chokuto

[Is it better or worse, when Cy's hand slips off of his cock and leaves it a mess of leaking precome? Sasuke can't tell. There's a certain path of humiliation that the words scour through him at the idea of anyone else seeing those pictures, knowing what he looks like in this state, and the thought goes to his head in the breathlessness of being sat on.

At the prospect of pain under Cy's hand, he squirms again, a startled little jolt of movement — to no effect trapped as he is, but the excitement is well-disguised as fear.]

I like how it feels. [A quiet confession scraped reluctantly out of his throat.] I didn't think anyone was paying attention to me. There. At the club.

[If he fell to pleading, would he be listened to? Would it be better if Cy put the gag back in his mouth, even if it meant a puddle of drool in his mouth?]

I— [and a soft gasp, playing into the inexperience that he once truly had.] I've never done it before.

I don't know if you're oblivious or just fucking naïve. Everyone was watching you. I'm just the one that got here first.

（ he laughs, and slaps at sasuke's hip hard enough that the sound seems to shiver in the air. ）

And as for being a virgin — we'll fix that, don't you worry.

（ he gets off of sasuke and just moves him however he sees fit — in this case, slipping to the foot of the bed with him anchored across his lap, bare ass angled upwards by one knee cocked higher than the other. cy skims his hand across the curve of his ass, nudges that plug a little more deeply, and then reaches behind them to rummage through the box. he comes up with a hairbrush — chosen earlier for its flat shape and the fact it's a rather innocuous, every-day item. he drags the plastic teeth of it across the boy's skin and then lightly hits him with it before turning it over to the smoother back and swatting him more firmly. ）

Thirty strokes. If you fight they'll be harder.

[The sting of that slap carries him into the next moment, unceremoniously rearranged into a bent position over Cy's knees, ass offered up to the administration of the brush. With his arm bound, there's no way to leverage himself in a way that prevents his face from dragging against the bed, messy cheek turned against the sheets with a sharp exhale of breath.

The bristles send a pleasant tingle over nerves, soon undone by a quick smack that then dulls, turned over to the flatter side. Playing into the role of someone who has witnessed this but never had it performed on himself — Sasuke does fight, trying to kick his feet and unseat himself from the man's lap, embarrassed because of the implement being used in addition to that task of submission.

And he does want it harder, contrary to the words that spill out of his mouth next.]

No — don't. Stop. [Even if the weeping evidence of his cock belies this; even if a ragged moan is drawn out by the clench of muscle around the plug that his body can't help.] Why are you doing this? Why me?

（ of course he struggles. cy puts a hand against the back of his nape to hold him pinioned against the bed, fingers closing a little, uncomfortably tight. enough to compress the arteries at the sides of his neck, though not quite enough to drop him into that hazy state of twilight consciousness. ）

Because you're pretty.

（ that's a murmur as he leans down, breath a hush against his ear as he holds him down. the more sasuke struggles, the more his hold tightens — eventually he shifts the boy's hips to his other thigh, so he can wedge his left leg over his knees and keep him from kicking or twisting his hips to get away. ）

Because I could tell you wouldn't give in right away. And because I could smell the fucking slut on you from across the room.

[It feels primal to be held by the back of the neck, blood pulsing against the pinch of fingers where they close over arteries, wavering over the threat of a drop. With anyone else, it would be enough to inspire true fear beyond the veil of fantasy — but he trusts Cy. He would put his bloody, still-beating heart into Cy's hands, knowing he would be well-cared for, knowing he would not be harmed.

The praise sinks alongside degradation, his body's protest forced still across the man's lap. His ears burn; his cock is throbbing; he has to swallow hard to keep from deteriorating into pleas. Hit me, I can take it, I want to take it, hurt me... Instead he emits a low whimper muffled down against the sheets.]

I won't give in. [Affirmation that tastes metallic in his mouth, which he realizes is because he's bit the inside of his own cheek.] Three hours. I won't come.

We'll see about that.

