Jedao looks - mostly put together, even if his sleek black uniform that doesn't show stains is a giveaway, and his cheeks are flushed a paradoxical pink. In addition to the engraved scalpel that he has up his sleeve, he's openly carrying what looks like a small cup of lemonade, but which Astarion can probably smell, is in fact straight lemon juice.
"I wasn't sure if I should wash the writing off myself," Jedao explains.
He lets them into the enclosure, with the same little warning hallway, into the same room with its warm tones and kinky furniture. He sets down the cup, a washcloth, and a little scalpel, black and white, obsidian blade and mother-of-pearl handle, that he'd originally been planning to use to cut the messages directly into his skin. There's a small stone washbasin on the table already, if Astarion wants to rinse the lemon juice off his hands later.
Jedao leans against one of the couches, and starts unfastening the clasps of his uniform jacket.
"I was thinking about the things I couldn't tell you last time - when you hit closer to my organs, I did like it, but it felt like it could get not-fun overwhelming really fast. So that's like, potentially a high point for intensity, but not a main activity. What else should I tell you?"
He hopes freely given information will help Astarion feel comfortable reaching for what he wants, too.
"You did ask about taking my pants off last. I wanted to, but - I don't want to be too much?"
If Astarion wanted to make sure keep the lines between pain and sex...present at all, if not strictly clear. He fiddles with the bottom button of the uniform, scarred chest and the edge of the black gashes visible, smeared a little under his clothes.
"If you really want me not to worry, consider being more demanding," Jedao suggests, but dryly; there's a little pink of self-deprecation in his cheeks as he decides to take yes for an answer. He grunts softly as he bends over to remove his boots and socks, the deepest gash oozing another slow trickle of blood, obscuring some of the painted letters. Jedao tosses the brush and a washcloth next to the scalpel and the cup, then shimmies out of his pants and underwear together, leaving him in only his scars and his bracelets. After a thoughtful moment, he also takes off the more colorful one, a bit garishly beaded with red and blue and gold and silver all together, but leaves on the slim brass band etched with a vine pattern, and the dark grey of his Tungsten wedding ring.
"Put me where you want me?" he offers, hands slightly spread. He feels deliciously unashamed of his body; an unexpected bonus of starting the conversation with pictures.
Astarion breathes in deep, taking in the unusual scent of his blood at the same time as he's taking in the sight of his naked body.
"I can't imagine what you think I'd demand that you aren't already offering me," he murmurs. "You're absurdly generous, honestly - I want you on your back, I think. I want to see your face while I'm working."
Jedao flushes darker pink, a tide that spreads down his throat and crashes against the strange pale surf of his chest scars.
"Alright," he agrees, voice slightly strangled, surprised and suddenly feeling the exposure, but not in a bad way. He's not hard yet, but he's not all the way soft, either.
Jedao finds the closest likely-looking bench, something that will give Astarion access on both sides, and hop-scoots onto to it. He lies back still blushing, reaches to grip a bar above his head with the hand on the bloody side, shuddering for a moment as he stretches out.
"I think it suits you," Jedao says honestly. Sharper than any steel, stark and subtle at the same time, intricate and lovely, brittle. Not that he'd be rude enough to say the last thing.
"And you can use anything else around here too, if you like -"
The room is littered with implements more suited to sadomasochism for people without alien immortality, whips and canes and paddles and floggers, as well as restraints, clamps, needles, candles, weights.
"But it seemed like we both liked the idea of a knife, so -"
He wanted to bring a nice one. He shifts a little, visibly trying not to squirm, half-hard and flushed pink all the way down to his abdomen, like a rosy sea around the sprawling archipelago of his scars.
"We did," Astarion remarks, moving a little closer - settling into the same silent, catlike tread he adopts when there's a fight at hand. "Anywhere you'd like me to avoid?"
"Not my eyes," he decides, after thinking about it for a moment. "Or, like, so much on my face that my blood is getting in them." He's been shot in the head enough times that he has only miserable associations with that.
