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In the darkened corners of La Cathédrale, a whip cracks.
Thwack!
This was a game, one he was meant to lose.
Carius wasn't quite sure what led to this particular set of circumstances – stripped down, kneeling on the worn stone floor, hands bunched in the sheets of an ornate bed – but he knew it was needed. Whether it was for him or for Roathe was another question.
The first strike of the leathery whip was hardly worth mentioning, a far cry from the punishments he'd received in spirals long past, yet it began to stir something within him, the thoughts of what Roathe had in store for him keeping his full attention. He breathed through the sting, they were only getting started.
The second came soon after, crossing over with the first lash. He wondered about the state of his back once he was done with him, how long he could last– more accurately, how long he would make him last. That feeling stirred it's ugly head again, heat pooling towards his crotch. He screwed his hands further into the sheets, vehemently ignoring the ache.
Just as his shoulders had begun to fall from their tense state, a clawed finger ran its way across his back. He shivered as it trailed up and into his disheveled hair, scratching gently along his scalp.
The hand's owner uttered a simple command: 'Count.'
Not quite understanding the position he was in, or perhaps understanding it all to well, Cari began to reply, 'do the first two count or–'
Before he could finish, the careful ministrations were wrenched away and replaced by a sudden strike against his back once more. He grunted at the sharp jolt against his body, clenching his jaw as his face began to flush. For just a moment, he considered what might happen to him if he denied the devil's command, only causing the ache between his legs to jump at the thought.
He would not push the boundaries of this deliciously delicate game, at least, not today, 'three.'
A barely audible hum sounded from above.
There was something comforting about falling into such easy submission, knowing his partner and punisher would take care of everything. There was a sacredness to the act, the vulnerability, offering himself so wholely and knowing it would not be misplaced. If he could turn back and look into Roathe's eyes, Cari knew he would see that pride he always carried mixed with the twined gaze of devotion.
The words, 'I won't go easy on you,' ring through his head as the fourth lash greets him. His reply, 'I would never ask you to,' a mere memory as he held on to the way the man grinned.
'Four.'
The fifth and sixth came down in rapid succession, pulling a gasp out of him. He was walking a fine line with this game of theirs; pain mixed with pleasure, yet it always threatened to pull him back down into the memory of pure agony. How many times had he been in positions like this? Whipped until he bled, begging for mercy for crimes he did not know he had committed. He wouldn't be surprised to find that some of the scars still lingered. Time after time, once he was pushed beyond the point of feeling, once he realised his pleas fell on deaf ears, what then? A quick beating and a quick death was ideal, though his memories of being whipped to the bone, left to bleed on the palace floor clung to him more than most. A pitiful execution for a meaningless traitor, again and again and again–
His body recoiled, inhaling sharply as a warm hand snaked it's way around his waist. He had not noticed as a body pressed up against his own, now kneeding softly into his side and pressing feather light kisses onto the back of his neck.
'Where did you go, pet?'
He wasn't sure if he was meant to answer, or if it was simply a question to draw him back to the here and now. Either way, honeyed words continued to be whispered into his ear, 'you're here, with me, in our little sanctuary.'
Cari hummed in response, the words not quite reaching him but tangible enough to concentrate on. The ghost of a memory still played in his mind, a reminder, a taunt, 'I do this out of love.' He couldn't remember who said it first, Roathe, or Thrax. Two very different displays of affection, yet hard to separate when moments blurred together.
'Why are we doing this?' He asked in a small voice, not quite sure if it was a genuine question or he simply needed a reminder of their aim.
A silence fell for a moment, though the ministrations didn't let up, Roathe's free hand reaching to release the death grasp Cari had upon the sheets. There, he rubbed careful circles into his hand as he spoke, 'there is a careful line between pleasure and pain, one I believe you are all too aware of. I want to push you to that edge of complete oblivion and pure elation. I want to watch you come undone by my hand. A memory you will not soon forget, for the better.'
One of the very first things Carius noticed about the man was the way he talked. Smooth, intentional, each word carefully selected, like each conversation was a battle to be won. It was what drew him to Roathe in the first place, a wordsmith bringing him back to the present. The unnaturally warm body peeled away from his back – a whine escaping as he did – only for him to enter his line of sight as he sat on the bed in front of him. Roathe reached out a hand, cupping his face, drawing him up to meet his eyes. And there he was, without his usual Orokin finery, a tender look in his eyes reserved only for him. Cari could have reveled in that moment for seconds or hours, it didn't matter, only that they were real, here, together.
A thumb swiped over his cheek, 'say the word and we shall stop.'
Cari turned to place a kiss on the inside of his palm, exhaling slowly, 'no.'
'Do not push yourself for my sake–'
'Roathe–' he interrupted, more strength mustering into his voice, 'if you stop, I'll go looking for Lyon's thurible.'
Roathe was unable to hide the look of surprise fast enough, a low chuckle rising in his throat as Cari straightened himself and laughed along with him. He leaned down, pulling him into a soft kiss that betrayed the bravado he portrayed.
'And here I thought I'd lost you.'
'I'm not that easy to break.'
Roathe stood up, placing a chaste kiss to the crown of Cari's head before circling back behind him, tail caressing his neck all the while, 'there he is.'
