Big Book Of Parvill One Shots

Never Knew I Was A Dancer ('til delilah showed me how) [N]

TW: Bloodplay, Blood Magic, Knifeplay, Verbal Humiliation, Dom/sub, Collars, Bondage, Sacrifice, Dubious Consent, Magical High, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Rough Sex, Begging

Song: Delilah by Florence + The Machines

"Beg for me, Strife!" says Parvis. His voice is bright, gleeful, echoing in the high reaches of the empty stone castle he's chosen to make his home, the seat of his power. "Go on! Beg. Tell me what you'll do for me if I don't use this-" The knife in his left hand flashes when he twists his wrist, the wicked glass blade glinting fire in the torchlight. "-to mark your pretty, pretty skin."

Panting, Strife watches it with wide eyes, how the tip of it flashes and arcs with the slightest movement of his wrist. "Parvis..." he manages, voice rough. He means it as a complaint, a warning – but the word comes out pulled-wire taut, vibrating with something, impossible to identify but still singing tension through every muscle in his body.

He tries to shift, tugging at the ropes binding him spread-eagled across the blood altar, hips and shoulders tied down to the too-warm stone of opposite edges. The blood beneath him gurgles hungrily, sucking and sloshing in the smooth bowl of the altar, and he tries to arch away from it with a shudder. It doesn't stop, though, roiling like the sea in a storm, droplets of warm, congealed crimson spattering across his back.

"That's not begging, Strife," says Parvis, and his voice does hold a warning, the slightest hint of dangerous disappointment. He leans in, over Strife, and the touch of his clothes against Strife's bare, hypersensitive skin is almost too much. "Come on, it's no fun if you won't play!" Hooking a finger through the D-ring of the thick, leather collar cinched tight around Strife's throat, he tugs, until Strife arches and grunts beneath the pressure of it. "Beg!"

There's a resonant power in his voice that can't be disobeyed, and Strife swallows hard, adam's apple bobbing and pressing against supple leather warmed by his skin. "l-" He manages, trembling in the ropes, toes pointing uselessly towards the floor in a helpless attempt to get some kind of purchase. He feels so exposed like this, tied down and open, feet dangling inches off the flagstone floor and arms splayed wide, the soft vulnerability of his chest and stomach opened up for the cold air and Parvis' flashing blade.

It's terrifying, enough to nearly take his breath away – for all the wrong reasons. He should be scared, he knows, should be terrified and grovelling and begging for his life, but instead his stomach is twisting with hot fire, arousal strangling his words to silence in his throat.

He's never been good at this, telling adrenaline from arousal, and the crimson, manic gleam in Parvis' eyes when their gazes meet is enough to have a familiar ache begin to flare between his legs.

Flushing with humiliation as he feels himself start to get hard, he tilts his head back until he's staring up at the dark ceiling, cheeks burning. "Parvis, please-" It's a poor attempt, and he knows it, but his words have abandoned him and his world has narrowed down to the dark eyes in the corner of his vision and the cold blade hovering just above his skin and the radiant warmth of the altar seeping into his bones. "I can't-"

Before he can even process what's happening, the knife is flashing, drawing a line of fire across his upper chest as it bites into the flesh there – shallowly, but still enough to draw blood, skin split open in a crimson line.

The cry of shocked pain has barely left his lips before there's two fingers pushing inside him, slick and cool and almost painfully good but not enough. "Honestly, that's pathetic," says Parvis, voice laced with disappointment as Strife gasps and clenches around the intrusion, trying his best push back onto the fingers despite how thoroughly he's tied down. "If you can't do any better than that, I'm disappointed, Strifey, I really am."