[The kiss is deep, breathless. He cannot pull himself out of it with the leash taut, collar a brand around his throat, and that restriction is enough to send a rush of heat into his belly as his mouth is taken by a forceful tongue. And there's no time to adjust to the moment after, because soon he's shoved hard to the ground with a strength that is dizzying, fall broken with his right arm, heels quick to find stability so that he's not made to sit on the humbler. He manages only barely — and the carpeted ground still jars the device enough that bright pain fishes a sound out of him, gritted high and strangled around tight teeth.
Cy towers above him, natural height made more stark for the difference of their positions. He is cruel and magnetically confident — he wields his power in this scenario with such effortless grace that, without the parameters of the scene they've established as well as Sasuke's own experience with BDSM so far, it would be easy to succumb to that thrall. To feel it is real, rather than Cy's iron-fisted control at work.
Sasuke, if he was himself, would have opened his mouth with soft obedience, would have licked his lips like a cat lapping up cream — but he is not himself, and so his mouth remains a defiant line pinched at the corners and his head turns away from those obscene words. He takes the hot load across his cheek and temple, stripes of come painting his face in a humiliating portrait. Some trickles down the bridge of his nose; some sticks in closed eyelashes, in the fridge of dark hair at the crown of his head. With his right arm pinned and useless he can't wipe it away so he simply wears it — debased as much as he is claimed by the act.]
no subject
Cy towers above him, natural height made more stark for the difference of their positions. He is cruel and magnetically confident — he wields his power in this scenario with such effortless grace that, without the parameters of the scene they've established as well as Sasuke's own experience with BDSM so far, it would be easy to succumb to that thrall. To feel it is real, rather than Cy's iron-fisted control at work.
Sasuke, if he was himself, would have opened his mouth with soft obedience, would have licked his lips like a cat lapping up cream — but he is not himself, and so his mouth remains a defiant line pinched at the corners and his head turns away from those obscene words. He takes the hot load across his cheek and temple, stripes of come painting his face in a humiliating portrait. Some trickles down the bridge of his nose; some sticks in closed eyelashes, in the fridge of dark hair at the crown of his head. With his right arm pinned and useless he can't wipe it away so he simply wears it — debased as much as he is claimed by the act.]