bolderfell | Prismatica Inbox

All right.

[He frees his hand from Kurama's to stroke it down the side of his neck--to free Kurama, too, to do as he will two-handed. On his own part, Therion draws himself up and in for kisses, soft and light, one more act he associates mainly with Kurama. With all the strange good that's come out of their arrangement.

There's no moon out. Neither Cordis nor Iris holds any sway over them today. The request came from Kurama alone; the only influence that can push Therion to say all right is his own trust in him. The reassurances Kurama voices remind him of that, like ripples thrown into a still, still pond. The touching, the closeness, the mingling of their breath reminds him why. Why he trusts. Why that seedling trust was able to take root at all.

In all the time he's known Kurama, Kurama's been careful with him, even before he'd given him any reason to care. Not only has he offered his own vulnerability when neither of them like to give themselves away, but he's protected Therion's. Though it's only been months, he's had opportunities to take things Therion didn't want to give.

But Kurama hasn't once yet betrayed him. It's just that. And that's everything.

The fluttering in Therion's belly remains, his heartbeat keeps up its nervous pace, but as he presses kisses to Kurama's mouth and face, as he slides his arm around to hold him properly, as the scent of his hair overcomes the scent of wood shavings in the room, the defensive tightness of his neck and shoulders melts gradually away.]

Mmmn. That box you picked up earlier...

[He lets himself go pliant when Therion's arm curls around him, like he's melting into the touch and allowing himself to be supported. This isn't really about him, and so maybe he shouldn't, but — it feels right, and easy, and all things considered he's trying hard not to think too hard about all this as it unfolds.

It's nice to be kissed. Nice to be held. Nice to listen to the sound of Therion's jackrabbit heart and taste his scent on his palate.]

What was it for?

[Faintly surprised--he'd forgotten about it, and forgotten his own flash of anxiety about having turned it on--Therion huffs a laugh against Kurama's skin. His own warms around the face.]

So no one can hear us.

[He slides his nose down to nuzzle into the crook of Kurama's neck.]

Four people currently live here, including me. Fifth's got a room she could use if she wanted. They're all already nosy enough.

Oh, well then.

[He gets his hands up between them, as best he can, digging his fingers into Therion's shoulders while his head lists to the side to make room for him. Almost experimentally, he lets out a soft moan, and hums afterward like he's found the sound of it to his own liking.]

I won't try nearly so hard to be quiet.

Ah--

[He inhales it more than says it as Kurama's fingers find their purchase, bites Kurama's shoulder like an automatic retort. When he looks up, it's to lick his lips.]

Should've known you'd like that, you damn show-off.

Half the fun is seeing the result of your efforts. Or hearing...mmm.

[His back arches, eyes falling closed as he hisses approval at the sting of the bite.]

It's not so bad, is it...?

No. You know me, though. I'm usually quiet.

[And for the first time in a while, being so known doesn't fill him with dread. Since he's there anyway, he trails a series of small nips down the column of Kurama's throat.]

Huh. I wonder, does that make me more of a challenge for you?

[That's why he thieves, he relishes the challenge of it even more than the results. Is that in play here, too, with them?]

Tonight isn't about winning. But other times we've done this? Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

[He murmurs his wordless approval right along with the caress of Therion's teeth, holding him more tightly even as he lets the tension pour out of his own muscles in return.]

And you? Do you like knowing that you've got me all to yourself, where no one can hear?

...For a bit of a different reason.

[While he gathers his words, he licks at the base of Kurama's throat and straightens, loosening his hand from Kurama's hair to trace the line of his jaw with the backs of his fingers instead.]

I like it because whatever I hear, if I'm the only one that hears it... will be safe.

You want to keep my secrets.

[What a tantalizing offer that is. He knows all too well how cathartic it can be to simply let such things spill from his lips, and even moreso when they come tumbling out amid passion. But there's more to it than that, for Therion, and if he were thinking more clearly, he might be tempted to press after it. As it is, he's awfully content with the way things are going, and not feeling any particular pressure to do anything about it.]

And worship me, I think. To offer up your devotion at a shrine only you know about...

