（ he stills, and in that moment there is nearly nothing human in him. his eyes skirt upwards — lingering briefly on the livid print of his hand sketched against sasuke's pale throat, and then he meets sasuke's gaze. perhaps someone else would be guarded, or riven by shame. cy is only blank, and eerily empty until if by willpower alone the humanity is clawed back. his brow furrows a little, mouth tugged down at one corner. he nuzzles into sasuke's palm, and the bell chimes so soft. ）

I know.

（ some of that arnica cream — which he's already applied to sasuke's ass — is poured anew into his hand and then gently worked into the skin at his throat, soothing the bruises. mentally he's running a checklist: broken skin disinfected and treated, bruises tended to, that soft and worshipful touch he sinks so easily into with sasuke has cleaned the mess between his legs, the glossy shine of his softened cock.

he shifts on the small bed, arranging himself cross-legged on the bed so he can pull sasuke, boneless and pliant, nearer his lap so he can start cleaning come from his hair. several new things are removed from the box that he apparently squashed one corner of at some point in their scene because the fucking size of this bed is a joke — sasuke is given painkillers, water to chase them down and afterwards a lozenge for his throat.

the water bottle is then used in concert with a soft cloth to start the process of working his hair clean. cy is achingly gentle, fingers catching in the snarls and working them free without tugging at his scalp. ）

I'm — （ his eyes close briefly. then: ） — not as bad as I expected. You did that. You were magnificent, sweetheart. I don't know that I've ever had anyone make what they wanted about what I liked.

（ he's not even sure if that makes sense. he feels like words have lost meaning, in the aftermath. ）