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kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pmOPEN RP POST
send a prompt, a starter, images, words, music, whatever you like.
loyalless) wrote in kingdomsofrain2019-05-24 05:05 pm
no subject
Fair enough; Darius wouldn’t have been eager for anyone to know Jaeger’d smashed his nose, or landed a solid hit anywhere. Which Jaegar had in fact never done. Darius has been hit by plenty of shitheads, but that particular piece of work’d never been among their number.
Thank fuck.
And also, and again, by what work of fucking miracle is that shitheel still among the living?
The night of the broken nose - and the lost teeth; and the half-absenced toe - is written clear enough in Darius mind. Probably, yes, Darius had been riding some substance or other, probably, yes, coke, but he has a clear memory of waiting for Jaeger to get himself killed right then and there, recalls the shot and a shout from Jaeger, a shout from Sen, looking over to find Sen’s noodle arms walloping a hurricane against the shitstain. Remembers thinking about jumping in, but feeling like it was Sen’s business, and also Darius had managed to nab the good chair so ha ha like fuck he was going to get up. Darius also remembers thinking Vern went and died at the end of the fight, realizing a week or so after that the idiot’d only passed out.
…There was a scatter of teeth splayed across the floor after everything, and thinking back on it (thinking back on it, and catching sight of a few of Renault’s more macabre arrangements), he has a pretty clear idea where those teeth might have ended up.
What was it Rin said? That Jaeger came by with a friend, that Jaeger hadn’t known Rin was here and wanted to make small talk, that Rin sort of kind of sidestepped away and didn’t show up again. It’s the first Darius has heard of the asspucker in years— Aside, of course, from Sen’s text a few weeks back. Which, yes, Darius hadn’t thought particularly on it, but of course Enri would have read it. Enri who is very, very good at picking out and keeping hold of could-be-useful details. Enri who knows precisely where a bit of information might best be leveled. To join in with and further a conversation. To, sometimes, use the information as a prod.
Smirking, Darius sets another kiss to the boy’s head, caresses and musses a sign of approval. Good, good boy.
Enri was - as Enri so often is - listening very well to the conversation, catching onto what pieces he could hold to and engage with. Enri, drifting blissfully against Darius’s thigh (it’s a boon for Darius, to feel the drift of contentment surrounding Enri; it’s a tranquility that seeps into Darius, leaves him warm along the edges of feeling; and there’s something speechlessly gratifying in knowing what his presence does for Enri, how wholly Enri can relax with Darius and simply be), was never far from the talk lilting around him. Enri, even in this drifting response, is never far from Daddy, or whatever speech might be flittering around.
Darius looks up in time to see Sen’s irritation vanish. To catch the intrigued and calculating look that precedes an upbeat tone, and it’s clear Sen thinks he’s found something (maybe has found something) (…probably has found something, nosy fucking bastard) (maybe, Sen, maybe you’d get your nose broken less if you kept it in your own business), Sen had been clocking Enri closely, is flat-out staring, and—
That’s what it is, then. The messages.
…Well. Let Sen marvel all he likes; there’s nothing so very strange about Enri having read those messages. (There’s nothing strange about Enri reading the messages; there’s something terrifically strange about anyone else reading Darius’s messages. It’s unprecedented, certainly. Any would-be-Puppy, any person who dared to read a single message would have been penalized, but—
But Enri is different.
Enri is special. And what’s Darius’s is Enri’s, too. And really, there’s nothing to hide from him. (A thought that jars part of Darius’s thinking to a halt. Because it’s true: there’s nothing to hide, when Enri has already seen some of Darius’s most guarded depths. When Enri regarded, accepted, handled the secretive corners of those depths with care. When Darius’s wounds lay open and Enri kissed him, held him, spoke of beauty. Set flame to words that wounded.) (Darius is - he thinks, he knows, breath catching briefly - obscenely lucky.))
Enri shrugs and Darius continues to caress his hair. Reaches for the drink, and if Enri passes it to him, takes a sip (thinking that, that, that honey is the taste of his love). Hands the drink back before favoring the man with a honey-touched kiss, and when Sen speaks to Rin - employing the ridiculous nickname he’s held onto all these years (it’s actually almost, almost a little bit charming) - and suggests Darius ‘has it very, very bad,’ Darius feels no compulsion to argue or to veil himself. Only looks up to meet Sen’s eyes and offer a smile that’s half-smirk, half-challenge, wholly an affirmation of Sen’s assessment. Flicks the glance to Rin, then back to Sen again.
And when Enri laughs - beautiful, golden sound - at Sen’s description, Darius’s fingers find the line of Enri’s jaw and trace backward, along to the throat, to the collarbone, to linger while Darius watches Sen, eyebrows raised. ]
I wouldn’t worry, Sen; this ‘poor young man’ is discriminating, even frightfully accurate in his evaluations of character.
[ There’s a slight movement from Rin, what could just be a casual stretch of the neck and settling back against Sen, what Darius is willing to bet has more to do with the description so recently leveled in their direction. Darius catches their eyes, darts his glance sideways with a shrug. A sign - rarely offered, but fuck it, he’s feeling generous, he knows how to reach the null from time to time - that there’s nothing to worry over, that what Enri said about (fucking beautiful) Starbucks doesn’t hold the weight Rin’s read in it. That the words Enri’d leveled don’t equate to a final evaluation or any real evaluation.
Whether or not Rin catches his meaning, whether or not Rin accepts his meaning, Darius raises Enri’s hand to place a kiss at his knuckles, then finds Sen’s eyes and speaks again. ]
As it happens, I am more than uncommonly fond of Enri. He is, as they say, the brilliance of my existence.
[ Yes, that was in French, and before it can settle, he adds in English— ]
My entire adoration.
And I’m quite certain he knows both the proper handling of firearms, and the extent to which anyone applying olive oil to a gun might be trusted. Don’t you, Puppy?
[ And, to Enri— ]
When the occasion permits, you'll need to ask Sen about the third time he broke his nose.
no subject
Reading Daddy's texts.
Of course he reads Daddy's texts. He wants to know everything about his love, and what better way to learn while Darius is resting, or showering, or preoccupied with mail, than by reading his conversations with other people? (He has unlimited access, really. What with Darius allowing him to handle the rotating phone numbers, he can request transcripts of every text he's sent.) (Not that he has. Not that he's really that diligent about the reading. It's more of a pastime. He just happened to catch that particular conversation - the teeth, the broken nose, the 'fuck that failed abortion'. Lucky him.)
His smirk becomes a radiant grin when Darius musses his hair. He tilts back his head and casts that winsome smile upside-down at Daddy, warm with being coddled. Warm with Daddy's approval. (Warm with being favored, trusted, loved perfectly.) (Again, a sing-song thought: Daddy loves me.) (In his head, he sing-songs it at Sen.)
(He's. Kind of tipsy. Oops.)
He passes his drink (their drink) up without hesitation, because what's his is theirs, and what's Darius's is theirs, which is why he reads those texts. Daddy trusts him. Daddy knows he'll never use any of those secrets to drive harm.
Not to Darius, anyhow.
He's leaning his cheek (so recently kissed) (he smells honey and love and Daddy's cologne) back against Darius's thigh when a remark from the man above him hits a sour note. Not in the room, but - between Enri and Rin. Or maybe just for Enri. He shifts a little, his eyes flickering away from Sen in time to catch a movement from them, a stretch that maybe isn't a stretch.
Darius is calling his attention back, and he looks up with another smile, though this time it wavers the moment he settles back again. He does try to keep up with the conversation, of course, with a brief - ]
Heard that one before. The olive oil thing. But I mean, I also heard you'll die if you drink Coke and eat pop rocks.
[ He means something about not believing everything you hear. He means only kids believe that shit. He was going to elaborate, and maybe chase the question of Sen's oft-broken nose, but his eyes are on Rin again, and a feeling of leaden guilt settles over him.
Sen's talking again, sounding his indignation about the third broken nose incident. (His indignation seems, Enri thinks, to be largely performative.
He's happy. Having Darius and Rin and - sure. Maybe even Enri, here in this room, has made him happy and expansive.)
Enri's eyes shift to his waning drink, and he tilts the glass back and forth a little, watching the remaining amber liquid. He starts to raise it to his mouth to finish it off.
But there's a pause in the conversation, and it's into this that he quietly, gently interjects, as though while Darius and Sen verbally spar, he and Rin have been having a conversation all their own in the silence -]
You're more like a cocktail.
[ A pause here, in which he can sense Sen staring at him, trying to sort out what he means. And then sorting out what he means, and shifting imperceptibly nearer to Rin.
Enri purses his lips, letting them pull slightly right, and his eyes follow to drift along shelves, displays, the notebook and pen, before flickering to Rin and away again. ]
You're not shitty coffee. I don't think that. I did think you were like a cocktail, though. Not really the things that make it up anymore; something better.
[ And you know what? Since he's talking, and he can't really keep hold of his train of thoughts thanks to the grey and the whiskey, he stares up at the ceiling (why isn't that purple?) and continues: ]
Pumpkin spice lattes are kind of a cocktail, huh? Not pumpkins or coffee anymore. Frankencoffee. Stupid and kinda sad. The guy, whatsit. Jaeger.