"Although a blindfold would be okay if you wanted that, or just telling me to close them. And not my abdomen -" He gestures, draws a line low on his belly, the way it would look like for a disemboweling cut.
"Otherwise I think anything bad would be...more about tone than location? And I should be able to warn you if it starts feeling that way."
"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.
"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.
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.
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."
"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.
"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.
"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."
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.
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.
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.
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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"I wasn't sure if I should wash the writing off myself," Jedao explains.
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Astarion leans in very slightly to catch the sharp scent of citrus.
"...Well. Not exactly asking me to salt your wounds, but close enough, mm? Lead the way, darling."
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He lets them into the enclosure, with the same little warning hallway, into the same room with its warm tones and kinky furniture. He sets down the cup, a washcloth, and a little scalpel, black and white, obsidian blade and mother-of-pearl handle, that he'd originally been planning to use to cut the messages directly into his skin. There's a small stone washbasin on the table already, if Astarion wants to rinse the lemon juice off his hands later.
Jedao leans against one of the couches, and starts unfastening the clasps of his uniform jacket.
"I was thinking about the things I couldn't tell you last time - when you hit closer to my organs, I did like it, but it felt like it could get not-fun overwhelming really fast. So that's like, potentially a high point for intensity, but not a main activity. What else should I tell you?"
He hopes freely given information will help Astarion feel comfortable reaching for what he wants, too.
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"...I don't know," Astarion says, giving him a sidelong glance. "Is there anything else you couldn't tell me, last time?"
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If Astarion wanted to make sure keep the lines between pain and sex...present at all, if not strictly clear. He fiddles with the bottom button of the uniform, scarred chest and the edge of the black gashes visible, smeared a little under his clothes.
"Greedy, as you said."
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Astarion just laughs quietly.
"'Too much'? Darling, that's not something I'd want you worrying about. By no means are you too much. Pants on or off."
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"Put me where you want me?" he offers, hands slightly spread. He feels deliciously unashamed of his body; an unexpected bonus of starting the conversation with pictures.
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Astarion breathes in deep, taking in the unusual scent of his blood at the same time as he's taking in the sight of his naked body.
"I can't imagine what you think I'd demand that you aren't already offering me," he murmurs. "You're absurdly generous, honestly - I want you on your back, I think. I want to see your face while I'm working."
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"Alright," he agrees, voice slightly strangled, surprised and suddenly feeling the exposure, but not in a bad way. He's not hard yet, but he's not all the way soft, either.
Jedao finds the closest likely-looking bench, something that will give Astarion access on both sides, and hop-scoots onto to it. He lies back still blushing, reaches to grip a bar above his head with the hand on the bloody side, shuddering for a moment as he stretches out.
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Astarion regards him with a small, admiring smile, then crosses over to pick up the obsidian blade.
"And this is my weapon of choice, today? It's rather beautiful."
He turns it one way and the other, watching the fine edge catch the light.
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"And you can use anything else around here too, if you like -"
The room is littered with implements more suited to sadomasochism for people without alien immortality, whips and canes and paddles and floggers, as well as restraints, clamps, needles, candles, weights.
"But it seemed like we both liked the idea of a knife, so -"
He wanted to bring a nice one. He shifts a little, visibly trying not to squirm, half-hard and flushed pink all the way down to his abdomen, like a rosy sea around the sprawling archipelago of his scars.
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"We did," Astarion remarks, moving a little closer - settling into the same silent, catlike tread he adopts when there's a fight at hand. "Anywhere you'd like me to avoid?"
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"Although a blindfold would be okay if you wanted that, or just telling me to close them. And not my abdomen -" He gestures, draws a line low on his belly, the way it would look like for a disemboweling cut.
"Otherwise I think anything bad would be...more about tone than location? And I should be able to warn you if it starts feeling that way."
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"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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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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"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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"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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"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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"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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"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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