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.
Astarion feels his cock throb in vicious vicarious pleasure, painfully
restricted in his clothes, as he watches Jedao come. It's such a gorgeous
spectacle that in the moment, it's easy to forget whatever reservations he
might have had.
"Good," he breathes, setting the knife aside to run his hand up and down
Jedao's chest.
Jedao beams up at him, utterly relaxed, utterly content, a messy bloody puddle of a person. Being touched now is exactly what he would have wanted. He makes a soft hum of happiness; if he were a cat he would be purring.
His eyes do drift down to Astarion's very strained pants, lazy and shameless, less smug than simply pleased, then glide back up to his face.
His eyes go a little cross-eyed from trying to 1) follow the motion of Astarion's hand, and 2) think of words. He moans a little softly, eyes fluttering closed when Astarion pets his hair, tilting gently into it.
"Easy," he says warmly. Because it's true - because everything feels easy right now. He doesn't have to do anything but be in his body, all sweet aches and glimmering stings and hazy lassitude, and let Astarion do whatever he decides to do. And he feels like he is easy, and - he likes that feeling too.
He doesn't say he feels safe, even though it's true, because that seems like a great way to send Astarion running.
It absolutely is. But Astarion feels good too, satisfied, even despite
the...physical frustration. That's not important; getting off isn't what
he's here for.
Which isn't to say that he won't be letting this come to mind when he's
alone.
"I'd ask if that's a good thing, pet, but I'm quite confident I already
know."
"Impolite," Astarion says mildly, and then places two fingertips on his
tongue, licking off the black viscous stain. It's...strongly flavoured in a
way he'd struggle to quantify, but it definitely tastes like blood, and
he's content to clean off his other fingertips.
"I can't speak to Godric's tastes, darling. I rather like it."
"Well...I like that you like it," Jedao says sweetly, almost a little shyly. It feels like a warm glow of satisfaction, low in his stomach, deep in his chest. He likes the idea of being an indulgence.
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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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Astarion feels his cock throb in vicious vicarious pleasure, painfully restricted in his clothes, as he watches Jedao come. It's such a gorgeous spectacle that in the moment, it's easy to forget whatever reservations he might have had.
"Good," he breathes, setting the knife aside to run his hand up and down Jedao's chest.
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His eyes do drift down to Astarion's very strained pants, lazy and shameless, less smug than simply pleased, then glide back up to his face.
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Astarion's hand drifts up higher, gently tracing his jawline, his cheekbone, combing through his hair. He can ignore his own arousal.
"You're a vision," he murmurs. "How do you feel?"
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"Easy," he says warmly. Because it's true - because everything feels easy right now. He doesn't have to do anything but be in his body, all sweet aches and glimmering stings and hazy lassitude, and let Astarion do whatever he decides to do. And he feels like he is easy, and - he likes that feeling too.
He doesn't say he feels safe, even though it's true, because that seems like a great way to send Astarion running.
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It absolutely is. But Astarion feels good too, satisfied, even despite the...physical frustration. That's not important; getting off isn't what he's here for.
Which isn't to say that he won't be letting this come to mind when he's alone.
"I'd ask if that's a good thing, pet, but I'm quite confident I already know."
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"Smart enough to see the obvious, perhaps," he murmurs, and glances at the dark thick blood smeared on his fingers. "May I taste this?"
Is it toxic? It doesn't look like blood in the way he understands it.
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"He attacked me, during the sword curse thing."
Jedao loves him very much, but they aren't - like this.
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"Impolite," Astarion says mildly, and then places two fingertips on his tongue, licking off the black viscous stain. It's...strongly flavoured in a way he'd struggle to quantify, but it definitely tastes like blood, and he's content to clean off his other fingertips.
"I can't speak to Godric's tastes, darling. I rather like it."
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"Really?"
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"Really. It's a...complex flavour, I don't know about an everyday indulgence, but rather heady."
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Astarion licks his lips and smiles.
"It's been my pleasure, darling."
He moves down to start untying Jedao's ankles.
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"Do you want -" he isn't sure how to end that sentence without sounding whiny, or needy, or passive aggressive. He just -
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Astarion flinches a little smile.
"No need for that. I've already gotten exactly what I want."
He slides a hand up one arm before untying his wrists.
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