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Su-bong's body forces him awake around three, and for a moment he thinks he might be dead. Everything around him is cast in complete darkness, so much so that he cannot even see what's right in front of him. But of course, he's not dead, although he really wishes that he was.
If his mother could see him like this, he wonders, what would she say? What would she think? If she called, what would she think when he told her, "No, Ma. No, I'm not eating, I'm sorry." because it's impossible to lie to her? What would she think when he told her that he was in deep shit and needed some money? That all of the work he did to get here was for nothing?
Right. What a fucking joke.
Su-bong scoffs. Rolls over so that he's laying flat on his back, one arm draped loosely over his middle. His arms sting and ache, and he grimaces because it's likely he's given himself an infection. These days, he doesn't pay it any mind, although sometimes he thinks that an infection would be a really lame way to go out.
Most days, the most productive thing Su-bong does is pop a number of pills and get high. Before he got especially bad, he'd spend each night hanging around Pentagon, killing time before he could think about killing himself. Each night, he encountered the club's promoter (whose name he later learned is Nam-gyu) and they fucked around in exchange for the newest, most exotic drug. All sorts of substances that are fucking crazy, as Nam-gyu had put it. And there, for a while, life seemed to gain a new sense of meaning.
While he was high, breathing came easier. As long as he was high, his reality could be easily ignored. Plus, he's more fun to be around when he's high. Nobody likes someone like Su-bong; they like someone like Thanos. Thanos, who's a million times more charismatic and entertaining. A million times more put together. Everything Su-bong wishes he could be, all the time.
Who is he kidding, anyway? He can't even be Su-bong, let alone Thanos. He's a shell of a man. Just bone and flesh going through the motions. Wake up, piss, eat something small, pop a couple pills, and go back to sleep. Repeat.
Su-bong's gaze drifts toward the cross cartridge that's sprawled out next to him. It reflects what little light there is to reflect, like it's something holy. Almost reverently, Su-bong grabs the cross and holds it in one palm while the chain is grasped in the other. The way a rosary would be held. With the pad of his thumb, he clicks the cartridge open, and then with his pointer and thumb he selects a pill. Then another. And after waiting for the first few moments, the familiar feeling washes over him.
Whatever this is that Nam-gyu gave him, it's working. A little too well, he might add, because he's never had a reaction quite like this. He's jittery this time. He's shaky and he's anxious and he's starting to wonder if he took one too many.
Thanos wouldn't act this way. Thanos wouldn't ever shake, wouldn't ever lose an ounce of confidence. He lays back once more, squeezing his eyes shut and waiting. But the feeling doesn't fade. It only really swells, deep within him, something sickening and foreboding. The cross falls from his grasp, hitting the floor with a sharp clank. But the sound falls on deaf ears, because surely, surely this is the doing of Thanos. Thanos, that cocky bastard, can't ever be satisfied! Always has to steal his drugs and his lines and—
And, God. Thanos.
Thanos right here, hovering over him, crooked grin etched onto his face. Thanos, with his expensive violet hair dye, freshly done and spiked up just the way he likes it. Thanos, devoid of scar tissue, devoid of all that Su-bong hates about himself. He's even filled out. The healthiest his body has ever been. And he's younger, too. A better time. And suddenly, Su-bong feels ashamed to present himself like this. With his own faded hair dye, the cheapest he could find. His nails, chipped and nearly gone. Aching, ruined body.
He opens his mouth to speak. No words come out.
Thanos inches closer, and his grin is so fucking intoxicating. For the first time. Su-bong finds himself breathless. Thanos's hand extends forward, palm cupping his cheek and fingertips caressing the soft skin. His eyebrows raise, almost like he's examining the detail of his face. Su-bong can feel the warmth of his breaths against his skin.
"Thanos," he finally gasps out, breath hitching. Heat swells within him, in his cheeks and in the tips of his ears.
Then Thanos's lips are on his. He's a great kisser, much better than Su-bong could ever be. He bites down, hard, on Su-bong's bottom lip. Su-bong exhales a sharp whine, pulling himself back. When Thanos pulls away too, and when Su-bong swipes his tongue across it, he's hit with the taste of metal.
