"I feel...wonderful, actually. Better than I have for a long time."
Being able to drink his fill, finally, is a highlight of his time here
that nothing is likely to eclipse. But this is so close that it doesn't
feel like more than a white lie.
"I don't think I've ever met someone who hurts as beautifully as you do."
Jedao laughs softly, but there's no bitterness in it, the way there might have been if he felt less sweetly at ease.
"I was made for it, maybe. I can never decide if I want that to be true or not. But I'm glad you like it."
He twists and shuffles a little, turning around to lean back against the arm of the couch, squirming and shuddering a little as the grain of the upholstery scrapes the fresh welts on his back. He beams lazily at Astarion.
"I don't know that I've really had the luxury of developing a favourite,"
he admits - a comment with similar grim undertones. "I'm more used to
using a crop, or a belt when I had nothing else."
And a variety of other tools, for reasons that had everything to do with
pain and nothing to do with pleasure.
"But I do like a whip. The versatility of it, the - performance."
"Not knowing if it would be a stripe or the very point of the cracker -" Jedao shudders happily, then squeaks a little as the motion rubs his back against the couch a little more. He blushes red, hides his face in his hands for a moment before dropping them again, though he's still tinged pink.
"Even if you're just...kind of uncomfortable, but probably it's fine - if you do something because you feel obligated, or you're worried about - anything, I won't forgive myself for that," he clarifies. "I wouldn't trust myself to do this again. And I really want to do it again."
It helps, though, that Astarion already told him no over the cabin change.
Given all this preamble, he'd been almost certain there was a rather more intimate ask coming, and Astarion wouldn't have even had to bite his tongue before saying yes. He's very pretty, after all, and he's provided a much-needed pressure valve for some of his more bloodthirsty urges.
The request he does get is at once easier and also much more...alien. But he simply shifts closer, opening his arms to Jedao to let him make himself as comfortable (or tactically uncomfortable) as he pleases.
Jedao crawls over and settles into Astarion's arms, leaning his head back against Astarion's shoulder. The front of Astarion's shirt is a new texture against his back, and he hisses softly even as he relaxes into it.
Even pleasantly blissed out on endorphins as he is, part of him is still planning. He's not ever going to make the first real move - but he hasn't not noticed Astarion hard in his pants. It's easier to relax, now that he's had that promise.
"We could get a crop. Or something else, if you want to figure out a favorite."
"A crop would stop us needing to leave signs on the door," he chuckles,
reaching up to stroke Jedao's hair. "And I've a perfectly good pair of
hands, of course, though that's a little more...personal."
"I like personal," Jedao admits, breath catching for a moment, although whether it's at the thought or the touch is hard to tell. "What would like to do with your hands?"
His hand settles into a rhythm, fingertips lightly raking over his scalp,
over and and over.
"But I do wonder how you'd take to having your hair pulled, hard, right
at the roots. To feeling your skin caught and twisted between my
fingertips, until it gets so taut it starts to burn. And there are places
that can be made to truly hurt with so much less pressure than you'd
think."
Astarion doesn't remember his childhood at all, really; sometimes his reverie dredges up certain things, but he can never be sure if they're real or imagined. But, again - books, and other people's fantasies.
"It's a lot of people's first experience of being disciplined with anything harder than a sharp word," he murmurs. "That seems to leave quite a strong imprint - no pun intended. And...less abstractly, a person's backside is close to plenty of other sensitive equipment, and a heavy hand makes itself felt through all of it."
"I don't think I'd like to be punished," Jedao murmurs. He's...90% sure. The things he actually feels guilty about, no amount of getting hurt will put a scratch in; the idea of being told he's bad for anything else makes him feel...punchy. Belligerent and cold.
"Just pain." Still, the pure physicality does have an appeal.
Astarion briefly bluescreens just at the question, and it's just as well Jedao is facing away from him because the uncertainty does flicker onto his face for a few moments. Having any veto power in these pastimes is so completely alien as to be almost funny, and it'll take time for it to lose its novelty.
"Honestly, darling? The only things I'd rule out are things I doubt you'd want anyway. I don't find breaking bones or dislocating limbs to be especially pleasurable. And, ah-"
His internal censor needs to be wrestled to the fucking mat for the next sentence. Keep your whore mouth shut give them what they want that's what you're good for that's all you're good for
"There's certain...language I would prefer not to use. A little light degradation can have its place, of course, but I wouldn't want to cross over into anything too...demeaning."