（ cy eases up just a little — enough that sasuke can continue to thrash and fight if he wants to. and then he starts to hit him.

the blows are calculated. a certain intensity, certain placements. never the same place twice in a row — but where usually he waits, and sometimes soothes the area with a gentle rub of his hand, that tenderness is absent here. he just hits him, again and again, not waiting for sasuke to call out the count or breathe between blows. he strikes the plug, too — and every time sasuke struggles, or tries to say no, or any of its many iterations, the next blow is harder, until his skin is mottled with bruising across the seat of his ass.

cy can feel sasuke's cock hard against his thigh, and the dampness from its weeping slit — and the answering echo of his own arousal feels like it's smothering him in the haze of the room. he's more himself — as he is at present, as he is to sasuke — in this scene than how he'd been during the genjutsu, when he'd leaned more into the conquering warlord that he's been a thousand times over across a thousand brutal years — but by no means does that diminish the intense fervour of his desire. he wants sasuke beneath him, wants him to cry and beg as he's fucked. he wants to see the fear on his face — but he wants, too, to know that the fear is simulated. that it's not real. that it could be stopped at any moment by either of them in turn, and that not doing so is a choice.

but for now — for now, he contents himself with the beating. a cruel, brutal thing, no pain spared as he lands the blows again and again, until he's finished and his breath rings harsh and jagged in the room. ）

[He is no stranger to the hooks of pain that dig into him upon the first strike. Experience has seasoned him to anticipate what it is like beneath Cy's hand, but it is never the same twice — and even if it is, even if this is a position they've taken before, the sensation never fails to blot out his mind like dark ink. This time, Cy doesn't have him count the strokes, and soon he's carried off on waves of blistering pleasure with each strike.

It hurts. It is brutal, the brush's slender wooden handle precise enough to leave pink welts quick to bruise, his skin like pale ripe fruit beneath the severity of the implement Cy wields. Sasuke's mouth hangs open; he's less cognizant of the sounds he makes and so they spill unfiltered, gasps of breath building into a rhythm that, eventually, edges close to hiccups and sobs.

Pain makes it easier in such a controlled context, so he feels no strain, no withholding of the tears that stick dark lashes together. Cy likes to see him cry, and it's not difficult to let himself do so now where it would have felt insurmountable anywhere else. And the refrain of please don't and please stop simply become please, please, please — a senseless litany on his tongue.

If he was counting, if they were going slowly, perhaps he might have been able to hold onto a shred of his own self-composure. But the assailment leaves no room for rest, for air, for thought — and Sasuke feels the very moment of defeat, shaking and crying facedown on the bed, striping come into a hot mess under his hips.]

（ he won't say, by now, that he's wrung every willing orgasm from sasuke's body — but he won't deny ownership of a good eighty-five percent of them. he knows the way his body reacts, when he's trying to resist and when he's resigned to surrender. he feels the ejaculate, hot and slick against his thigh, and the sheet beyond — and he's cruel as he fists a hand in sasuke's hair, fingers tightening against his scalp. ）

Three hours, huh?

（ his tone's mocking, even as he drags sasuke into a new position, pushes him down to be confronted with the reality of the mess. this means that sasuke's mostly back on the bed, pressed flat, with the jut of cy's elbow pressed down against his nape to keep him from gaining any leverage to right himself. cy fiddles with his watch, and sasuke's will chime lightly with the notification — he did not, of course, send the pictures for real. but he'll happily pretend he did. ）

Lick up your mess.

（ and while sasuke decides whether or not he's going to oblige, cy starts rummaging around for the lube to slick up the end of the hairbrush's handle. ）

[The illusion of shame is a bright blaze inside of him when he's dragged into this new position, unable to lift his face, forced head-down against the evidence of his own release where it has spilled onto the sheets in a dark, wet stain. He hears the chime; there's a hitching sob of breath, letting himself cry but trying to keep it subtle, which is not that difficult in practice because it is what he would have done if this was real.

It's not real, but it's close enough — wet lips parting to lap up the pool of come where it dirties the sheet, face hot with his own exhalations so close to the bed. This time he doesn't struggle. Fear is the motivator, or so he pretends, taking on that role of the bent and the broken as he cleans the mess up with his mouth.

His ass is burning from the abuse of the brush. When he's finished, he puts his forehead down against the mattress as if to rest — to hide his face and the humiliation awash in his expression. Only when he hears those slick sounds does he try to lift his head.]

What are you doing? [A low whisper, shaky.] ... Isn't this enough?

（ cy just snorts, and when he's satisfied he lets one hand stroke down the length of sasuke's spine, fingers briefly digging down against knots of tension in the muscle there. a loving little interlude that turns to cruelty only when he adds another slap to sasuke's ass. ）

Sweetheart, I'm not going to leave this room until I've ruined you.

（ he leans down into his space to wipe the tears away, to drag his thumb against the boy's bottom lip. ）

You said it's your first time, so I'm going slow.

