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Dark, damp floors and ceilings cradle even darker basements cavities, cobwebs and distant screaming. The air thick, one could cut the heavy, oppressing atmosphere open with a blade. The Goblin camp is easily one of the worst places Velron has decided to set foot in recently.
Said Goblins had left him be, for the most part. Suspicious glares and tightening of fingers on bows or dagger-blades aside. A quick lie about the Absolute and they were convinced, though he doubted how he and the druid he came for were ever going to get out of here alive. A cleric he may have been, healing he was good at, spreading the word of his God he did often, but these were Goblins, Goblins who worship a false God - thanks to all this…tadpole nonsense. It gave him a headache just thinking about it, or, that could’ve just been the actual tadpole in his brain wriggling about.
Velron didn’t want to think about how much suffering had taken place here- how many souls were lost, where hope had fizzled into despair. It made each step he took grow into more and more of a regret. You couldn’t save a place like this, no matter how hard you tried. He could still try save the druid, though, if he was alive- as many people as he could pull into his grasp as possible to drag from the depths of this place.
Water dripping down from the walls, hollering of the Goblins, they were sounds that were distant enough to be ignored, to pretend like they weren't his concern. The past few days had been a slap in the face, although that was something Velron had a difficult time admitting. Growing up in his church, at least there was order, a rule and rhythm to things. He could nurse other's wounds, study the holy word for hours in the dark, devote himself to needy causes.
Ever since the Nautiloid, the parasite, waking up on that beach — everything was unfamiliar and nauseating. Suddenly, his attempts to help, or offer prayer, were seen as a nuisance, and many a time he was forced draw his weapon and spill blood.
So, those scars of his own that he had nursed alone in his pitch-black bedroom years ago, that feeling that settled in his stomach when the burning ache struck down on his skin…he couldn't be blamed if he had started indulging in the act once more. It was the only thing that made anything make sense.
And more than anything, he knew what the sound of someone preforming that sounded like.
He looked around for a moment, eyes landing on the figure of someone bent over themselves on the floor. Pained groans left them every few moments, in tandem with the slap of a whip on skin. His heart near leaped out of his chest before he remembered where he was.
What kind of a sign was this?
Swallowing his nerves, he walked into the side room, the atmosphere only getting thicker. The smell of iron intruded upon him, a smell he was familiar with, but one that never got any easier to handle.
He had been in Ilmater’s church for as long as he could remember - his father a priest, he grew up in that environment. He sat and watched as the easy to digest, children's sermons and books turned slowly more graphic, detailing the depths of human suffering, how much a person’s body could take on. How much you were required to take on. Relinquishing the suffering of others, mental or physical, even if that meant you had to bear the weight of it on your shoulders.
Passing by a mirror as he stood still in the entryway of the dim room, he examined himself. Tired, red eyes lead down to two scars below each one. Skin pale, hair white. His bottom lip held a long scar that flowed on his chin, disappearing under the collar of his shirt. His skin held many scars, each he remembered the story of, the burden of their mark on him. Maybe sometimes he holds on too tightly.
He really does look terrible. Just what is this tadpole doing to him?
Before he approaches the man knelt over on the floor, his feet wander and his fingers find purchase on a golden book, left open. He reaches back to the read the title, 'On Receiving Her Grace' stares back at him from the front cover.
This is a book about Loviatar. Furrowing his brow, it makes sense now, the heavy feeling in the air, the iron. The pages are covered in bloody fingerprints, most dry, but some still wet and sticky. He grimaces, physically pulling away from the book - but his eyes are drawn closer to it. Diagrams on the paper detail mangled and destroyed bodies, with some kinds of instructions, guidelines, and detailed descriptions of weapons- or, as it says, instruments of pain. It's disturbing, morbidly so.
'Be wary for your mortal limitations…' the text reads, as his nails trace the words, a flash of the books he read in childhood force their way into his head- but no, it's not the same. He removes his hand from the bloodied page like it scorched him. Not the same at all. This is…perverse.
He realizes as his eyes are pulled away from the text; the noises of pain and the slap of a whip have vanished. The man, once knelt over on the bloodied floor, is now standing, observing him. Blue eyes look Velron up and down, taking in every inch of him, and it's now that he feels like he should've worn some thicker armor, perhaps. The urge to wash his hands in the nearest lake and ask forgiveness for taking a detour into this room blossoms in his chest.
