roneal | (no subject)

"Perhaps so." He leans down to give Irvin a quick scratch, but doesn't stop walking. "You're dangerous to keep around; you've proven that very thoroughly." There's a note of foreboding in his tone. It's subtle, but present all the same, especially when contrasted against his earlier calmness. "But I suggest you save your strength."

"For what?" This isn't good. Jade has a plan and Shinjirou no idea what kind of plan it is, only that he doesn't want to be left alone again. Which isn't helping. He pushes himself off the wall, then shuffles closer.

"Tell me."

The sound of movement behind him makes him pause briefly, before he reminds himself that Shinjirou isn't the type to launch a sudden attack, especially now that he's calmer. He continues walking. By now, his destination is obvious: the telephone.

"I'm letting you go. I don't see much point in keeping someone so unwilling to change. Assuming all goes well, someone will take you back to the market tomorrow." He pauses. "Unless you'd rather be turned out into the streets now?"

His blood runs cold. He should be excited. It's a good reason for a celebration and Jade's giving him the option to just go back to his life as it used to be. He's sweating, stomach churning. No, he can't go back, he can't forget and ignore this.

Shivering, he walks up to Irvin and gets down on all fours beside the dog. His eyes are set on the ground, head hanging low. He can't talk anymore, he's choking on his own tongue. This is his place, this is where he belongs. No better than a dog.

But ... dogs are good. They can be trained, they can make their owners happy. He releases a hitched breath. It's Jade's decision, like everything else. To demand that he should listen to Shinjirou's begging now -- don't do it, keep me -- would just be another mistake.

He keeps his mouth and eyes shut, waiting.

Silently, he watches Shinjirou shudder and prostrate himself, waiting to see if he's about to speak. As the seconds trickle by and Shinjirou continues to kneel, his begging wordless but no less obvious despite that, Jade allows himself to feel triumph. Shinjirou had finally submitted to him, in full faculty of reason. It's a turning point, and a vital one, one there was no going back from.

Nevertheless, his victory is tainted by a hint of unease - this is a heavy responsibility, he's being entrusted with the keeping of Shinjirou's body and his mind. But Jade pushes his feelings aside. Neither of them have any choice; he'll simply have to do the best he can.

"Go back to the bedroom," he says at last, his voice carefully devoid of any emotion. "Face the wall, and cross your hands together above your head."

Not once does he look up -- but he gives a quick bow of his head before he returns to the bedroom. His heart has climbed up into his throat successfully, its beat droning in on his brain. He stands, hands crossed over his head, fingertips splayed out. Leaving himself open, from head to toe.

He makes no assumptions about what's going to happen next. Whatever it is, it's going to be the right choice for him. His mind empties, is filled with the simple texture of the wall, his breath shallow but evening out again. This is good. Sickly sweet warmth fills his stomach, every cell, because this is as much giving up as it is giving in.

There's nothing to hide behind. No way to pretend later he wasn't sober, wasn't in a right state of mind. Fully awake and having spent hours thinking about the situation, and he's come to this conclusion.

The leather is cool in his grip, its texture smooth, save for the little ridges created by the plaiting. It's a short whip, designed for ease of use more than fancy showmanship. Jade takes an experimental swing, snapping it against a stack of old newspapers, and finds it satisfactory.

He leaves the dog gnawing happily on a chew toy and steps into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thud. As expected, Shinjirou is standing quiet and obedient against the wall. Jade's eyes sweep over the long expanse of his body, taking in every single inch of bared skin.

"Keep your hands there. Don't move." The whip feels warm now, but the blood that pulses in his head feels warmer still. That dizzying sense of intoxication is back, like a fine wine that smoulders through his veins, and Jade has to breathe deeply, steadying his hand.

"This isn't punishment," he says. Then he brings the whip whistling through the air, cracking squarely across Shinjirou's back.