（ he pulls sasuke back into his lap, arranging him just so until he's satisfied with where he's bent over his lap, pressed down against the damp stain he'd just cleaned up with his tongue. cy folds him a little, forcing him bent, and then he takes the plug and eases it slightly back. they'd discussed this, too — and cy had cautioned him it would hurt, but sasuke had, if anything, seemed all the hungrier for it. so he takes the hairbrush, and pushes its lubed up handle in beside the plug, not quite letting it sink in yet, but making a clear threat. ）

It'll go easier if you relax.

[A promise that sinks into his gut like an anchor, affixed to the craving for that outcome. He wants to be ruined. He can play the part, allowing Cy to handle him back into that bent-over position pliantly only because he knows what's coming next — he recalls their conversation. That slap contrasts obscenely against the gentle wipe of a thumb through tears, tasting salt on his lips, tasting himself when he swallows by reflex.

They had discussed the pain of this act. Sasuke sucks in air, pretending fear where there is only a hot bed of anticipation at the nudge it takes to pull the plug a little out from the rim of his hole. Then he feels the stiff, unyielding probe of the wooden brush handle — and he gasps, acting out the protest as if he doesn't want to feel it sink in and stretch him beyond his limits, as if it terrifies him.]

I can't. [His arm fights the rope, strategically keeping hips still so that it does not dislodge the threat of the brush alongside the silicone plug.] I can't. It won't fit. Don't, please.

[Begging is not below his role — however he knows Cy won't stop, doesn't want him to stop, wants to feel it forced inside of him instead.]

Shh, shh. Haven't you learned yet that begging doesn't help? （ that's said with — a knowing sort of cant to his tone. ） It'll fit. You'll just have to accept that it'll hurt, too.

（ cy starts to push it in, knowing the rigidity of it will provide little yield to the muscle and soft tissue — but they were careful to stretch him out earlier, and the brush is well-lubed up — so he's not tentative as he fucks it into him. not slow, not careful — it's an act of force, giving sasuke's body only the slightest time to adjust before he sinks it deeper. and if sasuke struggles or fights or pleads, it's only made worse.

once the hairbrush has bottomed out alongside the plug, cy pushes his palm alongside the base of the plug and worries it against him, jogging both implements inside his body. ）

There, see? You're such a slut, the way your body opens up to take me. You can't even help yourself, can you? You were just made to be a whore.

[The brush is more rigid than anything he's taken, forcing the yield of tender flesh at his hole until it's fitted snugly up against the plug — and then that, too, is nudged back into place with a jostling that sparks nerves up his spine. Pain is an electric sensation; the stretch is wide around both objects, and he can feel muscle throbbing, a deep pulse in time with his heart. They prepared enough that there is no tearing and no threat of permanent damage to his body, but the illusion of it is enough. The debasement. Treated like a toy, being played with under someone else's whim.

And his pure, aching desire for all of it hidden underneath the cry of pain he muffles against the sheet. Trying to keep quiet, to not be heard as he struggles — more furtively to enliven the burn where his ass is pried open. He wants to feel the wooden handle rub up against thicker silicone.]

It hurts... [falls out of his mouth, whining, helpless.] I'm not. You're wrong. It's your fault — that I'm like this.

[There's truth in the shell of that blame. No one else makes him feel this way, ready to be split open and fucked as eagerly as a slut.]

Is it?

（ cy leans down beside him, hand flattened across the small of sasuke's back. ）

Is that why you were at Naked Yolk every night, watching people get beaten and fucked and used?

[He turns his face away from that pointed question, struggling again, even if there is no escape from the strength in those hands. It only brings greater attention to what is buried inside of him when he shifts, tries to wriggle out of the man's lap — not an accident.]

What do you want me to say?

[Ragged words, almost all breath.]

You... sent those pictures. So it doesn't matter. [Everyone will know, won't they? In the illusion of this fantasy he won't be able to show his face there again.] Hurry up and fuck me.

[It should come out hopeless, resigned — yet it is instead low and desperate, raspy in his throat, at odds with any denial. Ruin me.]

No.

（ he's held sasuke across his lap and fucked him with a dildo a hundred times now — but now he takes the brush and begins drawing it nearly out of him and pushing it back inward, intentionally angling it so it nudges the silicon of the plug against his prostate. ）

I don't think I'm done torturing you yet. You think I'm going to give you what you want just because you decided to embrace your inner slut? （ there's a chiding little suck of his teeth. ） Don't think I haven't noticed your change of heart. Trying to get me to go easier on you, huh?