[ Is in fact a walking Pumpkin Spice Latte, he thinks, but doesn't actually say. He's looking at his drink again. Hums and holds it up to Darius again. Thinks, want the rest?
And he smiles up at the beautiful man caressing him, feeling warm all over again. ]
I'm good.
[ Something about. Something about the whiskey and maybe he's had enough.
But also, he is good. He's a good puppy. And he's good here on the floor. This is a good apartment. Good people. He's settling back against Daddy's thigh with a sigh and a contented smile, thinking that's good, too. ]
Good Puppy.
no subject
Rin would think it was a lie, some kind of protracted joke, if Darius weren’t incapable of feigning fondness. If Darius hadn’t only ever leaned away from accusations of preference or - gods forbid - any kind of affection.
So when Sen suggests that Puppy’s gotten into Daddy’s phone, Rin can only accept the thought as likely fact. When Darius doesn’t argue, Rin can only blink in puzzlement, looking from the boy’s easy grin to Darius’s eyes locked on Enri, Darius’s smile blooming warm, and conclude that Sen’s suggestion resonates with fact.
Rin has read Darius’s messages before. Used to make an occasional practice of reading Darius’s mail, and when Darius’d put two and two together, it hadn’t ended well. Darius, making a point, had burned several days worth of the apartment’s mail. Darius, making a point, had pitched his phone into the middle of 14th Avenue and offered a dramatic shrug when it was instantly pulverized. Darius, making a point, had tried to read Rin’s messages, hadn’t had the patience to work through various passcodes and lock. Had kept the phone in his room until Rin stole it back. Had dumped Rin’s phone in the bath, only to replace it the next day. Had started reading Rin’s mail, until Rin filled the mailbox with letters to themself, several of them reading ‘Fuck off Darius’ for half a page on repeat.
Point being: Darius doesn’t do well with privacy infringements. And so far as Rin has seen, the man hasn’t ever given his fleeting paramours so much as a glimpse beyond the surface known as ‘Daddy,’ or a chance to glean information about whatever Darius is when he’s not playing god. (Though whether Darius Scarlett ever drops the self-deification is an open question.
…One that the blonde lounging in their apartment might be able to answer. Oh, Rin doesn’t particularly care to know; it’s simply noteworthy that Enri seems to have curled himself so near to Darius’s, what, trust? Trust and affinity. …Well, good for the boy, perhaps.
Good for Darius, certainly.)
Rin’s flittering through these thoughts when the blow strikes. What - yes, true, probably - shouldn’t be a blow; what shouldn’t matter, this boy doesn’t know them, they’ve no cause to hold his judgment above any other, and after all, they’ll be over it in a day or two. For now, though. For now, the words (stale) (bitter) (implied: overrated) still echo, and Darius’s remark about the boy’s judge of character lands with a sting.
(It doesn’t matter what the boy said.
It doesn’t entirely not matter.
Because to ever, ever be deemed as insipid as that. To be seen and found lacking, lackluster, a sour replication of stagnant worn-out would-be-brilliances—
Well. Sen’s words had helped; Sen always, inevitably helps, heals, brings them back to themself when the world feels rotten, when the glistening world’s been overrun with noxious haze. And it’s true that they aren’t stale or humdrum in the least. Rin knows who they are, knows the brilliance they posses, and knows no stranger can define them.
Even so. Those words hit close to worries of what they’ve no intention of becoming, and hearing what the boy suggested means feelings its implications, means feeling discomfort in beholding even the potential that those words might seems to someone to be true. So when Darius recalls the boy’s words, Rin shifts uncomfortable, cozying closer still to Sen.
The words are followed, strangely, by an assuring look from Darius. The shitweasel is - he really is? - offering encouragement, as if to suggest the boy’s earlier words weren’t in earnest, as if to suggest those words weren’t part of what Darius is speaking to, that those words held a different purpose. Which doesn’t do much to comfort Rin, because they shouldn’t need Darius’s reinforcement on this matter, because Darius shouldn’t know that Rin is bothered at all, let alone by what.
(Still, it isn’t the worst thing. To see Darius being not-contentious. To see Darius offering a gesture of sheer consideration. Is that also the effect of this boy?)
Rin sees the boy glance their way. Feels some weight of what might be his focus, or the periphery of his focus, though they don’t want to think about it. Though they’re doing their best to simply let the boy observe as he will and to let the thoughts play out - listening to Sen’s story, letting themself be drawn back to the moment by Sen’s words, which they adore, which Rin always has adored - when Enri’s voice cuts in again, and—
Really. Is that really what he—
…Hm.
They feel Sen move in close, and Rin leans their head against him slightly, nudges appreciation. Beautiful man with his beautiful nose (oft-broken, yes, but haven’t all of them seen more than their fair shares of tussles? haven’t they all wound up bleeding and broken in half a hundred ways? it’s a good nose, it’s the very best nose, no matter how many breaks it’s endured); they lean over to kiss his cheek, then kiss his nose.
While they process what it was the boy said, was trying to say. Because drawing on cocktails sounds as if he’s attempting to either make amends or to revise his earlier statement. And they can buy the ‘something better’ narrative applied to cocktails. And after all, if they were to describe themself as a drink, it would be a cocktail.
But then Enri keeps speaking and maybe he’s still saying they are the ‘shitty coffee,’ since it’s a kind of cocktail? Or, no— Is he saying the separate parts are turned monstrous by putting them together? That both seems harsh and sounds like a win in the ‘no Rin Renault is not a pumpkin spice latte’ column.
Also, the boy is clearly tipsy. And maybe trying to make sense from his words isn’t the most foolproof endeavor, period.
But he tried, maybe, to set something right. And Rin - even if still fuming mildly from the pumpkin spice (which, really, isn’t the worst of flavors, but is seen now as trite) - can recognize the effort, or at least acknowledge that some effort may have been made.
By the boy who is now very nearly melting against Darius. And did the boy just say ’Good Puppy?’ Did Darius just reach down to stroke the boy’s hair, kiss the boy’s hair, and pronounce ’Good Puppy, best Puppy’ and ’Only Puppy’ right back? Yes, yes, and the world is a strange and infinitely faceted place.
Tilting their head upward, Rin seeks Sen’s eyes and offers the edge of a smile - a smile suggesting that yes, Rin’s still a little uneasy, but less so, a little less caught on what the boy said earlier - slipping back to Italian. ]
Sometime, you’ll tell me my cocktail, yes? Perhaps when you’ve had your taste?
[ Cuddling closer to Sen, leaning their head against his chest, they watch the ongoing display of Darius and his (self-proclaimed!) Puppy, before speaking once more— ]
If you’re suggesting that the imbecile known as Jaeger is both stupid and sad, I’ve no arguments to offer. It would in fact be immoral to argue, since one need only observe the man for forty-five second to discern conclusively that he is both.
My hope is he will not remember that he was ever at my club, and will never endeavor to visit again. The man is a hazard, quite simply put.
[ With a sharp nod, they seal that proclamation into stone, then speaking softer, with a grin turned impish, they look to Sen— ]
Do you think he would flee on seeing you, or meander headlong into collision?
[ And, soft still, with a small poke to Sen’s side— ]
Not that I wish to see you in the fray of any further fights. In fact, Sen, I have half a mind to swathe you in bubblewrap and ward off anyone who thinks to afflict you.
[ They'd like to do it, and they'd like him to take things a little easier. Rin also isn't about the impose any kind of rest regimen on Sen, or inflict any edict he doesn't care for. There's another kiss for Sen's nose, sealed with a smile, and again they look across the room, clock the boy who looks as though he could use something to balance the drink. ]
We do have food, you know. Water. The chips and the raspberries aren't for touching; anything else is yours as you like.
no subject
Enri gets to wondering whether he said something stupid, because it's not uncommon for people to exchange a look after he speaks, and it's definitely not uncommon to find himself meeting a language barrier when it happens. (Therein lies part of the reason he began absorbing languages so voraciously. He wanted to know what the fuck people were saying about him. His parents. His uncle. Ranch hands.) (Why didn't he learn Italian? Jesus.)
Rin probably isn't saying anything about him. Darius would object. Darius would stick up for him. (Wouldn't he?) (...Would he?) (Enri looks back over his shoulder, wondering. He's known Rin and Sen for a long time.)
Deeper than his niggling concern that he did say something stupid is the sinking feeling that he's not going to be able to salvage this. He shouldn't have said what he did earlier (but what choice did he have? They were being shitty about Darius -)
(Maybe he shouldn't have said it because Darius isn't sticking up for him?) (He's getting in his own head and he's kind of tipsy and he needs to pay attention or just...Something.)
He is deep in his own head, distracted and a little inebriated, and he misses that Rin directs a comment to him. When he tunes back in, they're talking to Sen, and Sen is looking at them with that goofy fucking smile, and that's nice. Enri can appreciate that.
Sen's easy to read, is what he is. Rin...not so much. Except when they look at Sen. Then they're easy to read. Whatever vibe they exist with, Sen's on it. (Sen's answering something about Jaeger, and Enri begins to wonder if he actually spoke at all. He does that sometimes. He thinks he said something and then doesn't actually say anything. It's worse when he's drunk.)