"Yes," he whispers, and adds an even quieter Sir. His eyes are glued to the wall, though he could probably have sneaked a glance at Jade and what's to come. It's not what he wants, not what he needs to prove himself still worthy of Jade's attention, and so he gives up the slighest bit of control over the situation, over himself, that he could have had.

Jade catches him just as he's about to inhale --

Shinjirou wishes he could scream, but he chokes on his tongue and all that comes out is a broken ugh. A searing heat spreads from the angry line the whip has left on his back, skin flaming up. The pain blinds him, tears stinging in his eyes, and he takes quick gulps of air to make up for the momentary loss of oxygen.

It's soothing, having his frustration taken care of like this. He allows his cheeks to stain, standing still apart from trembling lightly. This isn't punishment, Jade is right about that. It can't be, because then he wouldn't be relieved, would he? Wouldn't wait for the next hit without trying to prepare himself for the impact.

One. A single red line blooms. Jade could almost see the exact instant that the blood rushes to Shinjirou's skin, marking the exact place where the whip had landed. He waits, allowing the pain to spread.

Two. A second line appears next to the first, with less than an inch between them. Jade frowns, dissatisfied. He had wanted the two lashes to be side by side.

"Do you understand why I'm doing this?" He adjusts his stance, watching Shinjirou tremble and forcing himself to feel nothing - no hesitance, no guilt, no exhilaration.

Three.

By the time the second lash connects, he's got enough air in his lungs. Crying out, his muscles burning with tension as he fights his urge to flee, Shinjirou makes no attempt to swallow down the pain and rage he's felt the entire day. It spills out as screams and gasps, leaving the sensation of a knife being shoved down his throat behind.

"I, I'm not sure?" His voice is raw, just like his back, or so he imagines. It certainly feels like skin's tearing. The third time, his scream pitches high enough to let an echo of it ring through his head, ears pulsating. His chest heaves, and for a second he isn't sure that up is still up and down still down.

Once the world has stopped turning, he whimpers, "To help me."

This time, the whip doesn't come down. Instead, Jade steps forward, brushing the edge of the braided leather along the latest weal in a gesture that was almost gentle.

"Precisely." Shinjirou's screams are still ringing in his ears, but he doesn't allow that to deter him. Shinjirou doesn't seem to understand the purpose of this exercise, if his first - more honest - response is anything to go by. But he'll allow him to pretend. It's of no use if Shinjirou doesn't figure it out on his own. Perhaps it won't work for him anyway; maybe he won't find pain to be a facilitator of atonement, or maybe this sort of pain is too intense for him to learn to enjoy.

It doesn't matter. As long as he drives home the fact that Shinjirou is his, he would have achieved his purpose here.

Jade steps away again. This time, when the whip comes down, it's in a different angle, cutting over the previous three lashes.

Instead of flinching away from the touch, he presses back into it. He's not forgotten that he isn't supposed to move, but he wants to show, badly, that he's full of gratitude. His face is wet, tongue dry, throat sore and his back is beyond words. He smiles, forehead dropping onto the wall. "Thank you."

Then he screams in agony again, face twisting up. New warmth trickles down his back, wet spots blooming on the tender skin. His world's melting at the edges. Welcoming it with a sigh, he checks his posture. Today, he's been a disappointment. It's time to change that -- and Jade's giving him another chance. A way to get the anger out of his system, to mellow out. And he can feel it wash over him as the desperation floods out, with every cry.

Acceptance. Serenity.

Or maybe he does understand. Jade hopes so.

Five. Six. Seven... Fifteen lashes. By the time he's done, his arm is aching, but it's nothing compared to the pain in his ears and the throbbing in his head. He's been careful not to break skin again, but the last blow he lands almost directly on top of the previous one. Jade watches, struggling to remain detached, as blood seeps from the shallow cut, mingling with the previous trickles. It drips down Shinjirou's back and towards the whip, a deep crimson that Jade can't help but find beautiful, even now.

