Within our shrine

by PepperHoney

Summary:

What Ferris wants, Forthing gives.

Notes:

Written for the Temeraire discord birthday event! For the prompts "kink discovery" and "present" <3 My biggest thanks to Wildtornadooo and Pathsleadingaway for ideas and beta reading :D

Title, obviously, from Fish in a Birdcage's Rule #34.

Now, Forthing isn’t a blind man. Aye, Henry mocks him more often than not for his inability to notice others’ disapproval, but he can see when he’s being stared at. And to anyone else, Ferris’ stares might be the most inconspicuous thing in the world, but to Forthing, for whom Ferris is a lighthouse, why, they get blinding after a while.

Ferris likes it when he uses his pistols. Forthing learned that long ago. He revels in those stares, in that unrestrained hunger directed towards him. He hits his target in the very centre, and Ferris’ eyelids droop ever so slightly, his grin growing ever wider. He shoots a man in the head, and the shower of blood tastes of Ferris’ lust.

So he did notice. He used that knowledge well, too, glances and smirks thrown Ferris’ way when the bullet found its victim during training. Teasing, only teasing, of course. A man may bask in the attention once in a while—especially coming from such a lovely source.

He’s content with the arrangement: him with his guns, and Ferris with his hunger. Heated kisses traded in the dark of dusty corners after shooting practice, meaningful glances in the heat of battle, always his shots are met with the same rosy-cheeked warmth. Ferris loves his skill with firearms, and he loves Ferris’ admiration, the sweetness of which he’s so rarely encountered.

Until: “Would you bring your pistols?”

Ferris’ voice is hoarse, his words barely above the whisper. He flushes furiously as soon as they have left his mouth—bites his lips as though hoping to pull them back in. Forthing looks down at him, bemused. On his knees before him, Ferris nuzzles his thigh in a weak attempt at hiding his face.

“To bed?” Forthing asks, though he knows the answer already. The flush deepens. Those lovely ears turn redder.

“Forget it,” Ferris breathes: a plea that Forthing is all too happy to follow. He pulls his lover up for a scorching kiss, and puts his mouth to better use than ill-fated suggestions.

But his mind runs as Ferris pleasures him, with an eagerness born of embarrassment that Forthing rewards by scraping his nails against his skull. It’s far too dangerous, of course; a fantasy that should remain confined to wistful imaginings. Good God, it ain’t the first time Henry has asked for more than Forthing thought himself able to offer, and on every one of these occasions Forthing has found a solution that delighted them both. But the mere thought of shooting his lover would be enough to have him softening if it weren’t for Henry’s clever tongue—and it’d happen, it would, and even if it didn’t the prospect of it would make the evening the very opposite of enjoyable. He has killed his fair share of men with these pistols. He has no intention of letting his lover be the next.

Yet—yet it took so much of Henry’s courage to even utter the words. Sometimes in the following days Forthing sees him redden and knows the embarrassment burns through him. He didn’t mean to cut him short, didn’t mean to crush his dreams—fears that this request was the last he’ll hear of Ferris’ desires.

So Forthing thinks. And because he’s lost enough of his life to useless ruminating already, he follows through with acting.

 

---

 

Sometimes Ferris plays at struggling. Forthing usually indulges him, bears harder on his shoulders, pins him tightly to the mattress for the simple pleasure of watching him squirm. When Ferris fights back that evening, he is thrilled to feel a large hand close around his wrists. He pretends to protest. He snarls and tugs and kicks, and for all his efforts is met with cold contempt and a tower of strength. Forthing spins him round and slams him against the wall, his hands pinned in the small of his back, his cheek pressed to the flowery wallpaper.

Because they both know their game is yet to end, Ferris raises his left foot for a kick—and feels the cold press of something on the back of his neck.

Instinct sends cold dread all the way to his bones, soon replaced by a wave of heat so intense his head spins with it. He opens his mouth to speak, to ask, but not a word will come out; his foot drops to the floor with a thud, the kick forgotten.

“That’s it, pretty boy,” Forthing purrs into his ear. “Wonder why you struggle at all, when you know how to be so sweet.”

His voice is rough, the accent harsher than usual, like stone scraping against stone; damn him, he knows how much Ferris likes it.

Ferris is frozen, rooted in place. Forthing laughs, sharp and demeaning. He gives Ferris’ arse a condescending pat. Presses the pistol harder against his neck. “Be a good boy for me and get on your knees, will ya?”

