bolderfell | Prismatica Inbox

At your pleasure, huh.

[Silver and gold, or ruby and emerald. Nothing Kurama is lacks luster, and without pause, Therion's hand is up in his bangs again, fingers sliding again through red locks.]

Don't know about that. I'm the one who gets to get my hands all over you, Mr. I'm-So-Gorgeous, There's-a-Mountain-Named-After-Me. Think the pleasure's mine by default.

Edited 2020-09-15 12:47 (UTC)

And I warned you early on what would happen to those pretty hands should I find myself displeased with their clever work, didn't I.

[It's not from a lack of pleasure that he decides to sit up just then, though; quite the contrary, in fact. Once he's upright again, he turns until he's facing Therion head-on, knees bumping together, his face pushed into his personal space until he's just inches away from a kiss and the sliver of space left between them quickly fills with the heat from each breath.]

...It wasn't named for me because of my looks, you know.

[That close, it's natural to exhale more softly, to hold his breath like it's the moment before pocketing a prize, not after--to step lightly. It's natural, and still, he reaches up instead, cradles the side of Kurama's face in his palm, insistently there.]

Like anything else would make it less of a pleasure.

[Like his exploits, like his cunning, like his superiority make him less beautiful. Even those things Kurama's been careful to avoid mentioning, that Therion's only guessed at by the spaces they leave in their conversation--

Well, the Cliftlands aren't any less breathtaking for all they nearly killed him.]

Mean to tell me a story, or...

[He leans in, bumps their lips together, and then presses up and into the kiss.

He's human. If he can make things easier, why shouldn't he?]

Edited 2020-09-15 14:09 (UTC)

[It's the first time they've kissed since Therion arrived. Maybe that's a new record for personal restraint; maybe it's early indicia that this transactional relationship of theirs is turning out less and less about business with each new day that passes.

It doesn't matter. The moonlacing feels good, as it always does, and kissing is more potent a way of generating it than petting fingers. Maybe that's why one kiss so quickly turns into two, three, four. Maybe that's why he keeps getting closer and closer still, until he'd have to climb straight into Therion's lap to continue the trajectory any further.]

I scared some humans.

[He says it breathlessly, half from the kisses and half from suppressed mirth.]

There's more to it than that, but that's the gist of it.

Edited (phrasing...) 2020-09-15 14:38 (UTC)

[Kurama breaking to speak means Therion gets a chance to chuckle, tail curling pleasurably around himself.]

Look at that. Still enjoyable. I get to do this-- [And he shoves both his hands up Kurama's shirt, skimming greedily over as much of his skin as he can reach.] --with someone who scared people so much, they named a mountain after him.

[Silly for Kurama to be the one crawling into laps when he's already too damn tall. Using his grip on Kurama for leverage, Therion sits up on his knees and scoots right into him, drawing them together like jigsaw pieces.]

I think it went — more of, terror, legend, legend, even more exaggerated legend, mountain. Something like that. I made trouble —

[It's hard to say whether he's deliberately offering up fragments and half-sentences because he's actually getting distracted by what Therion is doing, or if he's playing it up for dramatic effect. Either way, does it really matter? The outcome is the same — breathy words and syncopated syllables.]

— one thing led to another —

[Not unlike the way his arm is wrapping around Therion's waist, encouraging him, keeping him close.]

— and it all rather rolled into one, a mountain where demons reside. Who keeps residence there has changed over time, but the name and associations haven't.

[This time, he doesn't bother warning Kurama to mind the knives strapped on between his sash and the jeans living modernly has forced on him, hard shapes hidden under his pillowy hoodie. He just drags his nails back up Kurama's back and nips at him in the breaks between thoughts: neck, jawline, collarbone, corner of his mouth.]

Hmm. Sounds fun.

[Does he mean visiting a mountain storied to house demons, or visiting a mountain where demons actually live? He draws back slightly, smirking.]

And whom should I expect to see there while I wait for you to notice me?

