[ It's a good ritual. It's a perfect ritual, because Enri and Darius (and their implicit 'and') are perfect together. Raising his eyes from wound to the blue of skies, of cornflowers, of drowning, he knows without any doubt at all that this is where he belongs, and what he's doing is all he ever wants from life.
This man. This shared space after slow-moving violence, this breathless aching. His own worshipful stare. His knife. And then no knife, his knife set aside on the floor, leaving his hand open to caress. To cup a bloody palm behind Daddy's head as he strains for a kiss.
He lets go of Daddy's wrists. He needs his arms, he needs (petting) (praise) (his own worship) (oh, he needs Daddy, it's a single-minded madness, it's slow-moving violence in its own way, a poison or an addiction.)
The last time he cut, he suffered alone. He let Daddy sleep it off. It had been - miserable. Fucking miserable. Sweating out his need and thinking of what could have been, their bodies crushed together, slick with sweat and blood, and his name raw and red (but Darius needed to recover, it wouldn't have been right to ask after playing with his lungs.)
Enri settles between Daddy's thighs, giving a little of his weight to the body below him, feeling the blood welling against his shirt and grinning into a fresh kiss.
And he bites, vicious and quick, his heart hammering. (He sees a precipice. He sees how close he is to falling over the edge and into uncontrolled carnage.) (Maybe it won't come down to that, maybe Daddy will let him have a little length of leash. At least get him off, at least touch him -)
(Knowing Daddy, he'll keep teasing until Enri loses his footing, or goddamn Rin and Sen will come back in here and he'll have to wait and wait and wait until he snaps.)
He shifts, lowering himself a little to rest his chin on one hand on Daddy's collarbone, the other hand slipping between their bodies, slicking across a fresh wound and dipping fingertips under Daddy's belt. Stopping there, waiting. Insistent in its stillness. ]
I get a reward.
[ It's a statement of fact. It's a question. It's a plea. It's a demand.
no subject
This man. This shared space after slow-moving violence, this breathless aching. His own worshipful stare. His knife. And then no knife, his knife set aside on the floor, leaving his hand open to caress. To cup a bloody palm behind Daddy's head as he strains for a kiss.
He lets go of Daddy's wrists. He needs his arms, he needs (petting) (praise) (his own worship) (oh, he needs Daddy, it's a single-minded madness, it's slow-moving violence in its own way, a poison or an addiction.)
The last time he cut, he suffered alone. He let Daddy sleep it off. It had been - miserable. Fucking miserable. Sweating out his need and thinking of what could have been, their bodies crushed together, slick with sweat and blood, and his name raw and red (but Darius needed to recover, it wouldn't have been right to ask after playing with his lungs.)
Enri settles between Daddy's thighs, giving a little of his weight to the body below him, feeling the blood welling against his shirt and grinning into a fresh kiss.
And he bites, vicious and quick, his heart hammering. (He sees a precipice. He sees how close he is to falling over the edge and into uncontrolled carnage.) (Maybe it won't come down to that, maybe Daddy will let him have a little length of leash. At least get him off, at least touch him -)
(Knowing Daddy, he'll keep teasing until Enri loses his footing, or goddamn Rin and Sen will come back in here and he'll have to wait and wait and wait until he snaps.)
He shifts, lowering himself a little to rest his chin on one hand on Daddy's collarbone, the other hand slipping between their bodies, slicking across a fresh wound and dipping fingertips under Daddy's belt. Stopping there, waiting. Insistent in its stillness. ]
I get a reward.
[ It's a statement of fact. It's a question. It's a plea. It's a demand.
It's a warning. ]