[ There is still that single, thin dagger that wasn't discarded, lying in the sheets. This is delicate work, but his hands are steady when they close around the hilt, and a shift of his thigh brings Zevran's legs further apart, urging him to lean back further.
He should be able to watch, to know what's coming, to say if it's too much. Always that sliver of control, even as the tip of the blade starts to press against the inside of his thigh. The lowest bruise to start, just a scrape against mottled skin. Then a slow, steady drag upwards, just enough to leave a thin trail of scarlet beading up behind in its wake. ]
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He should be able to watch, to know what's coming, to say if it's too much. Always that sliver of control, even as the tip of the blade starts to press against the inside of his thigh. The lowest bruise to start, just a scrape against mottled skin. Then a slow, steady drag upwards, just enough to leave a thin trail of scarlet beading up behind in its wake. ]
Breathe.