"Technically, yes, but we can put another locked door on the inside. And I'll know if anyone's coming."
Sure enough, the Enclosure's usual stairs down into the environment are enclosed, this time, leading down to another door, standing open for the two of them, with a sign on it in bold calligraphy reading KINKY SHIT IN PROGRESS, GO BACK AND WAIT YOUR TURN, and a heavy crossbar they can lower on the other side.
Astarion laughs, delighted, and crosses the besigned threshold.
"'Kinky shit' indeed. This is an act of worship, where I'm from."
The hall beyond is high and vaulted, looking medieval in a way that suggests it's borrowing from his own cultural aesthetic rather than Jedao's. There's also a variety of furniture. Some of it is of the 'comfortable living space' variety, and some of it is more familiar from his former master's various entertainments.
"We don't really worship anything," Jedao admits, taking one deep gulping breath before peeling the turtleneck off as soon as the door is barred behind them.
His chest - especially from the front, although his back is far from unscathed - is a sheer mass of scarring, geological layers of scarring, the shiny ripples of messy burn scars, a strange ridged texture of rough surgical grafts, peppered on top with the starry knots of bullet wounds and shrapnel pockmarks, knife slices running counter to the older scars beneath. One nipple is missing entirely; the other exists in a small gap in the patchwork. One pale white line that might be from a knife or a laser or, indeed, a whip, climbs up the side of his neck, the only one that's ever visible in public.
"You'll have to let me know if there's anything...ritual you'd like me to do."
"Absolutely not. I've come damned close to meeting some gods in the flesh and I'd still call myself an atheist."
He doesn't believe in them, but in the same way that people don't believe in politicians.
His gaze briefly flicks over Jedao's scars, face impassive, although on some strange level he feels...envious? His bites and ritual scars aside, no amount of torture has ever marked him. His body simply resets to that of the sheltered, privileged nobleman he died as. Everything he's suffered is eventually just...erased. Whether he'd prefer to be a mosaic of suffering, he isn't sure, but - never mind. He's not falling into that spiral.
"Is there anything you'd like me to do? Or not do?"
He has - over years, by observation - assembled a patchwork understanding of how normal people go about these practices when engaging in them for recreation.
Ironically, Jedao understands that feeling completely. This record is of someone else's suffering, a life Jedao doesn't remember and hates the legacy of. His own wounds have all healed just as perfectly as Astarions. If he recognizes that brief glint of bitterness, though, he doesn't bring it up.
"I've met a few things that called themselves gods," he muses instead. Jedao hasn't been impressed. At least Kujen's vast discompassion was beautiful.
"Just...don't go silent on me for too long? I like hearing your voice. And don't aim anything for my neck, or that might curl around and get my face." He's promised Hakkai he won't let anyone else leave marks that would show in public. "Otherwise, you can go as rough as you like, I heal quickly." He beams a little at the prospect, the brief tightness in his shoulders loosening the longer his skin is bare without Astarion recoiling. "And, ah, I should warn you, my blood is...not, strictly human. If - you change your mind - that is."
Another quick glance down, another quick, deep breath -
"Please don't feel obligated to stay if aren't enjoying yourself. It's your victory, after all."
"I will," Jedao promises, smile brightening again. "And probably, yes. Do you want me on one of the couches, or -" He waves at the various constructions he doesn't know the words for.
"Perfect." As much as Jedao likes being bound, he thinks it's probably better that he's free to move this time, just in case Astarion reacts as badly to his mothblood as - some people. "Maybe we'll use them next time," he allows, for the sake of optimism, as he leans against the wood and gets a firm grip on the leather loops.
"I can only hope that I rate a next time from you, darling. Time to find
out, mm?"
He just watches him for a few moments as he gets himself situated.
Something calm and cool settles into his core. A sense of control. Power.
Having someone place any degree of trust in him feels good in a way he's
in no hurry to upset.
The first throw of the whip cracks in mid-air, a few feet to Jedao's left.
What follows are a few warmup strokes, positively gentle in comparison to
what might follow, little stinging whispers across his shoulders and the
small of his back.
"You tease," Jedao accuses, but warmly, after he twitches at the noise of the first painless crack of the whip. When the next one skates across his back, his muscles ripple with momentary tension, then relax.
"Ah..." Jedao murmurs, a soft sound as he sighs out his breath. Each stroke hurts deliciously, a bright beautiful sting that feels like it's scrubbing some part of him clean.
