Astarion Ancunín

"Thank you, darling. I'll avoid your face altogether, actually, I'd rather be able to see you - and for you to see me, if that's what you'd like."

And while he's only really had one thing shoved in his eye that he can remember, that was one thing too many.

Astarion looks over Jedao's body thoughtfully, then lightly makes the first cut - the most delicate score along his upper arm, not even deep enough to break every layer of skin, but enough to sting. He's going to be careful about ramping this up.

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"Yes, I think so," he agrees. Astarion is so beautiful, and seeing him enjoy what he's doing makes it all the better for Jedao. And the constant contrast between Jedao's nakedness and Astarion's neat clothes, the imbalance and vulnerability of it, also gives him a wonderful little thrill.

Jedao squeaks in delight at the minuteness and delicacy of the cut, the way the tiny sting demands attention. He holds himself still, making sure not to jerk against the blade, but a little muscle jumps in his calf instead, the reaction disjointed by sheer will, trying to be good and still and let Astarion control exactly how intense it is or isn't at any moment. Eventually, though, he's probably going to need restraints when his control fails.

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Astarion notices that little twitch in his peripheral vision, but doesn't comment. Jedao can tell him what he needs, as and when it becomes necessary. The second cut follows the same path as the first, less than a half-inch away, and then delicately changes path to cross back and forth over it a few times - finally breaking skin, bringing up a few drops of thick, dark blood.

He isn't breathing, but he's smiling.

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Jedao doesn't need to breathe, although he's doing reflexively doing it now, and his breath catches and hitches and gasps along with the little cuts. He's grinning right back, nervous-excited-but-mostly-excited, and warmly affectionate at the same time.

"Should I talk? Is that - gratifying or distracting, I don't know."

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"If it makes no odds to you, I'd rather you did," Astarion murmurs. "I do so like to hear you."

He moves the blade to his chest, the press still feather-light, but crueller now - twisting, the tip of the blade sliding under the skin as much as through it.

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"Oh fuck," Jedao gasps, immediately, making up for his lack of eloquence with deeply earnest vehemence. The muscles in his arms all flex as he grips the bar above him tighter, and an extra drop of viscous blood squeezes from the tiny nick on his arm.

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"Your blood smells like nothing I've ever encountered before," Astarion murmurs, circling the blade back on itself - carving mean little curves into Jedao's skin. "And the sounds you make. Gods."

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Jedao whines helplessly, biting his lip as his dick gets noticeably more interested in the proceedings.

"The sounds you make me make," he points out, lightly panting, one-third flirty to two-thirds smugly delighted.

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"Flattery gets you everywhere, sweetheart."

He draws the blade along his collarbone and towards his shoulder, deep enough now to bring up blood, with just the occasional shift in angle to sharpen the pain even further.

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Jedao whines louder this time, jaw clenching not against the pain, but against the urge to twitch, to writhe, to roll his hips uselessly.

"Fox and hound," he mutters, panting a little bit even though he doesn't need the air.

There's a strangeness as Astarion cuts near the clavicle: from above, from the skin, there's obviously a collarbone there. Astarion could put his hand on Jedao and feel it, the unmistakable sturdiness of bone. From under the skin, though, it's - murkier, density and resistance without ever hitting the mineral scrape of real bone. Which is probably for the best, given that it might chip the thin flake of the blade.

"You - you might need to tie me down sooner than I thought," Jedao admits, closing his eyes briefly. His nakedness and nakedly obvious arousal he's embarrassed about, but this lack of professional self-control is the first thing he's been actually slightly ashamed of. It is flattery, though, that Astarion has done it to him so quickly, so delicately, so Jedao confesses it anyway. "It's so fucking hard not to move."

Although whether Astarion obliges him or further torments him with that information is up to him.

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Astarion is, by this point, not unaffected. Just watching the way Jedao whines and pants, the flex of muscle in his jaw and throat; he's half-hard himself, and his snug trousers really conceal nothing. The desire to go further, to take risks, feels raw and urgent - but he wants to do this again sometime, as well.

"Might I?" he wonders. "Need to tie you down? Or is it more that you don't want to embarrass yourself by squirming the way you'd like to?"

They've established that he can't really injure him, after all.

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Jedao lets go of the bar with one hand to drape his forearm over his red face for a little bit; if Astarion wants to not let him hide, he knows how to achieve that.

"And I don't want to ruin your work," Jedao mumbles, even though, yes, a lot of it is the embarrassment thing. And he can't actually think clearly enough to parse if Astarion is actually drawing anything with intent, but certainly it feels like - like a deliberate effect, like he is controlling the depth of his strokes quite precisely. Jedao doesn't want to mess it up.

He's not worried about it enough that he isn't still desperately hard, and he isn't taking the opportunity to repeat that it needs to happen, though.

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"Oh, the only work here is ensuring you're making those pretty little noises for me," Astarion murmurs. There's no real design to what he's doing - the pleasure is in the act of movement, and the pain he can inflict in the moment.

He cuts a sunburst of lines into his chest, around his nipple.

"I'll tie you down when you ask, my sweet."

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The noise in his throat gets deeper, wilder, strangled and hungry; he clenches his fist tight, his chest moving as much from panting as it might have from twitching.

And when Astarion calls him sweet, he shivers all over.

"Please," he begins, soft and earnest.

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Astarion feels his cock twitch. It is so lovely to hear a handsome man begging.

"Please, what?"

He moves down, carefully drawing the blade along the crease between hip and thigh.

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He makes a mangled, warbling cry - a sort of ahhHHahaughH - breath coming in short little gulps, shuddering and twitching under the knife.

"Fuck, fuck - please - please tie me down - pin me - with anything, I don't care, please, please I want it so bad -"

He didn't miss Astarion's reaction, but also it's the easiest thing in the world to let himself be utterly, breathlessly sincere about it -

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Astarion licks his lips and sets down the knife carefully.

"Since you asked so nicely, pet."

The bench doesn't have cuffs built into it, but it does have enough of a frame to tie someone onto - and there are ropes provided by the room, naturally.

"Get yourself comfortable, mm?"

Whatever position Jedao chooses is the one he's going to tie him down into.

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There is a knock on Astarion's door.

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No response is forthcoming.

Maybe they'll go away?

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"Can you at least come to the door?"

You haven't moved for two days, Astarion. This is Worrying.

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"I would prefer not to."

He's not sure how long it's been. Would honestly be surprised to learn that two days is enough to get a response like this from his warden.

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It's something about him not having left his room for two days when there's not a breach or a flood or anything else going on that has him worried.

"Okay, then we can talk like this."

There's a thump outside the door. He sat.

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Astarion - lying face-down on the bed, under a cat, in a room that has been completely trashed - considers the likely outcomes here, then casts Mage Hand and dispatches it to go open the door.

He doesn't want John in here but he doesn't really want him shouting about his mental health through a closed door, either.

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John leans into the opening door only long enough to rock back and up onto his feet. Then he's walking in, closing the door behind him, and taking a look around. He's not sure what he expected but this was

20% ish. Definitely not 0%.

"Okay. So."

He's going to glance over at the cat food to see if it looks like she's been fed recently.

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