bolderfell | Prismatica Inbox

[This time, as Therion first breathes in to brace himself against the thrum of nerves, he closes his eyes, too. Held by Kurama's weight at both shoulder and hips, dagger at his chest--and he knows how sharp it is, how little resistance his flesh and bone would offer it. He'd used it to slice through material far more durable than he is. In the temporary dark behind his eyelids, he can still picture the scene: bound, held down, at bladepoint in his own quarters. The knotted vines serve Kurama the way his fingers obey him, without thought, and so would the knife. Therion's knife. Whoever's at whose mercy, this is the physical reality they've crafted together, suggestions and agreements made manifest.

It's the most helpless he's ever been. Hurting him would take nothing, would be effortlessly easy. No one would even hear it happen.

Kurama controls every piece of this as naturally as Therion controls his own breath, and he won't let that happen.

He opens his eyes, even, unwavering green, breathes out under Kurama's hand, and holds motionless but for the beating of his heart beneath the dagger.]

Good.

[This is the moment, he knows, that makes all the difference. This is the one that will be remembered later, the one that treads closest to the unspoken boundary line set down in the magnetism between them. Therion, right now, is as powerless as Kurama can make him while still leaving him conscious, and it's a self-inflicted vulnerability that's resonating in Therion's own mind.

This is the point when something changes. When every expectation suggests that pain and betrayal will follow, and then it doesn't.

His wrist flicks with the precision of a surgeon; Therion's breath won't hold forever, so he needs to be both quick and careful alike. The edge of the knife makes a sweeping circle through the cotton, around the vines, trailing from the center of his chest to his ribs and then up and over again, to take out another wide piece of fabric and let the vines tighten down over the cadence of his heart.]

Breathe, darling.

[The pressure of his hand eases slightly, no longer out to pin him motionless, but it stays connected nevertheless.]

[That's all it takes, and Therion goes foggy with relief. Even though he knew nothing would happen--even though he believed--for that critical piece of this to go so fast and the danger to end and Kurama to still be handling him so carefully as he catches his breath (Therion didn't even do anything), it still hits him disproportionately heavily. He fills his lungs with an overhead wave of unclassified emotion, deep enough to drown in. It's warm, like Kurama's hand on his shoulder, and he trembles subtly anyway.

There's a lump in his throat. Therion blinks and swallows around it, breathes deeply enough to feel the the flowering knots dig into his ribs.]

...Will you come down here again?

[He's not going to bite, not this time. He just wants it, the kissing and closeness and all that warmth he can get, even though there's still plenty of nightshirt to cut away before he's naked in Kurama's vines.]

Anything. Whatever you ask of me.

[He really is beautiful to watch. Like this, there's nowhere for Therion to hide; his heartbeat and his expression and the tremors in his body tell the whole story, lay it out for Kurama and Kurama alone to interpret. It's a rush for him, too, to be the keeper of such trust; if it weren't for the fact that his own hands need to be perfectly steady, he's sure his own would be trembling, too.

He sets the dagger aside again, and brings his newly-freed hand to brush against the side of Therion's face, holding him as he lowers back down and, this time, closes the distance to kiss him softly.]

Shhh. I'm right here. Don't drift away.

I won't.

[Not now, not when Kurama's come close again like he asked, with his weight and his warmth and the scent of him, his hair spilling everywhere around them as always. With his arms bound up, Therion can't hold on himself, but Kurama's palms anchor him at his shoulder and the side of his face, and his breath is a familiar, hot tickle on his lips.

He doesn't have much to say. He can't even add to the conversation in other favorite ways, restrained from exploring and caressing. But he kisses and he noses at Kurama's jaw, and he presses their cheeks together, and he breathes, and the vine-ropes move with him.]

...You called me 'darling,' just now.

[...He did, didn't he. And he is, after all, never one to be careless with his words — only that wasn't really careless, was it? Subconscious, perhaps, but not careless.]

I could do it again.

[He brings their foreheads together, leaving himself in easy reach for another kiss, with just a sliver of space still between them to speak into.]

If you liked the sound of it.

[Again, Therion closes the space first rather than whisper words into it, as if this way, he might protect them.]

Don't say it for my sake.

[Kurama doesn't need to to make a mess of him. Or to please him. It'd be enough--might only be enough--if he wanted to. Therion lets his eyes fall shut for a moment and tips his head back on the pillow, taking the luxury of another deep breath.]

If it comes out like that again, I'll think about it. Whether I like how it sounds. Right now, I'm just telling you I'm still here. Paying attention.

Then let's carry on.

[But he stays close a little longer, leaving his hand against Therion's cheek while he leans in to kiss along his jawline and follow it back to his ear. It's easy to tuck his face against the side of Therion's neck, nuzzling and lavishing attention against his skin, and it's hard to say whether the indulgence is for Therion's benefit, or his own.

When he picks up the dagger again, it comes with a brief repositioning, as he shuffles backward to make more room for the blade to work. Each cut to follow traces the curve of one of Therion's ribs, shredding the garment into strips that pull easily away like the petals of a blossoming flower.]

[For the first moments back to the task, Therion's content to let Kurama work unsupervised and to concentrate on keeping his breathing as slow and unmoving as possible. Eventually, though, he recovers enough, or the tide he was awash in recedes enough, to look down his body again and watch the knife at play between the knots.

Because he's not stupid, he waits for a good time, when ribbons of shirt are being pulled away rather than cut, to speak.]

Thanks for not doing this to my actual clothes.

[Another tangible token of consideration. What could Therion build with all the kindness he's now received, if he tried? Would it be anything so stunning as this, red lines criss-crossing his skin over the tatters of cotton? Each part of him revealed adds to the thrill of it, each flicker of the knife another buzz in his blood.]

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