Perhaps this should defer Su-bong, perhaps he should feel some semblance of fear, of unease. But heat isn't making a home for itself in his face alone; it's blossoming in his belly, and it's making itself known in between his legs, too. All over, he feels hot. The kind of hot he feels when he's touching Nam-gyu, when Nam-gyu's touching him. So perhaps this is why Su-bong lunges forward once more, smashing his lips into Thanos's.
Perhaps this is why neither of them pull away.
A pleasured grunt leaves Su-bong's lips. His breaths slowly return, only to come out in harsh exhales and gasps. He grabs at Thanos—wherever his hands can reach first. Like an animal, almost: desperate and wild. Thanos's own hands wander, too. And as he gropes Su-bong with the same amount of fervor, the same animalistic desire, Su-bong can no longer deny his erection.
His sweats are tented, and it's so painfully obvious, and he finally pulls back, ashamed and growing red. Fixes his gaze on the bedsheets, now crumpled around them, squeezing his legs together. But Thanos only grins, spreading his legs back open.
"You don't need to hide from me," he says, voice syrupy. He tilts his head just slightly. "There's nothing to hide. It's only me; it's only you."
Quickly, Su-bong stammers, "I know— I know, I just—"
"Come on," Thanos interrupts, inching forward again. The English words roll right off of his tongue, smooth as silk. His hands land on either side of his waist. "Feels good to let go, doesn't it? Don't you want to feel good?"
And, yeah. Of course he does. Of course he wants to feel good. So, he grasps the cross, clicks it open like his life depends on it. Pops another pill.
"There you go," Thanos encourages. He reaches out, thumb pulling down on Su-bong's lower lip. His fingernail digs into the sensitive skin. Su-bong almost winces in pain, but then Thanos is kissing him again, and before he knows it, his back is pressed against the headboard and Thanos is on top of him.
Thanos's kisses stray quickly after, first to the corner of his mouth, and then lower, nipping at his jaw and suckling on his neck. Su-bong keens, head tilting back and swallowing hard. And then Thanos is touching again, squeezing his thighs and pushing them apart. One hand travels in between. He grins when Su-bong's cock twitches at the contact.
"You like that?" he asks, breath warm against the shell of his ear. Su-bong shudders. Thanos's tongue glides against his ear. He whines, and nods frantically.
"Yeah?" Thanos continues. Continues to rub, too, leaving Su-bong trembling and nearly bucking into it. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
"Please—" Su-bong's voice breaks.
"Please what?" And for a moment, Su-bong wants to strangle Thanos, wants to cuss at him and push him off, because he already knows what. Of course he knows what. He knows better than anyone else.
And yet, like a dog, he's obedient anyway. He answers, through soft pants and gasps, "Please, Thanos, more— please, I need it! Need more, need you to—" He whines, head tilting forward as he clenches his jaw.
"Poor thing," Thanos coos, "so needy. Good thing I'm here, yeah? You'd be a mess without me, wouldn't you?"
"God— yes, yeah—"
"But I think you're a mess already. A mess and I've hardly touched you. What's up with that, huh? Nam-gyu not doing it for you anymore?"
Su-bong exhales hard. "Don't. . . Don't say that. You know that's not true. He does the best he can— he's busy. Works a lot. . . It's not his fault."
Thanos hums. His smile returns; there's something about it, though, that Su-bong can't quite figure out. "Well, it's a good thing I'm here now, then. Don't worry. I'll take care of you."
Su-bong swallows, grabs Thanos's hand. His hand is warm, nails painted perfectly in contrast to his own, chipped and cold. He clings to the warmth like a moth to a flame, fingers curling in the spaces between Thanos's own. With his free hand, he tugs on his sweats. Thanos pulls on the other side, until they're pooled around his ankles, boxers in tow.
Su-bong's cock, hard and achy, glistens with precome. It beads at the tip, drips down the shaft. With a low whistle, Thanos says, "Look at you. You're so pretty, you know? So pretty like this, all ready and desperate. Do you always look like this?"
But Su-bong does't answer. His fingers twitch. He's about two seconds away from wrapping his hand around his cock and doing it himself. And Thanos must notice, because he adds, "Not yet. You can be patient. I just want to look at you some more. You're beautiful."