Whom will you see? Am I rubbing off on you?

[It shouldn't be so easy. This shouldn't be so easy, to just settle into this familiar rhythm and let himself be touched, to unwind beneath Therion's nails and lips and let go of everything else for a little while.

It shouldn't be so easy, to let the tension and frustration built up for the sake of one human he's deeply attached to be coaxed away by the soft attention of another one.]

You shall see naught but a few shrines. No demons live on the mountains in the human world anymore; most of us aren't permitted to cross over into it to begin with.

Then I won't stock up extra on knives. Should be fine with the ones I have.

[As efficiently as he pulled Kurama's braid together the first time, Therion pulls him out of his shirt. Less teasing means more mouth and hands on muscle, on shoulder, on a spot below his ear now easily accessed, with his hair drawn out of the way. He works his knuckles deep into the muscle of Kurama's lower back, presses up and down to unlock the tension.

And then he bites Kurama's ear, because he's not that soft a human thing. And it's Cordis. A low chuckle in his voice, he murmurs:]

Shrines are nice. Quiet. I'll wait for you at one of those.

[At a different time, under different circumstances, he might well have been more ruthlessly playful in seeking to distract Therion from his aims, tempting and teasing right back in an attempt to cause his focus to sweetly derail. But there's something very compelling about his enthusiasm right now. It feels good to be wanted, clutched and ravished and explored the way Therion is contending with him now.

So for the most part, he simply lets it. He leans back to open himself up more, arches into each touch as it's given. He hisses satisfaction at the dull throb of his knotted muscle easing beneath the pressure of Therion's knuckles, and frees a hand somehow to run through his hair and hold him by the back of the head. His shirt is gone and he's yet to try to return the favor, and he doesn't care. He doesn't care, he just wants this, just wants to focus on nothing and breathe in the familiar scents of Therion for a little while.]

It's bad luck to steal from them, naughty thief.

[He pulls lightly on Therion's hair, tugging only enough to be stubborn.]

Ah — do more of that.

[More of what, exactly? Everything. The biting, the massage, the laughter. Everything.]

Hey. [Breathing out against the pull on his hair, he bites down a bit harder at the top of Kurama's shoulder, then looks up, temporarily piqued.] I know that. Did I say I'd steal anything?

[Thieves are as subject to Fortune's whims as anyone else, if not more. Ya boy knows his superstitions and he doesn't mess around.

Anyway. Kurama wants more, he gets more. That's why Therion's here; he nearly as much as said so. So even as he stretches his own neck for more of that good, delicious grip on his hair, even as the pleasure of it rumbles in the base of his throat, he swipes a raspy tongue over the skin of Kurama's collarbone and pushes.]

Down already.

Well, I had to come up with something to chastise you about.

[A flash of a cunning grin flickers across his lips, and he absorbs the push without moving for just a second before obligingly lowering himself down, as if to be just enough of a brat as to make it clear he's an accomplice to it, as opposed to being bent beneath Therion's will.

Not that he'd particularly mind that, the more he thinks about it. But it's worth it to be a little difficult anyway.

It's a shame his hair is still braided; it doesn't spill nearly as prettily around his head when it's bound up, even as he winds up flat on his back with his green eyes still fixed on Therion.]

What are you planning, I wonder.

[Too bad, but at least the braid shouldn't be as uncomfortable to lie on as a ponytail. With a little scoff, Therion shifts his weight until he's straddling Kurama more properly.]

'Planning,' he says.

[Starting with his palms light on Kurama's stomach, he runs his hands slowly up his body, eyes fixed on the contrast: his darker-toned fingers, Kurama's unreasonably lovely skin. When he reaches his collarbone again, he smooths his fingertips out from the middle, lets his thumbs draw circles in the center of his chest.]

Hands. Pants. Objections?

Scheming, I should've said.

[He parts his lips slightly, tonguing at the pad of the lower to wet it, and if Therion's fingers were a bit closer to his mouth he might offer his familiar habit of drawing one of them past his lips, but as it is there's merely a suggestion of seduction in the fleeting gesture.]