[Worship's a strong word, Therion opens his mouth to tell Kurama, but he did say that. The reality rushes in, too, as he thinks about it. What else is he doing tonight, agreeing to Kurama's proposal in this private space he's staked out?

As aware as he is that Kurama's powers and skills, the long, long skein of the life he's lived, far outstrip his own, Therion doesn't consider him a god or anything. If anything, he's dangerously close to considering him a--peer, of sorts. Someone to whom he can say something and expect to be understood, thanks to both similar experiences and those they've chosen to share. They haven't gone out to work together, only have this arrangement of theirs as a matter of mutual business, but with Kurama, Therion's fallen back on other patterns he remembers. Patterns of assurance offered and taken. Patterns of trust.

Kurama is beautiful. Skilled. He demands attention, admiration, attraction, with his flamecatcher hair and eyes that flash between emerald and precious gold. He asks for faith like a god would.

But gods aren't the only ones that seek that of a man.

Hand still curled at the side of Kurama's face, Therion's gaze flickers down, then back up, softer and shyer without shrinking away.]

Remind me to show you something. After we're done here tonight, I mean. Another thing in that drawer.

[He slides his knuckles up the line of Kurama's jaw again, then opens his hand around a hank of his hair, draw it to his nose and lips.]

You're not wrong, I guess.

You're not in a hurry to be done with it, are you?

[Truthfully, he's not overly concerned about that; it's more a question of Therion's phrasing than anything else. But still, it pays to be certain.

Normally, he reflects, it wouldn't bother him, something so minor as phrasing. But they're both raw tonight, both vulnerable in their respective ways, and he wants — needs — to be sure.

Tonight isn't just an exchange of services, not to him. It would help to know if he's the only one who feels that way.]

The last thing I want is to be deified. Don't put me on a pedestal or an altar, not tonight.

It's not that. I don't do that. It's one of my failings.

[If he hadn't presumed all those years to think of Darius as a comrade, a partner, a brother--if he'd been what Darius wanted all along, a debased, obedient creature like his replacement, Gareth, with no pretensions to partnership--the Cliftlands wouldn't have torn their gnarled souvenir out of his back. He'd never have known what it was to lie broken at the foot of the ravine, abjectly alone.]

It's just something I've wanted to show you, and I... wouldn't want to forget.

[Flower petals and butterflies. If he's distracted now, how much more so once they actually begin? How much more so after? Even in the quiet guaranteed by the privacy box, Therion lowers his voice.]

You know what you're asking of me. [A pause, then quieter:] You should know I wouldn't say yes just to please you.

All right. I won't let you forget.

[He's so quiet. Every decrease in volume feels like another wall crumbling to the ground, a passageway narrowing until it finally reaches the small cramped spot where a hiding thief huddles. He reaches to catch Therion's hand, bringing it back to his cheek, and when he does he holds it there, covering over it with his own.]

I do, you know. Want to please you.

[His other hand moves to the back of Therion's neck, playing with the hair at his nape.]

I don't care about the chroma.

[He ends the sentence there, without clarifying what he does care about. Leave it to Therion, to finish the thought in whatever fashion he deems fit.]

[He shuts his eyes, breathes out, loosens and leans into Kurama like a lock undone beneath his fingers. He kisses Kurama without looking, brushes his thumb over his cheek, murmurs against his mouth.]

Easy to figure that one out. You keep spending it.

[Therion's habit is to leave implications unsaid. Far be it from him to expose Kurama's, far be it from him to want to, except in answer.]

Think I'm ready now, if you are.

[It hasn't been about the Chroma in a while. He has what he needs.]

All right. Let me take care of it.

[And he does take care of it, as tender as he is methodical; stroking Therion's body like a coveted prize, his fingers to first to his shirt and then to his waistband, catching the fabric of his clothes and divesting him of it piece by piece. There's never a time when he allows contact to break completely; even when both his hands are occupied, he makes sure a hip or a knee stays touching. If Therion wants to keep his eyes closed the entire time, then he can certainly do that, and never once will he be left not knowing precisely where Kurama is.

It's only after he's done that he finds the cotton nightshirt he'd brought and brings it over Therion's head, bidding him to raise his arms and slip it on, and caresses him the whole way as he smooths the hem down into place.]