Just that soft sound, seeing the way Jedao's body moves under the whip,
makes Astarion's senses feel a little sharper and brighter. Feeding on pain
is the closest he can get to feeding on blood.
"You sound beautiful, Jedao. Don't hold anything back."
He's got his eye in now, can be more confident about speed and weight. The
next few strikes take about the same effort, but feel harder for being more
focused: they don't land in stripes but in single focused spots on his
shoulders, his back, his ass.
Astarion isn't empathetic in any way that's useful or compassionate, really, but he knows pain. He knows exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of this treatment - though the matter of informed consent makes it a bit hazy - and pulling those sounds from his lovely throat is a rush that he so rarely gets to experience. The guilt and the shame he feels in doing these things is still here, but it's a background hum, not a howl across his thoughts.
"Something a little different, then."
The next two blows, back and forth, stripe harsh lines across his ass - through his clothes, yes, but with a little more strength in his arm to make up for it. The third connects them, making two points of overlap which are going to really bruise.
He yelps and pants, fighting the urge to squirm, regardless of Astarion's demonstrated skill with moving targets, groans low in his throat as the intersections throb with lasting pain even as the sharp sting of the rest of the strikes fades away a little faster.
Jedao shudders at the stroke over his spine, the way even the lighter force scrapes through him, so close to the bone. It would be dangerous for someone else; for Jedao, it's just an extra thrill.
Jedao laughs a little, shaky and breathy, interrupted by little gasps and sharp moans. "Fair's...fair," he mumbles; neither of them holding back, neither of them hiding in silence.
"Oh, this feels like it's so much more than fair. This is...indulgent."
Another horizontal line rips across his back, barely two inches from the
first, almost perfectly parallel. The next few hits are quicker, snapping
across his thighs in rapid succession.
He wants to press himself up against Jedao's back, feel the heat of the
welts in his skin, knead his bruises and press the pain deep into him.
"How much more do you want, darling?"
Slightly distinct from how much more he can take, which he might struggle
to answer.
It hurts less, where the whip hits him through his pants, but it's also more surprising, somehow; he squeaks and twitches each time. Somehow, whatever alchemy makes Jedao appear human is flawless until the skin is actually broken. His welts are white and red, even though the blood beneath them isn't. His bruises look human; his raw skin even smells faintly of iron even though there's no hemoglobin below it.
"More," he pants, half-hard against the wood of cross. "Want...want to bleed a little," he confesses, face hot, voice low and nervous and hungry. A cold stone of fear settles in his stomach, rough and bitter and poisonous as a peach pit. He's asking too much, he always asks for too much, he knows his blood is even more disgusting to vampires than it is to most people. But he feels loose and open with pain, his mind gone slippery instead of careful and calculation, and Astarion asked.
It's so much more than okay. He's heard the warning about his blood, but
at this point he really doesn't care; it would have to be absolutely,
unutterably foul to distract him from how good he's feeling.
He takes aim carefully and concentrates his strength into a short, deep
stroke across one shoulder blade, then another, crossing it. His skin
splits at the junction of the two, blood welling up and trickling from the
wound.
He whimpers when Astarion calls him pet, hips jerking where he's braced against the cross in a way that's just a bit too revealing.
He yowls when he feels the cut open. It's not that the pain is so much greater - he could take more pain in silence if he had to, does it often enough when he uses his mothpushes on things that are too big to move without feeling like all his bones are on fire - but it feels raw, vulnerable, intimate. The pain is sharp and deep and perfect.
The blood that oozes up is black, more viscous than human blood, something with the shine of squid ink and the texture of tar. It beads up in the little wound, thick as honey, dark as the other side of the stars.
It certainly doesn't smell human, or like the blood of any other creature
he's seen spilled, come to that. Strange but not repugnant. Astarion wants
to lick it from his skin regardless of the risk. Wants to sink his teeth
into the heart of his darkest bruises.
"Next time, I want a mirror in here," he says, voice a rough purr. "I want
you to see how beautiful you look when you're hurting."
He also said he wanted to bleed 'a little', not just once. That distinction
earns him another two small wounds at the small of his back, a deep lash
crossing the two parallel lines already scored.
Jedao wails, a wounded wanting yearning sound, as much for being called beautiful even with his blood showing as for the fresh cuts that underscore it, that prove he means it, or at least isn't repulsed. Jedao shudders and almost seems to melt against the cross, every last bit of tension draining out of him, floating in the sheer loveliness of the pain, the way his whole back is tender and aching, the way the cuts feel so startlingly vivid and alive.
