Jedao yelps at the bright trail of pain that scores across his back. Norton and Hakkai are cheekier and sneakier about it respectively, working up to the real thrashing more gradually, turning really mean in sudden and playful moments.
But Astarion just gives it to him, sharp and brutal, and right now that's everything he wants.
That sharp cry of pain hits him like a mouthful of blood, heady and decadent, and he knows immediately that this was the right decision. This is what he wants, right now - to feel in control, empowered.
"That's perfect, pet-"
And it's clear enough that Jedao doesn't want or expect the slightest bit of mercy. He brings the cane down again and again, drawing bright lines horizontally across his ass and thighs and back - then changes the angle, slashing across them, bringing up little sharp welts where the strokes meet.
Jedao hisses and yowls and gasps, twitches and thrashes in the restraints, never quite sure if he's arching away from the strikes or into them. His body stops being an ill-fitting reminder of Jedao One, stops being the gruesome crux of his unbelonging, oozing and inhuman under the skin, but too crippled as a moth to fly away. His body stops being anything except a canvas for pain, a place where he feels whatever Astarion makes him feel, a shuddering chalice of fire. He's hard by the second stroke; soon Jedao sinks into the steadily mounting pain, fierce and relentless, the same way he might slip into a scalding bath.
It's a level of agony he could easily ignore if he had to, if he had to work through it, fight through it - but he doesn't have to. He doesn't have to do anything but yield to it, let it pull apart all the precarious chunks of him that he normally has to hold constantly together. All the things he's worried about, all his little bitter miseries and self-loathing failures and intractable conundrums just - drown, slowly, and go quiet in the steady patter of fresh pain washing over him.
Then Astarion starts criss-crossing the strokes, bringing up fresh vortices of pain, like knots in woodgrain, like scattered stars. Jedao sinks deeper into it, almost melting into the cross, hands flexing and clenching uselessly as he shudders and ripples and moans.
The first time they had done this, Astarion had briefly wondered about the possibility that he wouldn't enjoy it. He knows himself well enough to be aware that he gets a kick out of hurting others, but - well - he'd wondered if things like 'consent' and 'boundaries' might make it less fun. When his targets were interested in rougher play, it left him cold.
But he'd been wrong last time and he's certain of it now. The way Jedao's body moves, the way his whole affect changes, the sounds he makes in the throes of pain - it's nothing short of delicious. However strange his blood, he can drink in his suffering like wine. Feel his nerves sing with arousal.
He steps to one side. Jedao has told him that he can't do him harm in the way he could a human or similar, and it's hard not to take that as an invitation. His sides, the skin over his ribs and kidneys, the spots he'd usually avoid - he's no gentler with the cane, bringing it down with the same merciless strokes.
Jedao shouts for it, shocked even though he shouldn't be. Hakkai knows full well Jedao can walk off bullet wounds, but he's still careful about not wanting to damage him. It doesn't feel worse, but it feels different, the harshness of the strike over his ribs, with the bone so close to the skin, like his flesh is being hammered out like foil.
Something - something human, something older than he is, Jedao One's old assassin's instincts in his brain, feels the strike over the vulnerable flesh of his kidneys and immediately crows an alarm. That's not just pain but danger. He needs to curl up, or lash out, he needs to protect that, says the part of his brain that used to bother taking cover in a firefight.
No, I don't, Jedao tells it. No I don't. I can take it. I can take anything.
But knowing it is not the same as feeling it; the queasy roller-coaster thrill of vulnerability is a shocking sensation, a sense of helplessness that bondage alone has never given him, a new sideways dimension of pain, like numbers opening up into the imaginary plane. He likes it - he's pretty sure he likes it - but it is - well. Complex. He doesn't have enough air in his lungs to laugh at his own very stupid math joke.
"Oh fuck," he wheezes instead, squeezes his hands tight on nothing. "Stars, fuck -" he's being beaten, not just indulged, and he gulps down huge breaths of air he doesn't actually need.
Astarion pauses, and his fingertips trail lightly over a patch of skin he hasn't ruined. The timbre of his voice has - changed, and he's not sure if it's a change for better or worse or neither.
Jedao shivers at the tiny touch, pants softly, tries to get his bearings enough to put the feeling into words. Without an influx of new strikes, the existing blanket of welts draping his back from shoulders to knees makes itself vividly known, a warm, grounding, surrounding throb.
"Not bad, but - more intense? Good-scary." Or scary-good, or - "Not too much, but, close to it, maybe? I think you couldn't get to too much on my back, but maybe you could, there, if you - stayed on it for awhile."
