#sebastiansteele

The chameleon eyes shut, releasing a muffled sigh against the thin gag. It appeared as only cloth that was threaded between his lips, but he learned quickly. His tongue tried not to wipe against it, having done so already in the hopes that it could be pushed aside to scream for another's attention and rescue, only to be repaid by the hidden needle piercing into the taste buds. It still burned from the small prick, in spite of the way the wet flesh folded around itself, literally attempting to lick the wound.

Blasted. Such a mild word, but for the mind of the civilized man of antiquity, his anguish transferred heavily through the short thought. It would be over soon, however. He clung onto this notion, just as tightly as these thick strands gripped onto his fair flesh. Beyond his wrists, there was one he couldn't allow to enter into his wits. It was violating, wretched, completely detestable to the suffocatingly straight-laced senses. He couldn't dare let it overtake him, for it only took one drop of its poison to tear the hemispheres apart before feasting on the psyche. Though, the reality was inescapable. If there was no mental acceptance, there was physical.

Sebastian Steele appeared to associate many techniques to the Japanese culture. Matanawa was what he said. The word itself was bathed in smoke, and Fabian delved more so into his memory at the needed scent that could potentially calm his fraying nerves. He refused the rest his consciousness could offer him, the ones he buried deeply, contrary to the heightened priority of it versus what should have been seen as the auxiliary. For the first time in his life, Fabian Bishop did not care for words. He didn't care for their meaning that brought upon the action they were describing. He wanted nothing to do with it, and he found solace in artificial ignorance.

It was dark around him. He was hidden for whatever reason and alone. The latter he saw no harm in, preferring it. When the ropes failed to make the slightest sound, the hearing was left to its own devices, buzzing with silence. In their sensitive state, they twitched at the knocks that formed against the front door, followed by leather shoes in their long strides to answer it after a moment.

He heard a voice he knew. A familiarity, at least, even if not enough for the heart to rise any further from his stomach than the lower ribcage. The lean figure was devoid of muscular forms with his strength limited because of his lack of practice. He gathered what he could in an attempt to swing, to have any part of him hit something, anything, that was around him to make noise. Not a single possession was touched, yet the burns to his wrists and unclad flesh were painful enough to cease.

Motions stopping, multi-colored orbs were mostly engulfed by the pupils, watching from the slit before him at the way Constantine Payne stood none the wiser, quipping idly with the older man. Their voices exchange with one another for a few passes. Mr. Steele's nearly guttural tone stops, though. He only continues when Payne's neck is pinned to the polished table, knocking him with such force that if it was glass, it surely would have shattered. Fabian's heart speeds up with worry that he'll be witnessing a murder, unsure now of the limitations for everyone involved. By the time the act is over, the shadows of the mind will be wishing that it had been just that instead of what he deems as too vile to fathom much less be forced into seeing.

The youngest's hand flies up, grasping to the ebony locks with the blunt end of his palm pressured against the corner of the jaw. Mr. Steele's face rises only vaguely, denying the hold at the cost of ripping some of the hairs from his scalp while the rest escape. In response, the fingers squeeze around the throat and even beneath the black jacket, the muscles of the upper arm can be seen shifting. It's a struggle not to gag from the victim before his determination to join has his legs wrapping around the waist, prying him off until there's another noise of impact from Sebastian's back crashing to the hardwood floor.

Eyes of the unknown captive have widened with the jet discs expanded even wider until there's barely any traces of color at all. They reflect clearly how Constantine's show of bronze is countered by the eldest's own prowess, flipping him over to reverse their positions, cracking the skull to return the favor. It's not enough to have the brunet's spine being weighed on, though. He's flipped again before there can be another exchange, now lying on his stomach with the chin propping the chiseled face up. The click of the pocket knife reverberates throughout the open space, cascading mostly against Fabian's ears as he can't help but watch in his numbness.

With one hand flattened between the shoulder blades, keeping him down, the quickened work of the blade slices the back of the jeans, following the path of the natural separation of the body. From the tightness of skin around blue eyes and the way his fingers throw themselves against the other's wrist to cast it back, it's clear he has been cut but the severity is unknown. Sebastian makes a remark, the tone casual, and surprisingly a retort from the one he's holding a knife to is from a coquettish sense, joking and somehow expecting of this fate. He releases the arm, rising up to snatch the nape of the neck to drag Mr. Steele down, biting at the lower lip until it bursts once he's within proximity.

