The pain of a whipping lash, the pain of the biting cold, the pain of a blade drawing blood from his skin, all of it was cruel and sharp, but at the very least also certain and bearable. Pleasure, on the other hand, was not a thing that could be swallowed through gritted teeth, nor did it eventually fade to numbness over time. Instead, it only grew more intense the more it was inflicted, and consumed him more completely the more he ignored it. It's presence was excruciating, even more so than the burn of blood, and it was a thing that he could not bear in either body or mind.

archiveofourown.org/works/28232193/chapters/691...