mickume/dnd_drow · Datasets at Hugging Face

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His fingers itch for the Blood’s comforting grip, but he had to stow it in his pack for this. The mace’s light would only draw the wrong kind of attention.
Torches flicker against the slick walls of the Moonrise dungeons. It stinks down here, a heavy stench of old gore and fresh terror. Out of the corner of his eye, Tav keeps seeing Astarion’s nose twitch, like he’s picking up so many different blood trails he can’t keep track.
"Are they here?" Tav whispers in Astarion’s ear as he watches Wyll and Shadowheart creep away, down the corridor toward the alcove where they’ll wait until it’s time to approach the cells. "Cal and Lia and the rest?"
"I’m good, darling, but not that good. Perhaps if I’d tasted one or the both of them. No, all I can tell you is that a lot of perfectly good blood has gone to waste down here. It’s sickening."
Astarion doesn’t look the least bit nauseous. There’s a hungry light dancing in his eyes, and Tav isn’t sure why. But he can’t worry about that now.
"It’s time for that distraction," Tav says. "Got any ideas?"
Astarion smirks, and oh, that’s a dangerous look indeed. "Don’t I always?"
His hand closes around Tav’s gauntleted wrist and he tugs Tav down the corridor, after Shadowheart and Wyll—who are out of sight now, according to plan. Tav’s tense, but he trusts Astarion, too. Probably too much.
Around the corner, he spots the smooth curve of a hovering black orb, gliding slowly through the dense air. "I see one. Coming this way."
Astarion’s grip tightens. "Good. Now. Just like we practiced."
"Practiced? We didn’t—"
Tav’s back slams against the wall. His armor takes the impact, but the crack of his skull against the stone dazes him. Astarion’s lips are at his neck. One hand pins Tav’s wrist to the wall, close enough to a torch bracket that he can feel the searing heat of the flames across his knuckles. The other hand is on Tav’s hip. He kisses a trail along the ridge of Tav’s jaw, letting Tav feel the hard press of his teeth.
This is not what they practiced. Not in the least. Fucking hells.
"Astarion," Tav gasps, and it’s not playacting or a protest, but something in between. Blood roars in his ears. He can't catch his breath from that shove.
"Don’t look at the orb until I say," Astarion growls against his throat. "Close your eyes."
Gods. Fuck. Tav has to trust him. No other choice.
Tav squeezes his eyes shut and every other sensation intensifies. Astarion’s mouth suckling under his jaw, no doubt leaving a bruise. The torch flame. Cold fingers worming between his belt and his waist. Astarion’s hip braced between his legs; the scabbard of one of his daggers digging into the flesh of Tav’s thigh.
The way Astarion can make him feel so many things at once is... gods, it’s nothing short of masterful. Tav’s never ready for it.
It’s by far the best part of being alive. And the worst.
"Is it watching?" Tav whispers raggedly.
Astarion breaks away from his skin with a wet pop. "No one could take their eyes off you. You’re doing splendidly."
Tav’s not doing anything at all. He’s helpless, pinned like a butterfly to paper. His head is thrown back; his mouth is open, his breath coming hard and fast. His free hand grasps at the stonework, desperate to touch Astarion somewhere, but he doesn’t want to distract Astarion from his task. The plan. Whatever that is.
Astarion shifts his weight, rolling his hip experimentally across Tav’s groin. He makes a low sound of amusement. "Already hard, love? That was quick."
Godsdammit, what in the hells is his plan? For Tav to fight his way through the prison guards drunk on lust and hard enough to cut glass? If Astarion really wanted Tav to stop focusing on him and pay attention to their enemies instead, he’s going about it all wrong.
"You’re—" Tav starts to say. Then Astarion’s hand abruptly relocates from his waist to his earlobe and pinches. The rest of Tav’s sentence dissolves into a whimper.
"Look now," Astarion whispers. "Just a glance. Don’t be obvious."
Tav cracks his eyes open. The scrying eye hovers just a few paces past Astarion’s shoulder. Black fog writhes in its depths.
Tav only means to take a fleeting glimpse, like Astarion said. But a shiver runs through his whole body as he gazes into the orb. For a moment he can feel a presence within, staring back. His tadpole squirms in recognition.
Gods, there really is a person behind that eye—sitting leagues away perhaps, watching Astarion reduce Tav to a mewling, panting mess against this damp stone wall.
"It’s here," Tav breathes.
"We’ll have to lure it away," Astarion says. "That empty room we passed will do nicely. Just act naturally, and keep your eyes on me. You aren’t still looking, are you?"
Tav tears his eyes away. "No. No. I’m with you."
Astarion leads him by the hand, back the way they came. Tav wishes he had time to stop and adjust himself; every step sends pain throbbing through his crotch, and not the kind he likes. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder.
