Archive of Our Own ^beta

Temenos holds the Staff of Judgement before him with practiced ease, such that it looks as light as a feather in his hands. He turns to face Crick, his expression serene.

“Before we start, repeat what I’ve told you,” he says.

Crick swallows. He feels very vulnerable, completely naked and on his knees, compared to Temenos, fully clothed and armed. “This is not a punishment,” he says, his voice wavering slightly. “I’ve— I’ve been good.”

“A good little lamb,” Temenos corrects. “Say it.”

“I’ve been a good little lamb,” Crick repeats, for once not stuttering over the nickname. “Typically, this treatment is reserved for the worst of the worst. That is not the case here. I have been begging for this, and since— since you know I can handle it, this is my reward. For being a good little lamb.”

Temenos gives him a small smile. “Very good.” He taps the Staff of Judgement against his palm once. “Do you still want this, Crick?”

Crick swallows again, his eyes fixated on the staff. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” Temenos steps around Crick, who remains facing forward without being asked. Temenos’s footsteps stop right behind Crick. “On your hands and knees, like the lamb you are.”

Crick gets on all fours as commanded. He is alight with nerves, and for one hysterical moment, he thinks to bleat like a sheep. But no, Temenos hasn’t asked that of him, so he remains silent. Meanwhile, his cock hasn’t received the same message as the rest of him and it stands at attention, threatening to drool on the floor.

There is a touch on his lower back, and he jolts, but it is just Temenos’s hand. Temenos chuckles. “So jittery, little lamb. Stay so tense and you'll surely snap in too.” With that ominous warning, Temenos withdraws his hand and there is the soft sound of the staff smacking his palm once more.

“Five strikes,” Temenos said abruptly, “and if you keep count, we shall continue further. Understood?”

Crick stares at a knot in the wooden floor below him. “Yes, sir,” he says.

A quiet whistle of metal through the air, and the head of the Staff of Judgement strikes Crick on the back of his thigh. He exhales sharply through gritted teeth, rocking on his hands and knees and his cock bobbing with the motion. It is bright, stinging pain, much sharper than the soft flogs and whips Temenos prefers to use on his little lamb.

But as much as Crick had enjoyed them at first, he gradually became bored of such implements. He wanted more sensation, more pain, and his eyes became drawn to the Staff of Judgement, to the point that he was jealous of the heretics and monsters that felt its blow. So he begged Temenos for this, convinced him that he was strong enough to enjoy it, and Temenos’s reluctance eventually morphed into interest.

Only more strikes will tell if Crick will come to regret it.

Temenos certainly did not hold back with the first strike. Already the skin of his thigh is hot, throbbing with what will surely be a nasty bruise. But his cock throbs as well. “One,” he says aloud. 

He could feel Temenos’s eyes on him, and perhaps his approval. Temenos steps quietly to the side.

The second blow comes from below, striking his stomach. Crick tenses his abdomen a second too late, and all he can do is breathe through the pain. “T-two,” he says.

Temenos pounces on the waver in his voice. “Is this already too much for you, little lamb?” he says mockingly. “You’re always free to end this early.”

But that would be giving up, after how long he asked for this. Crick shakes his head, unswayed. “No, I can continue. Sir.”

Temenos snorts slightly and considers him for a moment. Then the Staff of Judgement smacks the side of his bicep.

“Three.”

A thud right below his shoulderblade.

“Four!”

And finally, a loud, solid smack on Crick’s right ass cheek.

Crick gasps, his hips jolting with the hit to thrust into empty air. The sharp pain takes his breath away before it fades into a muscle-deep warmth that his confused brain took for pleasure. Gods, his cock ached.

“Five,” he bites out triumphantly.

Footsteps approach his head, and Temenos strokes his fingers through Crick’s hair. Crick presses his head into the gentle touch gratefully.

“You did it, Crick. I must say, I’m impressed. You took it all wonderfully.” His hand slips away, and the Staff of Judgment tilts Crick’s chin up enough to meet Temenos’s gaze. “Do you still wish to continue?” Temenos asked.

Crick stares into his eyes. His body aches from each of the five blows, but that doesn’t deter him. If anything, it only makes him want more.

“Yes sir. Please,” Crick says, an edge of desperation in his voice.

The corners of Temenos’s lips quirk in amusement. “Very well. We shall do five more at a time until you can go no further, and depending on how well you do, I may even let you come.”

Crick makes it to fourteen strikes before he fumbles. Temenos is still kind enough to help him come afterwards, at least after Temenos uses his mouth.

Crick twists his upper body before the full-length mirror, admiring the forming bruises and the redness of his skin. Temenos ran out of places to strike after a while, so some bruises consist of multiple blows overlapping each other. His left ass cheek is such an example, consisting of a purpling, nebulous cloud of a bruise. His right ass cheek was only struck once, however, and so perfectly that the bruise there is a clear imprint of the head of the Staff of Judgement.

Crick traces the outline of it with a light fingertip in awe. “Let me keep this one,” he says.

Temenos frowns slightly. “I only did this on the condition that I can heal you afterwards, if you recall?” he said.

“I remember. You can heal the others, but I want to keep this one, as a reminder.” Crick gives Temenos a pleading look. “Please?”

Temenos regards Crick for a moment before he sighs. “Fine. But no complaining of the pain when you sit down.”

“I promise, Temenos. I’m stronger than that,” Crick said, puffing his chest out.

Temenos chuckles and raises the Staff of Judgment, this time to heal rather than harm. “Of that, I have no doubt, little lamb.”