Said man is covered in scars, too many to count, scattered all over his body like petals. Velron doesn't like to think himself a prude, but the 'clothes' the man is wearing leaves little to the imagination. His physique certainly showed how much of a workout that whip was giving him, though. Okay, don't think about that, he berates himself internally - anything but that.
It was left unsaid so far, but Velron knew the man knew what he was. Just as it was clear he was a Loviatar worshiper, the Tiefling was clearly a Cleric of Ilmater. His Gods symbol was held in a necklace, slightly hidden under the collar of his shirt, but still visible.
"A follower of The Broken God, here? How…unlikely." The stranger's voice rumbles, settling deep in Velron's chest. He makes the conscious decision to stand on guard, puffing his chest out slightly, pushing himself to stand that little bit taller. He's no stranger to the fact that followers of Loviatar aren't exactly to kind to those of Ilmater. May his God grant him strength.
"A worshiper of Loviatar. No less unlikely than you…what are you doing here?" 'with the Goblins' was an unspoken part of his question, but still clearly part of it. Goblins usually kept to their own kind, even if they were part of some new cult, Velron hadn't exactly seen many other races around, unless they were slaves.
Tried as he might to keep his moral righteousness out of his tone- some had inevitably leaked through.
"You wound me, child," The man places his hand to his heart. "Why are any of us here?"
A distant scream pierces the air. Velron's shoulders tense.
"You're helping them, I assume. Torturing people." The disgust in his voice rises a little, rearing it's ugly head.
He'd seen the dead bodies on the floor as he came in through the wooden doors, the skulls on sticks, the people in cages or tied up on wooden planks. He helped where he could, healed as much as possible without breaking his cover. His God would forgive him. Almost of all this suffering would be erased when he got rid of the cult, of the parasites and the tadpoles. He cannot help those in need if he himself is dead, killed by Goblins. Ilmater would forgive him.
The man smirks, resting his blade-tipped whip on a nearby table, old blood crusted on the surface, then steps a little closer.
"You speak with such disdain - and here I thought you were not to judge."
Do not impose- only help, with no passing judgment. Heal a warriors wounds and send him back to battle if he so wishes- but do not try to stop him. That's what he was taught, head stuffed in a book as a child. This situation was different, and this man was crazy to speak like he was innocent here.
"You are not an innocent bystander in all this. I am allowed judgment, as you slice up peoples bodies for the Goblins, no?"
"I was invited here to teach the Goblins my…techniques. Alas, they seem rather committed to their primitive nonsense." He runs a hand through his blonde hair, with the energy of a man who has given one too many unregarded lectures.
Those poor people were getting tortured regardless, then. Obviously. This man was just the star of the show for today.
"Anything to get your fix, then, even if it's dirty work for them."
"Hold on, child," The corner of his mouth twitches, unclear if in amusement, or sardonic annoyance. "Pain without purpose is a terrible, terrible thing. I am only spreading the knowledge of my worship to these crude beings. One could argue our applications of our worship are not so different, hm?"
What?
Not so different?
"You dare to presume that we're 'not so different'? You inflict your pain. I bare it for the sake of others."
"'Until I can bear a fraction of your burden, Sufferer, I shall.' One of your prayers, isn't it?"
Velron shakily lets out a breath. "Yes."
"You are not free of scars yourself, child. I worship my Goddess with my own pain, others too, sometimes, yes, but I wager with your…state of martyrdom, you aren't a stranger to the sting of a whip. For others, or for yourself."
His fists curl into a ball, sharp nails cutting into his palms, then he releases- whispering a prayer under his breath. Relax. He couldn't let this stranger get to him.
"It's- It's different. You say 'pain without purpose', but what is your purpose? What is it for? Who has it helped? It's for nothing. If I offered to heal you now, you wouldn't even take it."
"Are you offering?"
"What?"
"Are you, offering? Like a good little follower of Ilmater."
Velron scoffs. "Yes. I suppose I am." He has to, doesn't he?
"Flattered as I am, no, I cannot accept the offer. Loviatar relishes in our pain, to heal it before it is through, would be an insult. And, my, you're almost as bad as our Goblin friends. It's not for no reason. Our Goddess reviles in our pain, it frees your mind, it is a tool to be used, and it can bring you great, great pleasure if you let it."
"Pleasure is…it's making a mockery." His sharp nails bite into the palm of his hand. His fangs catch on his lip, as the corner of his mouth pulls in a forced scoff.
