bolderfell | Prismatica Inbox

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.]

[It's a little discourteous to lie still as long as Kurama does without making any sign whatsoever to acknowledge that Therion might currently be in a similar predicament as he'd been, and would probably care to get off, himself. But that's fine. It's a little discourteous of Kuwabara to go off and get himself turned into stone crystal with no warning, so they're all being a little rude today, apparently.]

Is there a shrine?

[The thought comes out sleepy and half-formed, somewhere in the midst of being petted and winding down from his sexual high.]

On the mountain you'd name after me...

Mm. Could be.

[Anything could be. It's Therion's mountain, colored like the Cliftlands and sculpted not by wind, but his own imagination. His stroking hand comes to rest on Kurama's hip.]

I'd build it with a hidden entrance. No one gets in there unless they know how to look.

[So it's quiet. So thieves too stupid to mind their manners don't even get the chance to try their bad luck.

So if Therion drops by, he can have the magnificent view to himself.]

Edited 2020-09-17 16:16 (UTC)

I could say something terribly filthy about the phrase "hidden entrance", but I'll refrain.

[The fabric of Therion's hoodie is so soft on his overstimulated, buzzing nerves. Appreciatively, he bends and pushes his face right up against it, breathing in deep to let the scent hit against the back of his palate and savor it. He wonders how much Therion likes this particular sweatshirt. How difficult it would be to get it off of him, and then have it conveniently go missing forever. It's a nice thought.]

Do you...not want...?

[For him to return the favor, he means, by his broken-off half-thought.]

[It's a pretty new hoodie, honestly. Maybe let him keep it through a few more rounds of warm attentions; the last while went a long way towards working his, and Kurama's, scents into the fabric.

Therion stirs, then sits up a bit to look at Kurama from above again, eyes still dark and attentive, hair sticking up wildly in the back from all the grabbing. What he finally says is:]

I'm fine. For now.

['I'm not here for me anymore.' That's a lot, he thinks, to say at this juncture, so he doesn't. Not like he's got plans to go anywhere soon, anyway. The night is young.]

Want a beer?

...Yes, I really do.

[Not that he drinks avidly, and certainly not because he likes the taste of it or anything so ridiculous as that. But the social aspect sounds nice. Sitting. Drinking. Talking, probably. He doesn't need the beer, but he'll take it as a pretense to allow for the other things.]

But if you try to move even one inch I'll bite your fingers off.

[It is, truly, a threat that means less and less every time he says it.]

Oh, no. What will I do.

[Rest the side of his head comfortably on Kurama's chest, apparently, locate his shopping bag, hook his foot through one of the handles, and drag it lazily over. When it's in arm's reach, he fishes out first one can, which he places by Kurama's head, and then the second for himself. The container of inarizushi comes to join them, too.]

What's in this, again?

Fried tofu and sweet rice.

[He's back to lounging with his eyes closed by the time Therion's little trick is over and the beer cans start coming out; that he identifies "this" as the inarizushi without looking at it is entirely a testament to the sensitivity of his nose.]

It's a pouch with filling. Satisfying to bite into. Inari is the goddess of rice, and white kitsune are her messengers.

[To-foo! He knows that one. A pause, and then he nips gently at Kurama's chin.]

Still going to bite my fingers off if I go wash them?

[Probably kind of rude to sneak a bite of Kurama's snacks with some, ah, Kurama still on his hands.]

[Probably even ruder, the way Kurama expertly opens just one eye, takes stock of Therion's situation, and proceeds to pull his hand up to his mouth and suck on each finger in its turn. A little gross? Sure. But there's some definite sly amusement to be derived from it, and that's fairly compelling justification for doing just about anything, questionable or not.

Besides. Let the image burn into Therion's memory, his pretty red fox with sleepy warmth in his expression and his soft pink tongue laving over his palm.]

No need to bother.

[He says between licks, like a brat.]

[Well. The image sticks for sure. One eye or not, from this distance, there's no missing the way Therion stares, transfixed, as Kurama takes care of clean-up. Nor, the way they're piled up, can either of them fail to notice the way Therion's tail shivers again, the way he shifts his body on top of Kurama.

He can still wait it out, but man, Kurama's got to make it hard, doesn't he. Therion needs to clear his throat before he speaks again.]

...If that's good enough for you.

[He pops open the container with his other hand and flicks away the lid.]

I want some of your tofu.

Well. You might still have sticky fingers, no matter what I do.

[He says, cracking the obligatory thief jokes even as he finishes sucking on each fingertip and pulls back delicately, looking highly self-satisfied even amid his dreamy satiation.]

Go ahead. Tell me if you like it. I promise I won't snatch a bite out of your mouth, unless you ask me to.

[For half a second, Therion looks faintly surprised by the ease with which Kurama makes that promise. Doesn't stop him for long, though, and he fishes out a tofu pouch before Kurama can change his mind.]

You want half?

[He pops the corner into his mouth and chews, curious.]

Yes, please. You didn't have to go to the trouble of bringing this for me.

[He's watching Therion's face as he tries the treat, content to see how he likes it first before opening his mouth and silently demanding to be fed.]

Mm-hmm.

[Seems he does like it, once past the initial strangeness of it--kind of sweet, but not as sweet as sweets are, and squishier fare than he'd find on most Orsterran streets. His eyebrows rise as he considers the flavor, but yes. It's good.

Then he sees what Kurama's doing and has to cover a laugh with the back of his hand.]

Aren't you a fox? Not a baby bird?

[Still, he obliges, a chuckle still curving the corners of his eyes as he brings the other half of the inarizushi pouch to Kurama's mouth with exaggerated delicacy.]

Edited (Sometimes you just? Forget to respond to a whole thing?) 2020-09-17 23:30 (UTC)

Ah, ah. If I'm a baby bird, consider what that makes you.

[It is with the utmost dignity that he nibbles at the corner of his treat, right up until the point where it's obvious that a rice-stuffed tofu pouch really isn't made for nibbling and he just goes after the whole thing at once.

Suddenly he more closely resembles a squirrel than a baby bird, with the half-pouch making his cheeks bulge, but he'll accept the minor indignity in favor of still not using his hands, because he's being lazy and that is the nature of his indulgence right now.]

Though I must say that if you're out to spoil me, you're succeeding admirably.

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