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.
"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.
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.
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.
Jedao whines a little more; he stretches before he settles, and feels almost deliriously shameless about it.
"Fuck, okay," he mutters after a second, in which he realizes he's going to have to decide what to do with his legs. It's easy to drape his arms up over his head again; it takes an absurd act of will, under the circumstances, to spread his legs the way he does want to do. It'll mean he has less leverage to squirm from his core, and it feels deliciously, unbearably exposed. He closes his eyes and focuses on bringing his breathing back to something that can halfway fake calm.
Astarion ties his wrists first, tight enough to hold him in place but not enough to pinch. One hand runs slowly from his hip, down his thigh, over his knee and calf, before tying one ankle and then the other into place.
"You look so good like this," he purrs. "Legs spread for me. Hurting just like I want."
Jedao twitches and shudders, groaning softly at the praise, and the rope holds him. It doesn't matter if he strains against them, it doesn't matter, it won't get him anywhere. Precome slides down his dick and he relaxes back against the bench with a deep sigh, giving Astarion a dopey smile.
The temptation to touch him, to follow the trail of precome with his
fingertips and make him lick his own mess from his skin, is damned near
irresistible - but he does resist.
"You know, some people would consider this an act of worship," he murmurs,
delicately drawing the blade from Jedao's knee up towards his inner thigh.
"My world has a goddess, Loviatar. The Scourge Mistress. Her worshippers
hold that pain has a sacred power."
Jedao whimpers, a softer noise, as tender as the skin Astarion is slicing open. The sting of it feels - different, more insistent, more alive, in such a sensitive place.
"No gods," he insists, a hoarse half-whisper. "If this is an offering, it's for you."
"No gods," he agrees. "I'm delighted to accept this on my own behalf, my sweet."
He lifts the blade away, then cuts in just above Jedao's erection, using the tip of the blade - a series of deep but tiny cuts in an arch over the root of his cock, with the slightest cruel twist each time.
There is no Scourge Mistress in the Heptarchate. Only the High Calendar, with its bottomless demand for heretics to torture, and Kujen, at the center of it all. That pain had much power - power taken not by worship but by overwhelming force. Jedao doesn't want to think of the remembrances, no matter how suggestive the position. He wants - he wants this to be personal.
So his gaze is on Astarion's face, rather than carefully tracking the shifting position of the blade, and the new tactic catches him by surprise. He makes a short, sharp scream, a quivering strip of noise sliced out of him. His cock visibly twitches, and the muscles in his abdomen seize and clutch as he struggles to hold himself still against even the tiniest motions of his hips.
"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, stars, skullfucking hells -" Jedao curses, in percussive, desperate bursts, as though he could expel some of his own formless desperation on his breath. His eyes water with the intensity of the pain, the awareness of the depth, stomach twisted-up in shocked desire for the audacity and the threat of it.
Jedao's whimpers turn into a shaky, quavering wail. The encouragement is almost all he needs on its own. The new cut feels like - he doesn't have words for what it feels like, doesn't have thoughts, but it's so much despite being so small. He's being draped in wounds or cut to pieces, he doesn't know what the cut is for or what's next, but Astarion is looking at him, wants him to take it.
His hips shudder, back arching up into it if Astarion lets him, moaning as he comes, so sudden and forceful and overwhemling that when he runs out of breath, it's a good ten or fifteen seconds before he remembers to breathe in again.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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"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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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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"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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"Fuck, okay," he mutters after a second, in which he realizes he's going to have to decide what to do with his legs. It's easy to drape his arms up over his head again; it takes an absurd act of will, under the circumstances, to spread his legs the way he does want to do. It'll mean he has less leverage to squirm from his core, and it feels deliciously, unbearably exposed. He closes his eyes and focuses on bringing his breathing back to something that can halfway fake calm.
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"Good."
Astarion ties his wrists first, tight enough to hold him in place but not enough to pinch. One hand runs slowly from his hip, down his thigh, over his knee and calf, before tying one ankle and then the other into place.
"You look so good like this," he purrs. "Legs spread for me. Hurting just like I want."
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"Yes. Want to hurt like you want."
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"Perfect."
The temptation to touch him, to follow the trail of precome with his fingertips and make him lick his own mess from his skin, is damned near irresistible - but he does resist.
"You know, some people would consider this an act of worship," he murmurs, delicately drawing the blade from Jedao's knee up towards his inner thigh. "My world has a goddess, Loviatar. The Scourge Mistress. Her worshippers hold that pain has a sacred power."
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"No gods," he insists, a hoarse half-whisper. "If this is an offering, it's for you."
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"No gods," he agrees. "I'm delighted to accept this on my own behalf, my sweet."
He lifts the blade away, then cuts in just above Jedao's erection, using the tip of the blade - a series of deep but tiny cuts in an arch over the root of his cock, with the slightest cruel twist each time.
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So his gaze is on Astarion's face, rather than carefully tracking the shifting position of the blade, and the new tactic catches him by surprise. He makes a short, sharp scream, a quivering strip of noise sliced out of him. His cock visibly twitches, and the muscles in his abdomen seize and clutch as he struggles to hold himself still against even the tiniest motions of his hips.
"Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, stars, skullfucking hells -" Jedao curses, in percussive, desperate bursts, as though he could expel some of his own formless desperation on his breath. His eyes water with the intensity of the pain, the awareness of the depth, stomach twisted-up in shocked desire for the audacity and the threat of it.
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"Good?"
Astarion smiles wickedly, fingertips pressing against the cuts, rocking lightly back and forth, tormenting.
"Do you think this would be enough to push you over, darling?"
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"Muhh - may I?" he asks, panting shallowly, legs twitching slightly in their bonds. The answer is absolutely yes.
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"Oh, you may. I actually think you should."
He slides the knife between two of his fingertips, cutting a long, shallow sting between the two deeper wounds.
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His hips shudder, back arching up into it if Astarion lets him, moaning as he comes, so sudden and forceful and overwhemling that when he runs out of breath, it's a good ten or fifteen seconds before he remembers to breathe in again.
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