īŧ his world is only this. the boy beneath his hand, the way he twists and struggles. the flex of his thighs and the buck of his hips as he tries to twist away, the way his sobs ring out in the air clear as the bell he does not make use of. there is a dark appetite in him that enjoys this more than it should. and, too, there are rules and safeties and certainties that hold it back. it would be easy to glut himself on this. there are ways he could use the trust that's bridged between them and rip sasuke down to nothing in its cradle.
he could do it so easily. he knows what to say, what to do, how to behave, how to be in a way that sasuke could not discern or realize or touch before the snare closed. he could break him a thousand times over and patch him back to some simulacrum of a person in the brokenness that follows to the tune of a thousand-and-one, and the adoration would turn fearful, the devotion resentful. sasuke would only ever ask himself what he had done wrong to now deserve such cruelty where kindness once lived. he would ask him, begging, on his knees to know.
but kulo vayn does not get that part of him. but he can feel it, dark-eyed and watching, in him, beyond him, around him in a way that feels like those long years where he was king and conqueror of this body.
if not for sasuke counting, he would have slipped out of time. it's good he does. the cadence of it gives him something to pin himself to, a promise that was made and will be upheld even if there is a cost. sasuke's breath hitches, desperate and airless between sobs, a pendulum between that and the numeracy, and cy feels no pain when he bites through his lip, only coppery salt that lingers in the taste of his mouth once the injury knits itself new.
he stops at forty. as discussed, as planned, as promised. he stops at forty, and his breathing is hard, the heave of his chest unfettered. he's aware, abruptly, of the wet stain of ejaculate in his pants, but he has no memory of any one specific thing to have triggered release save the struggle. once, he might have felt shame over his body's response to the infliction of pain. now, he feels only a bitter twist of satisfaction that he stopped.
as if in direct contrast to the permitted violence of the act, the aftercare is more tender by degrees. he murmurs his usual praise, good boy, you did so well, i'm so proud, you were perfect, you were beautiful — in reflex alone, barely hearing himself. the boy's thighs are untied, his arm released. the bell taken. medication and soothing cream dutifully given. sasuke is praised and petted and nurtured through the drop into subspace, and cy strips himself down, wipes away the come with the pants he'll have to clean anyway and then collapses into bed, pulling sasuke with him, against him. an icepack, one of the ones you can press until the capsule inside pops, is pulled through the void from a box neatly kept in a corner, activated, and wrapped in a shirt before being dutifully applied to reddened skin, already blooming with deeper bruises.
he feels exhausted. wrung out, picked clean by carrion birds.
but sasuke comes first. ultimately, that's the thing that saves him. īŧ
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cw: idk man this bitch is fucked up
Date: 2024-03-12 12:36 am (UTC)he could do it so easily. he knows what to say, what to do, how to behave, how to be in a way that sasuke could not discern or realize or touch before the snare closed. he could break him a thousand times over and patch him back to some simulacrum of a person in the brokenness that follows to the tune of a thousand-and-one, and the adoration would turn fearful, the devotion resentful. sasuke would only ever ask himself what he had done wrong to now deserve such cruelty where kindness once lived. he would ask him, begging, on his knees to know.
but kulo vayn does not get that part of him. but he can feel it, dark-eyed and watching, in him, beyond him, around him in a way that feels like those long years where he was king and conqueror of this body.
if not for sasuke counting, he would have slipped out of time. it's good he does. the cadence of it gives him something to pin himself to, a promise that was made and will be upheld even if there is a cost. sasuke's breath hitches, desperate and airless between sobs, a pendulum between that and the numeracy, and cy feels no pain when he bites through his lip, only coppery salt that lingers in the taste of his mouth once the injury knits itself new.
he stops at forty. as discussed, as planned, as promised. he stops at forty, and his breathing is hard, the heave of his chest unfettered. he's aware, abruptly, of the wet stain of ejaculate in his pants, but he has no memory of any one specific thing to have triggered release save the struggle. once, he might have felt shame over his body's response to the infliction of pain. now, he feels only a bitter twist of satisfaction that he stopped.
as if in direct contrast to the permitted violence of the act, the aftercare is more tender by degrees. he murmurs his usual praise, good boy, you did so well, i'm so proud, you were perfect, you were beautiful — in reflex alone, barely hearing himself. the boy's thighs are untied, his arm released. the bell taken. medication and soothing cream dutifully given. sasuke is praised and petted and nurtured through the drop into subspace, and cy strips himself down, wipes away the come with the pants he'll have to clean anyway and then collapses into bed, pulling sasuke with him, against him. an icepack, one of the ones you can press until the capsule inside pops, is pulled through the void from a box neatly kept in a corner, activated, and wrapped in a shirt before being dutifully applied to reddened skin, already blooming with deeper bruises.
he feels exhausted. wrung out, picked clean by carrion birds.
but sasuke comes first. ultimately, that's the thing that saves him. īŧ
You with me, sweetheart?