They tumble into a small chamber that must be a storeroom, though Tav can’t guess what’s in all the crates and barrels and he doesn’t have a chance to look.
Astarion leaves the door ajar—of course. He snaps his fingers and points wordlessly at a barrel.
There’s no light in here. Tav can’t see Astarion’s expression, can’t tell how he truly feels about this—whether he’s playing this role because it suits him, or because the situation requires it. But Tav is certainly suited to following orders. In fact, the wave of relief he feels at finally giving up command is immense.
It’s also dangerous. He can’t afford to relinquish control over this situation; it isn’t just him and Astarion at risk, it’s Wyll and Shadowheart and all of the prisoners as well. As much as Tav hates to admit it, he’s not confident of Astarion’s priorities. He’s even less confident about them than his own.
But for now, Tav understands that they need to keep the distraction going. The plan is underway, and for better or worse, he can’t abandon the script.
Tav sits on the barrel. It’s not comfortable; the metal rim cuts into the backs of his thighs and his feet don’t touch the floor. But that ceases to matter as soon as Astarion steps toward him and rests a hand on each of Tav’s knees.
"It’s not here yet," Tav says quietly. Gods, his breathing is out of control.
"Shh." Astarion pushes his legs apart. There’s a faint, barely perceptible glow to his red eyes; it’s all Tav can see in the dark. "It’ll come. If I were its master, I wouldn’t miss this show for the world."
"How far exactly are you—"
Tav falls silent. The orb is here. He only catches a glimpse of it as it glides smoothly through the open door; then Astarion grabs a fistful of Tav’s hair and yanks his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling.
Tav’s back arches, a gasp of pain escaping him, and Astarion’s hand is right where it needs to be—palming the hard swell of his erection, keeping him firmly in place with a pressure that borders on agony.
"Don’t move." Astarion’s voice is different. Cold, authoritative. He doesn’t sound like himself at all. "Don’t look at me. If you make a sound, you’ll regret it."
Gods below. Tav’s body responds to that tone on instinct; he locks up like he’s been hit with a petrification spell, screaming muscles be damned. Astarion’s not even the one who conditioned him for this, but somehow he knows. How?
The only sound in the room is Tav’s ragged breath and the quiet hum of the watching orb. The silence stretches. Tav realizes, faintly, that Astarion’s waiting to see if he’ll break.
He won’t. He’s held more painful positions than this for much longer. But the delay gives Tav’s mind a chance to recover from the initial shock of that voice. He can’t slip under—not here, and not with Astarion.
He won’t make that mistake again.
"Good," Astarion says softly.
Tav’s cock pulses, pushing in vain against Astarion’s hand. It’s the one muscle Tav can’t control. But Astarion doesn’t punish him for it. He releases his grip on Tav’s hair; Tav shudders with equal parts relief and loss.
"Close your eyes. Undress me."
Ordinarily Tav wouldn’t think twice about either of those commands. Tav trusts Astarion to a certain degree: Astarion won’t kill him and he won’t put him out of commission when there’s blood to be shed. But these days, there’s always the specter of Astarion’s safety hanging over Tav.
Astarion’s not a willing player in his own games; Tav’s known that for weeks. Devastatingly, he still hasn’t found a way to make Astarion stop. To break him free.
All Tav can do is watch every move and do his best to sidestep disaster.
Close your eyes. Well, that one’s simple. If Tav looks at the orb, the jig is up.
Undress me. Highly suspect. If Tav needs to humiliate himself in front of an unknown watcher for this plan to succeed, that’s fine. Not ideal, but fine. But he won’t let Astarion offer his own body up as a sacrifice.
Decision made. Tav swallows hard. Disobedience isn’t in his nature; disappointing Astarion goes against every single one of his instincts, save one. The most important one of all. His driving impulse, his unspoken vow.
Protect Astarion.
"No," Tav says. "I won’t do that."
Beat of silence. Oh, Tav’s so fucked.
"I must not have heard you properly, pet," Astarion says calmly. "I’m quite sure I shouldn’t have heard you at all. Undress me. I won’t ask again."
Fuck, fuck, fuck. The orb’s still here—Tav can hear it whirring—but it won’t stick around if he and Astarion sink into an argument. There’s no time for a power struggle. Tav has his part assigned already. He just has to find a safer way to play it.
Well. Safer for Astarion. Not so much for Tav.
"I can’t. I haven’t earned it. I don’t deserve it."
"Do you have something to confess?" Astarion’s voice is chilling, but Tav feels a wave of relief all the same. It’s a path forward, an opened door.
