[In the time since the guards escorted him from Laurent's bedchambers, a transformation has taken place. Not only in the physical sense of his body, although that aspect is prominent. It has become little more than a sore, pitiful blur in his mind by now. Autonomy is no longer something he possesses in this world. As he is handled — changed into clothing more sheer, impossibly, than before and cut at a length that leaves long, pale legs entirely bare with no decency afforded — he learns this better. Oil is smoothed over his skin, until it shines in the light of the burning sconces on the walls. The collar at his throat is polished to a bright gleam. And then, at the worst of it, he is bent over and perfunctorily fingered as one would ready a farm animal for the dutiful nature of its existence.
It takes every fiber of his control not to lash out with violence. In his mind is fixed Laurent's words: Will you fight for me? A burning, pointless devotion to tie himself to, but it is all he has now. Though the influence of that shadow dimension no longer clouds his mind, he doesn't need it. He can feel the darkness as it shrouds his thoughts, at home, in perpetuity for the sake of his permanent soul. This is who he is, as he has been relentlessly reminded by Laurent himself. Even as he imagines breaking the arm of the man who is doing it to him, oiled fingers in a place he has never touched himself, it transforms too. It is fuel for a blazing inferno, so that when he emerges through those doors and Laurent addresses him, buttoned up and untouchably perfect, he barely notices. He is somewhere else.
The world around him is rotten to its core. He'd assumed as much, but it's another to be faced with it, in the light and awe of an audience. Young boys and girls in pretty, flimsy clothes on leashes, the ends held in the hands of their masters. Perhaps once it might have shocked him to see the same-sex pairs, men with boys and women with girls, but now very little can penetrate the haze that he has surrendered beneath.
He doesn't even look at Laurent. It would be a weakness, if he did. He can't allow himself that much.
And then he's let into the ring, and he meets his opponent. A tall, stocky, mean-looking man who outweighs Sasuke significantly. If he had his abilities, it would take less than a second to eviscerate the thick meat of the man's body with weapons, or tear apart his mind like a ball of string with Sharingan, or burn his flesh to ash with Amaterasu. He has none of that, only a violence predisposed by his blood. One that creates hatred and despair where love might once have laid. And it feels like that curse has come true again, as his continuous attempts to reach out to Laurent in this place have been met by refusal, rejection, cold words.
What does it matter anymore?
The man says something lewd to him, something about fucking him, something about his appearance, but Sasuke doesn't hear. He does what Laurent had asked of him. He fights with his opponent, not using any tactic or style that anyone in this large room will recognize — it is foreign, alien, forged from another world. Bare hand-to-hand combat is still something he excels at, and he has the advantage of his opponent's ignorance of his movements; where he is meant to be pinned down, he becomes fluid like a dancer, fist slamming into the side of the man's barrel chest. There is no kindness in his actions. Only ruthlessness.
Eventually he gets his killing hold, wrapped like a venomous snake around his opponent's stocky body, like he's squeezing the life from him with sheer strength, until one hand — the dominant left, mercifully returned to him — seizes the back of a head and snaps the man's neck. It's so sudden as to be disappointing. There's no pleading, no rape, just an efficient death. And it's over.
Sasuke is breathing hard and drenched with sweat when they separate him from the body, coursing with adrenaline, eyes vivid and wide, reflecting the light of the surrounding lamps enough to appear almost red.]
cw SA and murder... typical captive prince stuff
It takes every fiber of his control not to lash out with violence. In his mind is fixed Laurent's words: Will you fight for me? A burning, pointless devotion to tie himself to, but it is all he has now. Though the influence of that shadow dimension no longer clouds his mind, he doesn't need it. He can feel the darkness as it shrouds his thoughts, at home, in perpetuity for the sake of his permanent soul. This is who he is, as he has been relentlessly reminded by Laurent himself. Even as he imagines breaking the arm of the man who is doing it to him, oiled fingers in a place he has never touched himself, it transforms too. It is fuel for a blazing inferno, so that when he emerges through those doors and Laurent addresses him, buttoned up and untouchably perfect, he barely notices. He is somewhere else.
The world around him is rotten to its core. He'd assumed as much, but it's another to be faced with it, in the light and awe of an audience. Young boys and girls in pretty, flimsy clothes on leashes, the ends held in the hands of their masters. Perhaps once it might have shocked him to see the same-sex pairs, men with boys and women with girls, but now very little can penetrate the haze that he has surrendered beneath.
He doesn't even look at Laurent. It would be a weakness, if he did. He can't allow himself that much.
And then he's let into the ring, and he meets his opponent. A tall, stocky, mean-looking man who outweighs Sasuke significantly. If he had his abilities, it would take less than a second to eviscerate the thick meat of the man's body with weapons, or tear apart his mind like a ball of string with Sharingan, or burn his flesh to ash with Amaterasu. He has none of that, only a violence predisposed by his blood. One that creates hatred and despair where love might once have laid. And it feels like that curse has come true again, as his continuous attempts to reach out to Laurent in this place have been met by refusal, rejection, cold words.
What does it matter anymore?
The man says something lewd to him, something about fucking him, something about his appearance, but Sasuke doesn't hear. He does what Laurent had asked of him. He fights with his opponent, not using any tactic or style that anyone in this large room will recognize — it is foreign, alien, forged from another world. Bare hand-to-hand combat is still something he excels at, and he has the advantage of his opponent's ignorance of his movements; where he is meant to be pinned down, he becomes fluid like a dancer, fist slamming into the side of the man's barrel chest. There is no kindness in his actions. Only ruthlessness.
Eventually he gets his killing hold, wrapped like a venomous snake around his opponent's stocky body, like he's squeezing the life from him with sheer strength, until one hand — the dominant left, mercifully returned to him — seizes the back of a head and snaps the man's neck. It's so sudden as to be disappointing. There's no pleading, no rape, just an efficient death. And it's over.
Sasuke is breathing hard and drenched with sweat when they separate him from the body, coursing with adrenaline, eyes vivid and wide, reflecting the light of the surrounding lamps enough to appear almost red.]