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Tristan discovered in that moment that he had been completely wrong about demons. They could hurt him. He’d always thought somehow that he was untouchable, that they were like shadows, or hallucinations, not fully real. This one felt real. The big hand pressing him down felt hot and strong, and the lash it wielded stung his skin most terribly, every stroke of the lash a heavy thud followed by a swarm of stings.
“MORT!” Tristan shrieked for help. He was still fighting, but there was little he could do in this helpless, prone position.
“Leave him alone! It’s me you want to hurt. He’s mortal,” Mort tried to argue with the demon.
“He is in as dire need of punishment as you, Prince Mortimer. Maybe more. I never get to thrash those who deserve it while they’re still alive. This is a rare treat.”
“Treat!?” Tristan shrieked the word as another harsh lash landed. He was being beaten like a whipping boy, taking the punishment meant for Mort. Of course, if he had stayed inside and shut up, this would never have happened, because the demon had not come for him.
Again and again, the demon’s lash snapped against Tristan’s poor bare flesh, leaving trails of marks, pink and red and sore. Mort seemed unable, or maybe even fucking unwilling to stop him.
“You’ll think before you speak impudently to your betters, boy. And you’ll consider your place in the pantheon.”
“What the fuck is a pantheon!?”
It was not a long beating, but it was a thorough one. Thirteen times the Punisher’s lash whipped Tristan’s pale ass, while the demon excoriated Tristan’s rudeness. Each and every single one of those lashes struck not only at Tristan’s tender flesh, but at the core of his self. He was being humbled, brutally and methodically. He was being shown his place, and that place was lowly indeed.
When the demon was done, he used the hair at the back of Tristan’s head to make him rise, meaty fingers curling into the shaggy lengths. He picked Tristan up, slapped his bare ass with his large hand, and set him on his feet.
Mort grabbed Tristan, holding him protectively close, though the protection came too late. Tristan was trying his very best not to cry, but failing as hot tears of humiliation pricked his eyes. He buried his face in Mort’s neck and tried not to audibly sob.
“I’m not going with you, Agamemnon,” Mort said, his lips very close to Tristan’s ear. “I’m staying with him.”
“Then you will be punished. The pair of you,” the demon intoned. “I will be back, night after night, and if you will not come with me, he will pay the price.”
“That’s not fai…”
There was no chance to finish the sentence, for the Punisher had disappeared. They would see him again soon enough.
“Why did you do that?” Mort whispered the question to Tristan, holding him close. “Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Tristan wailed, letting the tears flow properly now that his tormentor was gone.
“It’s okay,” Mort comforted him. “The pain will fade soon, and you will feel better. Keep crying. Let it all go.”
While holding the brave man who had thrown himself in the path of a demon for him, Mort must have started to feel more than just the shuddering sobs of a punished boy. He felt something else against his thigh. Something hard. A marker of arousal. When he glanced down, he saw that Tristan was rock fucking erect against his thigh.
Mort tipped Tristan’s tearful face up toward him and spoke with what he hoped was gentle acceptance.
“Did you like that?”
Tristan’s face flared an even brighter shade of red. “No! I don’t fucking know.”
“It’s okay if you did,” Mort said. “The ability to turn pain into pleasure can be a gift, if understood.”
He wrapped his hand around Tristan’s hard cock and squeezed firmly. The tears had not completely stopped, but a moan escaped Tristan’s lips.
“That’s right,” Mort purred softly. “Let me make you feel better, my sweet, brave masochist.”
He stroked Tristan’s cock with slow pumps of his hand, feeling the way that part of Tristan responded to a firm touch.
“Lay back,” Mort said.
“My ass hurts,” Tristan whimpered. He was adorable when he was sore.
“I know. Let it hurt. It’s part of the pleasure.”
“What are you… what are we…”
Mort cut his questions off with a soft but firm kiss. There had been a charge between them from the beginning, but Tristan had thought he was imagining it, that Mort would never be interested in him. Nobody had ever been interested in him.
This kiss was passionate and it was calming and above all, it was trustworthy. Tristan felt himself melting into it and he did as he was told, reclining slowly.
He felt the inevitable and obvious bolt of pain as he laid back, feeling the weight of his body reignite the ache and sting of the lashes. But Mort was crouched over him this time, and his cock was engulfed first by Mort’s hand, and then by his mouth.