He's tired, all of a sudden. The whip is lowered to his side, a few drops of blood rolling from its length to splotch onto the wooden floor.

"That's enough," he says, careful not to betray any hint of his weakness.

His cries first rise, then drop in volume, and eventually find a middle ground. It's good, not knowing where the next lash will land, makes everything worse. Makes everything better. His eyes burn as badly as some of the streaks the whip carves into his back. And then, at some point, it comes to a halt.

As if sedated, it takes his brain about a minute until Jade's words compute. This is it, they're done.

Reluctantly, Shinjirou lowers his arms. The movement presses more blood out of the open cuts and he hisses, but doesn't falter. Before he turns around, he glances over his shoulder, allowing Jade to watch for another moment. Nervous twitches run through his nerve endings; it tickles.

Slowly, with the aid of the wall, he brings himself to his knees. Even more slowly, he crawls towards Jade. He's been sweating and crying the entire time and doesn't want to stain Jade's clothes -- but he's overcome with the need to nuzzle his leg, like an animal, and does it despite his wet face. His voice is broken. This is the only way he can show his gratitude.

He watches with growing concern as Shinjirou drags himself forward. Had he pushed him too far? He's weak-limbed, shaky beyond belief, his every movement such an obvious strain that Jade wonders if he'll pass out.

But then Shinjirou starts nuzzling at his leg, and Jade knows he's alright for now. It's strange to have someone pressed up against him like that, stranger still to feel wetness soaking through the fabric of his slacks. But it doesn't inspire revulsion as he thought it would; if anything, he feels calm, almost peaceful.

Quiet and analytic, he looks down at Shinjirou, trying to determine if his actions are that of gratitude or a plea for mercy. It feels more like former, and Jade has to wonder if what he's planning to do next is necessary.

He bites down the good boy that rises to his throat, forcing his expression into a cold mask. With a swift movement, he kicks Shinjirou, carefully calculated to startle him rather than cause injury. He's had enough of that.

"I didn't tell you to stand down yet."

Living on the streets has taught him a few things: his instincts are quick enough to dodge and he would have done that in any other case, but here he only flinches, looking up with wide eyes. That's right. So desperate to be close and tell Jade in some way or another how much better he is now, he's accidentally made a mistake. One he can correct.

"I'm sorry," he croaks, and he returns to the wall, pulling himself back up into the same position. He's getting dizzy, wondering if asking for water would be acceptable -- no. Jade will give him some when they're truly done here. He pulls his hair over his shoulder to bare more of his back, then pushes the chain around his neck. It's cool against the flaming-hot skin. Here, I'm yours.

This time, the whip doesn't come down on Shinjirou's back. It lashes across his buttocks instead, cutting viciously through the scratches and bruises the guest had left on him less than a day ago. The whip's progress sends droplets of blood flying through the air; one lands on Jade's cheek, burning hot, and he allows to trickle downwards, tickling slightly as it follows the pull of gravity.

Satisfied that the message had sunken in - and fearing for Shinjirou's health - he leaves without a word, taking the whip with him.

Not only is it unexpected to get hit again, the area it lands on is as well. He doesn't scream out though the pain is no less intense, his throat simply too sore. Instead he groans and suffers a short coughing fit. Jade leaves before he's regained his breath. No one would see him move now, but Shinjirou stays perfectly still. Only the blood running down his thighs can't be stopped.

This time, he waits.

When he returns, it's with hands that are scrubbed clean and a first aid kit instead of the whip. He sets it down on the nightstand, but doesn't open it yet.

To his satisfaction, he sees that Shinjirou hadn't moved an inch: his hands are still held high above his head, his whole body exposed. He looks good; the marks that cover his body perfectly balanced now, the long red lines on his back matching the livid bruises that spread across his hips.