"We can't have that," he murmurs. "After all, if you're thinking about
whether it's more than you can take, you're thinking."
Which is a step away from the intentions of this whole affair. He squeezes
Jedao's waist, deliberately putting pressure on a few marks, then touches
the waistband of his trousers.
"I'm going to move down. Through your clothes, or without them?"
Jedao squeaks when Astarion bites his ear, hips jerking unmistakably.
It's a relief not to decide; being torn between wanting bare skin and worrying about being exposed isn't his quandry anymore. The fabric of his uniform trousers dulls a tiny bit of the zingy shock of the whip biting into bare skin, but it means the thudding, bruising impact of Astarion's strength into the deep muscle aches all the more clearly. Jedao goes liquid and boneless under the blow, moaning again in a long, continuous sound of pleasure.
He's not that strong. Certainly, Astarion knows the kind of people who'd
be able to break this cane over a partner's limbs. But he's got technique
in spades, and it's easy to push himself to the limits of what he's capable
of when Jedao is begging for more with every noise that escapes him.
He works his way from his ass to just above his knees, randomly, not giving
him any chance to guess where the next blow will land. Not just solid
stripes across both legs but glancing strikes across his outer thighs, his
slim hips. He can almost see the bruises blossoming on his skin.
Jedao is quivering constantly by the end of it, legs and arms trembling, the arc of his body sagging so that almost all of his weight is on his chest and belly where he's leaning on the cross, or else his wrists, which are starting to feel sore but not numb, thanks to Astarion's earlier care. He's desperately hard now, and if he were still thinking he'd be self-conscious about it, worried about whether Astarion wants him to come under the strikes or not, but he's not thinking anymore, so it doesn't matter. He's only feeling, and whatever happens to his body happens.
He's groaning, constantly, deep visceral noises and soft mewling cries. The ache and heat and sting of it are starting to melt into the pleasure, so that it's harder for Jedao to even tell them apart; no longer cause and effect, jolt and thrill, but a single overwhelming sensation, a glorious throng.
If he does come, Astarion would consider it nothing short of high praise. It feels bizarre to be as aroused as he is, to know that Jedao is aroused as he is, and not to touch him. Bizarre, but good. Having this level of control feels phenomenal.
"You're perfect." His voice is almost a growl. "You are astonishing, good gods-"
A few more hard strikes, working back up to exposed skin, and then - the barest brush of a dagger's blade, fine-honed, pressing just hard enough against a dark welt to open an inch-long wound and bring up that strange black blood.
He drags the dagger down his back, slowly, with enough control that it only
parts the top few layers of skin - unless it's crossing an existing harsh
stroke left by the cane, and that's where the blood oozes up again.
When the edge of the dagger hits a particularly nasty weal, it's like a spark hitting gasoline. He's nothing but sensation, nothing but fuel, and he ignites in an instant. He comes in his pants, loudly, suddenly, utterly; he's been overwhelmed in the best way and suddenly all the built-up pleasure is rushing through him, inevitable and ecstatic.
He tries to hold himself still for Astarion, even through the utter white-out of his mind, by instinct and by sheer luck; it happens so abruptly he barely has time to move, except for a tiny shudder that brings up the blood just a little bit more.
Astarion sheaths the knife quickly but he presses close with his body
instead, his chest crushed to the black and blue tapestry of Jedao's back,
his own hardness obvious against his ass. He doesn't care about that. All
he wants is to feel Jedao shuddering against him as those crossed wires of
pain and pleasure cut him to pieces.
He wails as Astarion presses against him, setting every nick and welt and bruise on his back searing and singing again, fresh all over again, all at once. He can feel Astarion's dick and that's perfect too, proof even more incontrovertible than Astarion's purring praise that he wants this, wants Jedao like this. It's also, just, so hot. As soon as the knife is gone the little subconscious switch in his mind is free to move, and his shudders get bigger, wilder, the orgasm going on and on as if it might shake him apart.
"Noyou," Jedao slurs, breathelessly, when it's finally over. He's hanging between the cuffs and the press of Astarion's body but he feels like he's floating. "Youperfct."
He wouldn't have minded if Astarion wanted to keep going, blissed-out on endorphins as he is. You can do anything you want to me, whispers a flash of memory, in his own voice, tinged with a desperation that feels as far away as the universe it came from, and it disappears again into the fog of aching contentment.
He loves the feeling of Astarion's arms holding him, and when his wrists are released he lets them drift down, shakily, as he slowly leans more of his weight back against Astarion's chest - which puts more pressure on all the welts and bruises, causing him to shudder and moan all over again.