The Dominant that is strung up feels his stomach churning, nausea sweeping over him. His head is light, spinning, but he's paralyzed from the way his mind is shutting down to save what little part of him remains able to keep consciousness. The hedonists continue with their dance, seeing Payne's pocket being trifled through before the long fingers have a packet between them.

"Planning ahead, serf?" is heard without a breath out of place. For such a heavy smoker and the vigorous exercise he's just accomplished, the control of his lungs would be seen as outstanding if Fabian wasn't on the verge of heaving.

It takes every bit of control that the shortest of the three has not to follow the wants of his body. He's jerked forward from his own digestive system, but he rejects what they greet the back of his throat with. 'It will conclude momentarily' is his chant.

It doesn't come to fruition.

With each measured thrust Sebastian gives, there's an expanding tear to the thin latex, allowing a sensation of minimal smoothness to be eroded into the scraping and shredding flesh, particularly where Payne has met metal from him instead of only his flesh. Torso of the one being thrown into is hauled up by both forearms.

"Choose."

The concept is lost on Fabian, knowing nothing even if he could distance himself enough from his personal feelings to focus. Constantine, however, seems to understand.

"Right," he speaks through gritted teeth, knowing already before speaking his 'partner'--in the looses sense of the word--will follow through with the opposite side than what is stated, confirmed by the crack of his shoulder's joint from his left side. The agent of the Crowne bites his tongue, silencing his vocal chords with a long and steady breath. In spite of blocking as much of the pain as he can, there's pleasure that trickles through the veins that cannot be denied.

This act repeats itself with only the change of using the legs instead of the arms, along with the side that is spoken being actually taken instead of swapped for the remaining option. The youngest will have to pop the limbs back into their sockets once they're finished, going through the medical routine he has trained for not only in the agency but through his personal choice of education.

It's expected that Sebastian Steele will be ruthless in the physical contact. His guest knew this long before agreeing to arrive. However, what is not planned for are the details surrounding his tactics, and the man so heavily endowed in psychological knowledge believes that even the other he's studying and being studied by adapts, decides, and follows through in a moment's notice while avoiding an impulsive blindness. Because of that, even the one with the hollow circle tattooed on his arm knows only his method for a few fleeting seconds before snapping his body to it.

In his unpredictability, Constantine is left devoid of his inner presence so close to reaching his release. The inflammation of his body is in the beginning stages, and without the distraction, it is brought slamming to the forefront of the senses. Adrenaline pumps through him, knowing that it's the only natural property that strays him from being wracked with the disease of agony. There are only so many times he can bite his tongue, after all. However, he doesn't need to wait long before something else can literally grab him.

The raven-haired man has his arm hooked around the blue-eyed creature's throat, a touch he's returning to but with a vengeance, bending his spine back while the cusp of his calves are weighed against by knees. Against even the dislocation of his left shoulder, both of his hands reach back to yank at the figure that was moments ago inside of him, jerking the owner forward and to have him crash into him. There's a wrenching given, shooting a spark through the joint as penance, but Sebastian gives only an articulate sentence to breathe into the exposed ear as though he's immune.

The zipper nestled between the folds of a pair of jeans are tracked down sharply by the free hand, shoving aside the layers that protect the youngest to reveal the engorged shape. There's no time to theorize what will happen next, only glancing down in time to hear a metallic spring and see the glint of silver that's already dyed in his blood before the sensitive nerves twitch at its touch. Plush lips separate, snatching at the reins of his lungs.

It's in the quickest instance, the crevice of time that compounds thoughts into a solitary strand of a psyche's cry, does Constantine think of the strangest type of thought towards what could happen to him if Sebastian's fingers make the faintest move against him. The thought is one of retribution. A toll-road that he must pay for the sins of being an accomplice in a crime that spear-headed into his newest patient's safety--those that are attached to the interrogation of Idris Cain Wolfe.

Fortunately, Constantine Payne is not a religious man. The thought dissipates as quickly as it's born, and returning to the moment, his hand grabs around the spine of the blade, snapping it against one of the dominant's fingers before the body flings back to try to buck him off. In spite of the persistent nature that has the eldest refusing to relinquish his position, it's enough for the neck to be traded for the left arm, throwing the guest of the villa down once more.