I might make this into a series using Greek mythology almost exclusively as the titles.
The lounger creaked as Kaname moved on it, head resting on a musty pillow while he stared up at the ceiling panels. About seventy years worth of spiders' webs had almost completely covered it, the dark wood smudged with shadows of long-dead flies and arachnids. Every time he was just bitter and sober enough to want to hide, he'd come here, up the stairs and passing people who wouldn't ask questions; having a staff key could be useful.
Most of the reasons he'd come up for were apparent: the mirror shards lodged in the broken chair were from the time the Senate rejected one of his proposals; the gash on the westerly wall was from the time Zero had embraced Yuki. Most of what he did or what happened to him was reflected somewhere else in his universe. Very little was genuinely kept inside of him. But the tenseness in his shoulders and the heat pouring from his head gave view to one of the most recluse times in his life: a time about which he never liked to speak, and a time about which no one ever pressed him for information.
He lay on the divan, chest going up and down slowly, the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling swinging lightly, and then stopping dead. There was a weight in the room, and he tried to keep still, but the pressure crushed his arms until he thought his bones would snap. He looked at the window, then, having the curtains draw, his arm came over his eyes and he tried to sleep. The coming mood was already so close, he knew he wouldn't be able to resist or ignore it, but who could blame him in his solitude for trying? Already, memories from the mansion consumed him. Recollections of Takuma running through the corridors to greet guests rushed through him; the creaking of the old loungers in the library replaced that of the rodents in the walls. He remembered vividly the winter, the locked doors a depressing reminder of the sister he barely saw, and the bright, blonde replacement beside him struggling to keep up his moods. No time posed more difficult in reviving him than those cold days, Ichiou resting in his office because the roads had been snowed in…
Ichiou would hover behind him whenever he wanted something, after a few drinks maybe sliding those hands along his pure shoulders, or playing with the back of an ascot or tie.
Kaname clawed disgustedly at his arms, face calm but eyes permeating the ceiling with an intense hatred.
The first time it had occurred came shortly after he had arrived, and the old bastard had tried to establish some ludicrously austere rules. When the pureblood disobeyed these conventions, he was harshly punished, sometimes locked in his room for indefinite periods of time. On one instance, he attempted to escape to see Yuki after he'd heard she'd been abducted. He'd been stopped at the gates, the old lord very quickly on his tail. Ichiou slapped him in front of the guards, then took his hand and led him back to the infamous study, a place which was rumoured to have been the signing spot of over one thousand executions. All for the better that a monster's subjects fear him, Kaname figured.
After a clipped try at reprimanding the boy, whose reactions to the punishment were customarily stoic and perhaps even bored, the blonde had taken him by the shoulders, bringing him to eye level and then shaking him vigorously.
"You go too far for your position!" The man said hoarsely, to which Kaname essentially responded, Ditto. After this brief confrontation, he had been thrust against the wall, and then thrown to the floor, ribs cracking and then healing when he hit the carpet. His stomach felt horrible, and he clutched it as the protruding bones sank back into his chest, the two poking at his intestines and ripping through them as they reformed. Ichiou grabbed his head and drove it against the floor multiple times, so that he nearly blacked out. In the seconds before the young boy could heal, the man jumped up and retrieved a long, vicious-looking scorpion whip. The metal hooks dangled from the leather straps fearsomely, clinking together with an unsettling and surreal lucidity. He whipped his ward several times, the weakening poisons on the tips sinking into the boy's skin as he cried out. After fifteen repetitions, Ichiou laid the whip upon his desk, the scent of blood everywhere. He glared at Kaname as the boy trembled and weakly reached for the divan, his tunic shredded and quivering back laminated with a thick layer of blood. His elder kicked him onto his back, where he forced himself to be silent, listening to what the man asked,
"Are you going to behave now?" The beast asked with a crude smile, to which Kaname essentially responded, Ditto, although he was hard-up trying to find his voice. The defiance and pride in his eyes proved too much for his elder, and the man kicked him over again, yanking down his britches.
He shivered in the attic, remembering the feel of those manicured hands on his thighs, sometimes so sadistic and painful they made him nauseous and faint, yet other times so gentle he just shut his eyes and tried to focus on his goals.
The nails grated against his skin, his quivering legs inching into himself only to be forced apart again. He had to remind himself constantly that Ichiou didn't necessarily come to him for a fight, rather, because he wanted the pureblood to be as degraded as possible. But whatever mood he was in, there was always bound to be some sort of pain, his adult form slowly or quickly folding around Kaname's steady (after a few go's) limpness, prying him open and feeling what was inside. Only rarely came the fingers, a heaven-sent win sprung from the gamble of actually approaching the man… he leaned over the side of the divan and heaved, nearly vomiting, thinking about how Ichiou would rise from his chair with that horrible smirk, feeding off the provocative visual that was that superior figure. Sometimes he bent wantonly over the guest chair, flanks raised in the air, gyrating smoothly. The man would come behind him, and he would close his eyes in fright and self-hatred, head going down as his claws clenched the chair uneasily. Hands would run over his little bottom, smoothing out creases when they weren't spanking him or hustling to remove fabric. The sight of the man's pale cock terrified him; a large white worm snaking out of grey slacks, sneaking through his young cheeks and slowly coming inside of him.
There, in the attic, on all fours to the side of the lounger, Kaname felt the man take position behind him, and the looming pressure of Ichiou's cock playing between his buttocks before a determined, but superficial thrust in. How he cried out.
Those shallow movements lasted long moments, coming maybe three times before the blonde struck him deeper, opening him up and breaking into a strange, uncharacteristic sweat as he went faster and faster, Kaname's eyes closing as he felt the man inside of him; stretching him; tearing him in two. There, prone on the floor of the attic, he panted, sick to his stomach, legs wide from the phantom sensations, welcoming invisible thrusts, body rocking so his flaccid cock flapped against the front of his boxers. His skin was clammy and pale, and the pain in his gut grew until he felt it would burn through the skin, feeling those thrusts come harder and feral. He needed some sort of medicine to subside this. To cut off the head of this fear and vulnerability, and give him the strength to at last reach his goals and annihilate everything that would get in his way.
No dream in the world could have saved him from what he felt just then. Because he needed something tangible. He needed something that would suck out the scorched flesh inside of him, or at least kill the fires that were making it. He could never ask for help with this. He knew he could never let anyone know. So imagine the surprise and fear on his face when the stairway creaked and the door opened wide so that whoever was there could see him, on his knees, groaning on the floor as his hips went through the same movements as they had when he was only a boy.
Of course, it had to be Kiriyu.