[ The next several moments, where moments stretch out infinite and bright-glossed, gleaming like ice in a glass of honey and whiskey, are nothing but his temple pressed to Daddy's head, his nose brushed by hair, his ears full of Daddy's voice.
His heart's thundering slows, takes a sharp spike in rhythm at the sensation of teeth and slows again. There's a hummed noise of chiding when Daddy moves against the cloth at his chest - stubborn fuck, squirrely fuck, trying to get more pain out of it or trying to kiss his Puppy.
It's not too deep, he thinks. It won't need stitches. (It would benefit from stitches.) (He knows how to stitch up a wound, but the original didn't have the marks from stitches, so. So. Let it knit.) (He'll keep an eye on it, though. Patch it up properly at home.) (Ah, fuck, home. He glows warmer with the thought.)
His arm tightens around Daddy and his mercilessly vicious smile softens to tenderness. (Happiness.)
He is, though. He's happy.
This is the happiest he's been. Does Daddy -
Does Darius know that, he wonders? Does Darius have any idea how, before he came along, everything seemed so fucking pointless, everything was a mess of complications and loss, and now it's not complicated. Now there's no loss, there's one honest, concrete fact of his existence, and it is that he found home.
In a low, intimate drawl, he answers. ]
The world doesn't hold me. You do - and every day you hold me is the happiest of my life.
You're my home.
[ Sure. He just fucked home within an inch of home's life (after running a knife along Daddy's skin and splitting him like a seam) (Enri's vision swims and he exhales a sound of pleasure) (Daddy's blood welled up and he can still taste it, fuck, he can still taste the honey, too, and all he needs -)
(He could just dip a finger -)
(Not here.) (It's for their bedroom, or Daddy's altar, or.)
(Fuck, definitely not here.) (But.)
But. He's putting that idea in Daddy's head; they both have to live with it. Suffering. So he lowers his voice and whispers with an edge of laughter - and an edge of regret: ]
Got the honey and blood. A little bit of Daddy and it'd be holy.
Next time.
[ Turning his attention to the not-chair beside him, he presses the cloth carefully to Daddy's wound and then reaches up, brushing a thumb along the red prints left by their hands - and pulls a theatric grimace. His voice turns almost-lilting now, as though they're both going to be in trouble, but at least they're sharing their fate. ]
no subject
His heart's thundering slows, takes a sharp spike in rhythm at the sensation of teeth and slows again. There's a hummed noise of chiding when Daddy moves against the cloth at his chest - stubborn fuck, squirrely fuck, trying to get more pain out of it or trying to kiss his Puppy.
It's not too deep, he thinks. It won't need stitches. (It would benefit from stitches.) (He knows how to stitch up a wound, but the original didn't have the marks from stitches, so. So. Let it knit.) (He'll keep an eye on it, though. Patch it up properly at home.) (Ah, fuck, home. He glows warmer with the thought.)
His arm tightens around Daddy and his mercilessly vicious smile softens to tenderness. (Happiness.)
He is, though. He's happy.
This is the happiest he's been. Does Daddy -
Does Darius know that, he wonders? Does Darius have any idea how, before he came along, everything seemed so fucking pointless, everything was a mess of complications and loss, and now it's not complicated. Now there's no loss, there's one honest, concrete fact of his existence, and it is that he found home.
In a low, intimate drawl, he answers. ]
The world doesn't hold me. You do - and every day you hold me is the happiest of my life.
You're my home.
[ Sure. He just fucked home within an inch of home's life (after running a knife along Daddy's skin and splitting him like a seam) (Enri's vision swims and he exhales a sound of pleasure) (Daddy's blood welled up and he can still taste it, fuck, he can still taste the honey, too, and all he needs -)
(He could just dip a finger -)
(Not here.) (It's for their bedroom, or Daddy's altar, or.)
(Fuck, definitely not here.) (But.)
But. He's putting that idea in Daddy's head; they both have to live with it. Suffering. So he lowers his voice and whispers with an edge of laughter - and an edge of regret: ]
Got the honey and blood. A little bit of Daddy and it'd be holy.
Next time.
[ Turning his attention to the not-chair beside him, he presses the cloth carefully to Daddy's wound and then reaches up, brushing a thumb along the red prints left by their hands - and pulls a theatric grimace. His voice turns almost-lilting now, as though they're both going to be in trouble, but at least they're sharing their fate. ]
Mx. Renault's gonna be piiiiissed