（ he lubes up one of his index fingers — letting briefly go of the hairbrush to do it — and then slides that in as well along the plug, stretching him out. ）

I want to hurt you again. Pick something.

[The denial burns like a rash over his skin — overtaken by the static jolt of pleasure as Cy angles the toy inside of him against that spot of nerves, tingling and tender enough to force a broken moan out of his throat. He can feel the way his cock twitches in response to this, warmth stirring low in his belly, a rush of blood that threatens to fill out the length that has only flagged because of recent orgasm. It won't take much to make him hard again with those threats Cy pours into his head.

Bargaining for a quick end doesn't work. He's seen through immediately, pushing his face down against the sheets, then back and forth, shaking his head no.]

It's too much. [The words are thin, shaken, those deep interior sobs building up behind them.] It's too— much— [Cy's finger slides in, stretching his hole just a bit wider, the rim of muscle an abused shade of red, wet and shiny with lubricant.] Don't... don't hurt me.

[A fresh prickle of tears dampen dark lashes as the fight renews, kicking his legs as if it will pull him out of Cy's lap even if it means rolling off the bed and crashing to the ground. Privately, he wants to feel Cy's strength — he knows it's there.]

（ sasuke's struggles nearly dislodge him — but cy grabs him and hefts him further up onto the bed, reaching down to seize both ankles in one hand. he ties sasuke deliberately with more of that red, red rope, reducing his mobility further, and once he's satisfied — ）

Stop whining or I'll gag you again.

（ there's a sense of annoyance there — obviously not real by the way he reaches beneath sasuke to ensure his cock's not pinned in an uncomfortable way before pushing him back down against the bed, making sure his head is turned towards him.

the box of goodies is dragged closer with the hook of one hand, and cy digs through it until he's got several sticks of wax cradled in his palm. he'd brought a lighter for this, but — he remembers the symbols sasuke had used for fire before, and reaches to join their hands in those mudras. at the last one, he holds one of the sticks of wax near sasuke's lips, its wick delicately pale against the contrast of red wax. ）

Blow.

（ he's precise enough not to burn the room down, right? fingers crossed. ）

[He wrenches at the rope fixed around his ankles, feeling the harsh friction against his skin, wanting it to leave pink abrasions — but there is compliance in everything else as he's situated back on the bed. With the purposeful angle of his head, there's no way not to dare a glance up at Cy in that dim room, powerful and in control above him, those eyes dark in that handsome face, every movement and action intently calculated.

It is outside the scene, but he experiences a brief rush of attraction looking at Cy. The love is always there, but now it threatens to pour out of his heart, off his tongue, and his chest constricts with the intensity of the emotion, a tug in the fray of fantasy. He closes his eyes to center himself again, because otherwise he's going to break the illusion and the role he's supposed to be performing might slip away from him.

As soon as Sasuke feels the first signal shaped by their joined hands, as soon as he sights those red wax candles, he knows what is coming. It is a kink they've never tried; he plays the quickening of breath off as magnified panic. He does have the fine control it takes to light the wick without catching first to any of the rest of the room — a thinly exhaled stream, flickering flames that catch fire with a quiet little crack.]

What are you doing?

Shh. Just feel.

（ he lets the wick burn down, and turns the stick so that nothing drips off it until he's able to move his hand over sasuke's back.

the other pushes him down and holds him there, not allowing movement — and then he lets the first splatter of hot wax hit his back. what he draws there is irrelevant, really — it will be broken up or worn away by the night's activities regardless. but it happens to be the word whore written out and then surrounded by a cute little heart, because he's entirely normal, thanks. ）

[So he does. Feel — a hot splash across his back, searing, not quite at the threshold of his pain but a near-enough simulation of aching heat. The spill of wax turns skin livid pink in a red splatter that looks uncannily like blood. There is some pattern being drawn; or his mind is playing tricks on him and Cy is only painting an aimless path, scorching him like a living piece of art, made messy in yet another way.

All of his attention narrows there. It's like an open flame pressed against his body, causing Sasuke to seek the sheets beneath his head and bite down to stifle a groan — he had specifically asked for a higher melting point, expecting his own tolerance, and he is not disappointed even if he knows he could take it higher. Biting, at least, keeps Cy's name out of his mouth. In this state it wants to emerge from his throat in a desperate plea for more.

It doesn't stop the whimper, even muffled by fabric soon soaked with his own drool. He's started to tremble, and his cock is fully hard again where it lies trapped beneath his hips, a miserable throb to the cooling nerves of his back.]