At least Darius is petting him. (Darius said he's proud. He said 'thank you' and 'you love me so well' and he's been giving Enri affection in front of his friends in a way he never did in the Bahamas. It's like they're at home.) (Maybe Rin wasn't talking shit about him, after all. Maybe he just...forgot to make the words come out of his mouth, or they were too dumb to be worth comment.)
Rin's looking at him. He tenses, worrying he missed something, worrying they're pissed. But then they start talking about food like maybe he should have known they had food, like maybe he was stupid for not knowing they had food, and he thinks - What?
And thinks, Oh.
They're offering. (They know he's a little drunk.) (He must be less sober than he thought.) (But they don't want to seem like they're offering?) (Because they don't want him to think he's welcome.) (He's not welcome.)
He's hungry, though.
And he thinks, I could eat.
And then remembers he has to actually say the words. He relaxes a little, swallows, makes a noise like an 'um' without opening his mouth. ]
I guess. Anything not chips or raspberries is good.
[ They make it sound like the chips or raspberries are decorative. That's weird.
Almost immediately, Sen pipes in - ]
I'll come along.
[ And the man begins to unfold himself, pausing after Rin stands, his hand at his eyes and rubbing, scrubbing his face. Hands falling to his knees to help leverage him to his feet, but he pauses before the act of rising when he sees Enri staring.
(He's tired, Enri thinks.) (He knows this is tense, even if he's pretending it's not.) (He's worried about Rin. And for Rin.)
(He's worried. Period.)
(This isn't abnormal, Enri realizes. The way Rin's acting.)
(Or maybe it is. Or maybe it's known, and not common?) (Sen understands something he doesn't.)
Sen's smile cast his way isn't unkind, but it's like a gently closing door. (Enri knows those smiles. And gently closed doors) Like maybe that wasn't something he wanted Enri seeing. For once, Enri thinks it's better if he pretends not to see it. The other man is up and vanished with Rin into another room, leaving Enri feeling like the room just got a little less full of pitfalls.
He looks back at Darius again, his smile gone, his eyes reflecting his own precarious thoughts. And smoothly, he turns and shifts to his knees, arms wound around Daddy's waist, face buried against his shirt. ]
Sorry.
[ And, thinking he'd better actually say more words than 'sorry', he adds just as quietly - ]
Fucked it up. Sorry, Daddy.
[ He's not allowed to say he's not smart, that he says the dumbest shit sometimes - Darius hates when he says that about himself. So he doesn't say it here, now.
But he thinks it very loudly. ]
no subject
He’s unanchored.
He’s worried.
A short while ago - before Rin spoke (for fuck’s sake, Renault, would it kill you to speak in more precise terms for a few of your minutes on this wretched earth?) - Enri had seemed at ease enough. Muddled in speech, yes - that’s the fault of the drink Darius has just finished - but he’d been engaging with Rin, and he’d seemed almost pleased with himself. Said ’I’m good,’ and Darius had very nearly melted. Said ’I’m good’ and ’Good Puppy’ and drew an enamored smile from Darius, who had responded in kind, of course he had.
But. Somewhere between ’Good Puppy’ and Rin’s offer, pieces began to fall apart for Enri. Something missed its mark or something wasn’t said or something took root in the wrong way, and Darius was reaching for Enri, rubbing the boy’s shoulder, his neck, when Rin made their offer and flitted off with Sen. And Darius is reaching to wrap Enri closer when the boy turns around, his smile vanished, his words wretched.
The poor boy.
Darius’s poor Puppy, who wanted this to go well, who seems to think he’s brought about some sort of ruin, as if there’s any fault to lay upon him here at all.
Darius draws one arm around Enri’s shoulders, moves the other hand to the back of Enri’s head as Darius leans down, sets his head against Enri’s own, kisses Enri’s hair, Enri’s temple, humming a sound like assurance, humming to let Enri know Daddy’s here, Daddy’s here, Puppy, it’s all right.
It aches him to see the boy like this. It rends his fucking heart to know that Enri feels unwelcome, that Enri feels somehow wrong, to hear Enri sounding so damnably lost. (He thinks he said something wrong. Poor Puppy. Poor Enri. Fuck.) Darius wraps his arm tighter, caresses Enri’s hair, kisses him again. ]
My Love.
My Enri.
My clever Puppy.
Listen to me, Love—
[ There another kiss for Enri, and Darius nudges his head against the boy’s, nuzzles, and breathes, breathes steady, even. Presses Enri’s head to his heart, to the name engraved, and again, again, runs fingers through Enri’s hair. ]
You’ve done nothing wrong.
You haven’t fucked up anything at all. I’ve been watching you all this time; I’m always watching you, listening for you. And you’ve been perfectly courteous. You rose to my defense in flawless terms, with generosity.
You’ve made me proud.
Enri, you’re doing so well.
[ If anyone holds fault here, it’s Darius, for choosing such a strong drink, for not better preparing Enri before coming, for not having had words with Rin beforehand. Fuck’s name, could the little incendiary have been more cryptic? Could they not have tried a little harder to welcome Enri, as is his right?
Well. To their credit— To their credit, Rin’s been playing remarkably tolerant. That they’d lingered after what they took as an insult, that they made some attempt at amiability while sitting through their discomfort isn’t without meaning. It also isn’t any meaning that Enri has the context to trace. Which Darius should have given the boy.
(…Fuck, Sen’s going to have Darius’s hide after this. There’s fucking that to look forward to, wonderful, that’s wonderful.
Whatever. A problem for whenever it rears up. And after all of this, it’d be not the worst idea to bring over some kind of thank you gift (bribe) for Sen and Rin.
And for Enri… Darius intends to make it up and more than make it up to the boy.)
He nuzzles against Enri’s hair. Shifts to find Enri’s temple and kiss gently, lingering before drawing back just enough to find Enri’s eyes, still keeping near the boy, caress suggesting Darius isn’t leaving, Darius isn’t going anywhere. ]
Tell me.
Tell me what’s wrong, Love.
Daddy’s here. I’m here with you.
no subject
Darius kisses him, and he raises his eyes, reeling still from the thought that had slunk in moments ago, insidious whispers that Darius might not stick up for him. But he knows that's not true, doesn't he? Looking up at his god, he knows he wouldn't have let anyone - anyone - say a word against Enri. (He can't imagine it. He tries. He tries to find some scenario where Rin complains about him, or Sen tells Darius to keep him in check, or calls him an idiot, and all of these thoughts burn themselves to ash.) (Daddy loves him.) (Darius loves him.)
He made Darius proud. Darius isn't angry with him, and that's all that matters. It's all that should matter. (Isn't it?) (...Is it?)
Bowing his head once more, he lets himself drift in the embrace. He breathes in the scent of his everything, his world, his love. He feels eased, comforted, sure. But not okay. This feels so fucking far from okay, because the problem's still there. He created a problem, and he doesn't know how to fix it.
He thinks about saying Rin hates me, or Rin doesn't want me here. But despite their games, despite him calling Darius 'Daddy', he's not a fucking kid. He can't go crying to Darius to make it all better.
He also can't demand Darius leave. He's having a good time. These are his friends, and he hasn't seen them in a while.
So Enri inhales deeply, breathes out, steadying, steeling himself, and he draws away as far as Darius will allow. Softly, his voice low enough to not be overheard, he answers. ]
I don't think they want me here. And I don't...
[ He looks away and shrugs almost dismissively. Almost. ]
Seems like they think like everyone else, about me. And they're right, because if I was smarter, I wouldn't have had that drink, or said what I did, or said what I did just now.
[ His eyes flicker to Darius and away again. ]
They don't like me. Maybe it's better if I get a cab and wait for you at home. I don't mind.
[ Yeah. Yeah, he does fucking mind. But it's not Daddy's fault.
(It's his own.) (The idea of being at home, without Darius, sinks something heavy and bleak inside him. He feels hollow and leaden all at once.)
He fingers the fabric of Darius's trousers, his jaw working. ]
I'm sorry. I wanted it to go good. Sen really loves you. Misses you. I should have kept my mouth shut.
no subject
[ The words, though not harsh, though not unkind, allow no negotiation; it’s a statement of fact, an injunction: Enri isn’t going home alone. Enri isn’t leaving without Darius.
(A thought: It means something, that Enri suggests leaving alone. That on this weekend over which Darius has promised the boy agony and ecstasy a hundred times over, Enri would be willing to return to a lonely apartment.
It’s a terrible image, a rending image: Enri golden in the dark, plagued by what he thinks of as his failure. Enri, with no one to offer assurance, with no one to stroke his hair. Enri, alone, because he believed Daddy would like to be with Sen and Rin, because he believed he wasn’t wanted.
It’s an absurd idea, but noble in intention. It’s nothing any would-be-Puppies could have done. And Darius very, very much wants to take a fist to Rin’s jaw for making Enri feel this way. And after this. Maybe next week, after Darius has drawn Enri through heaven and hell, some day when Enri’s at work, Darius will have a few words with Rin.)
