::Cigarette burns::

Mega lay on his back, arms spread and cuffed to the headboard. The cuffs were cold, the steel biting into his wrists with every tug. The blindfold was black, thick, without a gap. He heard Myata moving around the room: bare feet on the floorboards, quiet, unhurried. The click of a lighter.

The smell of tobacco, heavy, sweetish, and under it something metallic. Mega swallowed. His breathing had gone uneven before the first touch.

"Lie still," —Myata said. His voice was even, almost bored.— "Twitch and it gets worse."

The mattress dipped. Fingers — long, cool — traced across Mega's chest, from collarbones down to his stomach, as if Myata were deciding where to put it. Mega arched up to meet him, involuntarily. The tail tucked under his lower back twitched.

"Impatient," —Myata smirked.— "Puppy."

A palm settled on the inside of his thigh, spread his knees wider — calmly, unhurriedly, as if he had the right. He did. Mega bit his lip. The fingers slid higher, came to rest where everything was already wet and hot — and stopped. Didn't move. Just lay there, warm, heavy, while a thumb traced a slow, deliberately slow circle.

Mega whimpered. Tugged at the cuffs.

"Myata…"

"Quiet."

The cigarette burned steadily, its tip bright orange in the half-dark. Myata brought it to the skin — not at once, let him feel the heat from a couple of centimeters away — and touched it. On the ribs, just below the armpit, where it's thin.

Mega cried out, arched into a bow, groaned long and low. A small red mark was left on the skin, neat.

"There we go," Myata said. Ran his thumb over the burn, pressed — Mega hissed and groaned at the same time. "Count."

"One."

The second — on the inside of his thigh. Myata's hand didn't leave him the whole time, lay between his legs, and every time Mega jerked from the pain, he jerked into it too — on his own, involuntarily — and groaned louder for it.

"Two."

The fingers finally moved. Slow, deep, steady — in time with Myata drawing on the cigarette. Mega couldn't pull away or push into it: hands cuffed, legs spread and pinned by his knee. All that was left was to lie there and take it, and he took it, sobbing, biting his lip until it bled.

"Three," —he breathed.— "Three, three, Myata, please…"

The third burn — on his collarbone. The fourth — on his stomach, below the navel, where the skin is taut and jumps with every breath. Myata burned him and never let go of him down there at the same time — and the pain and the pleasure braided together until Mega couldn't tell where one was and the other began. Everything was melting. The sheet beneath him was soaked.

"Myata,"— he broke.— "I'm not… I'm about to…"

"Look at me."

The blindfold slipped off. Light hit his eyes. Mega squeezed them shut, opened — and saw him above: a calm face, green eyes, mocking, waiting.

"Come,"— Myata said.

Mega arched so hard the cuffs clanked. A sound tore out of his throat that he didn't recognize — high, breaking, almost crying. His body shook in waves, one after another, and he couldn't stop, and it went on, went on, until at last he went limp, heavy, wet, mouth open in a quiet rasp.

Silence. Only his breathing.

Myata stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. Unclasped the cuffs — one at a time, carefully — and rubbed his wrists between his palms, slowly, warming them.

"Good," — he said quietly.— "Good boy."

Mega didn't open his eyes. He pressed his forehead into Myata's shoulder and held on.