Love Hurts

Rating: NC-17

Fandom: EDM

Ships: Sonny/Reader

Warnings: degradation fetish, pain play

A sick crackle fills the air as leather meets skin, angry red welts left in its wake, dotting the pale expanse of Sonny’s naked body. The boy is shaking under your discipline, almost imperceptible tremors wracking his form. You reel in your belt and hit him again, aiming for his thighs, and this time he jolts forward, a guttural groan ripped from his body with the force of your strike. 

He looks good like this, on his hands and knees for you, tears welling in his eyes as you remind him whose bitch he is. He looks even prettier when you can beat him up into full-on waterworks, and by the look on his face, today might be your lucky day. You hit him again, and when that doesn’t break the dam, you know exactly what will. You step forward and make your way toward his front. He looks up at you with those wide, wet eyes, and you try not to get lost in the mesmerizing depth of their darkness, instead opting to grip a handful of his hair, tugging him upward. 

“Get the fuck up,” you bark.

He isn’t given much choice, though, anywho; not that he would resist you. You know as well as he does that he loves this, loves the way you keep him humble and remind him that he’s nothing . Sure, to everyone else he’s a world-famous DJ, Grammy winner, changed the face of electronic music; to you, he’s a sweet, fuckable punching bag. Just a little toy for you to play with until it’s well and truly broken. And the best part is how he loves the way you break him. 

You drag him across the room and toward your full-length mirror, forcing him to meet his own nude reflection, all the beautiful imperfections he hates. You could stare into it forever, admiring his body and all the raised marks you’ve left over it. He’s still nursing a few bruises from your last session, little lilac clouds smudged across his stomach and wrists. The memory of inflicting them is still fresh in your mind, how raw the too-tight handcuffs left his skin. You’d have him cuffed right now if he hadn’t asked you to leave them in the drawer; still, you can’t resist grabbing his wrist to press into the bruise, nor can you resist the way you relish in his pained moan. You grin devilishly and run your hands up to his shoulders. 

“Tell me what you see, Sonny.” 

“I see… a pain slut.” He meets your eyes in the mirror, as if for confirmation, even as he blinks out a tear. It’s satisfying to see him crack open for you, again and again, no matter how familiar the sight.

“ My pain slut,” you correct, reaching around him to slap his face; he takes it without protest, hiccuping up a sob as more tears fall. “My pathetic, worthless, broken toy.”