Conor (nevertrustice) wrote in cirque_rp, @ 2017-05-15 08:04:00 |
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Current mood: | cold |
Who: Conor (Works as a stand-alone, but if you want to come and poke at a meditating Fae doing maintenence, by all means)
What: Taking time to think
When: May 4, late evening
Where: Ice Garden
Warnings: Talk of sexual power dynamics, brief mention of past sexual violence.
Conor sat cross-legged on the floor of the ice garden. Snow fell gently around him, landing in his hair and giving him a look that might have been called 'otherworldly', if anyone else had been around to see it. The garden was the place he felt most at home, where he could go to settle his mind and gather his thoughts. Gods knew they'd been spinning like a top lately.
Without opening his eyes, his fingers pressed into various spots all over his body. A minor twinge or ache arose in response, and they made him smile slightly. A constellation of bruises and bites were hidden under his clothes, marks he hadn't allowed anyone else to put on him in a long time. (Well...not so many of them, anyway.) Conor liked to be in control because that was what he'd always known, and with the familiar, there were less chances for you to get hurt. But Cass had turned that idea on its head.
He wasn't in love, because he'd tried that once and had gotten spectacularly burned. But Cass made him want to get on his knees and stay there until being told otherwise. To be good for him in a way he'd never be for anyone else. And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? In some ways, it wasn't even about the sex, although he'd take as much of that as he could get. It was being able to let go of that iron-clad control, even if it was only for a little while. And yeah, he wanted to. He liked being tied down and manhandled and used. But he was also the king of getting in his own way, and stubborn as hell. He'd tried yielding to someone in the same way once before, and while it had been good for a little bit, it had turned ugly fairly quickly. Conor had escaped with cuts, burns, and a broken hand, and no desire to be at anyone's mercy like that for a very long time.
Until now, apparently.
Conor sighed and uncrossed his legs, rubbing at his eyes. He liked to give off the impression that he knew what he was doing all the time. Usually, that was true. He was good at his job, sure of his place in the world, and as long as he didn't eat a box of iron nails, he'd probably live for a very long time. It didn't make him less to submit to someone, hell, there were whole communities built around that very idea. He was just tired of opening himself up to people and having salt poured in his metaphorical open wounds. It was why he kept most of the world at a comfortable arm's length. He wanted to trust the beautiful man who made him laugh and shudder and scream. It was just hard. That made him chuckle as he pushed himself up. Heh. Puns.
He slowly made his way to the middle of the garden, where he kept a cleared space. Snow was covering the ground, and ice glistened in the shapes of low walls and ornamental shrubs. He could still see some damage from where a rowdy crowd had gotten too enthusiastic while inside. He'd meant to fix it earlier, but he'd spent most of the day texting Cass and getting wound up instead. (And he was still thinking about that kiss against the wall of the tent, fuck, it was like he was being devoured. One hand in his hair, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. And yeah, he might've run off and had a wank almost immediately afterward, so sue him.) So if he went to bed late tonight, it was his own fault, but he didn't regret it.
He finally found the spot where the most damage was, running his fingers over the cracks. It hurt to see his work treated like this, but he could fix it. He'd make it good as new, and preen the next time he heard someone compliment it. He placed his hand over the crack and concentrated. Time to go to work.