Consider this to take place post-series, on a second visit to Nihon.
*
The lantern gutters, flame flickering and low, and about your throat the cord tightens. Slowly, too slowly, in perfect contrast to how your breath quickens.
Your first instinct is to fight it (thrash and struggle and fight; lash out with everything you have in you) but you don’t, you can’t-
-and that’s the best thing about it.
“Look at me,” murmurs Fai, one finger tilting your chin up; as your head lifts your bindings pull taut in so many small ways, a rasp of silk-on-silk (the drape of his sleeve, his hands shaking as he loosens the obi wrapped tight around his hips) and of silk-on-skin (the fall of his robes, shivering open across his chest and pooling soft across his thighs) that drives you to sheer distraction.
“Stay with me, Kuro-sama,” he whispers, and that too is like silk, like the fall of his hair as it brushes your cheek, cloud-soft and floating about his face as he leans in close; on his knees before you on the futon you share, there is nowhere you can look but blue eyes (kissed by lantern-light, deep and dark and wanting; whole and shadowed and unafraid) and nowhere you would want to besides.
His hands fall to your shoulders, your chest, languid and almost drowsy in their movements as they flow across the pattern he has woven here, and red cord bites tight into your aching flesh with every breath, the sweet pain of it (his breath, hot on your throat; his teeth, so desperate and sharp) winding down every part of you as his fingers drift down to the knots that bind your arms behind your back.
There is no sensation in metal, but the sight of the silk rope, pulled taut and wound delicately over steel cable and pistons both, lurches thick in your stomach- the greatest technology you have ever seen in all your travels (greater than any vehicle or weapon ever to exist; with this hand, with this strength, you can protect that which matters to you) rendered still and helpless by one man alone.
“Oh,” sighs Fai, soft and airy; his hands tremble down the weavings that wrap your torso, little tremors that travel like lightning across the skin beneath. Every part of you is left wanting, and when his nails scrape just lightly over the slope of your thighs (over your back, your shoulders, left clawing in your hair; his mouth a burning brand against the arch of your throat, where your pulse beats a desperate crescendo) you can’t fight the shudder that takes you- nor the pleading sound that leaves your throat.
He groans in response, thick and shaky and straining through his teeth; his eyes flash gold, the light of the lantern pooling a storm of heat and hunger in his gaze. There is no warning when he takes the trail of loose rope that spills slack over one shoulder and yanks it brutally tight, and the pleasure that rolls in your belly (lashes as taut as the rope) is the thunder on the horizon, the kisses that fall to your skin (restrained and patterned and made so completely his) the first fall of heavy rain on parched ground that beckons the flood.
When you can breathe again, you speak. “More.” There is no shame in your voice, and nor should there be. In this space you have no room for it, not with his hands on you (not after all you have been for him, not after all you have become because of him, no shame, not ever).
“Yes,” he says, made breathless with wanting. In his hands, your bindings draw tighter still, and this snare is not one you would be free of. “Oh, Kuro-sama, yes.”
no subject
*
The lantern gutters, flame flickering and low, and about your throat the cord tightens. Slowly, too slowly, in perfect contrast to how your breath quickens.
Your first instinct is to fight it (thrash and struggle and fight; lash out with everything you have in you) but you don’t, you can’t-
-and that’s the best thing about it.
“Look at me,” murmurs Fai, one finger tilting your chin up; as your head lifts your bindings pull taut in so many small ways, a rasp of silk-on-silk (the drape of his sleeve, his hands shaking as he loosens the obi wrapped tight around his hips) and of silk-on-skin (the fall of his robes, shivering open across his chest and pooling soft across his thighs) that drives you to sheer distraction.
“Stay with me, Kuro-sama,” he whispers, and that too is like silk, like the fall of his hair as it brushes your cheek, cloud-soft and floating about his face as he leans in close; on his knees before you on the futon you share, there is nowhere you can look but blue eyes (kissed by lantern-light, deep and dark and wanting; whole and shadowed and unafraid) and nowhere you would want to besides.
His hands fall to your shoulders, your chest, languid and almost drowsy in their movements as they flow across the pattern he has woven here, and red cord bites tight into your aching flesh with every breath, the sweet pain of it (his breath, hot on your throat; his teeth, so desperate and sharp) winding down every part of you as his fingers drift down to the knots that bind your arms behind your back.
There is no sensation in metal, but the sight of the silk rope, pulled taut and wound delicately over steel cable and pistons both, lurches thick in your stomach- the greatest technology you have ever seen in all your travels (greater than any vehicle or weapon ever to exist; with this hand, with this strength, you can protect that which matters to you) rendered still and helpless by one man alone.
“Oh,” sighs Fai, soft and airy; his hands tremble down the weavings that wrap your torso, little tremors that travel like lightning across the skin beneath. Every part of you is left wanting, and when his nails scrape just lightly over the slope of your thighs (over your back, your shoulders, left clawing in your hair; his mouth a burning brand against the arch of your throat, where your pulse beats a desperate crescendo) you can’t fight the shudder that takes you- nor the pleading sound that leaves your throat.
He groans in response, thick and shaky and straining through his teeth; his eyes flash gold, the light of the lantern pooling a storm of heat and hunger in his gaze. There is no warning when he takes the trail of loose rope that spills slack over one shoulder and yanks it brutally tight, and the pleasure that rolls in your belly (lashes as taut as the rope) is the thunder on the horizon, the kisses that fall to your skin (restrained and patterned and made so completely his) the first fall of heavy rain on parched ground that beckons the flood.
When you can breathe again, you speak. “More.” There is no shame in your voice, and nor should there be. In this space you have no room for it, not with his hands on you (not after all you have been for him, not after all you have become because of him, no shame, not ever).
“Yes,” he says, made breathless with wanting. In his hands, your bindings draw tighter still, and this snare is not one you would be free of. “Oh, Kuro-sama, yes.”