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“—be arriving for at least a week. I’ve been sent to get things underway in the meantime.” His head was pounding incredibly hard, his brain throbbing in his skull like an infected wound, and everything was too muddled to panic just yet. Felix wasn’t one for panic, regardless, but the fact that he didn’t know where he was or why he felt as though he’d been trampled by a horse was admittedly unnerving. He couldn’t move either, and wasn’t that a bother.
“To get things... Now wait just a minute. Let me see that missive again.”
Forcing his eyes open just a slit, ignoring the gritty discomfort of eyelashes stuck together, he took in as much of his surroundings as possible. His vision was too blurred to make out much, just murky shadow and a few painfully bright torches hung up on what he assumed were walls. He was naked and trussed up like an unfortunate sacrifice, stretched out in a pose that was not quite standing, nor quite reclined on some sort of uncomfortable wooden surface. The dark bindings holding him still felt like metal, with bands encircling his wrists and ankles, and thicker pieces pinning down his chest, hips, and knees. He wasn’t about to start struggling, not yet, but a quiet flex seemed to indicate the bonds were stronger than he would have preferred. A quick catalogue of his body hinted at a cracked rib or two, some kind of serious blow to the back of the head, and a rather excessive amount of bruising from a work-over that he didn’t remember even slightly.
No, this was not the best start to a day he could imagine. At least he wasn't gagged.
“As you can see, Captain—” Two voices, both male, and Felix recognized neither. How in Oblivion had this happened? The last thing he remembered, he’d been slipping through a window, and the Night Mother’s latest contract had been moments away from a quick trip to the Dread Father’s side. And Cicero had been— “My orders are clear, and signed by the General himself. I’m certain a loyal legionnaire such as yourself would never impede such a task, regardless of any... personal distaste.”
Legionnaires? Orders? This was just getting better all the time.
Oh by Sithis, where was Cicero? If any of these witless cowards had done permanent damage to him, Felix was going to skin them alive, bollocks first. And that would be just to start.
Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, your very favourite children might be in a bit of a jam.
The clank of heavy armour and the stomp of footsteps retreating was enough to reel back Felix’s wandering thoughts. Lighter feet stepped near, perhaps leather boots, and Felix had every intention of playing unconscious for as long as possible. It was amazing what one could learn when—
Pain, white hot and sharp as a thousand razors, exploded through every single nerve of his body, and Felix couldn’t stop from arching up, muscles seized as hard as stone. Feigning sleep was forgotten, eyes snapping open and staring up, blinded by the flares of bright blues and purples that danced over every part of his world. Gods, lightning, how long had it been since he’d been hit with wizard’s lightning?
The metal band around his hips, likely iron, held fast, which was something Felix would think to be grateful for much later. The spasms of his muscles would have been expected, of course, but the immediate stiffening of his cock was probably not intended. Pressing the start of a sudden erection against merciless iron was almost as delicious a feeling as the shivering agony lacing through him as sizzling bolts of magicka ravaged his flesh.
The torturer (and distracted or not, Felix had no doubt that’s what this was) seemed promisingly skilled, at least at this stage of the proceedings. Lightning could be incredibly effective, and it wasn’t as pedestrian as blades or brands, but it took a delicate touch not to cook a victim from the inside out.
Eventually the magic faded, leaving Felix limp and huffing like a smith's bellows despite the screaming misery in his ribs. Well, mostly limp— iron might be keeping him from raising the flag properly, but he was still pressed achingly hard against his bonds. Sucking in a few heaving lungfuls of air, blinking up at a stonework ceiling, Felix gathered enough mental capacity to remind himself that this was not playtime. A bit of blood and torment between good friends was one thing, but one wrong move and these Legionnaires could have his guts hung up like a garland.
He liked his guts just where they were, thank you very much.
“Ah good,” the torturer said, voice thick with false cheer. It was going to be one of those sessions, apparently. To each their own. “You’re awake.”
“Where am I?” If the torturer could play the kindly psychotic, Felix decided to try the helpless, terrified wretch. Let the breathlessness in his tone be explained by terror, rather than the throbbing need between his legs, and perhaps he’d even get a decent orgasm out of this mess before he broke free and fed the bastard his own kidneys. “Oh gods, gods, what’s happening?”