（ he draws until the first stick of wax can only be used to light the second, this one a dark blue. other words, slut and cum dumpster are scrawled out elegantly along his spine. sometimes the waxes melt together, blending into a purple sheen. his left hand holds the wax aloft even as the right reaches for the hairbrush, fucking it into him anew in a way he knows will hurt, will add an overlay of abuse to his body and all those points where pain is like a diamond filament catching the first light of awareness.

in a low murmur — ）

Say you're mine. No one else is allowed to touch you unless I say.

[The heat of the wax is unrelenting. It does not ease as more is applied in that glossy smear, painted across his skin in some new language he can't grasp, building to a steady sunburn-blister of discomfort. Cy knows how to hurt him to the brink of his tolerance — and it is like that now, rigid handle of the brush reminding him of how full he is, how stretched by those two unyielding implements, jags of pain driven up his spine when it is purposefully shifted inside of him. The handle slides in and out, chafing against the tender ring of his hole, mixed into the sensation of cooling wax.

His whimper is smothered, swallowed, but he's made to relax his jaw in order to speak and he can feel where both saliva and tears have left damp marks on the sheet against his face.]

I'm... [Laid low in that pain, his voice sounds faraway to his own ears — dreamy, slurred and wet, breath staggered in irregular hiccups and sobs.] I'm yours. No one else will touch me.

Good boy.

（ the wax burns down until the heat is licking at his fingers, and then he tamps the wick out absently and sets the rest aside. he takes pictures again — the writing, the place where both hairbrush and plug vie for space in his body, and then he grabs sasuke by the hair and pulls him up just enough off the mattress to take a picture of his face, tear-streaked with come drying on the places he hasn't been able to rub off — and then lets him drop again with a callous thump. the hairbrush is removed and the plug follows — both set aside for later cleaning. with sasuke bound as he is, he's easily manoeuvred onto his knees, body bent in a jackknife for want of anything to support his torso, face pressed uncomfortably against the mattress as he's held in place with one hand pressing bruises into his hip.

cy slaps him across the ass — a sound that rings loud in the room, the force of it enough to be felt above the other agonies. ）

It's best that you know your place. On your knees, fucked open beneath me.

（ that's said in a murmur as he presses three fingers into sasuke's hole — less out of any consideration for prep and more just to make sure there's still plenty of lube and that they won't need to break immersion for more. he lets go of sasuke's hip briefly with a low warning to stay, so he can get his pants undone a second time — and when he withdraws his fingers, he slicks the remainder of what was there along his cock. there's a shift, then, body weight denting the mattress as he moves to arranges himself behind sasuke, cy's knees bracketing his. the head of his cock is rubbed between the cleft of sasuke's ass, his skin radiating heat from earlier abuse — cy pushes in against him in a promise. ）

Ask me.

（ ask what he doesn't say. to fuck him, to stop — it really doesn't matter, both statements would fit equally well, both would drive him onwards. only two things exist now to call him off — hades, or the bell. ）

[The scorch of heat abates, leaving behind a dull throb of sensation across the plane of his back — and there's no resistance when he hears the click of a camera shutter, this time, until his face is lifted off the bed. Then Sasuke tries to jerk beneath that hand, protest swallowed behind teeth, knowing it will do no good and fighting anyway. The knowledge that the sight of him in this ruined state has been preserved in those images — suspended in fantasy, humiliation takes on its sharpest edge and cuts deep. Not even the sweet praise of Good boy soothes that wound, although he can't help the part of himself that would do anything to hear it again.

Tied as he is, there's no amount of fight that prevents Cy from rearranging him into the new position, bent with his ass raised, sob hitching at the back of his throat when the plug and brush are removed because of how they drag against the sensitive and over-abused rim of his hole. The hard slap is just another burning hallmark of shame against his skin. All of it — the submission, the display of weakness in being conquered, the weathering of degradation and how heavy his cock still hangs between thighs as a result of it — he could never have showed to anyone else. It's dizzying, to have reached this point. To trust this implicitly.

The word Hades never touches his lips; the bell remains securely tucked in hand. He wants to rub himself back against the tease of Cy's cock as a wave of lust rocks through him, but instead he tries to escape it, ankles and wrist yanking at rope in one last frantic effort.]

I can't— [gasping, voice a low rush. He's crying again.] Will you... fuck me? [A quiet hitch of breath.] But don't— please don't hurt me.

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