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Blood trickles from Stone’s split lip.
Robotnik smears it across Stone’s face, gloved thumb scratching against Stone’s beard.
Through lidded eyes, Stone gazes up at Robotnik with the same breathless awe the nuns at the orphanage wore while singing hymns — that look, directed at Robotnik, as if Robotnik is the only person in the world who matters.
It’s a dizzying amount of power to hold over a single person.
If Robotnik told him to shoot himself in the head, would he do it? Would he hesitate?
Would he die a martyr to his god? A sacrifice?
The blood is slowly trickling down Stone's jaw, dripping onto the black sheets and disappearing into the soft inky fabric.
Does Stone know how beautiful he is like this?
“Sir,” the agent begs, breathless. There’s a little bit of a lisp to his words as he tries to speak around his swollen lip. “Please…”
“Please what? Please leave you here? Please go back to the lab and work on upgrading the badnik’s long-range lasers? Please shoot you?”
Stone actually moans at the last one, but shakes his head, quickly amending, “Please touch me, sir. Please.”
The words are murmured like a prayer, and Robotnik exhales slowly, high on the power.
Stone is lying on Robotnik’s bed, every inch of skin on display and covered with a thin sheen of sweat.
Robotnik is kneeling over him, with his knees on either side of Stone’s abdomen, making sure to sit forward enough that he won’t accidentally give Stone a surface to grind against. Not yet, anyways. Besides, Robotnik is still wearing a pair of sweatpants. Expensive sweatpants. And sure, cum may come out in the wash, but it’s the principle of the matter — how plebeian it would be to soil his clothes in such a manner, especially with someone so beneath him in status.
A sacrificial lamb to Robotnik’s divinity.
Bleeding, just because Robotnik wants him to.
And getting off on it too, like a whore, while Robotnik remains fully clothed and plans to stay that way.
The pleasure that Robotnik derives from this is far more complex than the cocktail of hormones flooding Stone’s veins. It’s not arousal, at least not in the physical sense — no, it’s the elation that comes from breaking someone into pieces and putting them back together again, from having your subject submit their mind, body, and soul to your every whim, trusting that you will mould them into something worthy of being loved by the god they pray to.
And… it’s Stone.
Were it anyone else, Robotnik would never have allowed such a scenario to come to fruition, sneering at the very idea: asinine in nature, a waste of his time.
But Stone has always been the exception.
Always one step behind Robotnik, always ready to assist, always ready to throw himself in front of a bullet if it means Robotnik will survive. A loyal priest; a loyal sacrifice.
And shouldn’t loyalty be rewarded?
Robotnik smirks down at him.
The knife’s edge dances across the vulnerable skin right beneath the edge of Stone’s jaw, digging in at the last second in a mimicry of a nick that a person might give themself shaving. Crimson blood bubbles to the surface and spills over, trickling down Stone’s neck and onto his collarbone. He shivers and moans.
Robotnik leans down and presses his lips to the cut. He creates a gentle suction, greedily tasting the warm metallic blood that is Stone’s very essence. Once he’s had his fill, he laps at the surrounding skin.
All the while, Stone grips the bedsheets like a man possessed. His shoulders are shuddering and his breaths come heavy. How can the blood of someone so impure taste so sweet? Shouldn’t it be tainted by all the lives he’s taken, or does the innocent lamb not need to be innocent when the receiver of the sacrifice is just as impure?
“More,” Stone whimpers, pressing into Robotnik’s touch as if it’s the elixir keeping him from the brink of death. “Please, more. I need you, I need–”
Robotnik nips at the cut, and Stone breaks off with a high-pitched whine that’s pure desperation, bucking his hips upwards but without anywhere to go. It’s amusing to watch the way the sycophant’s face twists in want and despair at being denied.
But Robotnik is not so cruel as to give Stone nothing. He drags the knife across Stone’s collarbone, watches the skin split open beneath the unforgiving blade, the cut empty for a moment before the blood wells up to the surface.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Stone whimpers, eyes wet with tears. “Thank you, sir, I — unghhh.”
Stone’s worshipful thanks devolves into a long groan as Robotnik swipes the knife a couple millimeters above the scar that stretches along the underside of Stone’s right pec, the area miraculously still sensitive despite common surgical practices at the time Stone had his chest reconstruction done — decades ago now, having found a military surgeon open to taking a bribe to both do the surgery and declare it medically necessary, and then blackmailing the right people to get his documents changed without any fuss.
Such a resourceful sycophant.
If there’s any man alive who’s worthy of being called Robotnik’s priest, it’s the one beneath him now.
Robotnik makes a few more cuts across Stone's abdomen, sucking and licking as he goes, and eventually moves down to Stone’s muscular thighs, scooting back so he’s sitting between Stone’s legs and creating a new collection of wounds. Stone will be sore tomorrow.
Right now though, Stone’s dick is hard, his cunt leaking, even as his blood spills across the sheets and his skin becomes increasingly marred. And it is because of this, not despite it, that Stone is brought to the edge. He whimpers and shudders at every touch. Tears are leaking down his cheeks, equal parts pain, pleasure, and desperation.
He’s as breathtaking as he is bloody.
And Robotnik figures that, finally, Stone has had enough for one night.
(They could both use some actual sleep before whatever drivel G.U.N. plans to make them endure tomorrow.)
Making Stone cum is never a difficult affair, and so Robotnik does not ponder long on his next move. He simply digs his teeth into the tender flesh of Stone’s inner thigh hard enough to draw blood, and Stone arches his back and comes with a shout.
What does he see when he closes his eyes? Is it all the times Robotnik has held him close? All the times Robotnik has spat in his face, called him unworthy? Does he feel as pathetic and broken and utterly ethereal as he looks?
Beneath Robotnik’s clamped jaw, Stone jerks his leg. The flesh tears even more, and as soon as Stone finishes coming, rather quickly all things considered, he collapses limp on the bed.
He’s panting. His skin is painted with dark reds from his myriad of wounds; his stomach covered with translucent streaks of cum that a lesser man would lick up, but Robotnik will not debase himself in such a way.
“What do you say?” Robotnik asks his loyal sycophant.
Breathlessly, Stone replies, “Thank you, doctor.”
After bandaging Stone’s wounds and cleaning him up with a package of wet wipes, Robotnik falls asleep with his head resting on Stone’s chest, moonlight peaking through the curtains and casting shadows atop the two of them, and dreams of a world where he rules supreme with Stone — his loyal sycophant, priest, and sacrifice — at his side.