"Are you sure it's a mockery?" The priest steps closer, gesturing with his hand. His eyes are focused on Velron's scars, their wavering deepness, the unsteadiness of them. He'd be a fool to try and convince this man they were not self inflicted.
"What do you mean?"
"You cannot tell me you didn't feel a fraction of pleasure as that dagger sliced your skin, your hand shaking slightly as you guided it down, past your chin, down your throat, afraid to even breathe."
Velron doesn't breath even now, as the man ghosts a finger on the scar, the air so thick he can't tell if he is touching him or not. It doesn't last longer than a moment before he pulls away, smirking.
"You cannot convince me you don't feel a fraction of pleasure as you whip yourself, either. You know, last I heard, it was sort of a…taboo, among you Ilmater followers, reserved for only the most senior, devout type of man. You have so many scars for one so young."
The blood rushing through his ears makes it difficult for Velron to hear much of anything. He doesn't want to think about how red his face is. How much his hands hurt. Just how many thoughts are running through his head. No matter how hard he tries, he can't get himself to turn tail and leave.
"I-…I'm different. I knew that since growing up in the church, I deal with pain closer. It only makes me closer to our Father! What you're saying is-" Some part of it is right, and he doesn't know how to respond. Nobody knew. What happened in his room alone, in the dark with the door locked, not even a candle-light by his side, was his business. Nobody could know.
The priest raises a brow, like he's had this conversation times before. Like he sees right through the tiefling. "I think you know as well as I do that you lie to yourself."
He steps closer yet again, only this time making his way around to the back of him, like a blood sniffing shark. Velron is too unnerved, pupils shaking, to move.
"I can see that something horrible has happened to you," his calloused hand comes up, fingers brushing on the younger man's chin from behind, and he can feel his touch proper this time. "It's in your eyes. These are terrible times, child. It's no wonder you've been…scarred, as you have."
"And how many people have been hurt because of you?" he asks, voice subdued. His palms feel wet.
He smiles. "I have never hurt anyone who didn't truly want the gift of pain."
His breath tickles Velron's neck. His brows twitch, because this man is just so sure of himself. So certain in his worship. A pang of what he can only identify as jealousy strikes him.
"I could give you the gift - if you want it. Both I and…my Goddess…are very interested to see how you respond to it."
He adds, after a pause, "It would help you."
There's a reason Velron had never been back to his church since he was a child.
He doesn't think he could stand them seeing what he's done to himself.
"...Would it…help you? To do this to me?" He asks. Has to stay true to his vows- would it heal you? Would it take away some of your pain to cause me any? This is the only way he can allow himself anything at all.
We must at all times recall a central fact - to suffer is not holy. To suffer is a consequence of holy duty made practice. Ilmater does not enjoy his pain, my friends, he endures it because it is just. Our own pain is an acceptable price to pay - but it is not a good in itself.
"Yes." It helps him, but they both know in what way.
Simply avail yourself as a tool to the weary - let them know you can be used however they might need.
They've reached some semblance of an understanding, finally. The hand drops from his chin.
"Do your work, then."
Something like a sigh of relief escapes the priest, who straightens his back. His eyes close in a brief moment of respite- like he's been holding his breath.
"You won't regret this. I promise that."
Velron hopes that he's right.
"My name is Abdirak. Yours, child?" His hand is on Velron's shoulder, like he's promising it'll all be okay. His thumb rubs on the thin fabric of his shirt.
"...Velron."
Abdirak tests the name out on his tongue, clearly liking the sound of it. His eyes seem to swim with all the sudden possibilities.
"Well, Velron, face the wall for me."
He moves, half dragging his feet like a reprimanded child, heart racing in his chest. Settling as much as he can on blood soaked floor, there's nothing comforting for his eyes to observe, just stone. A pit of emptiness.
From behind him, he hears some shuffling, clinking of metal, a few hmms and hums, before a resounding exhale. Abdirak has clearly found the perfect torture tool. He wonders what it's going to be. A knife? Cleaver? Mace? That whip he was hitting himself with a while ago? Hell, an arrow, just shoot him in the head and get it over with. Would put an end to all the shame.
His nails dig into his palms again, and Gods it stings, all rationale screaming at him to turn around and leave, run far, far away. Pray to Ilmater for forgiveness and repent, Lord, please, you are strong while I am weak, if you may let me withstand-
"Ah-ah-ah," a familiar voice tuts at him, but he can hear the smirk in it. A larger hand forces his balled one open, lest more blood be spilled.
