[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.
[ he lands upon the bed silently, his breath gone. the sensation to tear out of his own skin mounts, his hands digging into the mattress, turning his head to throw a glare in sasuke's direction. his lips burn, his body aching, this time not just from the poison but for more. it's a heady, devastating mix — the memory of all he's experienced in a state similar to this. the desire to erase it all with something new. ]
You need to be prepared. [ bathed. painted. armored, if one can call the decorative slave-wear that. but it'll be more than the gauzy thing he's wearing now. laurent's wide eyes follow sasuke as he turns away, his heart rabbiting as his chest rises and falls. ] The guards will take you. Get out of my sight.
[ the alternative is that sasuke will end up in his bed, that their mouths and bodies will collide, and laurent — can't. the panic that rises in him threatens to spill over. in one order the doors burst open, stone-faced men coming to collect sasuke, and laurent is alone.
true to his word, he's late to the feast in a show of blatant disrespect to his uncle. the next time he sees sasuke, he's calmly composed, tightly laced in severe blue. he takes the end of sasuke's golden chain without looking at him, standing at the doors and listening to the rowdy laughter in the banquet hall. ]
Cause a scene. [ the doors open for laurent, the guards moving aside for him. ] I dare you.
[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.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
You need to be prepared. [ bathed. painted. armored, if one can call the decorative slave-wear that. but it'll be more than the gauzy thing he's wearing now. laurent's wide eyes follow sasuke as he turns away, his heart rabbiting as his chest rises and falls. ] The guards will take you. Get out of my sight.
[ the alternative is that sasuke will end up in his bed, that their mouths and bodies will collide, and laurent — can't. the panic that rises in him threatens to spill over. in one order the doors burst open, stone-faced men coming to collect sasuke, and laurent is alone.
true to his word, he's late to the feast in a show of blatant disrespect to his uncle. the next time he sees sasuke, he's calmly composed, tightly laced in severe blue. he takes the end of sasuke's golden chain without looking at him, standing at the doors and listening to the rowdy laughter in the banquet hall. ]
Cause a scene. [ the doors open for laurent, the guards moving aside for him. ] I dare you.
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.]