“Hmm.” The torturer slid closer, out of the shadows and right into Felix’s field of vision, leaning close but not too close. The man looked like a Breton, with soft features in a pale, narrow face, greyish eyes, and hair the colour of rotted straw combed neatly back behind his ears. He also looked younger than Felix would have imagined, perhaps somewhere around his thirtieth year, but Bretons often aged well. The lack of a decent chin was unfortunate, but not every human in Tamriel could be blessed with a sharp Cyrodiilic jawline.
Lit warmly by the flickering torches, the torturer offered a slowly unfurling smile, closed lip without a hint of teeth. His eyes stayed hard, like gleaming shards of steel. Felix hoped his shudder was taken as nervousness, but the distinct lack of mercy clouding up that flinty stare was doing all sorts of tingly things deep in his belly. This man was more than willing to hurt him, badly.
If the pallid little Breton didn’t need to die at the end of this, which he most certainly did, Felix might have considered offering him an invitation to join the Family.
“We can cut the act, if you like,” the torturer said, with the barest lilt of laughter. “You’re hardly a wet-eared whelp, ready to start blubbering already. Are you, assassin?”
Ah well, it had been worth a shot. Shifting a bit, almost disappointed that his wrists were held down by his sides rather than stretched out above his head, Felix shrugged as much as he was able.
“Do call me Felix.” His throat was dry as the Elsweyr badlands, and his voice was terribly hoarse. Blinking past the lingering spots floating through his vision, Felix lifted his head enough to look the Breton more squarely in the face. When he found his grin, he also found that his lip was split. The bite of pain as torn skin stretched and cracked was followed by a faint tickle, as blood crept down over his chin and into his stubble, and Felix took a moment to lick at the coppery taste with the tip of his tongue.
"Felix,” the torturer repeated, tilting his head a bit like a bird, as Felix swallowed against the cottony feeling of his parched mouth. How long had he been unconscious?
“Indeed— Felix Jucanis, at your service, though I think we can dispense with formality. I imagine we’re going to get to know one another quite well.” There was a table just visible out of the corner of his eye, resplendent with all manner of interesting tools. Felix craned his neck, ignoring the way the room spun around him, nodding vaguely at the rows of blades and pincers. “Are those all for me?”
“If we get through all of them,” the man said after a moment of contemplative silence, reaching out to trail long, neatly kept fingers over a few handles. “I will be duly impressed, Felix.”
This Breton was just adorable.
“I live to impress, but now you seem to have me at a disadvantage, sir.” Rattling his wrists noisily in their irons made the torturer twitch, ever so slightly. Felix filed that away, and it was no strain whatsoever to keep his grin firmly in place. “Well, perhaps two or three disadvantages, but who’s keeping count. Do you have a name?”
“Sir will do nicely.” Between the thread of sharp command winding its way through the Breton’s tone, and the small pair of pliers he lifted from the table, it was all Felix could do to keep from grinding up against the iron. His cock was already starting to feel chafed, which was distracting enough, and in the cool, damp air of the room, the sweat beading at his hairline and along his upper lip was getting clammy. “Tell me, do you have any idea why you’re here?”
Anticipation curled hot down Felix’s spine as the Breton slunk near again, absently opening and shutting the pliers as his grey eyes trailed slowly over the naked body laid out before him, studying planes of olive brown skin mapped with various scars. Swallowing again, Felix made a humming, considering noise.
“I’ve often wondered that myself, sir.” Yes, drawling out the respectful title was a lovely little thrill. Felix liked this Breton more and more with every passing moment. “I think perhaps my father didn’t hug me often enou—gah!”
The pliers bit cruelly into the flesh of his little finger, squeezing knuckle and nail as they twisted. There was an audible, wet crack, and lances of heat and cold slicing up his entire arm as delicate bone gave way at a wholly unnatural angle. The sensation skittered through his nerves, pooling delightfully in his groin.