No objections.

[He closes his eyes again, basking.]

I'll let you toy with me, even, if someday you agree to return the favor.

Huh. Didn't know you needed permission for that.

[Not when, to Therion, it seems Kurama toys with him plenty already. The compliments, the gifts, the indulgences when they agreed on the rules of transaction so long ago--how else should he think of it? He accepts it because Kurama keeps doing it, even though Therion told him he didn't need to go out of his way to romance him, but he already said it: he's only human. He's not immune to charm, let alone to genuine consideration.

Without elaborating, he slides his hands just far enough that the circles he rubs with his thumbs skate around Kurama's nipples, then leans down to Kurama's ear again, to the line of his jaw temptingly laid bare.]

Sure. Fair's fair.

[He can work his way down to pants eventually, when there's so much already open to play with.]

For the things I want to do to you? Oh, yes, I very much need permission...

[Not that he's spending much time thinking about what he wants to do to Therion when he's already pleasantly wrapped up in what's being done to him in return. He gasps a little when thumbs bump up against the sensitive places on his chest, arching prettily into the touch in a way that's purely for himself, and not for show.]

Therion.

[It's almost automatic, the way he turns his head and nuzzles again his jaw, mouthing at the skin, bent on showing his appreciation with lips alone.]

[His whole life, he's given so few people his name. Nobody calls it like that, need and lightning prickling low down his spine, making his tail quaver like leaves before a storm. His breath comes out hot on Kurama's neck, and then he meets the movements of his mouth with his own, abandoning his designs for the moment to kissing, to wet heat and the smell of flushed skin so close, no telling who's who. He drops his weight to one elbow, arm bent and tucked under Kurama's, so one hand's still free to travel up and down his side, holding on here, brushing there, exploratory and wanting by turns.]

You're...

[Cherry-hot in his hands and beautiful. The seductive gleam on the live edge of a blade. A half-noise escapes Therion, almost reluctant but uncompromising, as he finally draws down, bringing mouth and tongue and flat teeth to his chest and skimming his hand lower, over the front of his pants.]

I'd name a mountain after you. If there was one that came close to what you are.

You have a terrible habit of leaving implications unclarified.

[Writhing beneath Therion's fingers and teeth is delightfully uncomplicated. It's a pleasant respite to simply react, arching and gasping and moving just enough to encourage; as Therion's mouth drops lower, he digs his fingers into his hair again, holding him by the back of the head with a grip that makes it apparent he's more holding on for dear life than he is trying to inhibit him in any way.]

Are there none in the Cliftlands that would suit?

[Not that he's going to give a damn about geography in about thirty seconds, assuming Therion's hand continues its current progress, but still. That's thirty seconds away, yet.]

[And he'll continue not to clarify those implications, thank you very much. Therion has much more important things to attend to, like lifting his head, catching his breath a moment, regarding Kurama, dark-eyed and hungry, from just over his chest.]

Not a one.

[He pops Kurama's button free with a deft twist of fingers between them and plunges in without once pulling his intent gaze from Kurama's face.]

[There's no hiding the sudden thrill of pleasure that flickers through his expression in the moment that Therion's fingers find him; his eyes widen a fraction before softening again with molten heat, and his lips part slightly as all of a sudden drawing air through his mouth becomes necessary — each breath halfway between a pant and a sigh.]

Slowly.

[For once, it's not a tease or a demand. It's just a request, unguarded, as he keeps his gaze locked on Therion's and gives a gradual roll of his hips.

Therion is beautiful when he's greedy, nimble, deft. He's delightful when he's quick and rough. But he wants something different this time, something dreamy and drawn, something built up at length and stoked instead of a white-hot flashburn.]

...All right.

[He doesn't look away. He can't look away. Mouth slightly open himself, ears pointed forward, Therion drinks in Kurama's expression the way night drinks in the moon and adjusts his approach accordingly. Slow doesn't mean tentative, careful doesn't mean cautious--he takes his time to really draw out every point of contact between his hand and Kurama, like he's something to memorize, at leisure, by touch.