I didn't expect the mating urge to take you so strongly, he remembers, vivid and obscurely crushing, in Revenant's dry, disdainful voice in his mind. My ship called me a slut once, he'd muttered to Hakkai, years later. I think I have a complex about it.
He can't see Astarion's face, but he can feel the twitches of muscle underneath it; it's enough to corroborate some of what he already suspects.
"That you for telling me," Jedao says softly, warmly. "It makes me feel safer, knowing what to be careful about."
It only now dawns on Astarion that when Jedao said 'what things would you not like?', he meant giving and getting. Hm. His fingers keep moving steadily.
"Thank you. There's nothing I'd rule out as the recipient party, anyway, if things ever go in that direction."
What would he rule in? Not answering this question, probably. Inserting a psychic tadpole into his partners' brains so he could pluck out what they wanted without the awkwardness of having to talk about it. Definitely not the low-key existential crisis he has every time someone asks him what he fucking wants, like he's supposed to know.
"...You're being very gentle with me, you know?" he observes. "If that's because you're a warden and I'm not, you can rest assured I'd have no trouble breaking your arm if you touched me in a way I didn't approve of.
"...Well, I might have trouble, I have no idea about your physiology. But certainly no hesitation."
And as far as he knows, the only person who the previous flood taught anything about his sex life was John Doe.
"Mostly I'm being gentle with you because I can tell that's a hard question for you," Jedao says quietly. "I-"
For a moment, his voice fails completely, as though crushed out like an ant by a massive thumb, acrid in its silence.
He really, really doesn't want to trust Astarion with this. He doesn't want to tell anyone. He hasn't told Eiffel. He didn't choose to tell Norton, although he knows.
"I once mistook someone's eagerness to please me for real desire," he says quietly. His voice is a little bit wooden, a little far away. It almost feels like the warm ache of his back and the fingertips against his neck are the only things holding him in his body. Astarion could hurt him very badly, with that knowledge - let alone what he can extrapolate from it, in conjunction with Jedao's behavior.
"It is...one of the greatest regrets of my life. So I try to be careful with everyone, really. And if the only thing you want to rule in is hurting me just like this, I'll be perfectly delighted with that, every time."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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"How about you?"
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"I feel...wonderful, actually. Better than I have for a long time."
Being able to drink his fill, finally, is a highlight of his time here that nothing is likely to eclipse. But this is so close that it doesn't feel like more than a white lie.
"I don't think I've ever met someone who hurts as beautifully as you do."
And that is true.
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"I was made for it, maybe. I can never decide if I want that to be true or not. But I'm glad you like it."
He twists and shuffles a little, turning around to lean back against the arm of the couch, squirming and shuddering a little as the grain of the upholstery scrapes the fresh welts on his back. He beams lazily at Astarion.
"Is the whip your favorite?"
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"I don't know that I've really had the luxury of developing a favourite," he admits - a comment with similar grim undertones. "I'm more used to using a crop, or a belt when I had nothing else."
And a variety of other tools, for reasons that had everything to do with pain and nothing to do with pleasure.
"But I do like a whip. The versatility of it, the - performance."
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"Anyway, you're marvelous."
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"Thank you, darling."
It's an easy compliment to accept - the kind he's been given many times before, albeit often by people who were about to die, or so he'd thought.
"Is there - anything I can do for you?"
Aftercare isn't his strongest suit - see 'about to die' - but he's read books, he knows it's a thing?
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"Will you promise me something? Promise me, if I ask for something you don't want to do, you'll tell me no."
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Astarion is silent for a few moments, weighing the question.
"...I promise."
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"Even if you're just...kind of uncomfortable, but probably it's fine - if you do something because you feel obligated, or you're worried about - anything, I won't forgive myself for that," he clarifies. "I wouldn't trust myself to do this again. And I really want to do it again."
It helps, though, that Astarion already told him no over the cabin change.
"Just hold me for a little while?"
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Given all this preamble, he'd been almost certain there was a rather more intimate ask coming, and Astarion wouldn't have even had to bite his tongue before saying yes. He's very pretty, after all, and he's provided a much-needed pressure valve for some of his more bloodthirsty urges.
The request he does get is at once easier and also much more...alien. But he simply shifts closer, opening his arms to Jedao to let him make himself as comfortable (or tactically uncomfortable) as he pleases.
"As long a while as you need, my dear."