An embarrassing whimper floats past Ferris’ lips. He drops to his knees immediately. Resistance is but a distant memory. Forthing laughs again, and there’s an edge of fondness to it that takes hold of Ferris’ heart and does not let go.

“Other way round,” Forthing says, not unkindly, and helps him shuffle awkwardly on his knees till they’re facing each other. Ferris gazes up at him. Oh, but he’s—powerful. Calm and confident, like a king before his subjects; in that moment, Ferris knows no other monarch.

In Forthing’s right hand is a pistol. It is not, Ferris sees immediately, one of his two fighting-pistols; nor is it a real one. The truth of it claws through his ribcage, tears him apart from the inside out: it is a fake pistol, a wooden copy intricately carved that Forthing whittled for him. 

“Edmund,” he breathes.

Forthing smiles down at him. “All right?” he asks.

“More than all right.”

Beaming, Forthing raises his hand in that way he has of caressing Ferris’ cheek—but it is the gun’s barrel that meets his skin instead, slides along his jaw and comes to rest against his lips, a question as much as a gesture of affection. A cloud settles over Ferris’ mind. He parts his lips, of course. What is this pistol if not a part of Forthing?

“Beautiful,” Forthing murmurs, as he slips the wooden barrel into Ferris’ mouth.

Sparks erupt in Ferris’ belly. He doesn’t take his eyes off Forthing’s as he slowly closes his lips around the pistol, slides his tongue over the tip, bobs his head forward. Forthing takes in a breath. His eyes are very dark. Ferris clings to them, holds on to their anchor, and ends up drowning instead. He sucks harder, as though his lips were on Forthing’s prick, as though he could wring pleasure from him with the twists of his tongue on that barrel, and he sees in the curl of Forthing’s smile that he is successful.

“Oh, but I could watch you forever.” With his free hand, Forthing slips his fingers through Ferris’ hair; Ferris melts into the touch. “Take a little more for me?” For him, Ferris does. For him, he’d do anything. He takes the pistol deeper into his mouth, lets the barrel brush the back of it. The touch is hard and uncomfortable; he jerks back, and Forthing allows it, worry alight in his eyes. Ferris reassures him with a smile. Tears prickle his eyes, and his frantic blinking only serves to send them rolling down his cheeks. Forthing’s thumb wipes them off, soft, so soft. “So good for me.”

Something nudges Ferris’ buckskins: he jerks at the touch of Forthing’s foot against his stand. He is hard, more than he realised, and all the need of it suddenly overwhelms him. The whine that escapes his throat is high-pitched, garbling a little around the barrel; Forthing’s eyes turn an inky shade of black.

“Go on, then, if you want it so badly.” His boot rubs against Ferris’ prick through the tight buckskins. Ferris moans again, loud in the silent room. His hips roll forward of their own accord.

His pride commands him to protest, to remain still, to glare. His pride was shot long ago by that same hand that presses a pistol to his tongue. He stares up at Forthing, the man that brings him life, and rolls his hips again. Again, again, the pleasure nerve-wracking, the pressure delicious. Whines tear out of him like live animals hungry for freedom. His mouth works on the same rhythm as his hips, until the wooden barrel slides easily against his tongue and drool pools on the corners of his lips.

“You break so prettily,” Forthing says, and Ferris’ world breaks apart. He finishes with a muffled whimper, gags a little on the pistol as he slumps forward, spares a dazed thought for his poor breeches.

Forthing’s hand is in his hair, petting it tenderly. Forthing’s thigh supports his cheek. Forthing’s pistol escapes his lips, and Ferris’ mouth follows it, his breath coming out quick and dizzy still. A soft laugh, and a thumb on his lips: he slides his tongue over it.

“Can I use that mouth some more?”

Ferris nods blindly, opens it, makes an offering of his body. Forthing lets out a delighted groan. Being in no state to offer substantial help, Ferris lets him chase his own pleasure in a slow and steady back and forth that culminates with Forthing’s hand tightening in his hair. Endearments spill out of his lips like honey, “that’s it, sweet thing” and “so good for me” and “take me so well,” until it’s all Ferris can do not to melt against him.

They stay there for some time afterwards, Forthing softening in Ferris’ mouth, Ferris slowly coming back to his senses, until the wet patch in his buckskins becomes uncomfortable rather than arousing and his knees painfully remind him of their too-long acquaintance with the floorboards. Forthing helps him up, and what if Ferris sags against him a little? Forthing will be there to hold him.

“Edmund, I—” he starts, his voice hoarse.

Forthing silences him with a kiss. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Ferris smiles, and lets himself be whisked off.