[ this dance is the worst of them all. it's why he's avoided this room. avoided sasuke. the man before him is unlike anyone else in vere, and that's half of what's so unnerving about this moment. laurent knows that what he sees in sasuke's expression is real, unlike the deceptive masks worn by all else. sasuke is unschooled in artifice, in cunning, despite all his training. if he was, he would look at laurent now with coldness in his gaze. he would play the game and let hatred fill his eyes. his words would be blades instead of practical concern. laurent could take those things easily, abide them as coolly as his uncle's grievous stare. but this —
this is so much worse. it takes leagues of effort to remain perfectly still beneath sasuke's ministrations. eventually he turns his head a fraction of an inch so he doesn't have to meet that smoldering gaze. ]
You still haven't learned your place. [ he should have kept the chain trailing from the ridiculous collar. he lifts his hand and strokes his fingers down the column of sasuke's throat, then curls his fingers, digging into the too-small space between collar and flesh. he holds it taut for a long moment, letting the metal press against sasuke's windpipe, bruising. ] Tell me again what I need to do.
[ he releases him with a shove, but loses his own balance in the process, making an attempt to snatch for the foot of his bed frame but missing, the entire room spinning. he lands on hands and knees upon something soft, his fingers curling into fabrics still curiously warm, and he crouches, very still, hoping to regain his equilibrium while nausea threatens to overtake him.
his eyes slit open, and he stares downward, hateful, at sasuke's slave pallet. it still smells of him, though the scent is fading in lieu of fragrant bath oils. he should rise immediately, still half clothed, but his body feels weighed down by bricks, so he allows himself the briefest of moments to sink, gently, to the furs and silken pillows. ]
It's in one hour. [ mumbled, his eyes closed. ] I planned on making my uncle wait.
no subject
this is so much worse. it takes leagues of effort to remain perfectly still beneath sasuke's ministrations. eventually he turns his head a fraction of an inch so he doesn't have to meet that smoldering gaze. ]
You still haven't learned your place. [ he should have kept the chain trailing from the ridiculous collar. he lifts his hand and strokes his fingers down the column of sasuke's throat, then curls his fingers, digging into the too-small space between collar and flesh. he holds it taut for a long moment, letting the metal press against sasuke's windpipe, bruising. ] Tell me again what I need to do.
[ he releases him with a shove, but loses his own balance in the process, making an attempt to snatch for the foot of his bed frame but missing, the entire room spinning. he lands on hands and knees upon something soft, his fingers curling into fabrics still curiously warm, and he crouches, very still, hoping to regain his equilibrium while nausea threatens to overtake him.
his eyes slit open, and he stares downward, hateful, at sasuke's slave pallet. it still smells of him, though the scent is fading in lieu of fragrant bath oils. he should rise immediately, still half clothed, but his body feels weighed down by bricks, so he allows himself the briefest of moments to sink, gently, to the furs and silken pillows. ]
It's in one hour. [ mumbled, his eyes closed. ] I planned on making my uncle wait.