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Even pleasantly blissed out on endorphins as he is, part of him is still planning. He's not ever going to make the first real move - but he hasn't not noticed Astarion hard in his pants. It's easier to relax, now that he's had that promise.
"We could get a crop. Or something else, if you want to figure out a favorite."
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"A crop would stop us needing to leave signs on the door," he chuckles, reaching up to stroke Jedao's hair. "And I've a perfectly good pair of hands, of course, though that's a little more...personal."
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"Mm. Spanking is cliché, obviously, but some things are classics for a reason."
His hand settles into a rhythm, fingertips lightly raking over his scalp, over and and over.
"But I do wonder how you'd take to having your hair pulled, hard, right at the roots. To feeling your skin caught and twisted between my fingertips, until it gets so taut it starts to burn. And there are places that can be made to truly hurt with so much less pressure than you'd think."
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"I'd like all of that, I think. Although I've never entirely understood why spanking is a classic."
His experience of punishment started with being shot in the head and confined to the brig; there's no childhood discipline rooted in his psyche.
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Astarion doesn't remember his childhood at all, really; sometimes his reverie dredges up certain things, but he can never be sure if they're real or imagined. But, again - books, and other people's fantasies.
"It's a lot of people's first experience of being disciplined with anything harder than a sharp word," he murmurs. "That seems to leave quite a strong imprint - no pun intended. And...less abstractly, a person's backside is close to plenty of other sensitive equipment, and a heavy hand makes itself felt through all of it."
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"Just pain." Still, the pure physicality does have an appeal.
"What things would you not like?"
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Astarion briefly bluescreens just at the question, and it's just as well Jedao is facing away from him because the uncertainty does flicker onto his face for a few moments. Having any veto power in these pastimes is so completely alien as to be almost funny, and it'll take time for it to lose its novelty.
"Honestly, darling? The only things I'd rule out are things I doubt you'd want anyway. I don't find breaking bones or dislocating limbs to be especially pleasurable. And, ah-"
His internal censor needs to be wrestled to the fucking mat for the next sentence. Keep your whore mouth shut give them what they want that's what you're good for that's all you're good for
"There's certain...language I would prefer not to use. A little light degradation can have its place, of course, but I wouldn't want to cross over into anything too...demeaning."
fucking coward
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He can't see Astarion's face, but he can feel the twitches of muscle underneath it; it's enough to corroborate some of what he already suspects.
"That you for telling me," Jedao says softly, warmly. "It makes me feel safer, knowing what to be careful about."
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"Oh, I don't mind at all what you say to me."
Astarion's tone is warm, too, and amused. Two fingertips draw circles around the nape of Jedao's neck.
"There are just certain sticks I'd prefer not to beat others with."
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He might like it, he thinks, if it were calibrated just right; something to save for Eiffel and Hakkai, then.
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It only now dawns on Astarion that when Jedao said 'what things would you not like?', he meant giving and getting. Hm. His fingers keep moving steadily.
"Thank you. There's nothing I'd rule out as the recipient party, anyway, if things ever go in that direction."
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What would he rule in? Not answering this question, probably. Inserting a psychic tadpole into his partners' brains so he could pluck out what they wanted without the awkwardness of having to talk about it. Definitely not the low-key existential crisis he has every time someone asks him what he fucking wants, like he's supposed to know.
"...You're being very gentle with me, you know?" he observes. "If that's because you're a warden and I'm not, you can rest assured I'd have no trouble breaking your arm if you touched me in a way I didn't approve of.
"...Well, I might have trouble, I have no idea about your physiology. But certainly no hesitation."
And as far as he knows, the only person who the previous flood taught anything about his sex life was John Doe.
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For a moment, his voice fails completely, as though crushed out like an ant by a massive thumb, acrid in its silence.
He really, really doesn't want to trust Astarion with this. He doesn't want to tell anyone. He hasn't told Eiffel. He didn't choose to tell Norton, although he knows.
"I once mistook someone's eagerness to please me for real desire," he says quietly. His voice is a little bit wooden, a little far away. It almost feels like the warm ache of his back and the fingertips against his neck are the only things holding him in his body. Astarion could hurt him very badly, with that knowledge - let alone what he can extrapolate from it, in conjunction with Jedao's behavior.
"It is...one of the greatest regrets of my life. So I try to be careful with everyone, really. And if the only thing you want to rule in is hurting me just like this, I'll be perfectly delighted with that, every time."
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