"The gods themselves sent you to test me," Astarion sighs, in lieu of doing anything more unwise involving his extreme levels of interest in the way he's moving, the sounds he's making. "Don't tell anybody I'm being nice, people might develop expectations. My niceness is highly selective."
He very, very gradually starts helping Jedao away from the saltire and towards the soft furniture, a little less sure of himself in caretaking - moreso now than last time, given that this was rather more intense.
Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
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"How marvellously appropriate - so do I," Astarion murmurs, then takes a step away.
The first blow comes about three and a half breaths later, as hard as he can make it, right across the small of Jedao's back.
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But Astarion just gives it to him, sharp and brutal, and right now that's everything he wants.
"Fuck! Oh fuck, please yes -"
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That sharp cry of pain hits him like a mouthful of blood, heady and decadent, and he knows immediately that this was the right decision. This is what he wants, right now - to feel in control, empowered.
"That's perfect, pet-"
And it's clear enough that Jedao doesn't want or expect the slightest bit of mercy. He brings the cane down again and again, drawing bright lines horizontally across his ass and thighs and back - then changes the angle, slashing across them, bringing up little sharp welts where the strokes meet.
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It's a level of agony he could easily ignore if he had to, if he had to work through it, fight through it - but he doesn't have to. He doesn't have to do anything but yield to it, let it pull apart all the precarious chunks of him that he normally has to hold constantly together. All the things he's worried about, all his little bitter miseries and self-loathing failures and intractable conundrums just - drown, slowly, and go quiet in the steady patter of fresh pain washing over him.
Then Astarion starts criss-crossing the strokes, bringing up fresh vortices of pain, like knots in woodgrain, like scattered stars. Jedao sinks deeper into it, almost melting into the cross, hands flexing and clenching uselessly as he shudders and ripples and moans.
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The first time they had done this, Astarion had briefly wondered about the possibility that he wouldn't enjoy it. He knows himself well enough to be aware that he gets a kick out of hurting others, but - well - he'd wondered if things like 'consent' and 'boundaries' might make it less fun. When his targets were interested in rougher play, it left him cold.
But he'd been wrong last time and he's certain of it now. The way Jedao's body moves, the way his whole affect changes, the sounds he makes in the throes of pain - it's nothing short of delicious. However strange his blood, he can drink in his suffering like wine. Feel his nerves sing with arousal.
He steps to one side. Jedao has told him that he can't do him harm in the way he could a human or similar, and it's hard not to take that as an invitation. His sides, the skin over his ribs and kidneys, the spots he'd usually avoid - he's no gentler with the cane, bringing it down with the same merciless strokes.
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Something - something human, something older than he is, Jedao One's old assassin's instincts in his brain, feels the strike over the vulnerable flesh of his kidneys and immediately crows an alarm. That's not just pain but danger. He needs to curl up, or lash out, he needs to protect that, says the part of his brain that used to bother taking cover in a firefight.
No, I don't, Jedao tells it. No I don't. I can take it. I can take anything.
But knowing it is not the same as feeling it; the queasy roller-coaster thrill of vulnerability is a shocking sensation, a sense of helplessness that bondage alone has never given him, a new sideways dimension of pain, like numbers opening up into the imaginary plane. He likes it - he's pretty sure he likes it - but it is - well. Complex. He doesn't have enough air in his lungs to laugh at his own very stupid math joke.
"Oh fuck," he wheezes instead, squeezes his hands tight on nothing. "Stars, fuck -" he's being beaten, not just indulged, and he gulps down huge breaths of air he doesn't actually need.
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Astarion pauses, and his fingertips trail lightly over a patch of skin he hasn't ruined. The timbre of his voice has - changed, and he's not sure if it's a change for better or worse or neither.
"Too much?" he asks, softly.
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"Not bad, but - more intense? Good-scary." Or scary-good, or - "Not too much, but, close to it, maybe? I think you couldn't get to too much on my back, but maybe you could, there, if you - stayed on it for awhile."
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"We can't have that," he murmurs. "After all, if you're thinking about whether it's more than you can take, you're thinking."
Which is a step away from the intentions of this whole affair. He squeezes Jedao's waist, deliberately putting pressure on a few marks, then touches the waistband of his trousers.
"I'm going to move down. Through your clothes, or without them?"
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Thinking. Question. Butt.
"...choices hard," Jedao manages, strangled.
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Astarion laughs softly, without (much) mockery, and nips his earlobe.
"Understood. Next time I shall ask before we start."
But for now, he steps back and hits him across the ass like he wants to split his damned clothes right open.