[Therion does open his eyes once, and that's to take a dagger--the dagger, sheathed in leather patterned like a tree--from its place at his hip and set it carefully down on the bedside table. After that, they stay open, because watching Kurama is its own pleasure.

Kurama doesn't need his help for this, so he keeps his hands out of the way until he doesn't, until one of them finds its usual place in Kurama's hair, fiddling with the ends in a way he's never seen fit to toy with anyone else. It's a shame when he has to stop and slide his arms through the sleeves of the nightshirt.]

Never considered myself pretty, you know. Not saying that to be contrary. Just struck me as odd that's what you settled on for me.

Young foxes are often taught — or at the very least, encouraged — to think of their partners as playthings. Pleasant, enjoyable, even something to be possessive over. But not...something one would have a relationship with. An implicit boundary line to keep things impermanent.

[He leans forward, pressing his lips against Therion's abdomen a little above his navel, just around the base of his ribs, before drawing back and bringing the shirt down over it.]

By now it's just stuck. Though I suppose there's still some truth to it. You could disappear anytime you wanted.

[There's no sense in sugarcoating that piece; it's a truth they both know. But it's also not an accusation; he says it softly, and as tender as the brush of his fingers on warm skin.]

And you are still a treasure I've put my fingerprints on. That won't change, no matter where you are.

[Kurama bends, and Therion's hand follows him down, sinking into his hair and cradling the back of his head. He kisses Therion, he calls him a treasure, and Therion shivers. His fingers tighten slightly, as if to anchor himself here with Kurama.]

...I'll disappear someday. That's just the nature of things like me.

[Short-lived things. Thieves, humans, travelers. Poor children without anyone to love them enough, tether them tightly enough to life. Twenty-two already is, could be, a whole lifetime, and Kurama will outlive mountains.]

But if I wanted to, I wouldn't have shown you here.

[Is it enough--it is anything--to know he doesn't want to? He strokes Kurama's hair, just looking at him.]

You give me so much to remember you by. Don't know how you think I'd ever forget.

It's not about being remembered. I've had centuries to ensure that part of my ugly legacy.

[He sinks down slowly, settling between Therion's knees with his hand still resting in his hair, watching him through eyes that are — and have stayed — rich green with no trace of gold.]

Then I met someone who changed me, without even meaning to. Someone who took the world I thought I understood and turned it on its head, and made me realize just how much I had been missing all along.

[He lowers his chin, just slightly; it's a movement that makes his bangs fall across his eyes. It's not enough to obscure them, but enough to add a level of security, like a fox settling back into a walled den.]

I wonder if I'll matter like that, someday. I wouldn't mind it if, in the end, my memory mattered to you.

[The words get stuck in Therion's throat, looking at him like that, listening to confessions like these. Kurama's human detective, his own Cordelia and Heathcote--he gets it. He knows those unexpected, world-upending moments that come on a rooftop or at the city gates, before a flash of sword or beneath a crumbling church--the dramatic conversations that mark off chapters of their lives like illuminations in an unfinished manuscript.

He wants to tell Kurama what he's done already matters, that the marks he's really made on him aren't so easily thwarted by a nightshirt, but talk is cheap. What more can he do or say to convince him of that than this: letting Kurama take away the use of his hands, his legs, his freedom of movement, and trusting that I want to runs parallel to what's been left, more meaningfully, more believably, unspoken. I care about you.]

I'm here now.

[It's such a small thing to say when what he means is so much larger. Dissatisfied, he swallows and searches Kurama's face, his shaded eyes, for some scrap of his gift with words so that he can get across how important he's been.

Without a dramatic, moonlit skyline, without some rush against death--by only confirming, over and over in inventive and unforeseeable ways, that trust is possible, good, necessary, even for people like them--he's broadened Therion's world. Given him a view from the top, wide and breathtaking, high above where he might have climbed alone.

Therion releases the thick of Kurama's hair, brushes his fingers lightly over the top of his head, lingers there a moment, and then smooths his hand down over his bangs--stroking without moving his hair aside.]

I wouldn't be, if... if you took me back to the world I understood.