A sharpened nail ran across the blades of his shoulders, 'count?'
'Six.'
Cari could almost hear the smirk in his voice, 'good, pet.'
The strikes started back up in earnest, although noticeably lighter than before. Enough to startle the senses but nothing like the slashes from the beginning. Roathe would never admit to it, but he was pulling him back in with a careful touch, one Cari was dearly grateful for. As the whip caressed his back, he almost groaned into it as if it were releasing a deep held tension.
His eyes slipped closed as teeth dragged against the junction of his shoulder, 'seven.'
Warm breath passed across his ear, making him shudder, 'hold on to this feeling, sweet one. Revel in it.'
The intensity slowly increased as he continued, pressing against the boundaries of his pain threshold, and revel in it he did. Despite the temporary setback, Roathe knew exactly the right words, the right touch, to bring him back to attention. Cari squirmed in his knelt position, discreetly attempting to readjust to provide any relief, knowing his every move was being intensely observed. He panted, pressing his face into the silken sheets, hiding the flush that threatened to take over his face.
A deep, throaty chuckle sounded from behind, 'growing desperate, are we?'
'Nine,' Carius spit out, jaw clenched as he braced for what was sure to come.
The next two shocked his nerves as he canted forward, a moan slipping past his lips, the lingering sting only fuelling his desire. He had no time to recover as a hand twisted in his hair, wrenching his head back to meet the fiery gaze of his lover. He glanced away, the shame of how exposed he was overtaking him, yet paradoxically serving to drive him further into madness as he began to leak onto the floor. If let slip any small, panting moans, they were mercifully ignored, drank in silence.
Roathe's gaze rakes over his form; broken, war-torn, blossoming criss-crossing marks adding to the portrait that was Carius' body. It was beautiful, and it was his.
'I know what you need, pet,' he spoke in a tone far too sweet and sultry, 'beg. Beg and you shall have it.'
If there was one thing Cari hadn't quite mastered, it was thinking before he spoke, so when a simple 'no,' left his lips with a wry smile, he knew he had made his biggest mistake and sealed his fate.
The man above him tuts before he is thrown forward into the bed, a quick snap of the whip sending him reeling for a grip on the sheets.
'If you think I won't leave you here...'
Thwack!
'Wanting...'
Crack!
'And unsatisfied...'
Snap!
'You are sorely mistaken.'
Cari cried out at each new blow, a strange strangle of groans from the mix of pain and utter bliss. His body trembled, sweat beading on his brow with the exertion of keeping upright. He panted like a man starved of air, head hung in defeat.
He whimpered a barely audible, 'please,' shocked at how meek he sounded, knowing that it would not be enough to satisfy the devil.
He was met with a strike for his efforts, voice caught between a groan and a cry, choking out a louder, 'please!'
A satisfied hum filled the room, 'that's more like it.'
The next four cracks were drowned out by the incessant chattering of, 'please,' and 'Sol above', desperate cries of, 'need you,' and 'Roathe, please.' Carius couldn't find it in himself to care about how pathetic he sounded, he would say whatever Roathe wanted to hear if it gave him that sweet release he craved. Tears began to prick at his eyes between the strikes, by the end, he was left a whimpering mess as they fell down his cheeks.
A simple question echoed through the room, 'do you think you've earned it?'
A simple question with a horrid answer; of course not. Cari shook his head.
'Correct.'
The final strike, of course, was the worst, a veritable brand across his back. Had he not placed all his weight on the bed in front of him, he's sure he would have fallen to the ground. He was a puddle of agony, enamored by how such an act of tender violence had made him so aroused. He didn't think about what that meant, didn't think of much of anything, focusing on the ache that flooded his body.
A furnace of a body pressed against his back, a whine drawn out of him as Roathe rubbed against his raw skin. A quiet shhh met his ears as gentle kisses were pressed against his back. Cari sank into the hold, groaning at the slightest movement, still mumbling small pleas.
'You did so well for me, my love.' The words washed over him like a salve, especially as a hand reached towards his weeping, neglected cock. The touch alone was heavenly; he didn't have the energy to linger on the embarrassment of how fast he came, a few deft and skillful pumps accompanied by teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder had him spilling into Roathe's hand. Cari went completely boneless, whimpering from the aftershock and overstimulation as his partner lapped at the bite.
He wasn't sure how long they sat there, long enough to come down from his high and long enough to become keenly aware of each and every sensation throughout his body, slick with sweat, exhaustion setting in. He didn't need to say anything, only giving a petulant groan which was met with light laughter, 'I can imagine. Come.'
Roathe guided him up, knees buckling before being caught and sat on the bed. He left Cari's side momentarily before returning with a wet cloth, gently taking his chin in his hand and tilting it up, wiping over his brow, cheeks and down his neck. He slowly cleaned each and every inch of his clammy skin– his back, on the other hand, was a story for the morning, exhaustion overtaking him as he was lead to lie down proper, Roathe slipping in next to him, tangling their legs together.
Before drifting into a calm sleep, Cari mumbled into Roathe's back, 'I'll get you back for this.'
'I'm sure you will, my dear.'