"Yes. Yes, I’m sick. I'm not pure. You need to bleed me."
"Hmm." Astarion strokes a single finger down Tav’s erection, through his breeches. Tav can’t see it; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. "I suppose that might work."
Tav doesn’t know if he’s still in character, or if he means it’ll work to keep the scrying eye distracted. It doesn’t really matter.
"Take off your clothes. All of them. I need to see what I’m doing."
Astarion doesn’t have to ask twice for this. Tav fumbles with the straps on his jerkin. It takes longer than he’d like to do it by feel alone. Astarion makes no move to help.
Finally , he’s naked. And as Tav settles back onto the barrel, he feels a sharp pressure and wetness running down his thighs. It’s the barrel’s steel-wrapped rim cutting into his flesh. Tav can’t smell the blood, not over the odor of rot that clogs the air down here. But surely Astarion can.
"You’ve started without me." Oh, yes. Tav can hear the darkness in Astarion’s voice, the eternal ache of his hunger. "It’s only fair that you should finish without me, too."
Tav could kiss him. Astarion might see this as a punishment, but to Tav it’s a godsend. He can handle this distraction all on his own, whatever it might cost him, and Astarion won’t have to lift another finger. He’s safe.
"I need a knife," Tav says hoarsely.
Astarion puts one in his hand. His own throat-cutting dagger, from the weight of it. And Tav senses reluctance in the brush of his fingers, like Astarion’s having second thoughts already.
Trust me now, Tav wishes he could tell him. I’ve got this. I've got you.
He doesn’t waste any time. They’ve stalled long enough.
Tav knows how to start. Always with a high, shallow cut, so there’s plenty of time for blood to run in dark, gleaming rivulets down his chest. It’s as much about the visuals as anything else. The shoulder is best.
Silently, Tav makes the cut. The pain is a sweet, teasing thing. He hardly feels it.
"Let me hear you," Astarion says. "Tell me how it feels."
Strange. If Tav’s not mistaken, that was a plea, not a command. Astarion’s slipped from his role; he’s misplaced his tone of authority. Is he worried? Does he need to hear Tav’s voice to know he’s okay?
"It hurts." Close to a lie, but not quite. His voice trembles with arousal. He hopes Astarion can hear it. "Can I do it again?"
"Yes. And." Hesitation, clear as day. "Use your other hand, pet. On your cock."
What in the hells is going on in Astarion’s head? Tav’s desperate to see his face, but he can’t, not with the orb right over Astarion’s shoulder. He hasn’t earned the privilege of touching himself yet; that isn’t how the scene goes at all. Astarion may not be an expert in this kind of play, despite their forays in the past, but he understands cruelty, doesn’t he? This should be obvious.
Tav wraps his free hand around his cock with a shudder. This isn’t right, but he’ll make the most of it.
Another cut, right under the first. Since Astarion seems uneasy, Tav makes it as shallow as he can; if he takes a potion tonight, it won’t even scar. Tav moves his other hand slowly, trying to get used to the feeling. Fortunately, his body has always been swift to adapt.
"Let me hear you."
Tav moans plaintively. The flow of blood down his chest is an irregular tickle; he rests the blade against his shoulder, waiting for permission to cut a third time. Gods, the pleasure is growing more intense by the moment, and Tav isn’t sure where he feels it more: the cuts or his cock. Or maybe it’s neither of the two, and instead it’s the weight of Astarion’s regard sinking into every part of his body.
"Faster," Astarion says, and yet again he sounds different. Rough. Husky.
Oh, fuck. Tav aches to look at him, to know if he’s hard, if he’s enjoying this. He doesn’t care about putting on a show for the scrying eye anymore. This is for Astarion. Tav loves to bleed for him. He’s almost sure Astarion loves it too.
Almost. That’s as close as he can get, these days.
Tav thumbs the moisture weeping from his cock, spreading it down the shaft, and pumps himself faster. The new rhythm drags another moan from him, less affected than the first, shakier. He’s dissolving. Coming undone, bit by bit.
But it’s not enough.
"Astarion, can I—can I please —"
"You may," Astarion says. "Gently."
His voice hitches on the last word. And Tav’s seized with the sudden, impossible knowledge that Astarion’s touching himself too, if only over the trousers. Even though Tav can’t see him.
Suddenly, Tav’s not sure he needs to make a third cut at all.
"Astarion." His back arches. His heart’s about to pound out of his chest. " Astarion. I have to—I’m going to come."
Astarion’s response is a feral growl that ignites a primitive part of Tav’s brain. The part that knows he’s prey. And then Tav hears a different, far odder series of sounds. A violent crunch, like a sheet of metal collapsing. The resonant thud of something heavy hitting the floor. A sharp intake of breath.

