Sinjir is high, drunk on Ba'al's pleasure. Feels almost as good as another climax himself, the rush of heat inside him, as he takes it, takes all of it. He is marked, he thinks, dizzily; Ba'al has marked him, in some more-than-physical way.

He's still so, so hard when Ba'al touches the device, and he twitches up, gasping sharp. He's nonverbal, stretched out so far he could snap, every muscle in his body wrung out halfway to exhaustion. He's trembling; he half-curls, whimpering as Ba'al draws back the rod, sinks it back in, draws it out. It glides free wet, leaving a long string of semen that breaks, dripping back onto Sinjir's cock, his belly. He shudders, settling back down, breathing sharp.

"I need," he tries, and he shifts up, reaching out to Ba'al. Hooks his fingers around Ba'al's neck and kisses him, shaky but slow and wet and deep. "I need," he breathes, "I don't know," uncertain, cutting himself off with another desperate, aching kiss. If he was trying, he could resist torture forever, but here, he's let himself be broken. He shouldn't have, but he did.