For now, what matters is Enri in the present, Enri looking unwell, Enri distant and in pieces. And Enri is where Darius keeps his focus. ]
In fact—
[ It doesn’t take so much maneuvering at all. To curl a finger beneath Enri’s chin and offer a mischief-tinged smirk. To turn his hand, guiding the backs of his fingers down the boy’s throat, drawing the back of his hand down along Enri’s chest. And at the same time caressing Enri’s shoulder and guiding Enri’s back to rest against the not-precisely-a-chair; at the same time moving himself to settle on Enri’s thighs, and make a place for himself on Enri’s lap. Smiling - warmer now, as if quite pleased with himself, absolutely pleased with his position - he returns his hand to Enri’s jaw, to caress in admiration as he nestles against Enri’s chest, as he tosses his hair and lifts an eyebrow. Setting a hand above Enri’s heart. Pressing a greeting: ’Hello, my love.’ ]
I’m afraid you can’t go anywhere, Love. Your lap belongs to god now.
[ He leans up just enough to kiss Enri’s nose, light and glancing, playful, before settling back against Enri. ]
I am very happy where I am, and disinclined to be moved, hm?
[ And, brushing his thumb along Enri’s cheek steady, rhythmic, Darius speaks with certainty, with an unwavering assurance. ]
Enri, you have done nothing wrong. You haven’t said anything wrong.
And they’re not right.
[ And, voice softening as Darius takes Enri’s hand, wrist up, and brushes his thumbs up and down along the wrist— ]
They’re frequently not right. If anyone’s erred here, it’s Rin.
It’s no fault of yours that Rin’s a prickly little shit. Intractable for the sake of their vanity. Habitually inattentive to the basic fucking tenants of courtesy. They don’t dislike you; they are being an absolute ass. I expect Sen’s talking sense to them right now.
Don’t worry about them, Puppy. And please, don’t doubt yourself. You’ve said nothing wrong. Your mouth—
[ Here Darius traces Enri’s lower lip with his thumb, slowing to relish the movement, lip ticking upward, unplanned, with pleasure. ]
Your mouth and your tongue and all that they give is dear to me. Enri. I would rather have a dozen words from you than a hundred thousand from Sen or Rin.
A dozen words and your incomparable eyes—
And a bite, as well, if my Puppy’s amenable.
[ And yes, of course yes, Darius is inclining his head, letting his hair fall back to present an ear, to blink once, twice at Enri, suggesting that Daddy would be pleased indeed by a bite right now. ]
no subject
Sort of.
Not really very hard. It's more of an inhale marking the attempt at speech, because Darius says he's not going home without him, and Enri feels a conflict of disappointment (he has to stay, Daddy said he can't leave) and warm gratitude (he has to stay, Daddy said he can't leave) (Darius wants to stay with him.) It occurs to him to say he'll wait down in the bar, which might be a compromise Darius will make if he sees how badly Enri doesn't want to be in this room. He could also hurtle right past compromise and say he wants to go home; he feels a certainty that Darius will take him home if he asks.
But it's very hard to keep those thoughts in his head when Darius is trailing fingers down his throat.
In that moment, Enri has a vivid flashback to the night he met Darius. He'd been drunk and feeling unwanted, abandoned, stupid and classless, and then. And then there was Darius, with a silk shirt and a glass of wine and the end of the world.
He'd tried to leave, and Darius had ordered him to sit, and then invited him to sit. Enri had sat (like a good puppy-), staring in a daze at this man exactly the way he stares now.
He said he'd go home and Daddy said no, and now there are fingers down his throat, coaxing shuddering breaths from him.
(This. This is what he'd wanted that night without knowing what he wanted. Terror and fascination and desire, and Daddy's hands on him the way they'd been on that glass of wine.)
He moves without struggle. He lets himself be moved, lost in arctic blue, until Darius is straddling him. He's pinned and breathing shallowly, inescapably aware of the equal measures of horror and excitement. (Thrill. Pure thrill, that's what Daddy is. Like being on a roller coaster that never ends.)
Darius traces his lip and he isn't thinking about Rin or Sen or whose apartment this is or about how he shouldn't drink so much, talk so much, say stupid shit about coffee or busted noses. He's thinking, in exquisite simplicity and perfection, about the thumb at his lip and how the tip of his tongue catches the faint brush of skin.
(This is what he wanted that night. This is what he wished for: no one but him and Darius, so Darius could do whatever he wanted.) (The words wouldn't have been there. Darius wouldn't have whispered love to him. This is so much better.) (Daddy loves him.) (He loves Darius. He loves him so fucking much, his heart aches.)
Daddy invites him to bite and Enri thinks shit, yes and shifts quickly, grasping and drawing chest-to-chest -
Then stops just as abruptly, his lips inches from Darius's skin, teeth bared and then not bared. He turns his head a little to look askance and meet Darius's eyes, thinking.
Thinking.
And then he draws back, settling against the not-really-a-chair, head slightly cocked and lips pursed. (Challenging.) (Pouting. (A little.))
He sat that first night because it feels so good to obey. He didn't sit because he got an invitation.
His eyes flicker to Daddy's throat and linger; he'd like to savage it. (He'd like them to walk back in and see blood beading where his teeth sank in.) His eyes return to Daddy's and Enri smirks.
Make me.
(Somewhere below this cocky surface, he shivers, continues to shiver, can't seem to still the terrible, wonderful fear tracing his insides the way Daddy traces his name.) (He's going to get in so much trouble -)
(He's not going to get in trouble. Ever. Daddy loves him.)
His smirk grows into a grin full of the teeth he's not using. ]
no subject
Flared back to life with a touch, with Daddy’s careful, wanting, scintillating attentions.
Doesn’t Darius know just what Puppy likes? And doesn’t Puppy respond perfectly, don’t Enri’s wishes ring in peerless consonance with Darius’s?
And doesn’t the little shit know just what Daddy likes? Just what shocks electric through Darius’s marrow; just what sets his eyes narrowing in readiness for retaliation, and sends his heart wild with appreciation, pride, oh, adoration of this tumultuous brat of a god.
He sees in brief, ecstatic jolts: A young man with a rose; the young man, half-trembling, eager, kneeling in moonlight. The little shit in a video, tending to himself, smirking at the camera. The taste of Enri’s blood at 35,000 feet; Enri’s lips against his fingers (Enri’s eyes, Enri’s seeking questions, plying at his heart). A multitool brandished, Enri’s hand at his throat, Enri leveling the blade, ’I could kill you’ and ’breathe’ and ’never underestimate the value of a good multitool’ and ’breathe’. And a boy stretched languid on his couch, the party around him going distant, the boy caught in Darius’s eyes, the boy as if waiting for someone, as if the boy had always been waiting, was always meant to be there.
How. How in the name of all things infernal did he become this lucky?
And—
It’s only natural. It’s only sensible that he and Enri found each other, have come together, god to god, drawn by their divinity.
(Still. Still, he feels his fortune, knows his fortune.
And more immediately— )
Scarcely moving, scarcely showing signs of breath, Darius runs his tongue along his lower lip, a deliberate, lingered motion as he looks Enri over, eyes sharp, half-smile somewhere between a challenge and anticipation. When he speaks, it’s in a near-growl, slow and dangerous, if crept along the edges with appreciation. ]
Enri.
Daddy’s little monster.
[ With all those teeth.
With all of those perfectly, purposefully displayed teeth.
The next motions follow quickly, streamlined and almost without sound. (A predator in ambush. Daddy, offering a razored gift.) Darius strikes forward, dipping slightly down and forward to close the distance Puppy imposed, to grip the base of Enri’s skull with one hand and set the other - fingers tented, denting sharp around the boy’s clavicle. Hold quickly applied with precise, subtle force, and when Darius speaks again, he’s leaning next to Enri’s ear, his speech a hushed and hissing seethe. ]
Impertinent, aren’t you? To lay demands upon your god.
I ought to draw your skin between my teeth. Pare you strip by strip until you run red, as you sing my name, as you sing for mercy, as your agony becomes my fondest litany.
[ Suddenly, swiftly, there’s a nip and tug to Enri’s ear, and Darius moves just enough to find the boy’s eyes, to flare a half-smirk - flickered, briefly flickered with a warmth of utter fondness, of invitation - and to arch his neck one more, eyes alight with challenge. ]
Try again, Puppy.
That’s two bites you now owe me. One for the ear. The other - a cost of your insubordination - for the throat you so admire.
Draw my blood. Show Daddy what those teeth can do.
no subject
His world.
He forgets where he is. He forgets Sen and Rin, the apartment, the club, the slights and perceived slights. All that matters is the hand at the back of his head and the fingertips at his collarbone.
The shudder of his breathing.
The pulse of terror and violence of arousal. (He could -) (He could- ) (Right here. Right here, thrust Daddy to the floor.) (He could -) His own rumbling growl, his knee shifted to force Daddy closer, hands fisting in fabric.
(He didn't lay a demand on his god.
He refused a polite invitation. He refused the normalcy of coaxing, of a balance of power. Oh, yes, and yes, he is Darius's boyfriend. But he's Puppy, too. It was how he was born into this world. It was the howl Darius dragged from him in a hotel bed with nothing more than words.
He loves to be kissed and petted and adored. He loves to be torn to shreds while he prays.)
