"Why not? Chen's a rich boy and I'm sure he likes seeing you dressed up pretty."

A second semicircle joins the first one.

Instead of trying to come up with an answer to that he tilts his head back and moans. 

The knife clicks shut. "I'd like to see you bleed out all over the floor," Harry says in tones of regret, "but it's not nice to break things you're borrowing. And I am nice, aren't I, Sasha?"

"Yeah," gasp, "yeah, you are," and the terrifying thing is that he almost means it. 

Harry slaps him across the face. "Wrooooong. You are getting so many wrong answers today, little Sasha."

He tries for "I think you're nice" and what comes out instead is "'m sorry," slurred together. 

Harry walks around Sasha, examining him, and makes a tch-ing noise. "No bruises, no healing cuts, and you go under so easily-- they aren't treating you well at all, little Sasha. No wonder you had to come to me."

He grabs Sasha by the throat, yanks him up, and throws him against the wall.

He moves like a rag doll, no resistance in him at all. Makes a soft sound of agreement, only half aware of what he's agreeing with. 

The sound of Harry's pants unzipping, then the sound of a switchblade being opened, and cold metal pressed against Sasha's throat. 

"You are going to have to be very still," Harry says, "or I'll slit your throat."

"Oh," very soft. "I — can do that —" and his voice shakes but he doesn't move. 

"Legs around my waist, little Sasha, I can't use you like that."

Another soft affirmative sound.

Obeying without moving his throat is — not easy. Sasha makes it work. 

Harry fucks him up against the wall, slowly, roughly, without consideration for his feelings, the knife steady and still against his throat. 

He likes slow. He likes rough.

He's not really capable of keeping himself quiet, right now. 

That's okay. Harry Hook likes noise. 

He angles the knife slightly and a single drop of blood wells from under Sasha's jaw.

He tilts his chin up and whimpers. 

The movement causes a thin line of blood to well from Sasha's neck.

"Uh-uh," Harry chides, "you don't want to do that."

Harry fucks him harder.

He wants so badly to move, to make it better for both of them — he stays very very still and keeps his eyes open and lets the whimpering melt into long drawn-out moans, doesn't try to speak. 

"Maybe when I come my hand will shake. Maybe my hand will shake and you'll die. What do you think of that, little Sasha?"

He's terrified of that. 

He does not move. 

"You're scared of me! How fun."

Harry is fucking him really hard now. It's going to be difficult not to move his throat.

It is — he can feel the cuts welling up, can feel it every time he can't keep himself quite still enough, it's terrifying and it's so good —

Harry grabs Sasha's hair and slams his cock into his ass and bites down hard on his neck and comes.

The knife wobbles slightly but it doesn't cut. 

Oh please Harry please — keeping himself still is so hard but he holds back the shaking, doesn't bother to hold back the sounds — it's, it's so good, he'd remembered being terrified but he'd almost forgotten how good it was.

Harry drops him on the floor and looks at him with contempt. 

"Can you get that curly-haired little gay boy who keeps following you around to clean you up, or do I have to?"