#thasstira

Koltira’s eyes roamed over him—devouring, judging, calculating—as he indulged his worst impulses. But even under the weight of that gaze, Thassarian couldn’t begin to guess what he might be thinking. Was he enjoying this? Did it help? Thassarian hoped it helped. That it gave Koltira some measure of release, of retribution, of control. But somewhere beneath that hope was a sick pit of doubt. Maybe he’s disgusted with me. Koltira could’ve done worse. Far worse. His strikes had been brutal, yes—but nothing Thassarian hadn’t survived before. Nothing permanent. He was holding back, in his way. Perhaps in lingering respect for their brotherhood. Or maybe he was just building it all up to watch him squirm. Thassarian tried to offer that. Tried to be good for him. He wanted to suffer well—anything to keep him close just a little longer. Maybe that would make it be enough. Maybe that would wash away the discord between them. But when Koltira’s eyes lingered too long—locked to his—something shifted. The expression on his face twisted. Agitated. Tense. Maybe I’m looking too intensely. Being too loud. Too much. Thassarian swallowed and tried to clear his gaze. He quieted the moans in his throat, forced his expression to go still, less open, less pleading. He was supposed to be hurting. But that only seemed to make things worse.