(And.) (He loves driving Daddy wild.) (He could -)
(He should -)
One of his hands relinquishes and vanishes into his own pocket.
His head cants as far as the hand will allow, his eyes fixed golden and malicious on Daddy's, and he inhales at his god's throat. He sets his teeth against skin and grazes, gently, a scrape that resolves into a pinching bite that draws no blood at all.
With flick of his tongue at Daddy's artery, he tastes. And then he whispers against the flesh at his mouth, thumbing metal, shuddering core-deep with excitement. ]
So many places to pin you down and rip you open.
[ Another bite, painful in its deliberately small infliction.
A familiar click. The heft of a knife in his hand, its point dimpling fabric at Daddy's thigh. ]
I'll draw your blood. All over the walls.
It's too goddamned purple in here.
[ He does bite, hard and sharp now, tearing at the juncture of throat and shoulder. His voice dissolves into a low bass snarl, almost a moan, more than a moan.
The knife remains a threat, pressed flat between his palm and Daddy's hip. ]
no subject
Oh, Puppy.
Oh, Love.
He thought the words or he spoke them or they simply sang ecstatic through his head.
There’s a laugh in his throat, low and shivered. He feels shivered through, struck with sharp sparking between his shoulders, through his ribs, running down to thighs, to groin.
It isn’t only the bite in its intensity; it’s Enri’s eyes, as well - glinting vicious, fervent - and the tease of Enri’s teeth, the bite that doesn’t draw blood, that tests against the will of god and shows that Puppy, Puppy will obey, but not without first cutting his own mark, his mischief, his own will executed as (beautiful) (perfectly played) disobedience. It’s the growl - prelude to a storm - that preceded the bite, that lingers still in Darius’s knowing. And it’s the knife pressed - barely, barely, ah, not near enough (Puppy’s taking his time; Puppy’s being a rotten little tease) - to Darius’s thigh. A pressure he wants closer; a bite he wishes, and yes, he nudges his thigh up against the blade once, twice, an invitation and demand.
Hissing an exhale, breathing a wishful sigh that becomes a moan, imperative. ]
Wretched tease.
Beautiful boy.
[ Wouldn’t he love - fuck’s shit, he would love - to feel Enri’s hand against his wound (to feel Enri all over, yes, yes, he wants Enri’s touch at every inch of skin), to feel Enri rend him a dozen and more times and coat the world with Darius’s blood. So that all the world might know god, and there is no one, there is no one better suited to this work than Enri; there is no one beside Enri who deserves to touch his blood, let alone to set it running.
He would bleed rivers, oceans for this man.
He draws his knee along Enri’s thigh, deliberate, breath turning to a groan.
He butts a snarling nuzzle against Enri’s head. Scrapes his teeth along Puppy’s jaw. And grins. And, snarl turning to a hummed sound, withdraws, head high, speaking command— ]
Rend me, my Enri.
Pin me.
[ And, leaning closer, voice tending lower, prowled with a lethal purr— ]
Will you take my heart, Love? Shred it out and takes its blood all for your own?
Show me, Puppy.
Show Daddy what ruin you can make.
[ Darius draws Enri for a kiss, sudden and sharp and pressured, needful, staggered briefly by a sharp bite of Enri’s lip, blood to accompany this sharing, blood to take the kiss deeper, Darius rising upward, hand at the back of Enri’s head twining tight through close-cut hair, to hold, as if to offer no escape, as if the boy were caught, while the other hand grabs Enri’s collar, yanking himself close yanking Enri closer, Darius arching his back into the kiss, Darius feeling the flare of the bite and wanting, yes needing more. Needing ruin, blood.
Needing Puppy. ]
no subject
That first night (it will always in memory be 'that first night', as though it was the night his existence began) (it was, in a way, the first night he lived), when Enri lay sweating and cowering beneath his blankets, he imagined a hand at his head. He imagined a slow-moving invasion, a voice in his ear, a tongue running across his name. He imagined kneeling, pressing his cheek to Daddy's thigh.
He hadn't known. He couldn't know. There was so much they could do to one another - that they could revel in, that they could experience for the first time or again and again, together. He couldn't imagine any of this.
(He hadn't imagined then, or later, on the plane. Or even when it all seemed like it was ending, and he'd known he was in love. He hadn't imagined how much he could love this man.
He hadn't known it would hurt to breathe, and that the feeling would be a madness, something that would turn them both desperate and frenzied. He hadn't known it would infect his dreams, or leave him still and sanctified, perfectly peaceful.
He'd gone running across a beach to a chapel because Daddy was waiting.
He'd gone running across post to a motel because Darius was running, too.)
His hands grip - a knife, and Daddy's hair - and he growls into the bites, the spill of his blood mixing with Daddy's on his tongue, where there was already a lingering trace of honey. His thoughts flare black like a fuse blown, and he twists, pushes, Daddy wants to be pinned, he'll pin him and spend the rest of their lives running his knife along every vein.
(He loves his god. He loves his Daddy.)
Love you, love you - Is he thinking or speaking? (He can't be speaking because there's flesh between his teeth.)
There's a sound to his right, and then there's no sound to his right, there are voices distant and a window opening, outside sounds louder and then gone; Enri forgets he ever heard anything except the voice of god. With one hand, he pins Daddy's hands over his head, the knife's point pressing at the hollow of Daddy's throat. (Careful, he knows he has to be careful, Daddy likes to push himself into the blade and Enri needs to protect him from jumping into the abyss. Walk him to the edge and hold him there.) ]
I already took your heart.
[ He grins, and for the first time, there's a flawless mingling of predatory malice and tenderness. Perfect love.
Blood beads at the knife point and Enri exhales, shivering. ]
I cut out little pieces of it when you weren't looking.
[ As he speaks, he drags the knife down to cut buttons away, seemingly careless, the edge inflicting tiny cuts. (Precise. He knows what he's doing.) ]
Texting you.
On that plane. Kissing you.
With a rose. With this knife. With some honey.
There's nothing to shred out of you. It's gone already.
[ And, softly, with a delighted smile, he lilts -]
Daddy loves me.
[ He drags fabric aside to see his name and his smile gleams white with teeth. The first real cut drags along the fresh scar of the 'E'. He dips a finger in the blood and shows it to Daddy. ]
I said if I left a scar, you couldn't get rid of me. I took everything that was left and put my heart in there, instead.
Ruined your heart the first week I had you, while you were letting me play with your lungs.
[ He settles near now, toying with the knife at Daddy's throat, and graces him with a barely-there kiss. And then another. And smiles. ]
My love. My god.
no subject
(Perfect Puppy. Perfection of god.)
Doesn’t he love the menace and the clarity of Enri’s speaking, how readily and well he places violence into speaking, twines sanguinary words with fondness, with meticulous and razored care.
Doesn’t he love Enri’s hand in his hair, Enri’s hand yanking fire through his skull. Enri’s bite the aftermath of Enri’s teeth still beating at the juncture of neck and shoulder.
Doesn’t he love the blood on his tongue, how ecstatically it’s given, and how Puppy jars him, jerks him, pins him back, arms held.
And yes, oh, yes, the knife sharping at his throat, briefly, lightly into his throat, he’d like more of that, requires more of that, and he twists his wrists beneath Enri’s hands, flickers light-headed to find how well the boy holds him (how strong this man is) (what he can do with those hands) (one to throat, clamping; that’s all it takes), flickers with the recurrent knowledge that his Puppy is a rampant force (and gentle, and precise in his attentions), and that though Darius’s arms are held, still he can snarl, bite, speak, laugh—
And twist to draw his thigh along Enri’s thigh. And draw his leg around Enri’s, to bind, to twine Puppy right along with Daddy. To draw closer, hip to hip. To lift and brush his hip against Enri’s, the sound in his throat half a growl, half a purr. The world dizzying at every edge, spiraling with white, with red, into blurred and inconsequential edges. Until the world’s gone soft beyond Enri. Until Puppy alone remains cut clear, amber eyes and swift blade and look at him, he’s bleeding Darius, little bit by little bit, knife wielded with seeming-casual care, and each nick shudders Darius’s breath, jars a hitch through his lungs—
Lungs Enri’s played with. Curled between and clawed within. There is nothing in Darius that this man can’t touch. There is nothing Darius would care to withhold.
Puppy’s right; Puppy’s absolutely right. From that first night, that shower of messages that’d struck strange chords, that had left Darius pacing restless, nearly drew him out the door (reckless, that would have been reckless) (it could have been beautiful, as well) (what would it have been, to become a knock on the door that night, to track his Puppy down, to - yes - corner him?) (exhilarating, perhaps) (something they might play out, perhaps, if Enri proves amenable) (one way or another, he intends to corner this man) (and anyway, they’d had the airplane, six hours of exploration, of introducing Puppy to his duties and his pleasures, six hours of biting and speaking razors that turned at times to softer, subtler speech, and Darius had felt his heart constricting there, as well). Promising ’We’ll burn together.’ Prophetic, that; and this burn is everything Darius could think to ask, becomes more besides with every day.