He says it so earnestly, like he really means it, like there's nothing he's ever believed more. Su-bong wants to cry. He's only ever heard such a sentiment from Nam-gyu's lips before this, but he's always assumed that this was more of an obligation than anything. Hearing it from Thanos—Thanos—almost carries more weight. It almost means more. If Thanos thinks he's beautiful, then it must be true.
And—the knowledge of this sends him over the edge, and fast. Before he knows what he's doing, he's covered in his own come, mouth agape, jaw slack. Thanos is hovering over him, that same slick grin wider now.
"Ah," he exhales. "There you go. Good. Good boy, aren't you? Oh, yes, you are."
Su-bong shivers. All that comes out when he opens his mouth is a quiet moan. Trembling fingers grab at the cross, making futile attempts to click it open. Thanos takes his hands into his own, setting them in his lap. Su-bong can only whine in protest, to which Thanos laughs, delighted, and tilts his head to the side.
"You're a good boy, Su-bong, and good boys shouldn't have to give themselves their treats. How's that fair?"
Then his hands are on his shoulders, and the chain is slipping over his head, and he's putting it around his own neck. It fits perfect. He looks like a god like this, or at least some higher diety. Su-bong's breathless, momentarily. It's like Thanos has quite literally stolen the air from his lungs.
"You do want a treat, don't you?" Thanos asks. Su-bong quickly nods. "No, no, say it. Wanna hear you."
"Yes," Su-bong mewls. His lower lip sticks out just slightly, eyes big and shiny. "Please?"
Thanos looks down at him, pleased. He clicks open the cartridge and pulls out a singular pill. "Open," he commands, and Su-bong obeys. He sticks the pill on his tongue. Su-bong swallows quickly; he begins to shake again and nothing seems to feel real. Nothing, except for Thanos. Except for them, and this.
Thanos dips his hand lower, fingers finally curling around the base of Su-bong's cock. But even now, he's teasing. Bastard.
"Thanos," he manages through harsh breaths, "come on—"
"Be a good boy," Thanos interrupts, "and take what I give you." His strokes are slow—painfully so. He's so cruel! So cruel for doing all of this, for knowing exactly what he's doing, too. And yet, despite the cruelty, Su-bong's close again. He ruts into Thanos's hand, whimpering and grunting.
"Yeah," Thanos says. "Just like a fucking dog, aren't you?"
Su-bong whines, cheeks burning in shame, in embarrassment. But when he glances at Thanos, he seems pleased. Like he likes it. And, well. Su-bong sort of really likes it too.
"Oh, I know it," Thanos coos. "Poor puppy, so pent up. You can't help it, can you? No. Just doing what feels good."
Su-bong nods, frantic. If Thanos would just move faster—
"Such a good boy," Thanos murmurs. "You know, you might be right. Since you're so good, I think you deserve a reward. Huh? What do you think?"
"God— yes, yes, please. Please!" Su-bong fucks into his hand with all of the desperation he can muster, almost as if he needs to prove himself.
And finally, after all of the waiting, Thanos allows his hand to move faster, up and down Su-bong's length. It's just like his own hand, only warmer.
"That good?" Thanos asks, lips agains his ear. "Better? What you wanted?"
Su-bong means to say yes, but all that laves his mouth is a broken moan. His fingers grip the bedsheets so tight his knuckles turn white.
"You know. . . I've hardly touched you at all and you're totally falling apart. Is it me?" Thanos looks at him, his eyes shiny and his lip stuck out in a pout. He leans backward, his legs spread. "Do you think I'm hot, Su-bong?"
What kind of question is that? Of course he thinks Thanos is hot. Everyone thinks Thanos is hot. But Su-bong nods along anyway. He's wrapped completely around Thanos's finger. His legs shake.
Thanos smiles. "Yeah? You think I'm hot? I think you're hot too. And the best part is? No one else gets to see you. They only ever see me. I get you all to myself."
"Thanos. . ."
"Isn't that great? Whenever someone's touching you, or loving you, it's all me. No one even knows you exist. My Su-bong. Only mine to see, to touch. How could you want anything else?"
In a way, Su-bong supposes he's right. It's better this way—better that Su-bong remains obscured behind the favorable facade of Thanos. Thanos is great at all of the things Su-bong is not. And when it's tallied up, Thanos is great at everything.
