（ it's a request for submission, for sasuke to go lax and boneless in his grip, meaning made clear by a stroke from his hips to his knees, fingers kneading tenderly into the corded muscle until the tension melts away like an equation wiped from a blackboard, until sasuke gives him total control and absolute obeisance. with humour — almost self-deprecatory: ）
You're still doing the finishing act, don't think you can bat your pretty eyes at me and have me do all the hard work for you.
（ it's a good-natured threat as these things go — and then he blows sasuke a cheeky little kiss and a wink before he sets to his work: namely, lifting sasuke with his palms levered beneath his thighs, thumbs pressed to a deep bruise against their sides to give him a solid, punishing grip that lets him drag sasuke back down in a merciless drag. cy's more practiced at establishing a rhythm, and this one will push sasuke to his limits and past them — there's no time offered to acclimate, to adjust, to breathe. everything is narrowed down to this act balanced on the blade of a knife: the use of sasuke's body for no purpose other than to seed pain into this deepest part of him until every other cruel thing he's ever endured in his life is drowned out by the immediacy and the urgency of the inward spear of cy's cock, the drag of its head against his prostate, the chafe of ill-suited skin as the lube wears away. sasuke's pleasure, which has been cradled lovingly and guarded fiercely from that first encounter onward, seems almost unconsidered here — and anything felt is incidental to the aim.
but his attention goes — unfocused, faraway. the connection of their gaze, which had barely flagged for blinking to now, is lost. not disassociation, exactly, but — there are some things he can stand to see reflected in sasuke's expression and some he can't. instead, his attention is on fixed point that does not directly align to any one thing on sasuke's body, lax. but he's still here, still in the moment — assurance offered in the shelter of an occasional stroke of one thumb against sasuke's thigh. ）
Keep your ass clenched around me. Don't you dare relax. You want it to hurt? Make it hurt.
（ that's half a snarl — the sort of low, whipcrack command that means he expects to be obeyed. his words are slightly stilted, for all that he's not much impacted in terms of physicality, the impact of sasuke's body pulled hard against him is still affecting how smoothly he can speak. ）
Your body's mine. You can have it back when you're sobbing from the pain. When your mind can't focus on anything but how much it hurts, when you've accepted there is no purpose to your existence except to take my cock. Then, you can earn my orgasm.
cw: uhhhhh deranged anal painplay ahahaha??
（ it's a request for submission, for sasuke to go lax and boneless in his grip, meaning made clear by a stroke from his hips to his knees, fingers kneading tenderly into the corded muscle until the tension melts away like an equation wiped from a blackboard, until sasuke gives him total control and absolute obeisance. with humour — almost self-deprecatory: ）
You're still doing the finishing act, don't think you can bat your pretty eyes at me and have me do all the hard work for you.
（ it's a good-natured threat as these things go — and then he blows sasuke a cheeky little kiss and a wink before he sets to his work: namely, lifting sasuke with his palms levered beneath his thighs, thumbs pressed to a deep bruise against their sides to give him a solid, punishing grip that lets him drag sasuke back down in a merciless drag. cy's more practiced at establishing a rhythm, and this one will push sasuke to his limits and past them — there's no time offered to acclimate, to adjust, to breathe. everything is narrowed down to this act balanced on the blade of a knife: the use of sasuke's body for no purpose other than to seed pain into this deepest part of him until every other cruel thing he's ever endured in his life is drowned out by the immediacy and the urgency of the inward spear of cy's cock, the drag of its head against his prostate, the chafe of ill-suited skin as the lube wears away. sasuke's pleasure, which has been cradled lovingly and guarded fiercely from that first encounter onward, seems almost unconsidered here — and anything felt is incidental to the aim.
but his attention goes — unfocused, faraway. the connection of their gaze, which had barely flagged for blinking to now, is lost. not disassociation, exactly, but — there are some things he can stand to see reflected in sasuke's expression and some he can't. instead, his attention is on fixed point that does not directly align to any one thing on sasuke's body, lax. but he's still here, still in the moment — assurance offered in the shelter of an occasional stroke of one thumb against sasuke's thigh. ）
Keep your ass clenched around me. Don't you dare relax. You want it to hurt? Make it hurt.
（ that's half a snarl — the sort of low, whipcrack command that means he expects to be obeyed. his words are slightly stilted, for all that he's not much impacted in terms of physicality, the impact of sasuke's body pulled hard against him is still affecting how smoothly he can speak. ）
Your body's mine. You can have it back when you're sobbing from the pain. When your mind can't focus on anything but how much it hurts, when you've accepted there is no purpose to your existence except to take my cock. Then, you can earn my orgasm.