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Qifrey wakes up with a splitting headache, buried in blankets that feel far more plush than his own. Groaning as the smell registers and his brain happily informs him that this is Olly’s bed. He hasn’t quite placed what happened or how he got here yet, but the headache is enough to give him a pretty good idea. So is the nausea starting to itch at his throat.
“Ah, yer awake?”
Normally Olruggio’s voice was a pleasant thing in the mornings. Deep and accented in a way that could make Qifrey’s stomach swoop on the best of days. On the worst of days, with a very obvious hangover, it felt more like Olruggio was yelling in his ear, even from across the room. He groaned again, grabbing a pillow and pulling it over his head miserably.
Of course, he had never treated Olly any different on the days he awoke with them either. The hustle and bustle of the atelier was its own punishment for reckless overconsumption, and the spanking later made sure the lesson set in. Olruggio was at least being kinder than that, as he made his way up to the bed in slow light steps, but Qifrey was already certain he was going to be sitting uncomfortably tomorrow. He’d be disappointed himself if Olruggio let him get away with it, he had to set some good examples for the girls; even if he hadn’t remembered the actual events of the night prior yet.
Olruggio sat on the edge of the bed, the movement making Qifrey dizzy for a brief moment, and placed a gentle hand on his back. “The girls’ve had breakfast, they’re outside in the sun ‘til lunch. D’ya want some food?” He was kind enough to lower his voice as he spoke, the tones of it reverberating deeper than before, but not quite kind enough to just shut up for twenty minutes while Qifrey woke up. Unfortunately fair.
He ran his tongue around his mouth for a moment, getting used to the feeling of it before managing to pry a few words out of himself. “No thanks. Nauseous.”
Olruggio chuckles loudly, like the cruel man he is, and pats Qifrey’s back consolingly. "That's alright, it can wait ‘til yer up to it. Finish wakin’ up ‘n go take a bath. Works wonders.”
He gives a few final pats before getting up again, heading to his workstation to continue his own day. Qifrey certainly does not make a particularly pathetic sounding whine into the blankets before forcing himself up. He doesn’t deserve this, clearly, Olly is just content to watch him suffer. Yes, he will be dramatic about it if it makes peeling himself off of the mattress easier.
By the time dinner is finished, the night before had come to Qifrey in painful clarity, making his stomach sink when he remembers it. He hadn’t just gotten too drunk, apparently, and the worry for the discipline he was certainly due tonight only grew.
He’d gone out for an evening while Olruggio put the girls to bed, something the other encouraged him to do at least once a month. A night off to himself, to clear his head and socialise with other adults. Usually this meant a few ciders or a bottle of wine in the corner of his preferred bar, watching some singer or musician or other on the small wooden stage. A stop for a snack of some kind he didn’t usually partake in, and then the trip back home to go to bed. Mundane, calm, utterly boring to contrast the excitement and overwhelm of four apprentices and more and more interactions with the brimmed caps nowadays.
Last night, he had apparently decided that boring wasn’t what he needed from the night. It had started with a game of cards and a strong shot of liquor with the rest of the table. From there it had somehow turned into something of a drinking contest between him and a tall man who looked like he ought to live in a bar. A foolish choice on his part certainly, that left him stumbling over his own feet while others chuckled at him. That was about the point he lost track of time, reality going a bit fuzzy at the edges and his memories brief and fleeting.
At some point in the night, he remembers Easthies spotting him, from a booth of his own on the far end of the establishment. Tone incredulous around the shape of his name as he makes his way over to him. He’s not dressed in his normal attire, the red cap and imposing mantle of a Knights Moralis, presumably also taking a night to himself. His robe is simple and black, and looks like it’s made out of a very soft fabric, and his hair is braided loosely down his back. Qifrey notices these things, catalogues them, and then belatedly realises he hasn’t registered a single word out of the man’s mouth.