“Allow me to enlighten you, Felix.” His ring finger was next, twisted sideways just like the first, with not a moment’s reprieve. Felix clenched his jaw, biting back a moan, and pressed his head against the rack to which he was shackled. Putting pressure on the swollen knot at the base of his abused skull succeeded in making things just a bit fuzzier around the edges, letting him swim in the euphoria for a few moments without it overwhelming him quite yet. As long as the Breton kept his fun limited to a few broken bones and other minor inconveniences (nothing a health potion and a blast of regeneration magic couldn't sort out), Felix was more than content to keep his Voice in check. It couldn't hurt to linger a bit, after all, to learn what he could about his captors...
Well, actually it could hurt an awful lot, which was rather the point. There was still Cicero to worry about, but in most situations the jester could handle himself quite readily. Felix wasn't chewing the walls with anxiety just yet, but the concern didn't fade entirely. Unfortunately, he really couldn't risk too much time for play when his dear fool might be in a pickle.
The Breton was still talking, cool and conversational, and Felix took another deep, burning breath to calm himself down. This might be important. "You're here, on my rack, because one of your miserable rabble dared kill the Emperor of Tamriel, and I want a name."
He managed, somehow, not to laugh in the poor Breton's face. "Is that so," he panted instead, sagging against his bonds when a third snap of bone was not immediately forthcoming. His heartbeat was pounding in his mangled hand, in perfect time with the insistent, needy ache in his cock. "I’m afraid you won’t like the answer, sir. I think I’ll spare you the disappointment.”
Felix expected some punishment for his cheek, but not the tiny shock of lightning administered directly to his hand, which immediately and automatically clenched into a tight fist, heedless of any broken bones or twisted tendons. Oh gods, the feeling was gloriously excruciating; if this kept up, things were going to be over embarrassingly fast.
“I would only have been disappointed,” the Breton said once the bolts faded, and Felix hesitantly unclenched his trembling fingers as much as he was able. Every move was a fresh stab, straight to his tightened balls. “If you’d given up your secrets so very soon. This is quite the opportunity for me, breaking a member of the Dark Brotherhood. A rare subject, especially now that your order is gasping its last breaths. I may never get such a chance again.”
“Last breaths?” This time, Felix didn’t bother to stifle his laughter, harsh and perhaps a bit manic. Cicero was a terrible influence. “We are the will of Sithis given form, you stupid little man. Eternal as the Void.” Coughing around his giggles, Felix readied himself on the off chance the Breton had an unexpectedly short temper. “Ask His Unfortunate Majesty about last breaths, if you're curious. Now, are you going to tickle me with those sparkles again, or is Sir ready to get his hands dirty? You’re boring me already.”
Thankfully, the Breton didn’t seem too affected, though Felix didn’t miss the flare of anger that lit his stare for just an instant, ominous as a thunderhead. The pliers were returned to the table with perfectly measured movements, wordlessly, and Felix simply waited to see how this would unfold. The anticipation was half the fun.
Then the Breton took up a braided lash— four tails of dark leather coiling out from a thick handle— and favoured Felix with another hard-eyed smile, just as knife sharp as the first. “I’ll endeavour to hold your interest, Felix, while you consider my request. Just a name; such a simple thing, yes? Let’s begin.”
The first crack hit him low, raising welts along his left side and jarring his abused ribs. The Breton wasn’t holding his strikes back even a little bit, lean arm flexing under his Imperial leathers, and Felix groaned breathlessly when the second lash caught him across the belly, just above the iron chafing against his cock. Perhaps Sir would thrash his thighs before they were through, though it was probably too much to hope for that he might be turned over for a good arse whipping. Unshackling him would be a very stupid risk on the Breton’s part, after all; a mistake that Felix simply wouldn’t be able to let slide without taking advantage.
Regardless, for as long as it lasted, this was going to be great fun.
"A name, Felix." Much like a blushing milkmaid might have done before spreading her legs, the Breton had taken a little while to warm up properly. Once things got started, however, Felix was far from disappointed; the man had taken the question about getting his hands dirty rather literally, eventually.
At the moment, he had Felix writhing and mewling like a kitten strung up on a hook, as he worked a thumb mercilessly into one of the many precise cuts patterned across slick, blood-drenched skin. Burrowing into that pocket of ruined flesh and agony... if he pressed a little harder, the Breton would have been scraping breastbone, and Felix might have just exploded.