Every day, where Enri (Enri with his impish little sing-song) (Enri who is right, of course: Daddy does love him, Daddy’s pulse leaps wild to hear Enri speak of love) holds each fragment of his heart, and keeps it whole. Every day, where Enri’s breath and Enri’s bite and Enri’s exquisite touch conjures renewal.
Every day, where Darius feels Enri’s heart running steady against his own lungs. Every day, where Darius touches his chest and traces Enri’s name (Enri’s name now running blood again; good boy, judicious boy to lay this cut) and feels Enri’s adoration in this new heart’s pulse.
Those kisses.
That knife.
Darius smiles, near-beatific, eyes closed to take in the fullness of this scene and every pain within his feeling. Then lets his eyes open, landing instantly on Enri’s eyes, and Darius’s lip ticks upward, smile turned to a promise of hazard. As he tilts his chin upward, shoulders and chest rising, neck arching to brush along the knife’s edge. To rub back and forth against the blade, eyes on Enri, rolling and biting his lower lip.
Taking a breath. Taking a breath. And— ]
My heart meant little until my Puppy ruined it. Until you read the resurrection in my blood.
You, Love, are all I need. My devastated heart’s keeper and requirement.
My adoration.
My obedient demon; my wayward god.
[ Then, squeezing the leg wrapped around Enri’s, again brushing thigh against thigh and twisting in the edge of a grind, shoving his throat sharper toward the knife— ]
Give me every scar you’ve ever dreamed.
Mark me a thousand times over, inward and external. I am your god, Daddy, your Darius. Your all. And I command your infliction.
My beautiful, lethal Love.
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?
no subject
He doesn’t know what to make of Enri’s seeming-hesitation. Of the space of thought between his vice and Enri, where Enri watches contemplative (he thinking of something, turn it over in his head) (what is it you see, Puppy?) (come back to Daddy, love), and then—
They seem strange question to ask right now. Still. Darius doesn’t doubt that Puppy has a plan here; Darius can see it, hear it. Can’t trace its form, but he trusts Enri, and haven’t Enri’s schemes always landed well before? And isn’t Enri’s voice inviting; assuring? Whatever the boy has in mind, Darius intends to follow it through. Eyes on Enri; eyes glancing to Enri’s knife; eyes on Enri again, again.
Smiling and canting his head— ]
Paris; Montmartre. A brick wall at my back.
A fucking trench knife in the hands of a colleague.
Kieran Hawk.
[ He lets the syllables fall with staccato sharpness, watching Enri’s reaction, inviting Enri to despise the bastard.
The wound had happened early in Darius’s first stay in Paris; he’d been there a week and a half, maybe two. And a handful of colleagues from the embassy announced that they’d be going out for post-work drinks.
It turned out to be a dull fucking affair; a dull lot of assholes. All of them older than Darius; most of them pissed about his presence, the position he’d worked and talked (and more-than-talked) his way into. Darius had gone for those drinks in an attempt at playing cordial and building relations, knowing most people have some kind of use, knowing it’d do no good to make enemies of everyone around the embassy.
So Darius had taken it slow on the drinking. (So Darius had slipped off to do a line, keep sharp.) So Darius had asked questions, played to colleagues’ interest. And a few of the shitheads had started to ease off of the antagonism.
Hawk, though. Kieran fucking Hawk only stewed and muttered to what must’ve passed for his allies. And stared. And kept staring. ]
Bastard didn’t like the way I looked at him. He caught me against a wall—
[ Darius cocks his head, recalling the sudden hand at his collar, a jarring wrench at his shoulder. Hawk and a couple of his allies watching. Tip of a knife just below Darius’s throat. Hawk droning about breaking Darius, about drop the mask, are you fucking human, I’ll teach you a fucking lesson.
And Darius had smiled, a half-cocked smirk. And his expression had offered exasperated amusement only. ]
I told him to do it. Watched as he cut me.
The supercilious fuck.
[ The little shit hadn’t deserved to cut Darius or draw his blood, and Darius’s tone - derisive, rung with irritation - suggests as much. Still, it’d been worthwhile to watch Hawk’s resolve falter, then drain. Watched the knife start to fall, then shift into a battering ram as Hawk moved to swing the knuckle guard into Darius’s skull. Darius had torn away, kneeing the fucker in the stomach. Wrenched the knife from Hawk’s hand and delivered a sharp blow to the fucker’s head, pushed past Hawk’s cronies - had they ever been in a fucking fight before? they’d looked lost, like it wasn’t meant to get this far - and headed for more promising climes, blood seething from his wound.
The knife’d gone into an ally. Let someone else find it and do what they will; Darius hadn’t cared in the least, and kept his own knives more discrete. ]
In the end, I cracked him on the head with his knife. And spent the night trailing blood through Paris.
no subject
He loves hearing about Daddy's past. He loves holding it up side by side with Daddy's present and knowing with certainty which one is better.
(Darius was in Paris, alone and unliked, doing a job Enri thinks he might not have enjoyed very much.) (We'll go to Paris, he thinks idly. Maybe next summer, he thinks, and a tingling pleasure rolls through him, because they'll have next summer, and they'll have places they visit together, and because they'll be together, it'll be a first for both of them. (He'll use Darius's name in hotels. He'll speak to clerks in the right language, and wear decent clothes, and he'll use Darius's name. Instead of Enri Anderson from Iowa, he'll pretend to be Enri Scarlett from New York.) (This thought, deep, barely in awareness, threatens to jar his hand with a shiver.) (Enri Scarlett-))
(Darius was alone in Paris and someone cut him.
Fast forward to now. He's not alone. He'll never be alone again.
And Enri is going to cut him.)
His eyes linger a moment past the end of the tale, and then he shifts, stretching his arm to continue pinning Daddy at the wrists even as he extracts himself from the leg wrapped around him, brings himself even with the scar. His thumb strokes the old wound, slowly charting its course. ]
No.
[ He raises his chin a little to catch Daddy's eye again. With a fond, assured voice, he continues - ]
You're not remembering right.
[ And then he grins, wicked, and nips at the flesh beside his hand before he explains himself. ]
It was twenty-twenty-one, and you were in an apartment above a bar. Your Puppy - who loves how you look at him - pinned you to the floor and split you open with his Leatherman. You told him to do it, and you watched as he cut you.
[ The point of his knife presses the end of the scar, right where it began the first time. Huskily, cocking his head, Enri breathes - ]
Don't move. It's gotta be just right, so it's mine. So there's no Paris, no Kieran Hawk, no alley. So it never happened.
But this did. Null Set, and me, and my knife.
[ A beat, and - ]
I dream of the scars you've already got. You're perfect the way you are, Daddy. Just got the wrong memories to go with the scars. So - we'll make all of them mine. When this one heals, we'll find another one. And another, and another.
Don't move.
[ And, whispering with a laugh: ]
Be as loud as you want, though.
[ And the knife eases, following the scar like a seam ripped open; Enri draws his hand slowly, eyes full of malicious fascination.
(It's like there was nothing in the world was meant to be cut with knives but this, this, Daddy's flesh, parting like the Red Sea. Flooding with something other than water.) (He cut a god. He cut open a god. He cut open his god-)
He cut open his god. (His head swims. His arousal is a throbbing counterpoint, a desperate pounding of need, his voice is hoarse and he doesn't register his own speech any longer but it must be prayer. It's always prayer.) His god bleeds like everyone else, which is why he can't have been cut by anyone but Enri. This isn't mundane. This is sacred. If the blood comes and the scars remain, then history needs rewriting.
Someone's whispering my god, someone's hand is lifting from the wound, and if the only one who could cut Daddy is another god, then it must be Enri. If the only one who could love him the way he needs is another god, then Enri is whispering, and Enri's hand is bloodstained, and Enri summons life from under Daddy's skin.
Impulsively, he licks the fresh-made wound. ]
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’No’; a word that only Puppy, Enri, this god is allowed to speak to Darius.
’No’; a word that holds no power in any other voice.
In Enri, it becomes reconstructive. In Enri, it’s a prelude to some clever stratagem or pleasurable divergence. (Enri understands Darius, perceives Darius. They inhabit a world of shared terms, parameters, ideals. So of course Enri may speak revision. So of course Enri may redirect existence.) Here, accompanied by the shift of Enri’s thumb along the scar, accompanied by the knife held near, accompanied by attentive, hungry eyes (eyes Darius could fall into forever) (eyes Darius could trust, does trust with his wholeness), ’No’ promises delight, mercy, a gift.
The shape of that promise comes clear with (a bite, loving, tantalizing, and) a little more speech, Puppy’s voice reworking phrases that held no fondness, held no place in Darius’s (torn, gifted, resurrected) heart. Puppy placing himself in the story of this wound; Puppy reaching back through history to turn a hollow into something exultant, something loving.
Enri is going to give him the knife, draw blood. Write himself into Darius’s skin again (and again, and again for every scar, oh, when Puppy’s finished, there won’t be a piece of Darius unmarked, unblessed by his love, his god) (as if any part of Darius were sealed from Enri now; as if the boy hasn’t curled wholly through Darius’s being, through whatever passes for Darius’s soul), a promise of ecstatic blood to follow. A promise of Enri rewriting every wound, turning every scar into his own (with that Leatherman; with the knife that wrote Enri’s name), a thought that tilts the world precipitately on its axis, dizzies Darius’s thinking and draws a laugh from him like wonder.