[Words don't come easily after a confession like that. Even someone as eloquent and silver-tongued as he is would be hard-pressed to come up with something that didn't cheapen the weight of the emotion already present between them, and it's the benefit of his years upon years of experience that he knows better than to even try. He won't have the last word; he doesn't need it. But now Therion is waiting for him to act, and so he leans into the petting a minute before nodding and reclaiming the initiative.

He gets to his feet, then tugs Therion up with him; he'll need to be standing in order to get the knotwork set in place, and to have full range of movement to wrap it around and around him. If he were doing this with normal ropes, he'd need both his hands with their clever fingers to wrap and tie and set knots in place.

As it is, he's doing it with vines, and so practically speaking he doesn't need any hands at all — but for Therion's benefit he still uses one, plucking a seed from his hair and pressing it against his wrist before pushing energy into it to cause it to sprout.

The vine coils, but doesn't tighten, not at first. Letting it go is more like watching macrame take shape than being bound; it slips and snakes and splits off into different sections, slithering in and out through loops and rings made of its own length. And as it goes, Kurama steps to the side and turns Therion to angle toward the mirror, letting him watch himself as, over the smooth white cotton of his shirt, green vines twist and wrap into a pattern that all but resembles artwork.

It's only once the form of it has been crafted into place that the vines begin to tighten like a boa constrictor, tugging the slack out of the coils until at last the vines themselves are pressed carefully against the cotton — leaving enough give that circulation isn't at risk, and with a little room to wiggle, but there's certainly no slipping them no matter how much he squirms.

Gently, Kurama reaches out and brushes Therion's hair out of his eyes, moving it to either side so that he can't help but look at himself.]

Now, watch.

[With a breath and a thought, the bonds slowly begin to take on a red hue as tiny flowers begin to open from the green of the vines, changing the color as well as adding an ethereal, fae-like beauty to the bolder severity of the knots.]

[Without guidance towards the mirror, without the careful arrangement of his hair, Therion might look at the loops and knotwork forever rather than at himself, appreciative as he is of craft. It distracts him from the strange sensation of plant life climbing all over him like a human trellis, allows him to allow it to happen without moving, up to the point where the bonds tighten and he inhales. No going back now.

And then Kurama gets his attention again, in time to see the colors shift across his body, and he breathes out.]

You weren't kidding.

[Instinct would be to touch, to gently trace the tiny petals with a fingertip, but the vines keep his arm from moving. He closes his eyes a moment, takes note of his heartbeat in his throat, the unmistakable recognition of his own helplessness, and looks again, accepting it. Having faith.]

It's beautiful.

[It is. He is, as part of the work, tan skin and white shirt and red, tiny-flowered vines bunching the fabric, pressing against him underneath it.

Therion tests his range again, just to know it in his body--just to see it, eyes open. Then his attention moves to Kurama's face in the mirror, drinking in what he finds there.]

Remember. You can be free of it in an instant.

[He's listening, carefully, to the sound of Therion's heartbeat; it's a little quicker than usual, but of course that's to be expected. What he's vigilant for, however, is the point when it tips over from quickened to runaway — when caught breath shifts to hyperventilation. The point when this stops being about boundaries and starts being about trauma. That's the moment when he needs to act, when a wave of his hand will disintegrate the vines in an instant and give Therion full range of motion again.

But that moment doesn't come. He's testing, yes, but he's not frightened. Apprehension is natural for a cautious thief with every reason to be suspicious of ropework. And yet, his faith holds.

He's right. It really is beautiful.]

You're magnificent, you know.

[Slowly, he steps behind Therion; he's got the advantage of height on him, enough so that his face is still visible over Therion's shoulder even as he wraps his arms around him from behind, letting him continue to watch as his fingertips stroke over the network of vines and knots.]

I could do more. But the right to decide is yours; I stop when you tell me to stop, and go no further.

[Therion tilts his head back slightly, coming to rest in Kurama's hold, watching with half-lidded eyes as his hands brush up and down the pretty cage he's tied him into.]

...What more do you want to do?

[His eyes don't leave the mirror, but he turns his head anyway, bringing his face and throat into profile.]

Not a decision if I don't know.

[It would be, but not a participatory one. Not one that keeps them both in the game.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject