Nameless Ghoul

Consequences

***⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING for graphic depictions of violence and implied sexual assault. Please skip to the next chapter if you aren't comfortable reading about that ⚠️***

As Itzal walked along the basement corridor to his living space, he felt like a dead ghoul walking. Through the bond, he could feel Santos’ unfiltered rage swirling and churning like dark storm clouds. He felt the wards brush over his skin like cobwebs as he stepped through the doorway and he shivered. These wards were his own personal ones that the witches had designed to keep him contained when Santos let go of his leash so that he could rest. It was going to be a long while tonight before he was his own boss again, and he tried to set himself up for escaping into the sanctuary of his mind.

Itzal couldn't recall the last time that the preacher had been so angry. It had been a long, long time since he had lost his shit completely, but he felt the telltale burning in his chest and he knew that this was going to be really fucking bad.

His body went through the motions as it had done countless times before. He stripped off his clothes quickly and efficiently and then went to stand in front of one of the ancient wooden beams that held up the structure of the church. He faced the wood, put his hands up to grab the large, rusting metal ring there, and closed his eyes. Usually, it didn’t take too long for his mind to wander away from the here and now. Hopefully soon he would be running through the Fields of Scorn again, or wherever it took him that time. Tonight, however, he was so much off kilter that when he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, all he could see was a pair of kind violet eyes staring back at him. He opened his eyes again and prayed to Satan that he could leave this place.

Itzal felt a hot breath at his ear as Santos leaned in. His heavily accented, velvety smooth voice raised goosebumps along his neck as he spoke.

“Our entire purpose here is to regain our rightful place as the Clergy and I thought I had trained you well enough to carry out my tasks to the letter. We need to revisit the basics, yet again.” 

He heard the footsteps as Santos walked to the cupboard, grabbed what he needed, and then came to stand behind him. He tried again to calm himself enough so that he could slip away until the worst of it was over, but he failed miserably. As he heard the creak of the leather and the swoosh as Santos swung the whip in a few test swipes, he heard himself whimper. His breath came out in shallow pants and he tried to slow his racing heart. The anticipation was almost the worst part. Almost.

“I thought we were past this Itzal,” Santos said, his voice filled with regret. “You think that I enjoy punishing you like this, don't you? I am not a monster. I just have too much at stake to fuck this up now, and I cannot have my ghoul messing things up for us when we are so close to our goals. You need a little reminder, is all.”

Santos stepped into his view and placed a kiss to the centre of his forehead before stepping back to resume his place behind him. In his mind, Itzal tried to will his body to do something, anything, but it remained traitorously still, waiting for his punishment to be doled out.

The first lash hit him across the shoulder blades, and his body flinched involuntarily. There was a flash of agony as the sharp tongue of the whip lay his flesh open and he dragged air into his lungs with a harsh gasp. He felt the cool wood of the beam on his front, and he rested his cheek against it and closed his eyes once again. He was desperate for his mind to float away, but it was too late. There was no way he could concentrate enough now and he gave himself up to the pain. The lashes came in a frenzy as Santos’ rage consumed him and he growled through gritted teeth with the exertion of the strokes he was dishing out.  

Itzal must have passed out at some point because he woke up on the ground. When he opened his eyes, he saw a pair of black boots planted in front of his face. The skin of his back felt like it was on fire and a hot tear escaped his eye and rolled down his face to pool on the ground. He could smell his own blood, and when his gaze roamed upwards, he saw Santos with his usually pristine white shirt rolled up from his forearms. The material was flecked with blood and his face contorted with anger.

“Get. Up,” he growled.

Itzal tried and failed to climb onto all fours. His arms gave out and he flopped to the floor. Santos kicked him in the ribs so hard that he flipped onto his side.

“I told you to get up, you worthless piece of shit!!! Now do it!!” he spat. Santos grabbed the metal of his collar and dragged him upright so he was on his knees. Itzal coughed as it choked him. His survival instincts kicked in as he tried to put his hand underneath it to relieve the pressure on his trachea.

Santos grabbed the hair at the back of his head and dragged him towards the small dining table in the corner. He bent him over the flat surface and slammed his face down onto the wood several times so hard that he saw stars.  

“Don’t you fucking defy me ghoul, today was not the day for you to fail me! I’ve got enough shit to deal with already!!”

Itzal’s eyes widened as Santos nudged his knees apart, and he pinned him to the table. He could feel the rage turning to a possessive, insidious lust both through their bond and through the rigid length at his back. He panicked.

Fuck no! his mind screamed.

Impotent instinct made him try to ghost away, but the shock from the collar brought him crashing back to reality. He tried one last time to send his mind elsewhere and blissfully this time; it worked. 

A hazy sunlight crept into his vision and he drifted home in his mind’s eye.