His eyes don't gentle a bit, fascinated by and fastened on Kurama. Therion only lets the sight of him go to lower himself once more to the hollow of his throat, to lick a wide stripe with his rough cat tongue up from the base of his neck, and to purr softly into his skin.]

[Yes. Oh, yes, there it is, this is what he'd wanted. Not that he would've rejected a little dalliance with Therion in any other form, mind, but there's a serene satisfaction in inviting Therion to take him apart stroke by stroke, like fraying threads giving way one by one.

He shifts his hand to the back of Therion's neck, letting him lick and lavish as he sees fit, but always guiding his gaze back up to his face in the spaces between. He's quieter than usual, not in the way he gasps and hisses but in the way he doesn't try to inject his own teasing into the liaison; there's little doubt right now that he's in Therion's hands, and more significantly, that he's willingly put himself there.

It's easy to simply be reactive. He closes his eyes when Therion's hand does something particularly clever and for a moment, his pleasure spikes; he lets soft sounds spill from his lips when he nibbles and bites, encouraging more to follow. He catches his own lip behind his teeth when he feels a familiar coil in the pit of his stomach starting to tighten in on itself. He offers words, here and there — sometimes Therion's name, sometimes approval, sometimes simply a breathy more.

Therion likes shrines, he'd said. They're quiet. And it's hard not to feel, as the heat in him slowly rises, that right now, Therion may well be worshiping at one.]

[Watching Kurama, Therion's not thinking about shrines. He's thinking about--if thinking's even the right word for an image so quiet, so background to his riveted appreciation of the man moving beneath him--he's reminded, again, of the Cliftlands, of blush rock and the shadows they create for him, of the brilliance of mined stone, of the winds of the canyons skirling above all paltry human noise.

(Fitting, maybe, for these two, that those lands' notable place of worship is that of Aeber: the Shrine of the Prince of Thieves.)

In the relative quiet, in this time carved free of conversation, rather than getting into his own head Therion comes to more fully inhabit his body, aware of and reveling in the sweat on his skin, bent to the sweet, slow, inexorable work of his hands. For once, the impermanent blessing of his tail is a gift. It helps him balance as he frees his other arm from supporting his weight and brings his hand down to join the first, holding, cupping, towing Kurama's pleasure out like spinning thread--like stroking and pulling hair into a braid.]

Kurama.

[He murmurs it in their private quiet, a name suited for mountains. For prayer.]

[More and more now, he's closing his eyes on reflex, caught up in sensation and too consumed with it to remember to keep them open. When he does, however, his green gaze always returns back to Therion's face, holding steady on their locked eyes until the next wave drags him back under again. Clever hands, Therion has. They're nimble and deft and feel so good.

He's done well enough, lying still and writhing beneath Therion as his pleasure mounts; when it finally breaks, he moves with the shock of it, surging up to wrap his arms around Therion's neck and hold on for dear life. His face buries in Therion's neck in the same moment that he spills over his hand, and the soft cry that escapes him, muffled by heat and skin, comes out just a touch more broken than the ones that have all preceded it.

In the seconds that follow, he stays clinging, huddled in the refuge of sensation, unwilling to leave it for just a little longer yet.]

[That's fine by Therion right now. He has to put a hand down to support them both, the other still holding soft pressure in just the right way, before he lowers both of them down by degrees. The supporting arm ends up snaking its way around Kurama's back so Therion can snuggle in, too, brushing a line of kisses along his temple and cheek before contenting himself to rest as they are in a heap. His hoodie's thick and soft between his body and Kurama's. His tail rolls out long and relaxes.

Leaving chatter by the wayside, Therion breathes out into Kurama's hair and strokes his side.

Words get in the way so often. All Kurama had to do to ask for anything was stand in front of him like he did and wait to be pulled down.]

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