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It's a relief not to decide; being torn between wanting bare skin and worrying about being exposed isn't his quandry anymore. The fabric of his uniform trousers dulls a tiny bit of the zingy shock of the whip biting into bare skin, but it means the thudding, bruising impact of Astarion's strength into the deep muscle aches all the more clearly. Jedao goes liquid and boneless under the blow, moaning again in a long, continuous sound of pleasure.
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"You sound absolutely delicious, darling."
He's not that strong. Certainly, Astarion knows the kind of people who'd be able to break this cane over a partner's limbs. But he's got technique in spades, and it's easy to push himself to the limits of what he's capable of when Jedao is begging for more with every noise that escapes him.
He works his way from his ass to just above his knees, randomly, not giving him any chance to guess where the next blow will land. Not just solid stripes across both legs but glancing strikes across his outer thighs, his slim hips. He can almost see the bruises blossoming on his skin.
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He's groaning, constantly, deep visceral noises and soft mewling cries. The ache and heat and sting of it are starting to melt into the pleasure, so that it's harder for Jedao to even tell them apart; no longer cause and effect, jolt and thrill, but a single overwhelming sensation, a glorious throng.
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If he does come, Astarion would consider it nothing short of high praise. It feels bizarre to be as aroused as he is, to know that Jedao is aroused as he is, and not to touch him. Bizarre, but good. Having this level of control feels phenomenal.
"You're perfect." His voice is almost a growl. "You are astonishing, good gods-"
A few more hard strikes, working back up to exposed skin, and then - the barest brush of a dagger's blade, fine-honed, pressing just hard enough against a dark welt to open an inch-long wound and bring up that strange black blood.
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"Pleasepleasepleaseplease," Jedao begs, barely aware he's even capable of forming words out loud, barely aware what he's asking for, beyond more.
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"You sound so good when you beg."
He drags the dagger down his back, slowly, with enough control that it only parts the top few layers of skin - unless it's crossing an existing harsh stroke left by the cane, and that's where the blood oozes up again.
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He tries to hold himself still for Astarion, even through the utter white-out of his mind, by instinct and by sheer luck; it happens so abruptly he barely has time to move, except for a tiny shudder that brings up the blood just a little bit more.
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Astarion sheaths the knife quickly but he presses close with his body instead, his chest crushed to the black and blue tapestry of Jedao's back, his own hardness obvious against his ass. He doesn't care about that. All he wants is to feel Jedao shuddering against him as those crossed wires of pain and pleasure cut him to pieces.
"Perfect," he purrs in his ear. "Hells, darling."
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"Noyou," Jedao slurs, breathelessly, when it's finally over. He's hanging between the cuffs and the press of Astarion's body but he feels like he's floating. "Youperfct."
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Astarion's laughter is honestly rather gentle.
"I'm going to uncuff your arms and help you get somewhere comfortable so you can rest, pet. Just relax, move in your own time. I've got you."
He's actually going to just hold onto Jedao with both arms and let Mage Hand do the work of opening his cuffs, one by one.
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He wouldn't have minded if Astarion wanted to keep going, blissed-out on endorphins as he is. You can do anything you want to me, whispers a flash of memory, in his own voice, tinged with a desperation that feels as far away as the universe it came from, and it disappears again into the fog of aching contentment.
He loves the feeling of Astarion's arms holding him, and when his wrists are released he lets them drift down, shakily, as he slowly leans more of his weight back against Astarion's chest - which puts more pressure on all the welts and bruises, causing him to shudder and moan all over again.
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"The gods themselves sent you to test me," Astarion sighs, in lieu of doing anything more unwise involving his extreme levels of interest in the way he's moving, the sounds he's making. "Don't tell anybody I'm being nice, people might develop expectations. My niceness is highly selective."
He very, very gradually starts helping Jedao away from the saltire and towards the soft furniture, a little less sure of himself in caretaking - moreso now than last time, given that this was rather more intense.
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Jedao wobbles happily in whatever direction he's nudged. He could pull himself together, if he had to. Surely. I'm a sniper, says an instinct that isn't his, at all. My hands never shake.
But he doesn't have to, and it's glorious. He'll collapse or curl up or sprawl more-or-less wherever Astarion puts him; he's basically high as a kite on his own pain right now.
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Astarion carefully lowers them down onto a sofa, large and plush enough to provide support without applying too much pressure on anything sore. Jedao is directed to, at the very least, not put his entire weight on his back. The Mage Hand is pressed into service to bring a bottle of water, but Astarion isn't going to try to make him drink or position himself in a particular way or - to do anything. All he needs is to rest and bask and not think, and Astarion can breathe deeply in the strange scent of his blood, absorb his shivers of pain and pleasure.
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