Day 3 – Thesival

Prompts: Sensory Deprivation | Temperature Play | Edgeplay | Knife Play

No Archive Warnings Apply

Chapter tags: Theseus Scamander/Original Percival Graves, Knife Play, Blood, Blindfolds, Sensory Deprivation, Edgeplay, Disorientation, BDSM, Begging, Temperature Play, Aftercare

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Percival knows nothing of his surroundings.  He’s been blindfolded, deafened, led barefoot and shirtless and forced to kneel on the hard floor.  There’s someone here with him, but he can’t tell much more than that – soft footsteps don’t penetrate his ear plugs, he can see nothing, not even shadows, and with his hands bound he can’t reach out.

He can only wait.

His knees have begun to ache, his thoughts to spiral, and still he’s forced to wait.

“What do you want from me?” he cries, his voice strangely muffled to his own ears.

Perhaps he’s alone now.  The person who brought him here has long since left, abandoned him to whatever it is that’s to be done with him.  He’s shouting at an empty room.

Hours or seconds could have passed, he doesn’t know, but when the touch falls on the back of his neck he jolts so badly he nearly topples over – would have, were it not for the strong hands hauling him back into place.  

He hadn’t know there was anyone behind him; how long had they been there, watching him?

“What do you want?”

He doesn’t truly expect a response, and he doesn’t get one.

Instead he gets a cold edge of steel against his cheek.  

He goes very, very still.  The flat of the blade drags along his jaw, vanishing only to reappear again a moment later with the point pressed to his pectoral.

He tries to control his shallow breathing, each inhale making his chest press up against the blade and sting, but he feels as though he’s starved for air.  He can’t settle himself, can’t quiet the pounding of his heart.

“ Please,” he whispers, too quietly for himself to hear.

The tip of the knife parts his flesh, and he flinches back violently.  He earns himself only a moment’s reprieve, for the next thing he knows there’s someone behind him, pressed close against his back, and the knife is once more against his skin.  He’s trapped between the blade and the body of the person doing this to him.

There’s nothing he can do as the knife is dragged through his skin, leaving a series of shallow cuts which sting and prickle with pain.  He clenches his jaw. Something warm and wet is running down his chest and he knows he must be bleeding.

It becomes a glow which surrounds him, suffusing his body and scorching his nerves until he can’t tell where he’s been cut for the haze of pain.  Each new slice delivered onto his flesh only takes him farther away, pulling groans from him as it adds to the blanket of torment being woven across his flesh.

His mind goes softly, blissfully, blank.

Eventually he’s wrenched back to awareness by a different kind of burn, and it takes him a moment to place what’s being done to him.

His nipples hurt, but not from the knife.  No, there’s something running down his chest, not blood – something cold.

Ice.  There’s ice being held to his nipples, long enough to burn but not enough to go numb.  He’s meant to feel this.

It’s cruel; ice on his cuts might quiet the pain, but this only brings him back to himself and forces him to be aware.  He trembles. The pain isn’t a soft haze anymore, it’s digging into him and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

A sob is torn from his chest, and his blindfold is wet with tears.

The ice vanishes and there are warm hands on his shoulders, a firm torso against his back.  One of the hands squeezes his upper arm, and he knows it’s almost over.

The earplugs and the blindfold are eased away, revealing a room kept dim so as not to assault his senses after so long in the dark.  He doesn’t try to stop his sobs, just leans back against the person behind him and lets himself be held.

“I’ve got you, pup,” Theseus murmurs.  “I’ve got you.”

Theseus just holds him, right there on the floor, carefully avoiding putting any pressure on the cuts while he strokes the rest of his unmarred skin.  Percival’s breathing slows, steadies, and he cries himself out against Theseus’ shoulder.

By the time he has no more tears left to give he’s exhausted, his head stuffy, and so utterly at peace.

“There you are, Perce.  Take it easy.” Theseus helps him to stand, leading him to the bedroom where he has a bowl a fresh water and bandages for Percival’s wounds prepared.  He cleans him up, settles him in, and when he climbs into bed beside him Percival pulls him in close, snuggling into his arms.

“How was it?”

“So good, Thes,” he mumbles sleepily.  “‘s perfect.”