Jade grips the damp washcloth he had brought with him. This is familiar, much more so than causing pain to someone not an enemy. He is quick and sure as he moves to stand behind Shinjirou, closer this time, reaching out to wipe away the dried blood while carefully avoiding any open injuries. Shinjirou's skin feels feverishly hot through the cool barrier of the cloth, even hotter than his blood had when it splashed onto his cheek. For a second, Jade wonders if he'll feel just as hot on the inside.

Half a hum, half a moan gets dragged out of his mouth. Nothing could feel better than this, he thinks. It's refreshing and soothing at the same time, blood and sweat getting wiped off his skin. Forehead dropping against the wall, he closes his eyes. His muscles shift under Jade's hand and he pushes lightly into the touch, unbearably content.

At some point, though, he risks moving more than that, and glances over his shoulder. The cloth is wet and his tongue is so dry, lips cracked -- he opens his mouth just as Jade begins to wash his shoulder blade. Even dirty as it is, it's wet. His throat makes a clicking noise when he swallows, gaze focused on what Jade's doing. "Water?"

It's easy for Jade to lose himself in the simple, repetitive task, lulled into an almost meditative state by the quiet noises Shinjirou is making. Not even the arch of his body is enough to disrupt his focus.

The request, however, is met with an immediate "No." Jade continues his meticulous work as he elaborates: "Letting you drink from this will be unhygienic. You can have some water after I've finished washing your wounds and disinfecting them."

"Yes." He turns back towards the wall, though his attention is entirely on Jade anyway. Being unable to see what's happening isn't so bad. The sensations are still there and when he closes his eyes, he can imagine with some ease what is going on.

Relaxing as it is to be taken care of in this manner, he nearly dozes off. It doesn't happen mostly because his own appreciative moans startle him awake whenever he's about to take a nap standing up; and he isn't really tired. Worn out, yes, and yet as if a new source of energy had been unlocked.

Back done, Jade sinks to his knees, running the cloth down Shinjirou's thighs. In any other situation, he might have found it unusual - he doesn't recall ever having knelt to anyone before. But this is strictly business. Brow furrowed with concentration, he works quickly, wiping up the last of the blood.

Which leaves disinfecting the wounds. Jade moves to the first aid kit, retrieving an alcohol wipe from a packet. "This will sting a little," he warns. He's not out to cause any further distress, so he gives Shinjirou a moment to brace himself before he begins, running the wipe over the shortest cuts and nicks he can find.

When Jade is on the floor, Shinjirou flicks his head to the side. His cheeks don't quite match the intense burn around the wounds, but he'd rather not show that it's affecting him this particular way. After Jade's risen to his feet again, he has no idea how he managed to hold his breath the entire time. The ones he releases afterwards are shallow and quick.

Thankfully, the next part distracts him from any awkward arousal. Hissing and clenching his teeth, he takes it with as much dignity as he can muster -- it's not much. At least he doesn't flinch and prolong the procedure unnecessarily. He's had enough fist fights in his life to know this is important and that the less he moves around, the faster the job will be done.

The sudden increase in the rate of Shinjirou's breathing makes Jade pause, curious. After everything he had managed to endure, surely Shinjirou wouldn't be afraid of the sting of alcohol? It takes a few seconds for the real reason to occur to him, and he smiles to himself, amused - and thoughtful.

The wipe comes away stained with a few drops of blood. Jade tears open a new packet, beginning to work on one of the longer cuts. Shinjirou is being very cooperative; it makes everything all the easier. Jade finds himself feeling...content, though it takes awhile for the realization to come. It's rare for him to tend to someone like this. He's not a healer - the furthest thing from it, in fact, with no aptitude at all for healing artes but plenty of skill in destructive spells. The fact that he's able to care for someone like this is a revelation to him.

It doesn't take him long to finish. When he does, it takes him a second to draw himself out of the calm that had settled over him and assume the role of Shinjirou's master once again.

"Good boy." His own voice sounds distant in his ears. "You can go rest. I'll bring you some water."