A less cautious partner might stop at this point, but when Jedao makes that
sound - when he's all but begging for it - Astarion can't find the
restraint.
"Two more, my sweet, and then we're done."
The last two are high and low, across his shoulders and just above his
knees, as if framing his work. When he stops, when he crosses the floor to
close the distance between himself and Jedao, he feels - almost delirious.
Jedao moans, soft and continuous, the sound spiking up into soft cries as he savors the last two strikes. He shudders and pants for breath as he hangs on the cuffs in the quiet afterward, not fully trusting his knees if he lets go, twisting his head a little to glance back over his shoulder as much as he can, punch-drunk, loose-limbed and beaming at Astarion as he approaches.
"So good," he murmurs, not quite slurred, but definitely in a lazier, more contented tone of voice than usual.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Sure enough, the Enclosure's usual stairs down into the environment are enclosed, this time, leading down to another door, standing open for the two of them, with a sign on it in bold calligraphy reading KINKY SHIT IN PROGRESS, GO BACK AND WAIT YOUR TURN, and a heavy crossbar they can lower on the other side.
no subject
Astarion laughs, delighted, and crosses the besigned threshold.
"'Kinky shit' indeed. This is an act of worship, where I'm from."
The hall beyond is high and vaulted, looking medieval in a way that suggests it's borrowing from his own cultural aesthetic rather than Jedao's. There's also a variety of furniture. Some of it is of the 'comfortable living space' variety, and some of it is more familiar from his former master's various entertainments.
no subject
His chest - especially from the front, although his back is far from unscathed - is a sheer mass of scarring, geological layers of scarring, the shiny ripples of messy burn scars, a strange ridged texture of rough surgical grafts, peppered on top with the starry knots of bullet wounds and shrapnel pockmarks, knife slices running counter to the older scars beneath. One nipple is missing entirely; the other exists in a small gap in the patchwork. One pale white line that might be from a knife or a laser or, indeed, a whip, climbs up the side of his neck, the only one that's ever visible in public.
"You'll have to let me know if there's anything...ritual you'd like me to do."
no subject
"Absolutely not. I've come damned close to meeting some gods in the flesh and I'd still call myself an atheist."
He doesn't believe in them, but in the same way that people don't believe in politicians.
His gaze briefly flicks over Jedao's scars, face impassive, although on some strange level he feels...envious? His bites and ritual scars aside, no amount of torture has ever marked him. His body simply resets to that of the sheltered, privileged nobleman he died as. Everything he's suffered is eventually just...erased. Whether he'd prefer to be a mosaic of suffering, he isn't sure, but - never mind. He's not falling into that spiral.
"Is there anything you'd like me to do? Or not do?"
He has - over years, by observation - assembled a patchwork understanding of how normal people go about these practices when engaging in them for recreation.
no subject
"I've met a few things that called themselves gods," he muses instead. Jedao hasn't been impressed. At least Kujen's vast discompassion was beautiful.
"Just...don't go silent on me for too long? I like hearing your voice. And don't aim anything for my neck, or that might curl around and get my face." He's promised Hakkai he won't let anyone else leave marks that would show in public. "Otherwise, you can go as rough as you like, I heal quickly." He beams a little at the prospect, the brief tightness in his shoulders loosening the longer his skin is bare without Astarion recoiling. "And, ah, I should warn you, my blood is...not, strictly human. If - you change your mind - that is."
Another quick glance down, another quick, deep breath -
"Please don't feel obligated to stay if aren't enjoying yourself. It's your victory, after all."
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"Provided that you, likewise, tell me if you're not having fun. This is only a game, after all."
He unwinds the whip, working the leather through his hands.
"Would it help you to have something to hold onto?"
In his prior experience, being asked this kind of question was almost always a trap, but he's aware it doesn't have to be.
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"Let's keep you on your feet, for now."
Astarion approaches a solid wooden frame with a saltire cross, and leather shackles at each corner
"Let's try this, shall we? We can skip the actual bondage, but the cuffs might be useful to hold onto."
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"I can only hope that I rate a next time from you, darling. Time to find out, mm?"
He just watches him for a few moments as he gets himself situated. Something calm and cool settles into his core. A sense of control. Power. Having someone place any degree of trust in him feels good in a way he's in no hurry to upset.
The first throw of the whip cracks in mid-air, a few feet to Jedao's left. What follows are a few warmup strokes, positively gentle in comparison to what might follow, little stinging whispers across his shoulders and the small of his back.