"Leave the pain to me, little one."
He stills, his body feeling like a rock. If he doesn't move his head, if he screws his eyes shut as tight as he can, maybe this is a dream he can wake up from. May He forgive me. May He forgive me. May He forgive me.
The first strike comes hard, a flourish of hot, burning pain that spreads from the small of his back up to his spine. Velron lets out a strangled cry, trying to restrain himself, like he's done a thousand times before. Pain isn't holy, but bare it we must. Pain isn't holy, but bare it we must. He's done this so many times before. No one can know. No one can hear.
It's when the sting calms to warm sensation, that he realizes it's Abdirak's own whip, with the bladed tip. His clothes are going to be ruined by the end of this.
"I heard that. Do not silence yourself. You must let the pain hold you, capture you. Let it swim over you." His words come from the heart, and he thinks this is the most passionate he's heard the priest be thus far.
His shoulders high and tense, the next one comes before he's ready. The whip comes down somewhere on his upper back, leaving a line of scolding agony in it's wake. It feels like his muscle is being pierced with hot iron rods, doused in flame.
This time, the pain is too unexpected for him to hold back. Velron yelps, stumbling forward as his hands find stability on the wall in front of him. Labored pants leave his mouth. Why is this so…difficult? He's no pansy. Pain never usually…gets such a rise out of him. The unmistakable feeling of blood dripping down his back haunts him, threatening to push him back to that one night. He still remembers his father's angered shouts.
"You're doing so well. Embrace it." Abdirak's voice pulls him back — almost as breathless as Velron, you'd think he was the one being whipped.
Pain comes down on him again, again, and again. The strikes blend together. There's one that leaves him breathless, his whole body shuddering, and he remembers the first time he let someone hurt him so that they could heal. The first time that tangible, physical pain was brought upon his body, drawing blood from his arm through clawed fingers so that they could have some relief. It was the first time that the thought had entered his mind. You deserve this. You want it. You deserve it. It's all you're good for. You need it.
A tool, not a person. A Tool. Conduit. Pawn. Means to an end.
He's lost count by this point, maybe it's something like the ninth strike layers on top of the previous lashes, the leather and blade seeping even deeper into his skin. A moan of pain is ripped from him, and before he knows it, he feels hot tears falling down his cheeks, and mumbled, unintelligible pleas stumble from his lips. Not to his god, no. He's far too ashamed for that.
It takes a second for his ears to stop ringing, to hear Abdirak's words over his own whimpers and heavy breaths.
"-Perfect. You're perfect." He feels a hand brush against him, like the torturer is too afraid to touch him, to ruin his own work, but the feeling of skin on his open wounds makes him hiss through his teeth.
"I don't feel it." His voice sounds broken. Vomit threatens to rise in his mouth, and shame coils in his throat.
"Oh, but you are. My goddess and I are…impressed. Very impressed." He pauses, thinking. Velron may be in a haze, but he hears some shuffling from behind him, putting something back on the table.
Is it over?
Already?
Why does he hate the thought of that?
"You have surpassed my expectations. Your cries of agony, your…blood."
He feels a hand snake it's way around his side, a presence engulfing him. When he turns his head back, Abdirak is right on him, their noses almost touching.
"Pain without purpose is a…most terrible thing, you know that," His bicep presses onto the raw, bleeding wounds, even at the awkward angle, it makes Velron wince.
"Yours," he continues, "is beautiful— and it has purpose. You could be so much more…if only you'd let me help you."
Velron hates how his mouth feels dry. Hates how he feels like he's just going along with all this. Hates how much he wants to go along with this. Hates how much he's going to.
"This is- it's-" he's running out of words to stop himself. "I..I can't."
Why does he continue to resist? He wants to bash his head against this stone wall. What divine grace is waiting for him for being a good person? He's been waiting for acknowledgement his whole life, and he's never gotten it yet.
"We both know you can, dear one. You're special." Something catches his eye, a glint of steel. His gaze flickers down as he sees a dagger blade in Abdirak's other hand. "This is what you were made for."