"Are you close again?" Thanos asks him with a smirk. "Already?"
"Thanos," Su-bong cries, his hands trembling fiercely. "Come on, please, just— just—"
"Shhh." Thanos leans in again. For just a moment, he lets go of Su-bong's cock. While Su-bong whines in protest, he pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it onto the floor. Su-bong wonders if this is the moment Thanos will finally realize that he's nothing desirable, that everything is a front and nothing more, but Thanos only looks at him, thoroughly pleased, and lets his hands wander. His fingertips run up his sides, all the way up to his chest.
Thanos tilts his head. "What's this?" His fingers brush over the sensitive skin, over the silver that's pierced there. "This for me, too?" And when Su-bong doesn't answer right away, he tugs. Not hard or anything, but enough to hurt. He silences Su-bong with a kiss, then; rough and sharp. "Awh," he purrs when he pulls back. "Did that hurt?"
Su-bong scoffs, indignant. He can't be serious. But he nods anyway, because of course he does. It's impossible to lie to Thanos.
Thanos hums, almost like he's contemplating, before leaning forward and biting down on Su-bong's nipple. He licks at the affected area afterward, so slow that it's painful. Su-bong's hand flies outward, gripping the back of Thanos's hair and pulling. He moans out Thanos's name, and his voice cracks, right down the middle.
"Thanos," he babbles, like a prayer, "Thanos, Thanos—"
Thanos pulls backward, then, taking in all of Su-bong: Su-bong, sprawled out for him, legs parted and cock flush against his belly. Su-bong, with his reddened lips and his eyes glossy with unshed tears.
"Pretty," Thanos muses. He selects another pill from the cross and holds it in front of Su-bong's mouth. "You want it?" And Su-bong does. Bad. With parted lips, he inches toward Thanos's hand. He lets his tongue stick out, just enough for Thanos to put the pill on it. Satisfied, Thanos caresses Su-bong's cheek. He leans into the touch like it's second nature.
"Come here," Thanos tells him, and he pulls him forward so that he's straddling his lap. He plants both hands on the small of his back, guiding him closer so that he can kiss him again. It doesn't last long, though, because he strays from Su-bong's lips, down to his neck. He suckles on the skin, leaving hickeys and bites in his wake. Su-bong bows his head, moans softly. Clings onto Thanos like he'll disappear if he lets him go.
"I'll give you another," Thanos murmurs, "if you can get it. Wanna try?"
Su-bong nods—how could he not? He thinks he'd do just about anything for it, at this point. Each pill makes Thanos seem realer than the last. If he takes enough, maybe Thanos will stay.
Thanos grins at him, holds a pill between his index and his thumb. Presents it to him like it's a dog's treat. He reaches for it. Thanos pulls it backward in the same breath.
"Ah-ah, not so fast," he says, mock-scolding. "You think I'd make it that easy for you? Come on, boy."
And then he's placing the pill right on his own tongue, and Su-bong thinks this has got to be the start of some kind of porno. Thanos leans in, waiting for Su-bong to take it. Like a predator wating for its prey, for the perfect time to strike.
And, well—maybe that makes Su-bong a fool. He doesn't find it within himself to care.
Su-bong, with his hands on Thanos's collarbone and his eyes locked on his, smashes his tongue into his. The pill falls in his favor; greedy for it, he swallows.
By now, Su-bong's entire world is spinning completely out of control. He feels faint, almost, like he's about to pass out or worse. But Thanos's voice—his touch—reins him in.
"So good," he praises, hands running through his sweat-slicked hair. "Good boy."
"Thanos. . ." he stammers, weary. His forehead is soaked. "I— I don't. . ."
"Shhh. Don't worry about it—that just means it's working. You know I'd never hurt you, right, Su-bong?"
What? Su-bong flounders. "'Course not," he manages. And the worst part is he isn't even all that sure why he's saying it. It feels more like what he's supposed to say, rather than what he feels. Like he'll disappoint Thanos with any other answer.
"Oh, you poor, sweet boy. My boy."