Felix had already listed off a plethora of smart-mouthed responses, casting blame for the murder on a quite a varied gallery of suspects— from the Wolf Queen Potema to Tullis himself, Mephala, the entire Hall of the Vigilant, and Little Tim, the toymaker’s son, among others (he’d give the Madgod credit for that last one, though the joke had fallen flat with the Breton). He might have thought of a few more, perhaps started rhyming off all the priests of Mara he could name off the top of his head, but things were thinning to a razor-fine edge, and he didn’t quite have the capacity for coherent speech.
There was a small chance that he had allowed this to go on a bit longer than was wise.
He’d already bitten through his lip hours before, but constant gnawing was keeping the blood flowing into his mouth, coppery and rich, making him reel drunkenly with the taste and scent. Just a teeny bit more, another kiss of fiery steel brand scorching welts across his chest, or perhaps a few more neat slices of that lovely fillet knife... Yes, he was teetering so beautifully on the precipice, and gods, he needed—
The familiar wet, bubbling sound of breath being choked by blood startled Felix out of his haze, prying his stinging eyes open just in time to watch the Breton’s expression shift from confusion to fear, just before another cough darkened those pale lips to deepest crimson. The torturer fell, a boneless heap of limbs and leather, and it took every meagre scrap of sense Felix had left not to Shout that sweet, eager grin right off Cicero’s damnable skull.
Sithis curse it all, just a moment longer—
“Oh Cicero is here, my Listener!” The fool stepped closer, grunting as he kicked the Breton’s body aside, and Felix watched with hooded, hazy eyes as one gloved hand reached up to cup his cheek. The touch was barely there, lighter than a butterfly, and Cicero’s expression had softened to something approaching tender concern as he leaned in, far closer than the torturer had ever dared— if Felix hadn’t been foaming at the mouth and dying to come, it might have been terribly precious.
“Dearest Listener,” Cicero crooned. “Faithful Cicero will mend you and tend you, patch you up and make you whole, oh yes. I’ll have you down in a jiffy, you’ll see—”
Snarling was a new torment, as the rough growl tore up from his already raw throat— the Breton may not have had quite the experience of a true artist of the craft, but he had succeeded in wrenching a fair share of screams from his victim. Straining forward, gnashing and biting viciously at the air barely a hairsbreadth from the tip of Cicero’s nose, Felix thrashed against his bonds with a violence he’d thought had been worn out of him long before.
“Now!” He barely recognized his own voice, hoarse and frenzied as it was, and Cicero leaned back with a pout. “Down, damn it, now!”
Stepping away, Cicero dipped a shallow bow. “Yes, my Listener, of course. Of course.” The penitent move translated smoothly into searching the Breton’s body for the key, all the while Felix was trying very hard to ignore the sensation shivering through every muscle, tendon, and nerve in his entire body, taut and strained like a bowstring drawn too long.
“The Listener could bring the cretin back,” Cicero was murmuring, quick fingers riffling through pockets and pouches with practiced ease. “Raise him up with magics and Cicero would kill him again, slower, messier, if that is your wish? Would that please the Listener?”
The key wasn’t keeping company on some densely packed ring, which was fortunate. No, the Breton only had one key on his person, and when Cicero began to undo the locks from the ground up, Felix nearly howled. Ankles, thighs, waist— and here Cicero paused, peeling back the iron band that clung with sweat and blood, and stared at the painful looking erection that sprang free. He paused, and stared with lips just slightly parted, until another snarl made him shake his head sharply and glance up, dark eyes meeting darker, searching. A moment of that, of thick undercurrents recognized and unspoken, and then Cicero’s hands were flying to the rest of the locks, fast and furious.
Wrists were last, which was clever, as Felix wasn’t entirely sure he’d have cared too much about being pinned to the board if it meant he could grab. Freedom was better for what he planned— well, planned was a rather strong term. There was, in truth, very little thought and planning involved when the final lock clicked open and he threw himself forward, his long-suffering body shrieking its protest.
Cicero caught him, sort of, at least enough that no further bones were broken as they tumbled to the filthy floor. Always the thoughtful jester, the clever clown, his dear Cicero.
The floor was tacky with blood, some of it his own, but most puddled around the Breton’s corpse, having leaked profusely from the ghastly, gaping wound torn from low on his back, up into his guts and through his spine. It was a truly vicious gash, born of skill and fury, and Felix would appreciate it later.