His fingers itch for the Blood’s comforting grip, but he had to stow it in his pack for this. The mace’s light would only draw the wrong kind of attention.

Torches flicker against the slick walls of the Moonrise dungeons. It stinks down here, a heavy stench of old gore and fresh terror. Out of the corner of his eye, Tav keeps seeing Astarion’s nose twitch, like he’s picking up so many different blood trails he can’t keep track.

"Are they here?" Tav whispers in Astarion’s ear as he watches Wyll and Shadowheart creep away, down the corridor toward the alcove where they’ll wait until it’s time to approach the cells. "Cal and Lia and the rest?"

"I’m good, darling, but not that good. Perhaps if I’d tasted one or the both of them. No, all I can tell you is that a lot of perfectly good blood has gone to waste down here. It’s sickening."

Astarion doesn’t look the least bit nauseous. There’s a hungry light dancing in his eyes, and Tav isn’t sure why. But he can’t worry about that now.

"It’s time for that distraction," Tav says. "Got any ideas?"

Astarion smirks, and oh, that’s a dangerous look indeed. "Don’t I always?"

His hand closes around Tav’s gauntleted wrist and he tugs Tav down the corridor, after Shadowheart and Wyll—who are out of sight now, according to plan. Tav’s tense, but he trusts Astarion, too. Probably too much.

Around the corner, he spots the smooth curve of a hovering black orb, gliding slowly through the dense air. "I see one. Coming this way."

Astarion’s grip tightens. "Good. Now. Just like we practiced."

"Practiced? We didn’t—"

Tav’s back slams against the wall. His armor takes the impact, but the crack of his skull against the stone dazes him. Astarion’s lips are at his neck. One hand pins Tav’s wrist to the wall, close enough to a torch bracket that he can feel the searing heat of the flames across his knuckles. The other hand is on Tav’s hip. He kisses a trail along the ridge of Tav’s jaw, letting Tav feel the hard press of his teeth.

This is not what they practiced. Not in the least. Fucking hells.