His next concrete memory is being pulled out of a pegasus carriage by his bicep, back in front of the atelier. Being dragged up to the door of Olruggio’s tower like a naughty little boy being taken back to their parents. He remembers the disappointed look in Olly’s eye as he answered the door, and the soft one he had given him as he tucked him gently into his bed and got him a glass of water.
Now he feels the shame of it, turning his face red as Olruggio nudges him towards his tower again, telling to girls gently to find something to do in their rooms until bedtime. He sees Agott and Richeh exchange a knowing glance that makes him feel like just about the worst example ever, awkwardly waving them off and trying to prepare himself for what's to come next.
The embarrassment eases some once they’re alone in Olruggio’s room, but a tight feeling still eats at his stomach as he stands before him. Olly’s sat on the edge of the bed again, but Qifrey is well aware of his intended position this time. His hand fumble with the tie around his outer robe, an almost relieved sigh leaving him as it gives way, before the anxiety sets in further. Taking off the layer only lets it bubble more, folding the fabric over itself and setting it to the side where it won’t get dusty.
He’s left in only his undershirt and the thin trousers he wears underneath, but it feels almost like being naked when Olly looks at him how he does. Nothing to protect him, metaphorically but also literally, his drawing pad and wand tucked into the now folded robe, well out of his reach. Olruggio reaches out, wrapping a warm hand around one of his thin hips and pulling him closer, thumb rubbing a gentle circle as he looks up at him.
“Y’know why we’re here, aye Qifrey?”
He takes a deep breath, and then swallows when the words still don’t want to come out. “I, erm, yes. I had too much to drink, and had to be dragged home. I… worried you.”
“Good, y’understand then why I’m gonna have ya go fetch the strap.” It’s delivered with the casual finality of someone being told to fetch a jar of salt, or a plate of butter. Not a grown man being told to go get a rather threatening length of leather to be used on his own rear end. It leaves him feeling frozen in place for an extended moment, swallowing again forcefully.
“Olruggio, certainly that isn’t-”
“Necessary? I think it very well is. You made a show of yerself last night, and if Easthies hadn’t’a been there you might’a been dragged home by a knight officially. You could’ve gotten in serious trouble, or gotten hurt, or threatened yer own position as a master of an atelier. If that ain’t worth a proper strappin’, I can’t say what is.”
That’s harder to argue with, even as his brain stumbles over itself looking for a way. It’s easy to accept the concept of a spanking, sure, when it’s still hours away. Facing it in the moment is harder, caught like a rabbit in a trap and frantically trying to spot a way out, but forcing himself not to take it. Begrudgingly, for his own benefit. Olruggio could certainly be giving him worse than a strapping if he felt the need. In some way, still, this is a forgiveness.
He finally nods, jerky and awkward, dragging his feet towards Olruggio’s dresser. It’s notable on its own that he doesn’t need to ask where it is, in a way that makes his gut flip. He’s caused enough trouble to receive it often enough to know its location by heart. Even if ‘often enough’ is only perhaps once a month or three at most, it’s still a morbidly embarrassing realisation to have.
He slides the drawer open, silent with its carefully carved edges. Underneath a few loose shirts it lays, black and imposing against the pale skin of his hands as he lifts it out. Another painful swallow and a touch of shaking in his fingers. He isn’t truly afraid of course, he trusts his best friend and watchful eye deeply with this sort of thing, even if not with others. He knows he would never truly hurt him, has taken the strap to him enough times to prove it, but it’s a different kind of anxiety that makes it so difficult. The kind things like trust and accountability can’t erase.
Olruggio takes the strap with a warm bit of praise as Qifrey approaches, smiling at him in that gentle way that tells him this will be okay. Olruggio is disciplining him, but he isn’t truly angry. Like there’s nothing in the world that could lead Olly to cherish him even a touch less, no matter how many times they end up here. It’s comforting, but it doesn’t really make it any easier to lay himself over his friend’s soft thighs.
It’s easy to get comfortable at least. Olruggio has a pleasant softness to him that fits comfortably with Qifrey’s sharp and bony edges. His lap is almost like a pillow but firmer, more solid feeling underneath him. He’d probably like this position a whole lot more if it weren’t for everything else that came with it.