It’s a better story. Yes, it’s a better story by far.
It’s briefly surprising, when Enri mentions Null Set. Because they are there, aren’t they? In Sen and Rin’s apartment, though before Darius can wonder where those two’ve gone, he’s trilled to fond distraction by Enri’s dreams of Daddy’s scars, by Enri who calls Darius perfect. God to god, like to like; of course he’s perfect, and of course Enri’s perfect, but the words still warm him.
And Darius thinks, absently, of all the places he and Enri might rewrite his scars. Of all the locales where Enri might draw blood; of all the places they might turn into their own, laden with meaning.
There’s no time to consider specifics, however (and no need now; he and Enri have plenty of time, all the years in existence), because Enri advises stillness, Enri invites sound, and as Darius watches, Enri draws the knife into his skin.
He doesn’t howl.
For several heartbeats he doesn’t make a sound at all, rapt in watching Enri’s eyes, the fascination the focus the reverent care. (Worlds different from the first time, in that Paris alley.) (That first time no longer exists. That first time needn’t hold a thought in the world. Banish it; it has no place on his body.) For several heartbeats, he feels the cut almost at a distance, building louder and sharper in awareness until he lets himself step into it, flicks his eyes upward and feels the bright of pain come crashing in.
As his breath catches; as his lungs stagger. As he exhales a harsh and shuddered huff, half-laugh. As a sound builds in the back of his throat, a sigh that becomes a moan, a moan that turns itself into a word - ’Enri’ - clamored rough within his voice, that yelps upward nearly to a howl. Another laugh, louder, and an exaltation— ]
My Enri.
[ And, tensing his shoulders against an impulse to jerk against the pain, tensing his chest against an impulse to jerk against the knife and invite a deeper cut— ]
Good.
Boy.
[ Again his breath catches, and though the knife has gone, still the wound burns beautifully. Still Enri’s work drives agony against him. And Darius hears worship, hears his name or hears the name of god, which is his own, which is Enri’s also, and Darius is speaking, ’Yes,’ ‘Yes,’ and ’Enri, my Enri, such beautiful work.’
And Enri’s tongue is at Darius’s chest.
And Enri has done so well; Puppy has been so good.
So Darius’s eyes find Enri. So Darius straightens, wrists twisting in Enri’s hold.
So Darius leans forward to set a kiss to Enri’s hair, to Enri’s cheek, to Enri’s bloody lip. ]
Well done, my love. My future and my all.
[ There's a hum, and Darius nudges Enri's temple. Nips at Enri's ear. Aware of the burn in the chest, the wet of blood welling. Aware of an ache in his arms. Aware, above all, of this perfect man before him. ]
You, your knife, and Null Set.
Daddy is— Oh. Unspeakably pleased.
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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. ]
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Beautiful amber-eyed Puppy.
And.
Bold, rash boy.
(Darius thrills to this man’s brazenness. Would like to sink teeth into skin, punish and requite his Puppy.)
Puppy sets his fingers at Darius’s belt, and Darius watches with distant amusement, with a guise of calculation. Stops just short of smirking and raises his eyebrows, a certain gravity of expression suggesting that he’s considering Puppy’s ultimatum (petition) (plea) (portent) (as if Enri read the future in the spill of Darius’s blood; as if Enri were reporting an omen).
There’s stillness; Darius’s chest barely rising with breath (though the blood runs; though he feels it fall in rivulets and gather along fabric), Enri’s hand unmoving at his belt. (The boy’s going to get what he wants. And. After all, Puppy wants what Daddy wants; an accord of needing to claw into one another, to turn one another wild, to carry agitation into a collision and a confluence of bodies.
And Puppy has been so well-behaved.
And Enri has driven Darius with an ecstasy of pain.
And Darius wants to wrap himself around this man. Wants to smear Puppy with blood, with love. Wants to draw him with Daddy into ecstasy.)
(Still.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to toy a little. Prod at Puppy and his leveled not-quite-a-(absolutely-a-)demand. Daddy’s still in charge, after all. And unruly Puppies can’t be given everything they want.
Not immediately, anyway. (Almost immediately.) (He doesn’t expect to keep Enri dangling, waiting for long.))
When Darius speaks, his voice is even, precise, drips indulgent venom. There’s the hint of a good-be grin, could-be-malevolence at the corner of his lip. ]
Do you?
[ As the words ring through the world around them, as the word resonate through every corner of their world,
Darius feels through and through the weight of the body now between his thighs; inviting and grown needful. Feels those fingers poised, feels the lingered burn of sharpness at his chest. Feels (more exquisite than anything) the fact of Enri beneath his hands. And drift one hand crawling, caressing two fingers down Enri’s chest, down his abdomen. Caught on Enri’s eyes all the while, and Darius drifts his free hand to brush Enri’s jaw, to slip under Enri’s jaw and reach the slickness of his own blood. Returns the hand to brush his thumb at Enri’s cheek, a streak of blood like wine reflected, and to draw blood-brushed fingers back though Enri’s hair.
His smile’s turned more present now, gazing down at Enri in admiration. Hand at Puppy’s hair caressing fondness; hand at Enri’s stomach, then toward Enri’s thigh seeking excitation.
And Darius arches his lower back, hips shifting, brushing at Enri’s thigh.
And Darius blinks at Enri, expression agreeable indulgence flickered barely, barely with mischief. Indulgence accompanied by the clear mischief of blood shared in caressing and another shift of his hips. Indulgence written clearly with intention to satisfy, to take and grant, to worship.
Still, Darius tsks a click of sound with his tongue. ]
Is that any way to speak to god, Love?
[ The hand at Enri’s thigh brushes. Fingers curling with a brush of nails. And Darius hums a thoughtful sound that turns toward a sigh, tossing his hair and drawing the hand to trace Enri’s lip, licking his own lip light, purposeful.
Meaning: 'Daddy likes what he sees.' ]
Be warned, Puppy: your god is fickle, and holds the instrument of your fate.
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He does. He gets a reward. He cut Daddy, he rewrote the world for Daddy, and now there's blood seeping into his clothes and streaked across his cheek. It's on his tongue, mingling with whiskey and honey and love. He gets a reward because he was a good Puppy, and has been all night. (Mostly.)
He earned it. (He's going to suffer otherwise. He'll be aching and Daddy will drag out this visit for every moment he can until Enri loses his mind, because Enri isn't allowed to touch himself -) (Visit.) (They're visiting people.)
His breathing quickens with the thought that Sen and Rin are nearby, and can probably hear. Probably heard Daddy shouting in pain/pleasure. Heard Daddy shout Enri and not Puppy.
(They'll hear how Enri can make him come.)
His eyes fix on Daddy again, intently focused, his hand a fist around the belt, the waistband of the pants, a promise of rending.
And then Daddy clicks his tongue and the hand is gone, it's fucking gone, at his lips instead while Daddy warns him about his tone.
He stares, a faint tremor passing through him. (He stares at Daddy's tongue. He thinks about the first night, about that lip caught between Daddy's teeth, and how he left Enri burning.
For a night. For a week. For hours on a plane. For hours after.
He can't.
He can't -
There's a sound like snarling, an animal clawing itself out of a trap; a jarring motion and he isn't careful anymore. (Frantic.) His hands tear, jerk a smaller (fickle) (bloodied) god from the floor, Enri kneeling, Enri teaching a god to kneel. His fingers dug into hips until his nails leave crescent wounds where clothes have been shoved away. His hand a fist in Daddy's hair.
He forgets everything but what's needed, readies only enough for an unhindered thrust, growling yes (yes it is a way to speak to god, yes he gets a reward, yes this and yes now and yes they can fucking hear him, the whole bar can probably hear him and yes, good puppy -)
They can hear him.
They could hear Daddy shouting his name.
He's a good Puppy, he's Daddy's perfect monster, he's shouting and he hopes they're listening because his god is a good Daddy, his god is bleeding across their nice floor and Puppy gets a reward for all that blood.
(He's never shouted 'Daddy' while fucking before.)
(He shouts it now and hopes they hear.) ]
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He has welcome this monster; waited and wound toward this monster.
And when the monster appears - a wild god snarling, rising with the force of uncaught storms - Darius gazes in euphoric wonder.
He’s beautiful.
Enri is beautiful, an onslaught of motion and force, tearing toward his goal, his want, and if Darius has little time to watch this god in transformation, still he feels the refulgent gleam in all the air around, still he hears the vicious growl the could-be-feral yes-that’s-feral ragged hush of breath, still he feels the world tilt as the wild god jerks him, jars him breathless in exquisite motions that bring Darius to his knees, he’s on his knees and laughing, shocked into a gasp that climbs to raucous, violent merriment, Darius tearing his head to the side to find the thrilling jolt of Enri’s hold, to jerk his head again and feel himself held tangled, interlaced and joined as he should be with Puppy, as he must always - brilliant, oh beautiful fate of the gods - be with Enri, and when Enri brings them to joining and the wild god thrusts, when the wild god growls and reverberates in a profundity of bass exclamation, exaltation, claim and worship, Darius hazes brilliant, feels nothing of the floor at his knees the fabric in his hands, this, this is a careen into resplendent and crawling abyss, the wild god drawing reaching one clawed hand to draw him in, ecstatic welcome, and oh, he loves this man.