"Astarion," Tav gasps, and it’s not playacting or a protest, but something in between. Blood roars in his ears. He can't catch his breath from that shove.

"Don’t look at the orb until I say," Astarion growls against his throat. "Close your eyes."

Gods. Fuck. Tav has to trust him. No other choice.

Tav squeezes his eyes shut and every other sensation intensifies. Astarion’s mouth suckling under his jaw, no doubt leaving a bruise. The torch flame. Cold fingers worming between his belt and his waist. Astarion’s hip braced between his legs; the scabbard of one of his daggers digging into the flesh of Tav’s thigh.

The way Astarion can make him feel so many things at once is... gods, it’s nothing short of masterful. Tav’s never ready for it.

It’s by far the best part of being alive. And the worst.

"Is it watching?" Tav whispers raggedly.

Astarion breaks away from his skin with a wet pop. "No one could take their eyes off you. You’re doing splendidly."

Tav’s not doing anything at all. He’s helpless, pinned like a butterfly to paper. His head is thrown back; his mouth is open, his breath coming hard and fast. His free hand grasps at the stonework, desperate to touch Astarion somewhere, but he doesn’t want to distract Astarion from his task. The plan. Whatever that is.

Astarion shifts his weight, rolling his hip experimentally across Tav’s groin. He makes a low sound of amusement. "Already hard, love? That was quick."

Godsdammit, what in the hells is his plan? For Tav to fight his way through the prison guards drunk on lust and hard enough to cut glass? If Astarion really wanted Tav to stop focusing on him and pay attention to their enemies instead, he’s going about it all wrong.

"You’re—" Tav starts to say. Then Astarion’s hand abruptly relocates from his waist to his earlobe and pinches. The rest of Tav’s sentence dissolves into a whimper.

"Look now," Astarion whispers. "Just a glance. Don’t be obvious."

Tav cracks his eyes open. The scrying eye hovers just a few paces past Astarion’s shoulder. Black fog writhes in its depths.

Tav only means to take a fleeting glimpse, like Astarion said. But a shiver runs through his whole body as he gazes into the orb. For a moment he can feel a presence within, staring back. His tadpole squirms in recognition.

Gods, there really is a person behind that eye—sitting leagues away perhaps, watching Astarion reduce Tav to a mewling, panting mess against this damp stone wall.

"It’s here," Tav breathes.

"We’ll have to lure it away," Astarion says. "That empty room we passed will do nicely. Just act naturally, and keep your eyes on me. You aren’t still looking, are you?"

Tav tears his eyes away. "No. No. I’m with you."

Astarion leads him by the hand, back the way they came. Tav wishes he had time to stop and adjust himself; every step sends pain throbbing through his crotch, and not the kind he likes. He doesn’t dare look over his shoulder.

They tumble into a small chamber that must be a storeroom, though Tav can’t guess what’s in all the crates and barrels and he doesn’t have a chance to look.

Astarion leaves the door ajar—of course. He snaps his fingers and points wordlessly at a barrel.

There’s no light in here. Tav can’t see Astarion’s expression, can’t tell how he truly feels about this—whether he’s playing this role because it suits him, or because the situation requires it. But Tav is certainly suited to following orders. In fact, the wave of relief he feels at finally giving up command is immense.

It’s also dangerous. He can’t afford to relinquish control over this situation; it isn’t just him and Astarion at risk, it’s Wyll and Shadowheart and all of the prisoners as well. As much as Tav hates to admit it, he’s not confident of Astarion’s priorities. He’s even less confident about them than his own.

But for now, Tav understands that they need to keep the distraction going. The plan is underway, and for better or worse, he can’t abandon the script.

Tav sits on the barrel. It’s not comfortable; the metal rim cuts into the backs of his thighs and his feet don’t touch the floor. But that ceases to matter as soon as Astarion steps toward him and rests a hand on each of Tav’s knees.

"It’s not here yet," Tav says quietly. Gods, his breathing is out of control.

