TLV: IC Contact

[sixfeetofdirt]

Careful; I bite.

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[deuceoftears]

He pulls the sweater over his head and folds it on the table.

"My body's different now," he mentions, as he starts undoing the little buttons on the shirt he had underneath. His shoulders are a little less broad than they were, although that could be chalked up easily enough to slimming down in normal ways. As the shirt falls open, though, the real change is obvious: the patchwork mass of scars is gone. He has both nipples now. There are just a few scars left, new ones that actually weren't there before: two tight little starbursts clustered over his heart.

He shrugs off the shirt and folds that as well.

[sixfeetofdirt]

He tilts his head. This new configuration was hardly going to have escaped his notice.

"What happened?"

[deuceoftears]

"My last deal was for more control over...several aspects of the way my body was made. And after I got crushed into a fine paste during the crash, I put myself back together...in a way that felt right."

He has just a little bit of chest hair now, thin and fine to go completely unremarked, if his previous body hadn't had laser removal on all the patches in between scars. He's a little bit less muscular, still in good shape but running-around-on-the-farm good shape, rather than dedicated-gym-routine good shape, and there's a faint tan on his shoulders that he hasn't even consciously realized he'd put there.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"I see."

Astarion's fingertips run over bare skin, taking in the new shapes and textures, in the way one might handle a sculpture.

"Any less...aesthetic changes I ought to know about?"

[deuceoftears]

The presence of body hair does make it more noticeable, the way his skin prickles and goosebumps in the wake of Astarion's touch.

Jedao shakes his head. "I feel the same, I heal the same. I just...look a little different." The way he expects to look, in his head, the way he'd expected before he woke up with twenty-eight years of Jedao One's wars written on his body.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"You feel different," Astarion notes. "I didn't even know this body could grow hair."

It's not an unreasonable assumption! His can't!

[deuceoftears]

"Well, it couldn't before."

Soft-locked to Kujen's cosmetic presets.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"I like it," he decides, then steps back behind him, hands running from his shoulders and down his back. "You seem...more comfortable."

[deuceoftears]

He shivers under Astarion's hands, then relaxes into it.

"Yeah," he breathes. The thing he became when he was crushed still perturbs him, if he thinks about it too much, but the body now - it's good.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Mm. Use both hands, brace yourself."

His fingers are digging in harder now, a kneading massage with nails involved, leaving faint marks.

[deuceoftears]

He spreads his hands flat on the table, his breath hitching as Astarion touches him more roughly, little ahs and gasps as he feels the edges of Astarion's nails dig in.

[sixfeetofdirt]

Those sounds are as much a warmup for Astarion as the rubdown is intended to be for Jedao; he can feel those gasps right in his core, like a slow burn igniting there. It's hard not to think about reaching for a dagger, opening that lovely flawless skin, leaving him marked in new ways. Ways he'll beg for.

He is, perhaps, getting ahead of himself.

He steps back and picks up the cane he set down, running the tip of it down Jedao's spine.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao shudders, tilting his head back, hands kept firmly on the table the way he's been told.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"Good," Astarion murmurs. "Now - let's make a real start, shall we?"

He doesn't ease in. He brings the cane down across Jedao's shoulders like he's trying to break it - once in a horizontal stripe, then again across his ass on the backswing.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao hisses at the first strike, a strangled sound that's half-sigh sputtering out of him, the muscles of his back tensing minutely only for an instant before relaxing into it. He squeaks for the stripe on his ass, definitely taken more by surprise, rising for a moment onto the balls of his feet, then forcing himself to set back down.

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion giggles at that sound. He can't help it. It's just delightful.

"Lovely thing," he murmurs, and gives him another couple of swats across his ass and thighs before hitting across his thighs like he means it. "Do you want to take off the rest? I can keep going like this."

[deuceoftears]

Jedao wiggles a little, half embarrassed and yet pleased at Astarion's obvious enjoyment.

"....I do. May I?"

[sixfeetofdirt]

"You may not," but this is only because he's going to do the honours himself. He tugs down Jedao's trousers and underwear to mid-calf, hobbling him slightly. His hands run back up his bared legs in a firm drag, fingernails leaving pink stripes behind.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao whines happily, leaning into it slightly in his enthusiasm, breath coming a little faster as he starts to get aroused in earnest, rather than just intellectual anticipation.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"You make such pretty noises," Astarion sighs, then swats him lightly across his calves, just above where his waistband clothes have settled. The next few strikes land across the marks he left through his trousers, his clothes no longer able to disperse or cushion the impact.

The sounds and the sight of his pain feel like things Astarion can consume - he's not feeling deprived in some ambiguous sense, the way he once did, but they're no less delicious.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao squeaks a little more at the strikes to his calves; he hasn't played with that as often, and it's part surprise, part sting, part novelty thrill.

"You're very encouraging," Jedao breathes, voice a little huskier than usual.

[sixfeetofdirt]

"I try."

Astarion trails the tip of the cane up from the back of Jedao's knee to his inner thigh, then whisks back the cane and stripes it across his ass, over and over until he's losing count.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao's breath goes ragged as the caning goes on, his thoughts dissolving away in the relentless sting and the building, fizzing heat. His arms on the table stay steady, but occasionally one of the big muscles in his legs will twitch or quiver, soft moans and whimpers rolling steadily from his mouth.

[sixfeetofdirt]

Astarion, for his part, is very happy to keep going, to keep marking this new pretty skin over and over in a deepening pink stretch from his tailbone to his knees. Each shiver and sound feels like honey on his tongue, sweet and rich.

And if Jedao should happen to twitch in a way that exposes the sole of a foot, that gets a sharp hit too. Astarion knows very well how much that hurts.

[deuceoftears]

Jedao is completely hard now, though it's mostly hidden by the table, the occasional jostle causing him to drip precome onto the floor. He's groaning continuously, drinking in the savage, relentless strikes, the deep bruised ache and the ragged sting of each fresh wheal, the feeling of fire feasting and creeping over his skin.

He does push up onto the balls of his feet at one point, just to stretch his aching calves, and yelps as the switch catches him across both soles, almost stumbling.

"Fuck, oh fuck, fire and ash -" he stammers, shocked afresh.