Su-bong almost wants to shake his head. No, he thinks vaguely, no, not your boy. Not yours. But he is, isn't he? In one way or another. He belongs to Thanos. He's wholly devoted to him, whether he likes it or not, and that's the way it will always be, because Thanos has saved him. He is forever beholden to Thanos, his savior.
So, instead: "Yes— yes, yeah, yours."
But all the sweet talk in the world can't stop Su-bong from feeling so strange. And almost like the flip of a coin, no longer is Thanos doting on him, but a cruel mockery of such. And if Su-bong didn't feel like vomiting, then maybe he'd be more alarmed.
"Such a filthy boy," Thanos scolds, with that syrupy voice. "So dirty."
What the fuck is he talking about? Su-bong wonders, but then he feels it: the sour warmth dripping down his thighs.
"Oh," he mumbles dumbly, entirely bewildered. How did this happen? How hadn't he realized? His face burns with an intensity equivalent to the sun, and he can't possibly look at Thanos now, so he casts his gaze onto the floor.
Thanos's fingers press into his jaw, guiding his face so that they're looking at each other. Su-bong realizes, with utter disbelief, that Thanos isn't fazed by it in the slightest. Quite the opposite, really—he's hard.
"No reason to be ashamed," Thanos tells him, hand wandering down and squeezing his thigh. "It's only me. And anyway, you know you like it."
Su-bong does. As ashamed as he is to admit it.
"Thanos," he whines softly. His cock twitches in anticipation as Thanos's hand strays nearer.
"Mmh." Thanos pauses for a moment. Then: "You look so fuckable right now, Su-bong. Do you want that? Me inside you?"
Su-bong perks up, his legs trembling and his breathing quickening. "I—"
"But. . ." Thanos sighs. "You know, I'm really good. I think you need to prove yourself first. How can I know you'll be good for me, too?"
"I, um." He flusters. "What do you want me to do?"
"Hmmh. . ." Thanos considers it genuinely for several moments. He's drawn out with it on purpose, the bastard, leaving Su-bong with his aching cock and his shaking limbs. Finally, he says, "Show me you can take it."
Breathless, he starts, "How. . . How can I. . ." But he knows, without having to ask. He swallows, waiting for his vision to clear again before bringing his hand down between his legs. He presses his middle finger against his hole, inhaling sharply at the sudden contact. He pushes his finger forward, slowly, through the taut ring of muscle. His free hand rises to cover his mouth just in time to muffle his moan.
"Oh, aren't you just the prettiest thing?" Thanos coos. Su-bong glances up at him through half-lidded eyes, watches the way his gaze lands on him. Their own private show. "Keep going, just like that. Open yourself up for me, yeah? Get yourself all ready."
Su-bong whimpers, his finger curling. It's harder this way, doing it himself. But there's something about it, about being watched so closely, that keeps him going. The idea has him darting his finger in and out of himself quicker.
"Add another finger for me," Thanos tells him eventually. When Su-bong starts to protest, he adds, "I know you can take it. How are you going to take all of me if you can't take your own fingers?"
The second finger is, admittedly, a lot for him to take. He's not exactly used to it. What he is used to, though, is the technique. He thinks back on all of the times he's prepped Nam-gyu like this, how he scissored his fingers and the sounds that it drew out of him.
"Doesn't that feel good?" Thanos asks. "You look so fucking tight, you know. I can't imagine how you'd feel around my cock."
"Please," Su-bong mewls. "Need it— need you. . . ! Please—"
"Can you imagine it, Su-bong? How tight you'd be? Can you imagine how good it would feel? All the pretty sounds you'd make? Yeah, you'd fit perfect on my cock, wouldn't you? Like you're made for it. And I'd fuck you until you're nothing but a mess, until the only thing you remember is my name. How does that sound?"
Su-bong moans. His cock twitches. "Please," he begs, his head bowing and a heavy exhale leaving him.
"Come here," Thanos tells him. Grabs his wrist and pulls his fingers away. He whimpers. "Got a better idea."
Before Su-bong can ask what the better idea is, it's right in front of him. A dildo: long and thick, purple and glittery and made of silicone, that he'd bought ages ago as a total joke. He had no intention of ever using it. But now it sat in front of him. It felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.