Olruggio’s hand is warm where it settles against his back, and his touch gentle where his thumb slips under the edge of his trousers. He fidgets but holds his tongue as they’re pulled down rather unceremoniously. Left to bunch at his knees, a little too thick to slide down further without a reasonable amount of kicking; so he’s sure he’ll lose them soon enough. Of course, that’s why they have to go down immediately too, they’re sturdy enough to offer protection, and Qifrey doesn’t tolerate long spankings well. He does best when they’re quick and to the point, and Olruggio knows this.
Right now Qifrey desperately wishes that he didn’t know this.
Olruggio adjusts him a little after that, wrapping a hand around his hip to hold him in place, and patting his ass a few times to get a feel for his range. He gives a satisfied little hum when he’s got him just right, and lands a light smack that has Qifrey jumping a little in surprise.
“Alright, ya want a warm up, or right down t’ business?”
Qifrey considers it for a long moment, the benefits of each. A warm up gives him time to adjust, to not immediately feel overwhelmed by the heaviness of the strap. But a warm up means longer spent in this position, and almost always means a longer lecture than he’d get without. He thinks he feels ashamed of himself enough without the extra effort, even if skipping it is arguable the scarier option. Nobody has ever questioned Qifrey’s bravery, he could handle it.
“No warm up, please.”
Olly makes a vaguely affirming noise, and Qifrey curls and uncurls his fingers as he listens to him pick up the strap. Feeling the weight of the handle in his hand for a moment, and then lightly swinging it to feel the weight there. Surely by now he knows the thing like an extension of his own arm, but Olly is the type to make sure of himself before any serious action.
Finally it taps against him, solid and threatening, and Qifrey takes a slow, deep breath in preparation. The moment before the first smack always feels too long, like lingering minutes of uncertainty. He’s been the one on the giving end enough to know that isn’t true, that Olruggio probably only waits a matter of seconds, but logic doesn’t change how it feels.
He jumps when it lands, the noise sharp and loud, but it takes a second for the feeling to settle in. He groans with it, pressing his face against Olruggio’s thigh and clenching his fists. Olly certainly isn’t holding back tonight, so this is something he considers a serious offense. The strap should probably have been enough indication of that to begin with, but it feels so much more potent now, real. The second lash comes quickly after, just below the first in neat lines, overlapping just a little.
It’s brutally efficient, letting the edges dig into the skin right over each other, bringing the skin from cold to burning without bothering to stop at ‘warm’ in between. Olruggio lands four before pausing, just before Qifrey’s thighs, carefully not touching the sensitive crease in between yet. Qifrey groans and kicks his legs with each one, shuddering out a breath with the last one. It’s already as overwhelming as he expected, his entire focus on the burning skin and the feeling of his fingernails digging into his palms.
“Let’s hear it again. What’re ya getting a strappin’ for?”
Deep breath, pulling air through the tightness in his throat until it loosens. Honesty will end this faster, and he isn’t particularly in denial of his actions, just deeply embarrassed by them and the situation he’d put himself in.
“I got too drunk, and brought home by a knight. I broke our rules, and worried you, and set a bad example for the girls. I made a show of myself, as you said, and it wasn’t a good one. It could’ve damaged our lives, and it was selfish of me.” That ought to be concise enough of an answer for him, to the point and sincere. That doesn’t stop the next lash from coming down, he’s still earned every moment of this punishment.
“Good boy, we’re going to address this, and give ya a nice sore rear end, and then yer gonna get cuddles and we’ll move right along.”
He nods his agreement, a soft noise in his throat as Olruggio minutely adjusts him and taps the strap down again. With the next lash he sets up a rhythm, working in neat overlapping lines from the top of his ass down to just before his thighs, and then back up again. Focusing on only one area in methodical stripes until the skin flushes red, darkening up quickly. The deep red edges of the strikes where the leather digs in the hardest, certain to turn into mean little bruises that linger for the next few days.