"Shh." Astarion pushes his legs apart. There’s a faint, barely perceptible glow to his red eyes; it’s all Tav can see in the dark. "It’ll come. If I were its master, I wouldn’t miss this show for the world."

"How far exactly are you—"

Tav falls silent. The orb is here. He only catches a glimpse of it as it glides smoothly through the open door; then Astarion grabs a fistful of Tav’s hair and yanks his head back so he’s staring at the ceiling.

Tav’s back arches, a gasp of pain escaping him, and Astarion’s hand is right where it needs to be—palming the hard swell of his erection, keeping him firmly in place with a pressure that borders on agony.

"Don’t move." Astarion’s voice is different. Cold, authoritative. He doesn’t sound like himself at all. "Don’t look at me. If you make a sound, you’ll regret it."

Gods below. Tav’s body responds to that tone on instinct; he locks up like he’s been hit with a petrification spell, screaming muscles be damned. Astarion’s not even the one who conditioned him for this, but somehow he knows. How?

The only sound in the room is Tav’s ragged breath and the quiet hum of the watching orb. The silence stretches. Tav realizes, faintly, that Astarion’s waiting to see if he’ll break.

He won’t. He’s held more painful positions than this for much longer. But the delay gives Tav’s mind a chance to recover from the initial shock of that voice. He can’t slip under—not here, and not with Astarion.

He won’t make that mistake again.

"Good," Astarion says softly.

Tav’s cock pulses, pushing in vain against Astarion’s hand. It’s the one muscle Tav can’t control. But Astarion doesn’t punish him for it. He releases his grip on Tav’s hair; Tav shudders with equal parts relief and loss.

"Close your eyes. Undress me."

Ordinarily Tav wouldn’t think twice about either of those commands. Tav trusts Astarion to a certain degree: Astarion won’t kill him and he won’t put him out of commission when there’s blood to be shed. But these days, there’s always the specter of Astarion’s safety hanging over Tav.

Astarion’s not a willing player in his own games; Tav’s known that for weeks. Devastatingly, he still hasn’t found a way to make Astarion stop. To break him free.

All Tav can do is watch every move and do his best to sidestep disaster.

Close your eyes. Well, that one’s simple. If Tav looks at the orb, the jig is up.

Undress me. Highly suspect. If Tav needs to humiliate himself in front of an unknown watcher for this plan to succeed, that’s fine. Not ideal, but fine. But he won’t let Astarion offer his own body up as a sacrifice.

Decision made. Tav swallows hard. Disobedience isn’t in his nature; disappointing Astarion goes against every single one of his instincts, save one. The most important one of all. His driving impulse, his unspoken vow.

Protect Astarion.

"No," Tav says. "I won’t do that."

Beat of silence. Oh, Tav’s so fucked.

"I must not have heard you properly, pet," Astarion says calmly. "I’m quite sure I shouldn’t have heard you at all. Undress me. I won’t ask again."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. The orb’s still here—Tav can hear it whirring—but it won’t stick around if he and Astarion sink into an argument. There’s no time for a power struggle. Tav has his part assigned already. He just has to find a safer way to play it.

Well. Safer for Astarion. Not so much for Tav.

"I can’t. I haven’t earned it. I don’t deserve it."

"Do you have something to confess?" Astarion’s voice is chilling, but Tav feels a wave of relief all the same. It’s a path forward, an opened door.

"Yes. Yes, I’m sick. I'm not pure. You need to bleed me."

"Hmm." Astarion strokes a single finger down Tav’s erection, through his breeches. Tav can’t see it; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. "I suppose that might work."

Tav doesn’t know if he’s still in character, or if he means it’ll work to keep the scrying eye distracted. It doesn’t really matter.

"Take off your clothes. All of them. I need to see what I’m doing."

Astarion doesn’t have to ask twice for this. Tav fumbles with the straps on his jerkin. It takes longer than he’d like to do it by feel alone. Astarion makes no move to help.

Finally , he’s naked. And as Tav settles back onto the barrel, he feels a sharp pressure and wetness running down his thighs. It’s the barrel’s steel-wrapped rim cutting into his flesh. Tav can’t smell the blood, not over the odor of rot that clogs the air down here. But surely Astarion can.