"Thanos—"
"This is all you need to do, Su-bong. Just this, and then I'll fuck you. Come on. You gotta slick it up first."
Easier said than done, Su-bong thinks briefly. Of course there's no lube anywhere in sight; whether this was the doing of Thanos, or whether there wasn't ever any to begin with, Su-bong doesn't know. It doesn't matter.
He swallows thickly. With Thanos's gaze stuck on him and him alone, he takes it slowly into his mouth. Lathers it in his own saliva, his tongue swirling around the smooth surface while he pushes it in and out of his mouth. A soft sound falls from his lips, his eyes fluttering shut. Unable to restrict himself any longer, his free hand strays, frantic, wrapping around his own length and stroking.
Afterward, when he pulls it all the way out, it stays connected to his tongue at first by a thin string of saliva. He glances upward, relief washing over him at Thanos's pleased expression.
"It's good?" he asks.
"Yeah. Good boy. Wanna see you when you fuck yourself. Wanna see all of you."
Su-bong exhales. Okay. This isn't anything he can't handle. He leans back against the headboard, legs spread wide to leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. He grips the base of the dildo and pushes it against his rim, inhaling sharply at the cold. The head pushes inside of him with a soft pop, and this alone is almost too much. Yet he continues on, and he imagines that it's Thanos's cock instead, warm and pulsating and ready to fill him with come.
"Look at you," Thanos says. "It's like you were made to take cock. You look so perfect like this. You can go all the way, can't you?"
Su-bong whines, voice breaking. It's all so much—too much, even—and Thanos is showing no signs of relenting any time soon.
"Please, Thanos—!"
"Come on. You'll feel so good when you're all full."
"Want it to be you— yours—"
"Take it, Su-bong. All of it."
Thanos's words fall over him like condemnation. Su-bong's eyes sting with tears, and a choked sob leaves him, guttural and harsh as he pushes the toy as far as he can. The worst part is that Thanos was right. It does feel so good to be full. But it also hurts, and he's exhausted, and when Thanos presents him with a pill—his reward—all he can do is whimper and bow his head.
"Don't you want it?" Thanos asks, lips curved up in a cruel grin, hand moving tauntingly in front of his face.
"It's too much," Su-bong cries, and he doesn't even know what he's referring to anymore.
"Just one more," Thanos coaxes, holding the tablet to his lips. His smile morphs into a pleased one when Su-bong takes it into his mouth and swallows. "Good boy," he praises, hand running through his hair. "Fuck yourself for me."
"Thanos, please, I can't— it's too much—"
"You can," he insists. "Aren't you close?"
And shit, he is. It hadn't been so noticeable until now. He keens, his legs trembling fiercely. With one hand, shaking just as much, he grabs onto the base and pulls, and he can hardly breathe, and he doesn't even know why. And even as his orgasm washes over him like a tidal wave, as his belly is coated in pearl, Thanos doesn't let him stop.
"One more," he says.
"Oh, God," Su-bong sobs, still riding the high of his orgasm. "No, Thanos, I can't— can't! No more—"
"Just one more, that's all. Show me how good you are at taking it. You look so pretty when you come, Su-bong."
Su-bong mewls despite himself. Chokes on his tears as his tremoring hand struggles to find rhythm in the push and pull of it all.
"Thanos," he cries, "Please, I can't do it. I— I can't—"
"It'll feel so good when you come," Thanos tells him, "won't it? And then you can do it all again, when I fuck you myself."
Oh, fuck. The thought alone of having to do this all again, of Thanos actually being inside of him—it's a lot. And since he's already sensitive, since his senses are already heightened, it's enough to get him chasing an orgasm again. With as much concentration as his fleeting mind can muster, he fucks himself, until the thoughts and the pleasure catch up to him and leave him coming all over himself for a second time.
Su-bong's breaths come in heavy pants and gasps, and he thinks he just might pass out. He pulls the dildo out, just in time for Thanos to inch closer.
"You ready to take me now?" he asks with a grin. Su-bong lets out a strangled sound.
"No—" he cries. "Too much! Too much, no more—"
Thanos scoffs. "No?"
"No— no—" He shakes his head, choking out another sob. And he's not sure what feels worse: the overstimulation he's experiencing currently, or Thanos's displeasure. If he had to guess, he'd go with the latter.
