[ He wasn't thinking about fucking. He was thinking about slipping his knife in between Darius's ribs, reaching a hand into the wound, and deciding he doesn't want to hear those screams. He likes the simpler wounds. He likes walking up to pain and taking a good, long look at it - but existing in it is for when he makes people stop.
He's not going to make Daddy stop.
So his thoughts had turned to ways to extract pain and pleasure equally from the man below him, and he hadn't been thinking about fucking at all.
Then Daddy wrapped a leg around him and rode him through a familiar motion, and Enri had gasped, jerked a harsh movement of hips and dug his knees against the floor, and had almost lost his focus. Had almost lost control of his hand - and the knife in his hand. His snarl resolves into a laugh edged with warning, breathless and growling. Careful, Daddy.
(He's gotten the idea that Darius might like it if he lost control and took what he wanted.
He's not going to do that with a knife in his hand. Precision needs control.
Keeping Darius safe in the violence needs control.)
As Daddy speaks, he does give in to the need move hips against hips in a slow, steady rhythm, manageable even with the knife at Daddy's throat. (And ooh, that feels good.) (Everything feels so good with this man.)
He draws to an uncertain halt, though, when the words register.
Every scar he's ever dreamed.
His eyes move over the bare chest displayed before him, the blood welling and smeared from that first cut, settling into ridges of old scars that occurred long before he ever knew Daddy. Long before Enri was ever born.
He doesn't dream about leaving scars.
He dreams about the scars that exist. He dreams about Darius, already perfect, who loves him in that perfection. (Whose love is a drug, a fortress, safe and addictive.) He dreams about the afflicted flesh beneath his fingers, healed and unhealed, and Darius arcing his throat in pleasure.
He -
Kind of wishes he'd been the one to leave those scars. Feels a curl of hatred for whoever did leave them.
He thinks of the ritual with mirrors - how he and Darius together can incinerate wounds left by words.
His knife trails downward thoughtfully until the point finds a two-inch scar at Daddy's sternum. Enri's eyes flicker back to his face. The flat of the blade taps, and his voice comes soft, inviting in the way his arms always are. ]
How'd you get this one, Daddy? Where were you, and who was it, and what'd they use?
no subject
He's not going to make Daddy stop.
So his thoughts had turned to ways to extract pain and pleasure equally from the man below him, and he hadn't been thinking about fucking at all.
Then Daddy wrapped a leg around him and rode him through a familiar motion, and Enri had gasped, jerked a harsh movement of hips and dug his knees against the floor, and had almost lost his focus. Had almost lost control of his hand - and the knife in his hand. His snarl resolves into a laugh edged with warning, breathless and growling. Careful, Daddy.
(He's gotten the idea that Darius might like it if he lost control and took what he wanted.
He's not going to do that with a knife in his hand. Precision needs control.
Keeping Darius safe in the violence needs control.)
As Daddy speaks, he does give in to the need move hips against hips in a slow, steady rhythm, manageable even with the knife at Daddy's throat. (And ooh, that feels good.) (Everything feels so good with this man.)
He draws to an uncertain halt, though, when the words register.
Every scar he's ever dreamed.
His eyes move over the bare chest displayed before him, the blood welling and smeared from that first cut, settling into ridges of old scars that occurred long before he ever knew Daddy. Long before Enri was ever born.
He doesn't dream about leaving scars.
He dreams about the scars that exist. He dreams about Darius, already perfect, who loves him in that perfection. (Whose love is a drug, a fortress, safe and addictive.) He dreams about the afflicted flesh beneath his fingers, healed and unhealed, and Darius arcing his throat in pleasure.
He -
Kind of wishes he'd been the one to leave those scars. Feels a curl of hatred for whoever did leave them.
He thinks of the ritual with mirrors - how he and Darius together can incinerate wounds left by words.
His knife trails downward thoughtfully until the point finds a two-inch scar at Daddy's sternum. Enri's eyes flicker back to his face. The flat of the blade taps, and his voice comes soft, inviting in the way his arms always are. ]
How'd you get this one, Daddy? Where were you, and who was it, and what'd they use?