It's with those words that Velron feels the final string be pulled, and the knot in his mind come undone. Purpose. His suffering is his purpose. Every time he'd dug his nails into the palms of his hand, every time he'd chewed the skin off of his teeth with his sharp fangs, bit his cheeks, brought a whip down onto the small of his back to bring himself back to earth- to remind himself, he is a tool. A stepping stone. Others will crush his spine by their weight so they can stand taller, but he, himself can too.
It doesn't have to be a bad thing. It doesn't have to be wrong.
He's vindicated. This whole time, his pain was the purpose.
His mind feels clearer than it has in a long time. His stomach, full of butterflies, not so much.
This is a betrayal of his god, isn't it?
As if reading his mind, the whirlpool in his eyes, Abdirak takes the tiefling's chin into his hand.
"We will take care of you, child."
Him and Loviatar both.
Feeling disconnected from his body, Velron wills himself to nod, a shaky, slow movement. He wonders how dilated his pupils are.
"I knew you would see sense- from the moment I saw you. I won't neglect this gift you've given me."
The priest's hands suddenly search for purchase on the back of Velron's shoulders. He shudders. His whole body feels impossibly sensitive.
"May I?" Abdirak asks simply, calloused fingers sneaking their way under his shirt collar. Velron's eyes screw shut- the removal of his clothes was going to hurt- like peeling skin from muscle; but he'd rather remove them than more fabric mix with his raw, open wounds. This is the next step in his devotion.
He merely nods, to which he can almost hear Abdirak behind him smile as his hands get to work, peeling his clothes from him. The fingers under his collar move to the string tied at the front of his collarbone, making quick work of the little knots. Once untied, a hand gently pulls one of vehlron's arms from the wall to his side, and he snaps out of his trace. Right- he needs to help him.
Abdirak tugs, and he hisses a sharp breath through his equally sharp teeth- biting down on his tongue. The sting. It burns, each pull of the fabric being pulled from his wounds feeling like he is being whipped all over again. Hisses of breaths turn to small whimpers as he cooperates, and the clothes are peeled from his body. They drop to the floor, from the corner of his vision, he sees the blood soaked through the fabric completely. How much more is he going to spill today?
The air on his wounds feels like both a blessing and a curse. He will need to take a long bath when he gets back to camp.
"They'll scar beautifully." Gods, they probably will, won't they? Long and dark, Velron wonders just how different they'll look from his many self inflicted ones.
"Turn around. I want to see you."
He does, and it's the first time they've both properly seen each other since they first met, with all their clothes on. Abdirak looks the same, if not his hair messier, his cheeks more a flush, some blood on his chest.
Velron, not so much. His face carries tear marks, puffy eyes and his back is a bloody mess. His now bare chest reveals that his chin scar goes down much further, down to his collarbone, his torso, separating into two complicated, intricate scars that frame his chest before merging back into one and ending at his belly button. He's lithe, a smaller frame than Abdirak's, the marks and ridges present on all tieflings, wrap around his hips, his shoulders, his v-line. His long hair, tied into two braids, brushes on his raw wounds, drawing another wince from him.
The wind must be taken out of Abdirak's lungs, as it takes a moment for him to find his words. He steps closer, his hand tracing the old scars on Velron's chest.
"You are…a perfect canvas, child. How did…?" The question doesn't need to spelled out.
"I did it myself. I was…young." A little shame, maybe, it's still a sensitive memory, but no regret.
"You're full of surprises, dear one, aren't you?"
He doesn't know what to say that. His life feels like endless surprises that he is always the last to know about.
"Hands above your head, on the wall, please." He instructs him, dagger now tight in his grip. It's clear he has plans.
Velron complies. Both hands resting on the wall above his head, back arched ever so slightly- just so his wounds don't rub on the stone. There's no restraints- nothing holding him there, but he feels ever so vulnerable, like he's tied up with no escape option, especially now that he's facing the man. His breath hitches in his throat, Abdirak approaching, blade pointed towards him.
"Whatever I do, don't move. Understand?"
Wordlessly, he nods, his skin tingling in anticipation. His chest rises and falls- fighting to keep his breath shallow. Don't move.
The dagger presses into his deltoid, and he fights the urge to flinch. Abdirak's eyes flicker up from his work to make eye contact- just for a moment, and the glance they share tells them they're both getting the same kind of enjoyment out of this.
With a slow, deliberate movement, clearly by a skilled hand, the blade breaks skin, cutting through to the dermis like scissors through paper. It takes a second for blood to fill the wound, then it rushes out, staining his pale skin. Velron struggles to keep still, his arms twitching from their position above him. It's like he wants less but more at the same time, a strangled moan leaves his mouth.