He avoids Thanos's gaze as he sits up, as he presses his legs together and then as he presses them against his chest.
"I'm sorry," he starts, weakly, but Thanos shakes his head. He looks pissed off for a second, but his anger melts away into something fonder.
"Mmh." Thanos hums. "Well, Su-bong, I think there's something you need to do for me in return. To make up for this."
Su-bong sniffles. "But— Thanos, I—"
"Shh. Relax. I know you still want to feel good. I know how you can do both. Isn't that great?"
The look in his eyes tells Su-bong that great may not be the best word to describe it. But he nods along anyway. There's nothing left for him to do.
"Yes," Thanos continues on. "Come here, Su-bong. I'll show you something." In his hand, sandwiched between his index and his thumb, is a small, metal razor. "Hmm? What do you think?"
Su-bong crawls over, slowly, each individual movement sending shocks of white-hot pain through his body. He finds his refuge on Thanos's lap, where Thanos is pulling on his arm and pushing up the sleeve.
"Pretty," Thanos muses. His fingertips brush up the scar tissue, eliciting shivers from him.
Thanos glances up, lips quirking upward. "I can show you how to make it feel really good, you know."
"Mmh. . . How?"
"Give me your arm and I'll show you."
And so Su-bong does.
The first laceration burns like hell, like nothing else. At first, for the first moments after, there's nothing at all. Then there's blood, and there's so much of it, and it gushes like a broken dam all the way from the inside of his elbow to his forearm.
Then: Thanos is licking it up. Lapping up the blood, his tongue flicking in and out of the wound. It stings, so wonderfully and so horribly. Su-bong cries out, trying and failing to pull his arm away. When Thanos pulls back, his mouth is smeared red.
All words die on Su-bong's tongue, no matter how he wills himself to speak. The pain is blinding; his vision fades in and out of black.
Faintly, he can hear Thanos. He clings to his voice like it's an anchor, like a moth clings to a flame. He can't comprehend anything he's saying, but he knows that he's here, and this is enough. Thanos will take care of him; Thanos would never hurt him.
His faith is faltering.
The hurt is only temporary, surely. Thanos preparing him for something greater.
Thanos, he wants to say. Thanos, please don't go. I need you. I need you more than anything in the world, in the whole goddamn world, please just don't go, where are you? Please help me it hurts so fucking much I can't breathe—
There's only silence. Thanos has left him alone.
The darkness returns. This time, he welcomes it.
* * *
When Nam-gyu comes home, it is just before sunrise. The apartment is quieter than usual, even with Su-bong asleep. Something isn't quite right, and yet it doesn't dawn on him until he's crossing the threshold, until he's spotting Su-bong, covered in blood and urine and semen, until he's dropping everything and rushing over and crumbling to his knees at his side.
And because he does not know any better (how could he?) he calls, "Thanos? Thanos, hyung, come on, you've gotta wake up." When there's no response, he tries, "Su-bong— Su-bong, you have to stay. You— you have to stay here, you know. Jesus, I'll get bandages, or something, and— God, Su-bong what did you do? What the fuck did you do?"
With shaking legs, he stands. Out of the corner of his eye is the now-empty cross cartridge that had been full before he left. The chain is looped around the tips of Su-bong's fingers, on the brink of being relinquished. Nam-gyu stills, blood running cold. There it is; the last part of the equation.
"Su-bong," he calls again, weakly. His voice is thick and garbled. "Su-bong, oh my God, what did you do?"
And even as he rushes, grabbing bandages and gauze and wipes to clean his skin, Su-bong is unresponsive. Even as he is laid in his bed, as the sun begins to rise and the rays hit his face and paint him in the golden glow of morning, he is unresponsive. Nam-gyu remains, though. He does not dare leave. He slides into bed next to Su-bong, minding his arm and the rest of him.
Perhaps tomorrow he will ask him all of the hard questions. Perhaps tomorrow will bring forth something better. But now, in the present, there's only one thing: a soft, tearful, "I love you, Su-bong."
Here, between them, there is no Thanos. There is only Nam-gyu, and there is only Su-bong. Nam-gyu hopes Su-bong knows he would not have it another way.