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"Ah..." Jedao murmurs, a soft sound as he sighs out his breath. Each stroke hurts deliciously, a bright beautiful sting that feels like it's scrubbing some part of him clean.
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Just that soft sound, seeing the way Jedao's body moves under the whip, makes Astarion's senses feel a little sharper and brighter. Feeding on pain is the closest he can get to feeding on blood.
"You sound beautiful, Jedao. Don't hold anything back."
He's got his eye in now, can be more confident about speed and weight. The next few strikes take about the same effort, but feel harder for being more focused: they don't land in stripes but in single focused spots on his shoulders, his back, his ass.
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"Fuck - fuck, that's so good..."
He leans more of his weight onto the cross, feeling the cool polished woodgrain press against his cheek.
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Astarion isn't empathetic in any way that's useful or compassionate, really, but he knows pain. He knows exactly how it feels to be on the receiving end of this treatment - though the matter of informed consent makes it a bit hazy - and pulling those sounds from his lovely throat is a rush that he so rarely gets to experience. The guilt and the shame he feels in doing these things is still here, but it's a background hum, not a howl across his thoughts.
"Something a little different, then."
The next two blows, back and forth, stripe harsh lines across his ass - through his clothes, yes, but with a little more strength in his arm to make up for it. The third connects them, making two points of overlap which are going to really bruise.
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"Yes, yes, yes -"
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The sound that escapes Astarion's lips, unbidden, is almost a growl.
"Hells, darling." A slash across his shoulders. "You told me to keep talking, and I will, but -"
A stroke down his spine, positively delicate - he knows the consequences of hitting too hard there.
"-It's damn near impossible when all I want to do is shut up and listen to you."
A line scored horizontally across his back, so close to drawing blood.
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Jedao laughs a little, shaky and breathy, interrupted by little gasps and sharp moans. "Fair's...fair," he mumbles; neither of them holding back, neither of them hiding in silence.
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"Oh, this feels like it's so much more than fair. This is...indulgent."
Another horizontal line rips across his back, barely two inches from the first, almost perfectly parallel. The next few hits are quicker, snapping across his thighs in rapid succession.
He wants to press himself up against Jedao's back, feel the heat of the welts in his skin, knead his bruises and press the pain deep into him.
"How much more do you want, darling?"
Slightly distinct from how much more he can take, which he might struggle to answer.
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"More," he pants, half-hard against the wood of cross. "Want...want to bleed a little," he confesses, face hot, voice low and nervous and hungry. A cold stone of fear settles in his stomach, rough and bitter and poisonous as a peach pit. He's asking too much, he always asks for too much, he knows his blood is even more disgusting to vampires than it is to most people. But he feels loose and open with pain, his mind gone slippery instead of careful and calculation, and Astarion asked.
"If...if that's okay, please..."
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"It's okay. Since you said please, pet."
It's so much more than okay. He's heard the warning about his blood, but at this point he really doesn't care; it would have to be absolutely, unutterably foul to distract him from how good he's feeling.
He takes aim carefully and concentrates his strength into a short, deep stroke across one shoulder blade, then another, crossing it. His skin splits at the junction of the two, blood welling up and trickling from the wound.
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He yowls when he feels the cut open. It's not that the pain is so much greater - he could take more pain in silence if he had to, does it often enough when he uses his mothpushes on things that are too big to move without feeling like all his bones are on fire - but it feels raw, vulnerable, intimate. The pain is sharp and deep and perfect.
The blood that oozes up is black, more viscous than human blood, something with the shine of squid ink and the texture of tar. It beads up in the little wound, thick as honey, dark as the other side of the stars.
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It certainly doesn't smell human, or like the blood of any other creature he's seen spilled, come to that. Strange but not repugnant. Astarion wants to lick it from his skin regardless of the risk. Wants to sink his teeth into the heart of his darkest bruises.
"Next time, I want a mirror in here," he says, voice a rough purr. "I want you to see how beautiful you look when you're hurting."
He also said he wanted to bleed 'a little', not just once. That distinction earns him another two small wounds at the small of his back, a deep lash crossing the two parallel lines already scored.
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A less cautious partner might stop at this point, but when Jedao makes that sound - when he's all but begging for it - Astarion can't find the restraint.
"Two more, my sweet, and then we're done."
The last two are high and low, across his shoulders and just above his knees, as if framing his work. When he stops, when he crosses the floor to close the distance between himself and Jedao, he feels - almost delirious.
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"So good," he murmurs, not quite slurred, but definitely in a lazier, more contented tone of voice than usual.
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