"Still, little one. Still." He sounds like he can barely contain his excitement, himself. "For your safety. Unless you'd like me to restrain you."
Velron's head feels weak. brain like a pile of sludge- but being tied up sounds too restricting, too…he doesn't want it, at least not right now. Wants control of his own body.
"No," He shakes his head, brows furrowed- his words muttered and slurred.
"Still, then. Maybe next time."
Next time? There would be a next time? He hadn't thought that far ahead. Honestly, he can't think much of anything as the dagger comes down again, cutting swiftly and deeply across the side of his body, near his ribs. The pain doesn't even register for a second - just the odd feeling of his skin being split open and more blood leaking out him. It's almost addicting.
A sweet, high-pitched whimper leaves him.
"Ah-a-abdirak- please…" He doesn't know what he's begging for- doesn't know what he wants. Anything. More.
"Greedy little thing." he says, his free hand smearing Velron's blood all over his body, putting a bloodied finger in his own mouth, and to Velron's abject horror and arousal, licks it. "You want more?"
He doesn't know what to do but stand there and dumbly nod his head, his face likely more red than his blood smeared chest.
"Your words, pet." he leans over Velron, stuffing one of his legs in between his thighs, applying an amount of pressure that makes him feel more woozy than he already is.
“I- yes,” he nods. his lips parted, he looks up at the man through his eyelashes. “Please, please.”
Feeling himself becoming undone, it was freeing to realize how much pleasure he found in being cut up, everything he had denied himself of previously.
“Since you beg so nicely,” Abdirak purrs, dragging the blade gently down his torso, leaving a thin red line in its wake. Velron tries his best not to move but shudders as the blade was dragged down lower and lower, slowly gliding past his belly button to his lower stomach, cutting deeper when he let out a shaky breath. The blade stopped where his pants began, and time stopped for a moment, both of the men unmoving.
It seemed like an eternity passed before abdirak’s mouth smashed onto velron’s. It wasn’t a neat or comforting kiss, but a mess of need and passion, teeth clicking together and nibbles of lips.
Velron, who has the the advantage of having much sharper teeth, bites down, feeling iron in his mouth as a result. That earns him a hand grabbing at his hair, yanking him out of the kiss. Abdirak looked good with blood on him, lips red and bruised. The pleasure on his face was undeniable.
“You think you’re the only one with fangs, dear one?”
Abdirak's mouth transfers to his neck, sucking on his skin, leaving red marks, then biting, not quite piercing the flesh but getting damn close to it, leaving him a whimpering mess underneath him. His neck was sensitive, clearly, bumps and ridges adorning the sides, which each got a sickening amount of individual attention.
With a moment of clarity in his clouded mind, Velron realized his teeth weren’t the only tool he had in his belt. His hands, both equipped with sharp, unfiled claws. Dragging them down abdirak’s naked, broad back gets him a particularly painful nip on his neck, and a groan which made his stomach flip internally.
“Naughty little thing,” he quips, finally giving Velron some relief for his poor neck. A hand begins to fumble with the button on his pants, but before he can try and remove them- he changes his mind, picking Velron up. He wraps his hands around Abdirak's back to keep steady. He moves him to a stone table, plops him down on it and resumes his work as if nothing had happened.
Making quick work of the button, Velron assists him in peeling them off, leaving him in just a pair of black smallclothes.
Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t get a chance to get shy about being practically naked as a rough finger presses into his slit through the fabric, teasing his clit. It’s a struggle not to push his legs firmly closed, the back of his head hitting the stone wall, his own hand softly covering his mouth.
Abdirak only has to spare him a glance for him to realize that hand over his mouth has to go. Embarrassing as it is, the priest wants to hear him. Every breath, every pant, every moan.
Still, this was so sudden, wasn't it? The violence was one thing, the blood he was used to, it became a comfort over the years. This was uncharted territory. That was probably something Velron should've been more ashamed about, for a person of his age, but it was what it was.
"Wait- You know I haven't…Well, that I never-" There was really no way he could force himself to spit the whole sentence out.
"I figured, dear one. We're not going that far yet. For another time, hm?" He replies cooly, still rubbing Vel through his smallclothes.
"Goblins- They're not going to come in, a-are they?" He asks, stumbling half way through the question as he bites his lip. He felt so wet already.