"You’ve started without me." Oh, yes. Tav can hear the darkness in Astarion’s voice, the eternal ache of his hunger. "It’s only fair that you should finish without me, too."

Tav could kiss him. Astarion might see this as a punishment, but to Tav it’s a godsend. He can handle this distraction all on his own, whatever it might cost him, and Astarion won’t have to lift another finger. He’s safe.

"I need a knife," Tav says hoarsely.

Astarion puts one in his hand. His own throat-cutting dagger, from the weight of it. And Tav senses reluctance in the brush of his fingers, like Astarion’s having second thoughts already.

Trust me now, Tav wishes he could tell him. I’ve got this. I've got you.

He doesn’t waste any time. They’ve stalled long enough.

Tav knows how to start. Always with a high, shallow cut, so there’s plenty of time for blood to run in dark, gleaming rivulets down his chest. It’s as much about the visuals as anything else. The shoulder is best.

Silently, Tav makes the cut. The pain is a sweet, teasing thing. He hardly feels it.

"Let me hear you," Astarion says. "Tell me how it feels."

Strange. If Tav’s not mistaken, that was a plea, not a command. Astarion’s slipped from his role; he’s misplaced his tone of authority. Is he worried? Does he need to hear Tav’s voice to know he’s okay?

"It hurts." Close to a lie, but not quite. His voice trembles with arousal. He hopes Astarion can hear it. "Can I do it again?"

"Yes. And." Hesitation, clear as day. "Use your other hand, pet. On your cock."

What in the hells is going on in Astarion’s head? Tav’s desperate to see his face, but he can’t, not with the orb right over Astarion’s shoulder. He hasn’t earned the privilege of touching himself yet; that isn’t how the scene goes at all. Astarion may not be an expert in this kind of play, despite their forays in the past, but he understands cruelty, doesn’t he? This should be obvious.

Tav wraps his free hand around his cock with a shudder. This isn’t right, but he’ll make the most of it.

Another cut, right under the first. Since Astarion seems uneasy, Tav makes it as shallow as he can; if he takes a potion tonight, it won’t even scar. Tav moves his other hand slowly, trying to get used to the feeling. Fortunately, his body has always been swift to adapt.

"Let me hear you."

Tav moans plaintively. The flow of blood down his chest is an irregular tickle; he rests the blade against his shoulder, waiting for permission to cut a third time. Gods, the pleasure is growing more intense by the moment, and Tav isn’t sure where he feels it more: the cuts or his cock. Or maybe it’s neither of the two, and instead it’s the weight of Astarion’s regard sinking into every part of his body.

"Faster," Astarion says, and yet again he sounds different. Rough. Husky.

Oh, fuck. Tav aches to look at him, to know if he’s hard, if he’s enjoying this. He doesn’t care about putting on a show for the scrying eye anymore. This is for Astarion. Tav loves to bleed for him. He’s almost sure Astarion loves it too.

Almost. That’s as close as he can get, these days.

Tav thumbs the moisture weeping from his cock, spreading it down the shaft, and pumps himself faster. The new rhythm drags another moan from him, less affected than the first, shakier. He’s dissolving. Coming undone, bit by bit.

But it’s not enough.

"Astarion, can I—can I please —"

"You may," Astarion says. "Gently."

His voice hitches on the last word. And Tav’s seized with the sudden, impossible knowledge that Astarion’s touching himself too, if only over the trousers. Even though Tav can’t see him.

Suddenly, Tav’s not sure he needs to make a third cut at all.

"Astarion." His back arches. His heart’s about to pound out of his chest. " Astarion. I have to—I’m going to come."

Astarion’s response is a feral growl that ignites a primitive part of Tav’s brain. The part that knows he’s prey. And then Tav hears a different, far odder series of sounds. A violent crunch, like a sheet of metal collapsing. The resonant thud of something heavy hitting the floor. A sharp intake of breath.