This man whose shout convulses though his bones. This man who could pry him open, vein by vein. The man whose havoc (and whose obedience) (and whose insubordination) (and whose tenderness) spikes the world more brilliant than Darius has known. And what the wild god shouts is ‘Daddy,’ drawing from Darius another bright laugh that turns into a strangled moan as his body tenses, bucks, as his breath hitches and he moves one hand to grasp for Enri for the wild god, fingers clamping sharp and holding tight where he finds flesh.
Who else would ruin the world for him. Who else would bring to him and bring him to such sheer devastation?
There is nothing that this man doesn’t give him. How often has Enri driven past the bounds of everything that was, there are no rules beyond their own, there are no laws beyond what their divinities create, and mold, remold, the world turned vibrant, red and Darius’s vision is an eruption of colors in carnage, of fire that creates no ash, fire burning infinite, and can’t they be two flames entwined, eternal, and aren’t they, and aren’t they, and the air Darius breathes sings with honey, and the world at his eyes coils red and silvered, sharp and endless.
He smells his own blood. He feels the air cut sharp with intention. He feels the blood still dropping from his wound, feels Enri near and in and all around him, a threatening and fond and devastating force, another perfect form of worship.
(‘Daddy’ was the word Enri shouted, and within the abyss Daius recognizes, dimly, the newness of that shout and comprehends its meaning, that Enri’s playing to their setting, to their hosts, that this god is Darius’s perfect brat, and again Darius grins sharp in adoration, in appreciation. Enri, yes Enri, Enri, Enri is so perfectly his own.)
One hand has Enri and on hand clutches into Rin’s very nice not-quite-a-chair, fingers marking plush fabric red, Darius lowering his head shoulders quaking quaking through to skull to throat to spine. The wild god the monstrous Puppy the Puppy-eyed wolf growls, or was growling, or that’s Darius now, a rumble in his chest as he shudders, as he’s stricken with the voice and brilliant force of Enri, and his throat finds words, finds ’Yes, Puppy,’ and ’Good, my good Puppy,’ and 'Yes, Love,' in growled and gasping cries. And Darius’s hand at Enri clutches a sharp press of pleasure, of pride, of communion.
You can love a monster like this. Darius loves a monster like this, loves this monster (this man) (this boy) (the Puppy) (his one and his only) past the furthest vibrations of himself. Enri, Enri, oh Enri brings him pleasure and to pleasure and torn out from every atom of himself in countless, vicious ways. In worship toned soft and worship toned fierce, worship tuned chaotic. God to god; monster to monster; Puppy to Daddy; Enri to Darius. ]
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Everything is his to take when he wants. The world around him feels blood-soaked and shaken and sprawling for him. Where he can put a hand and leave a mark, teeth leave trenches, he shouts rapture and another god rears, laughs, blesses his name.
(This is.) (This is how Darius feels.) (When he calls himself a god (he is a god), he means the crush of his own power, he means the world answers, he means everything is simple, or he sees the complex workings of the universe and knows one touch of his bloody hand is simple, is destruction-)
(He is.
Kind of drunk.)
(He feels so fucking good. Coming down off that high feels just as good as the high. He feels like he -)
(Just got the fuck of his life.)
(Hm. In...Mx. Renault's apartment.)
(Oops.)
He tilts his head back with a throaty laugh, eyes closed, his hand massaging Daddy's hip. And then he's easing back to sit on his heels, tugging Daddy with him -]
Got you. Got- I got you.
[ He does. (He always. Always has Darius after.) (Weird. He rarely feels like he needs comfort, care - even after something like this. Even after the most violent games. Any more than usual, anyhow. Darius always makes sure he has water, food, shit like that - but every time, Enri needs to make sure Darius is okay. He can't settle himself until he knows Darius is okay.) ]
I got- Fuh- Fuck -
[ His sit becomes ungainly, half-toppled because he is slightly drunk and hungry and Jesus that felt so good, it felt so good, right down to his fucking soul, and he didn't count on Darius weighing anything at all when pulling him into his lap. There's laughter and it's issuing helplessly from Enri, there's warmth and it's in his arms, under his lips, someone living and always and all his own. There's wet and it's coming from a wound he cut, so he reaches for the nearest thing that seems like it'd be good to staunch the flow and holds it there at Daddy's chest, putting pressure until he can gather himself enough to think any kind of straight.
Maybe get their clothes on straight, too.
Whatever. Later.
In between each thrilled little laugh, he nuzzles, prays his love. ]
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There’s a jarring that startles him, briefly, but resolves to find his head where he desired it, Enri’s heart beating just against Darius’s hearing, and Enri’s arms still holding him, and Darius drawing his own arms closer still. Enri’s laughter trilling resplendence through his thought, Darius smiling and nuzzling, nuzzling against Enri’s warm-glowing skin.
There’s a pressure at his chest; Enri tending to Darius’s blood. Enri looking after, taking care of Darius, and yes Enri had said ’I’ve go you’ and yes Darius knows, a certitude that runs within his marrow. Yes, Enri’s there (Enri’s here, always here) through and at the end of every ecstasy. Enri, the source of every joy and raucous ascension. Puppy, the boy kneeling before him and the god who hand-in-hand climbed up above the world.
Enri takes such good care of him. In ruin and in mending.
Darius’s body hums. His breath shivers hitched, slowing gradually, and he reaches for Enri’s cheek, exhaling a pleased sound when he finds contact, the form of this beautiful god. His thumb begins a slow, a shuddered caress, and his eyes speak wonder, his eyes speak thrall and adoration.
He could stay here forever.
He will stay here, with Enri, forever. After all, the world is what and where they make it. The world blooms where Darius and Enri are, together.
Smiling softly, voice hushed, dazzled, unwavered, Darius speaks— ]
How is it that the world can hold you?
My Love, my god.
[ He leans upward, feeling heaviness in his limbs, feeling a pleasant burn at his chest, at his hips, his lip, everywhere his Puppy in worship bit or caught. And there’s a kiss for Enri’s other cheek before Darius rests his head again, looking up, eyes caught with Enri’s (what else, oh what else could he wish to hold in gazing?). ]
You are incomparably brilliant.
And that—
[ His smile sharpens to a smirk, and he nudges Enri with just a little force, sets a kiss to his chest with a momentary graze of teeth. ]
Ah, Love. That was beautifully done.
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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
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(If Darius were given to questioning himself, he might ask how it’s possible that he could be a force of happiness for anyone, let alone this brilliant man, young and bright and dazzling. Might wonder how it’s possible that he’s found anyone who can exist in consonance with him so perfectly, who draws from him such fascination and such adoration. Might wonder how it’s possible that he, who has never found fondness with anyone, let alone love (oh, love, he does love this man, a thought that warms Darius all over again), could at last come into this ecstasy of adoration.
But he’s a god, and Enri is a god, so of course they found one another; so of course they exist in perfect consonance, and Darius doesn’t wonder.)
(Still, it thrills him. Still, it flutters beyond explanation, beyond probability, beyond the containment of any earthly reason.)
(Still, he knows a humming gratitude in every moment; knows his fortune in the depths and in the lingering of amber eyes, the trace of Enri’s touch along his skin.)
The warmth is tripped into electric sparking and a catching in his lungs when Enri speaks of next time, Darius biting his lip without intention, Darius aching his next against the thought, one hand flying to cover Enri’s at his chest, at his blood.
And when Enri grimaces, when Enri gives the not-chair a theatric assessment, Darius huffs a laugh and cuddles closer against Enri, reaching up to run a hand along his jaw. As if coaxing his attention back toward Darius. As if to say - his half-smile bright, toned with mischief and with adoration - ’There’s more important business here, Love, my love, the source of every fondness.’ ]
Insatiable tease.
How fortunate we have a weekend ahead of us, hm? I promised you salvation; I’m certain we can find holiness along the way, as well.
Holiness and further holding.
[ He shifts to better wrap his own arm around Enri’s back, pressing Enri’s back and nuzzling against Enri’s chest to draw himself nearer, nearer, as close against Enri’s warmth as he can. ]
Love. There is nothing better than seeing to your happiness. Than sharing in our home.
And I do love to hold you. I’m afraid I won’t ever let you go; you’ll simply have to resign yourself to being happy forever.
As will I, Love.
[ There’s a kiss for Enri’s cheek, for Enri’s jaw, then for Enri’s lips, gentle and persistent, a set of lingering brushing presses that ends in a gentle tug of the man’s lower lip.
Glancing at the not-chair and back at Enri, raising an eyebrow— ]
Renault’s typically pissed about something. I expect they’ll survive.
[ Again he sets a hand to Enri’s cheek. Bracing, as if to guard the world away. ]
Daddy will take care of it, Puppy; don’t you trouble yourself.
Only know that Daddy love you. That you are all my adoration.
[ Then, voice softening, smile turning conspiratorial, smile promising tender, devotional catastrophe— ]
And I have fresh honey waiting for us at home.
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