"No. They know not to bother me by now- but forget about them." The dagger is back in his spare hand, steel glinting off the candle-light. "We aren't done just yet."
He brings the dagger up, the cool blade once more resting on Velron's stomach. It inches down, lower and lower, towards the band of his smallclothes. The more he breathes in, the more the pressure of the steel bites his skin.
"I know I said don't move before, but I really mean it now," Abdirak says with a smirk, continuing both the blade's downward descent and his fingers rubbing motions.
It was damned difficult to control his breathing as it was, more so with the rubbing of his clit. Even through the fabric, it felt so intense. Maybe it was the blood loss. His chest shuddered slightly, stomach with it, and the blade pressed in deeper, drawing a bead of blood.
Velron didn't know it could feel so good to be so lightheaded.
Deciding the torture had become stale, the priest moved the knife with precision, cutting through the smallclothes' fabric. The tattered remnants of the article fell around Vel's thighs, already forgotten about in his mind.
Before he could say or do anything in response, Abdirak brings his face to the apex of his thighs, pushing them open even further with his hand.
Velron gasped, blinking down at him. He wasn't…?
He was. Yes he was.
Vel's left thigh was gripped with a strength that he knew would bruise it terribly, his teeth catching on his lip wasn't enough to stop a small whimper from leaving him. The priest, only spurred on, dug his head in and got to work.
The first feeling of a wet tongue on his folds made his hips twitch. He didn't know what, exactly, he expected, but somehow it wasn't that. His tongue continued to explore, almost teasing him, all the while the grip on his thigh had him near whimpering. That dull kind of ache, like pressing into a bruise, made him melt in just the right way. Abdirak's tongue curled upwards, lapping at Vel's clit like a man starved.
"O-Oh-" He moaned, his legs involuntarily twitching as the pleasure built like a fire in his stomach. The dull pain on his thigh turned sharp as he dug in further, nails pressing into Vel's milky skin.
The tongue on his clit damn near felt like pure overstimulation, how Abdirak didn't need to breathe, he didn't know, but Velron knew that he couldn't last much longer. Everything felt so overwhelming, impossibly wet. The warmth in his stomach felt like a band that was pulled taut, ready to snap at any moment.
With all the focus on his clit, Vel didn't notice the blade ghosting over his inner thigh until it nicked him, drawing blood. It was impossible at this point not to move, his back arching and legs shaking, a motion out of his control. The blade dug deeper into his skin, cutting past and into the dermis as warm blood runs down his leg and onto the stone.
It all suddenly becomes too much, the sensations, the smell of iron in the air, the ache of his wounds, the burning of his thigh, it blends together in an orgasm that Vel didn't even know was possible. He thinks he moans Abdirak's name, which is something to be embarrassed about later, and the possibility of anyone…else…having heard this whole exchange doesn't even enter his mind in this state.
He doesn't know how long it takes him to come down, all that he can identify for a while is how dizzy he feels, the dull ache in his body, the sudden dryness of his mouth. By the time he realizes he has eyes and he can open them, he sees Abdirak still kneeling in front of him, thumb rubbing on his thigh, with blood drying on the skin. The self satisfied smile on his face speaks for itself. Velron didn't know what to say.
"You preformed excellently, child — I thank you for allowing for me to give the gift of pleasure."
Well, that could be taken in more than one way, definitely.
"…You're…welcome." He doesn't exactly know what to say- it was pleasurable, that was for certain, but a sort of emptiness settled in his chest.
He watched as the priest got up to set the dagger down, sorting it and the whip back into his rows of tools. Almost against his will, he imagined his own among them, and was for a moment transported back to his old room, in the basement of the church.
"Loviatar herself positively enjoyed your display, as well. I am proud of our work. On a more personal note…" He deliberates for some moments, before standing again before Velron, requesting his hand. He gives it to him, and is comforted by the warmth of his flesh. "You don't suppose we could do this again, do you? I doubt the Goblins have much use for me anymore, in all honesty. My knowledge goes over their heads."
Well, now that he thinks of it, the goblins probably won't be alive much longer as soon as he brings everyone else here to rescue that druid. He blinks as Abdirak hands him his bloodied shirt, with not as many holes in it as he would've thought. Before he can make a move to grab it, the priest gently grasps his arms, putting it on for him.
Velron smiles. "I suppose we can."