"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.
"You were," Astarion tells him, returning the smile almost in spite of himself - though it's a little sharper around the edges than Jedao's. He doesn't look flushed or exerted in any way; he is hard, and the snug leathers do nothing to conceal that fact, but he's decided he'll resolve that when he's alone or just let it go away. He's satisfied with what he's gotten from this.
"Not just good. You are exceptional, pet." His response to that word earlier was noted.
He shivers for it, eyes ducking down for a moment, sweet-shy rather really embarrassed.
"Help me to the couch?" he asks, wavering just a little as he finally lets go of the cuffs, flexing his hands a few times, Astarion wouldn't have come this close if he really didn't want to touch, Jedao figures.
"Of course. I'll have to touch your shoulders to support you, but - I don't think you'll mind that much, mm?
Just lean on me, darling."
He slides his arm under Jedao's, and he's definitely going to get some of that strange viscous blood on his sleeve, but so long as it isn't acidic he doesn't much mind. Couchward it is.
"No, I don't mind," Jedao agrees, and he makes another soft squirming noise in his throat when Astarion touches his raw skin, but he still leans into it. He doesn't really need the support, slightly wobbly or not, but he does need the touch, needs to feel grounded and wanted while he's exposed in multiple ways.
On the couch, he sits in the middle, on his side, one leg tucked under him, giving Astarion the choice to sit facing him, or behind him with continued access to his back.
Astarion sits behind him, keeping close, gently rubbing one hand up and
down his arm. The other gently traces a fingertip along the welts and
circles the bruises, bringing their sting up fresh.
"Fantastic," he murmurs, humming happily at the touch, although he scoots forward just a little so that he can lean forward and settle himself against the arm of the couch, head pillowed on his arms.
"Feeling...quiet? Good quiet. A little floaty." He's still hard, too, but there's nothing urgent about it. After a good thrashing his brain shuts up and there's nothing urgent about anything. It's a wonderful relief.
Astarion doesn't know of any word for what Jedao is feeling, and he's never
experienced it himself, but he's encountered it in other people. It sounds
nice. A temporary escape.
He knows better than to do anything much to disturb him, though eventually
his hand falls away from his back, the other just resting lightly on an
untouched patch of his shoulder.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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"You were," Astarion tells him, returning the smile almost in spite of himself - though it's a little sharper around the edges than Jedao's. He doesn't look flushed or exerted in any way; he is hard, and the snug leathers do nothing to conceal that fact, but he's decided he'll resolve that when he's alone or just let it go away. He's satisfied with what he's gotten from this.
"Not just good. You are exceptional, pet." His response to that word earlier was noted.
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"Help me to the couch?" he asks, wavering just a little as he finally lets go of the cuffs, flexing his hands a few times, Astarion wouldn't have come this close if he really didn't want to touch, Jedao figures.
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"Of course. I'll have to touch your shoulders to support you, but - I don't think you'll mind that much, mm? Just lean on me, darling."
He slides his arm under Jedao's, and he's definitely going to get some of that strange viscous blood on his sleeve, but so long as it isn't acidic he doesn't much mind. Couchward it is.
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On the couch, he sits in the middle, on his side, one leg tucked under him, giving Astarion the choice to sit facing him, or behind him with continued access to his back.
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Astarion sits behind him, keeping close, gently rubbing one hand up and down his arm. The other gently traces a fingertip along the welts and circles the bruises, bringing their sting up fresh.
"Tell me how you're feeling, my sweet?"
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"Feeling...quiet? Good quiet. A little floaty." He's still hard, too, but there's nothing urgent about it. After a good thrashing his brain shuts up and there's nothing urgent about anything. It's a wonderful relief.
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Astarion doesn't know of any word for what Jedao is feeling, and he's never experienced it himself, but he's encountered it in other people. It sounds nice. A temporary escape.
He knows better than to do anything much to disturb him, though eventually his hand falls away from his back, the other just resting lightly on an untouched patch of his shoulder.
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