[Scalding words, spat from cold lips, the fury of Laurent beneath him in a messy crown of golden hair, unlaced sleeves like white ribbons down his pale arms. He finds himself staring, and then starting — the hand on his cheek is a tender caress, on his lips. They part beneath those slender fingertips, breath fanning damp and hot, but there is no protest for the cruelty of those orders. He has been shut out of whatever tangled battle Laurent wages against his own blood. He won't be let in.
If it is killing that is needed, then it can be done. Laurent is correct; he was made for this. You'll fight back. Helpless desire to fulfill this statement reaches him through the unfeeling, gauzy detachment he's found in his days here. It gathers, a dark and heavy thing, spun from every awful deed he has ever committed, stitched from every part of him that has enjoyed the violence. In that instant, he finds it impossible to believe he could have atoned for anything. Not now. It's out of reach for someone like him, in a place like this.
The answer is lost to the crush of their mouths, but not the meaning. Sasuke eyes remain slitted open just for the blurry, too-close view of that beautiful face; he devours the kiss in the way Laurent has taught him to do, lips parted, wet and hungry, tasting whatever might still lie on Laurent's slick tongue. And then he is hauling both of them to their feet in a heave of strength without ever surrendering Laurent's mouth. Refusing to give it up, even if the air grows thin between them. He feels the ticklish fall of hair on his skin, pleasant and fragrant as his arms close around a narrow waist, dragging Laurent like a doll over to the bed on the other side of the room. Tossing him down onto it.
He does not follow. Looming above, Sasuke's eyes are very dark, expression fixed into one that is shockingly open in its mixed display — aroused, somber, angry. Then he turns away.]
Rest for a while. After that, we'll go, and I will fight in that ring.
no subject
If it is killing that is needed, then it can be done. Laurent is correct; he was made for this. You'll fight back. Helpless desire to fulfill this statement reaches him through the unfeeling, gauzy detachment he's found in his days here. It gathers, a dark and heavy thing, spun from every awful deed he has ever committed, stitched from every part of him that has enjoyed the violence. In that instant, he finds it impossible to believe he could have atoned for anything. Not now. It's out of reach for someone like him, in a place like this.
The answer is lost to the crush of their mouths, but not the meaning. Sasuke eyes remain slitted open just for the blurry, too-close view of that beautiful face; he devours the kiss in the way Laurent has taught him to do, lips parted, wet and hungry, tasting whatever might still lie on Laurent's slick tongue. And then he is hauling both of them to their feet in a heave of strength without ever surrendering Laurent's mouth. Refusing to give it up, even if the air grows thin between them. He feels the ticklish fall of hair on his skin, pleasant and fragrant as his arms close around a narrow waist, dragging Laurent like a doll over to the bed on the other side of the room. Tossing him down onto it.
He does not follow. Looming above, Sasuke's eyes are very dark, expression fixed into one that is shockingly open in its mixed display — aroused, somber, angry. Then he turns away.]
Rest for a while. After that, we'll go, and I will fight in that ring.