Qifrey bears through it as best he can, groaning and hissing into the blankets with each heavy pass, legs kicking sooner than he'd like to admit behind him. He's always been a kicker, unable to bite down that urge to flee in his stomach and lie still. It had embarrassed him once, when he was a child going over Beldaruit’s knee still. He knew it hurt the other when he did, brought out the chronic pain in his legs, but his master had never shamed him for it.
With Olruggio though, he didn't have to worry about that. Olly's thighs might have been soft, but he knew firsthand how much muscle coiled under the surface, how sturdy he was. The kicking didn't hurt him, and he certainly never seemed to have trouble landing lashes exactly where he wanted them despite it. Once Qifrey had brought it up, only to be promptly informed that half the time Olruggio didn't even really register it, so used to it that it didn't factor into his mental processes anymore.
The strap kept falling until Qifrey was sure he couldn't stand anymore, tears burning at his eye and a fierce fire stoked on the other end. When his breath started hitching, and his whines tapered off into high pitches that burned his ears. It was only then Olruggio paused, rolling his wrist and taking a deep breath. The skin of Qifrey’s ass was solidly red now, bruises starting to peek against the skin. He’d be feeling this one for a few days at least.
“We won't be havin’ this talk again, Qifrey. If ya want to get piss drunk, I won't be the one to criticise ya for it, but you'll do it at home. I won't have ya risking yer apprentices placements for a night o’ tomfoolery. Understand?”
“Yessir” He manages to force out, voice wet and face resembling a tomato more than any human complexion. He doesn't need to call him that, it's not something Olly has ever required of him, but when he's like this it just feels appropriate. Olruggio doesn't comment on it.
“Good. Grab a pillow, let's get this done with.”
He forces out another agreement, scrambling to obey. Grabbing one of Olruggio’s (many) plush pillows towards himself and burying his face in it. He can feel the first few tears along his waterline soak into the fabric, wet in an almost tacky way against his eyelid. He feels miserable already, like something small and pathetic and raw, and he can’t help the choked little noise that escapes him when the strap taps against his thighs.
Olly doesn’t leave him waiting long this time. Almost as soon as he pulls a breath in, the strap is coming down, digging into the sensitive skin. He groans loudly into the pillow, legs kicking out again as a second lash lands, and then a third. The fourth catches the crease at the top of his thighs, and he nearly screams, biting into the fabric of the pillow desperately.
“Breathe.” Olruggio reminds gently, but doesn’t slow his arm. It’s not very helpful.
Qifrey lasts nine more before he starts to cry in earnest, kicking so hard Olly has to stop and swing a leg over his, against the back of his knees so he still has room to work. The pause is too brief to bring much relief, and then the strap is falling again. At least seven more, though Qifrey loses count at 3 so he isn’t entirely sure. Too preoccupied with the hiccuping breaths in his chest, the wet feeling of fabric against his cheeks, and the searing pain of what used to be an ass.
Then it’s over. The strap is gone, he’s not even vaguely sure where, and Olruggio’s hands are comfortingly warm where they start rubbing against his shoulder, easing the tightness there. “All over, ya took it well love. That’s it, keep breathin’.”
Without the strap accompanying it the words help more, coaxing him through drawing in ragged, whimpering breaths. The sobs slow at least, and his lungs begin to feel like they actually have air in them again. They stay there for several long minutes, between the soothing notes of Olly’s voice and Qifrey’s pained sniffling, before Olruggio determines he’s calm enough to let up. Guiding him to sit delicately in his lap, wrapping sturdy arms around him and holding him close.
“Now now, all's forgiven. Won’t be needin’ to revisit this one, I’m sure.”
Qifrey shakes his head immediately, letting out a wet laugh. “No, I think once is enough for me.”
“Good, now, ya want some lotion?”
“Oh gods, please. I think you might’ve taken off a whole layer of skin.”
They both laugh at that, warmth blooming in his chest where he hadn’t realised the guilt had vacated.