[There's a shiver in the muscle of taut thighs when Cy's thumb edges at his hole where it is bared in the furrow of his ass — then a more physical jolt, unpreventable, when Cy's attention slips to the rigid capture of vulnerable balls in the smoothly lacquered device. As the humbler is lifted off skin, the effect is immediate in a low, keening moan emptied from Sasuke's throat, all temperance for his own voice lost to the sensation that keeps him on its brittle-sharp edge. His legs tremble, toes curled, feeling hot beneath the press of Cy's words. It is like he is an extension of Cy's will in that moment — all of his control wrested away with such finality that his swollen cock leaks precome so freely it looks obscene, and his jaw is already slack when Cy's fingers find his lips.
He tastes the bitterness of salt on his tongue, a flavor well-loved to familiarity by now as his mouth molds over the man's knuckles in a wet, obedient seal. He has begun to suck at them before Cy has even finished speaking — drool pools as his tongue laves the grooves of fingers, tasting past precome to find Cy's skin unnaturally warm beneath it. He wants these knuckles to fill his mouth to the brim, so he tries to draw them deeper with coaxing, kittenish licks, devoted efforts soon becoming sloppy and hungry and uncaring for how desperate it makes him look.
He hears himself make some sound with his mouth full, something like yes, a humming vibration, or a plea — because he is a slut, and he wants to Cy's dick inside of him, and he wants to be called pretty while Cy is doing all of that to him. The pain is still immense as it eclipses half his mind, a constant throb low between his legs; even the slightest movement brings his attention back. There's an edge of teeth against Cy's knuckles when he comes from it — suckling at fingers, nerves blistered with pain. He spills onto the sheets in a wet drench of seed, already edged well through the morning enough to make it easy, effortless, dripping pearly white down his shaking thighs.]
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He tastes the bitterness of salt on his tongue, a flavor well-loved to familiarity by now as his mouth molds over the man's knuckles in a wet, obedient seal. He has begun to suck at them before Cy has even finished speaking — drool pools as his tongue laves the grooves of fingers, tasting past precome to find Cy's skin unnaturally warm beneath it. He wants these knuckles to fill his mouth to the brim, so he tries to draw them deeper with coaxing, kittenish licks, devoted efforts soon becoming sloppy and hungry and uncaring for how desperate it makes him look.
He hears himself make some sound with his mouth full, something like yes, a humming vibration, or a plea — because he is a slut, and he wants to Cy's dick inside of him, and he wants to be called pretty while Cy is doing all of that to him. The pain is still immense as it eclipses half his mind, a constant throb low between his legs; even the slightest movement brings his attention back. There's an edge of teeth against Cy's knuckles when he comes from it — suckling at fingers, nerves blistered with pain. He spills onto the sheets in a wet drench of seed, already edged well through the morning enough to make it easy, effortless, dripping pearly white down his shaking thighs.]