to hammer with the evidence of what he's thinking about. Letting his backteeth salivate for.
Scolding on playgrounds leads to escalation, after all. A teething cosset inclined to snarl will only lunge into a bite if that initial attempt to scruff isn't tight enough to cow him first. Anger and excitement are the same thing for some— like prey drive— and it's the fact he can't sit still that sees him clipped around his red-tipped ears so often that his cheek still shines with his last censure.
He doesn’t pull away from this one, though.
(I am not going to fuck you, little noble—
—oh, but he wishes that he would.)]
....Twenty four.
[Astarion exhales in the next beat, voice struck through with acclimating tension. There's more that could be said, and yet the lanky little instigator lets that number hang in dead air while they're both standing there stock-still. His fingers twitching around the grip of that old gun, painting this like the stand off it conceptually is.
Because he's stopped blinking, now. Slowed his breathing.
If there's any kind of reaction to that answer to pluck from Fenris' expression, he wants to see it firsthand. Particularly when he adds:]
Could have a nice, even number with you. Maybe even leave it there— change my stripes.
[Another mark, but not reduced.]
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Like molasses. Like those heavy moments that last an eternity in memory's eye, the kind where a thousand thoughts have time to race across the mind before a single breath is exhaled. Twenty-four, and Fenris expects himself to scoff. To say something casually cruel about sluttishness, perhaps, or roll his eyes in a derisive way. Or maybe he'd be nicer about it: a little grimace that suggests he isn't impressed, but that Astarion's business is his own.
He doesn't expect the anger.
He doesn't expect the sudden, nigh-overwhelming urge to snarl.
It's so sudden that there's a lurching moment of uncertainty, fury flaring in his gaze before his eyes dart to the side as Fenris struggles to smother it. Visions of past trysts flicker past his mind's eye (Astarion sprawled atop a desk, his legs spread as roughened hands grip his thighs too tightly; Astarion with his fingers tucked up beneath a woman's skirt, his breath hot against her throat as he murmurs all kinds of filthy promises. Astarion staring up dutifully as a too-thin tutor fucks his mouth with irregular rhythm, all in the service of proving to his father that yet another keeper could be corrupted)—
And his hand doesn't tighten its grip on Astarion's jaw. His frame is wracked with tension, but none of it is directed towards the boy in his hand— for it isn't Astarion he's angry at, he realizes.]
And how many of them were worth anything?
[It's low. Roughened, as his eyes finally dart back at Astarion. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to drag Astarion in close, his arms wrapping fiercely around him; he wants to set out into the darkness and hunt down every idiotic tutor and selfish caretaker that had ever fallen for sweet charms and a pouting mouth. He wants to nuzzle fiercely against this young thing, and then again he wants to scruff him like an errant pup, nipping at him until he learns better.
He settles for stroking his thumb against the line of Astarion's jaw, and it's far more soothing than he means it to be.]
How many of them—
[And the dots connect only belatedly. Too belatedly, maybe, and he's being too protective (why? but that fierce anger isn't subsiding, that snarling seething growl that glares out at the world), but that can't be helped right now.]
Your last tutor, too. The one I replaced.
[The bastard was inept, and oh, what an idiot he'd been to buy that story, but Fenris isn't used to a master lying to him like that.]
The one who was inept. Who made you write lines of drivel so he could drink.
Him, too?
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What does he expect?
Not this. Not anything remotely close to the way Fenris' expression suddenly twists.
And maybe it's why Astarion misreads the situation by a mile, sore senses grasping loosely at whatever fraying threads of (learned) predictable logic he can find to explain the sharpness in green eyes. The odd glimpse of anger just behind it.
This is....new. Strange. So real he can't unlock the track of where it's headed. The fingers on his jaw have tensed. Is it jealousy?
No. That seems wrong. But— what else is there, really?]
They didn't hold a candle to you.
[It's a line....in the sense that it's vestigial estimation of what he should do: flatter and endear. Find ways to stoke the ego of his counterpart. But the thing is, in this case he actually means it. Despite the angry back and forth, the animosity they've shared, he'd been the first out of twenty five to treat him like a person— the first since Talindra, in fact. A babysitter with a spine, he'd called him on the night that they first met, not expecting it to be true.
It is true.
Even the fledgling patriar Astarion runs with spend more time on smoke and bragging rights than any actual amount of conversation. (Gods he fucking hates Petras. They can't be in the same room together for more than five minutes without bickering.
And he talks to him the most out of everyone.)]
Him too. [He turns his fingers over, letting a half-numb arm carry his touch across armored wrists. Confused by handsome features, studying them up close. Too serious.
So, to fix that:]
How else do you think I got him deposed?
[Hes grinning. Searching for an echo of predictable acceptance. See? Nothing to be angry about: I won. I beat him.
He's gone. You're here.
Be happy. Laugh with me.]
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Or perhaps he is being too bold. Perhaps it isn't as broad as that.
Perhaps no one has ever cared.
What does his lord father worry about, after all? His image. How it looks to have his eldest son fucking his way through every hired hand, and, perhaps, how much money it will cost to cover up such a minor scandal. How such a thing affects Astarion's future prospects and their good name, and the risk that comes of not breaking his son of such a habit before he comes of age.
But not that his son so easily seduces all that cross his path. Not that his son, still so young even at seventy-five, has found that two dozen different tutors and bodyguards are so easily swayed from their duties by the lure of pale thighs and a sharp grin. And Fenris can't articulate why, exactly, the thought offends him so, save that it isn't real. Save that such people should have known better, no matter that their charge might have sulked or panted or seduced with all his might.]
You should have told me.
[It's a strained thing, his mouth a thin line as he finally looks back at Astarion. The grip on his jaw eases and then drops, though some part of Fenris mourns the loss of contact. But he doesn't pull away from those slender fingers caressing his wrist, and that's something.]
I'm here for your protection. That includes tutors who do not know better than to keep their hands to themselves. And you deserve better than to have to resort to such things in order to be rid of someone so inept.
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god that icon tho i am DYING about all these new ones
good because more are on the way for YOU >:]
AA BOO THANK YOU once again you spoil me :>
POINTS. AT. YOU.
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