At the moment, however, the most he was able to appreciate was the scrape of shrouded leather across his broken and burned skin, and the bite of Cicero’s fingers as the fool gripped his sides, every supportive squeeze sending stabs of agony lancing through him. Panting, gasping for air when each breath felt thick with pain and want, Felix managed to find something to bite— the edge of Cicero’s smooth jaw— coaxing a promising growl from his jester.
“Touch me—” He could hear himself begging, whiny and desperate in a way he’d never let the Breton see. There were too many fingers mangled on both of his hands to be any use in stripping the leather from Cicero’s warm skin, so Felix merely writhed, babbling and grinding his hips in messy, awkward thrusts, pawing insistently with his palms. “More... more, Cicero, please—”
“Anything, my Listener. Anything for you.” Cicero’s voice was rarely ever pitched so low; it was not the voice of the Fool of Hearts, but of the man, free of his manic twittering for only a moment or two. Gloved hands moved with surety of purpose, dragging down from ribs to hips, coaxing Felix to keep babbling (“Yes, yes, Cicero, yes...”) as Cicero hummed encouragingly.
Suddenly, finally, the sensation of pressure shuttered the world around him, focused solely on the firm grip closing around his straining prick, and Felix clawed at Cicero’s shoulders with swollen, useless fingers, groaning against the pale skin of his jester’s throat. There was no hesitance, no pause, not an ounce of mercy offered or wanted— Cicero’s hand moved quickly, cruelly, slick and silken with a mess of fluids, dragging pleasure out of Felix’s battered flesh, forcefully, as one might yank a blade free from corpse.
Everything was fresh torment, each stroke hotter than a brand, as the coiling tension twined around his spine tightened and tightened, his heartbeat throbbing in time with Cicero’s senseless cooing against his ear. He mouthed and bit desperately at everything he could reach, moaning at the taste of blood and leather against his tongue, and heard an answering grunt roll through the fool playing him like a lute. There was fire in his veins, in his limbs, deep in his gut, scorching him to the marrow. It was torture and bliss, perfectly refined and tuned in a way the Breton had not quite achieved before their session was cut short.
And then in an instant the moment seized, crystalline and sharp, then released, tearing him asunder.
The next coherent thing Felix noticed, after floating for a bit in a muzzy haze, was the slow drip of some thick, foul-tasting liquid into his mouth, and the sound of Cicero singing quietly to himself. The comforting familiarity of the latter was the only reason the former didn’t send him sputtering and struggling— fighting the mild urge to gag, Felix swallowed back the heinous potion and forced his eyes open.
Cicero was looming over him, one hand holding a small red bottle and while the other carded into Felix’s sweaty, matted curls. They were still on the floor, but Felix found he didn’t mind the accommodations, at least for the moment. The room was spinning just enough to make standing up seem terribly overrated, and Cicero’s lap made a rather comfortable pillow.
“Oh!” Grinning wide, teeth gleaming in the torchlight, Cicero bent down towards him, so close that Felix nearly had to cross his eyes. “Hello, hello, my dearest Listener. Feeling better?”
Felix was still naked, freezing his bare arse against a damp stone floor. Every single part of his body ached like he’d been beaten with a sack of septims, from the roots of his toenails to the tips of his eyelashes, and his skin felt itchier than a bad case of crotch rot from all the sluggishly healing wounds, to say nothing of the drying smears of blood and his own come painted over his belly. Unless Cicero had a barrel of healing potion and a hot bath stashed away nearby, there wasn’t much hope that Felix’s condition would improve much past in worse shape than a rotten old draugr.
Still, the feel of Cicero’s fingers scratching his tender scalp was rather nice, and Felix stretched like some elderly Khajiit might, muscles worn and tight but with the memory of fluid grace.
“Better,” he rasped, his mouth twitching in a faint attempt at a smile, and didn’t argue when Cicero tipped more of the revolting brew through his lips.
“Humble Cicero,” his jester replied brightly, obviously preening in his unconventional role as heroic rescuer. Felix was content to let him savour it a while, and also determined to thank him thoroughly later, once bones were properly knit and cold stone could be replaced with warm furs. “Lives to serve.”
END