Work Text:
Chougi has a sudden revelation a few moments after he’s been restrained by Kunihiro’s ropes. Specifically, there’s no reason he had to be the one subjected to kinbaku just to maintain the integrity of this mission. Kunihiro could have just as easily been this particular sacrificial lamb, as well. Hell, he’d probably be better at it than Chougi. The fake is obnoxiously patient, out in the field and back home at the citadel. He can weather bad storms, persistent enemies, and all of Chougi’s temper tantrums. He’d most likely be able to lie here without complaint, too.
Then again, you also needed patience to tie someone up this thoroughly. Chougi could have made this exact series of knots, too, but he’d probably have been muttering curses under his breath all the while. Meanwhile, Kunihiro can’t possibly be an expert at this kind of thing, but he’s sure behaving like it. If he has any trepidation at his own inexperience with this art form, it does not appear on his face.
Still, certain principles must be maintained. Chougi’s lips part and he’s going to protest. But what would he be protesting, exactly? His complaint already feels as tenuous and fragile as all the places where his skin rubs up against rope.
Kunihiro clinches that by putting his fingers on Chougi’s lips. It makes Chougi very aware of the warmth of his own breath and the relative unimportance of his words.
“You’re doing a great job,” Kunihiro says, all brusque efficiency rather than seductive.
Something about that praise still slides into Chougi’s marrow the way liquor slips into his veins. So he tries to remember why they’re here. Ah, yes, the Retrogade Army is targeting a particularly adventurous daimyo who likes to go to this establishment in a red light district. (Which one? Which city? Who is this man and how would yanking him from history warp the future?)
All these things seem to matter less than Kunihiro pulling tight, thoroughly constraining Chougi. Making him dangle, in a delicate cage, just above the ground.
Chougi tries to remind himself of other things that get tied together. Shoelaces and hair ties and obi. Many swords had interlocking ribbons on their katana. He feels more like a sword than he has in months and months, actually, as Kunihiro caresses a bare, rope-free patch of skin above Chougi’s hip. That touch makes Chougi think of a warrior absently, yet fondly reaching to touch the handle of their sword. A habit, yes, but also an act of reassurance.
There’s nothing much to be done here. Somehow he’s accepted this role and he’ll have to trust to the fake’s sense of compassion. Chougi’s eyes drift shut, like he can shield himself from how appealing that really is.
But then Kunihirio is pushing aside some of Chougi’s hair. His whisper finds its way down to Chougi’s bones.
“You're not as tied up as you think you are.”
“Oh?” It nearly comes out as a whimper.
Kunihiro guides one of Chougi’s hands to one bundle of ropes. It feels much like the other ones.
“If combat starts you can pull at this and everything will come apart.”
Chougi does, in fact, want to come apart. In more sober-minded times that realization would probably make him bite his inner cheek until he tasted blood. Here and now he just keeps his eyes closed and lets his head dangle back into nothing. Of course Kunihiro would remind him of his own compliance to this act of submission.
“Do you hear me?” Kunihiro asks. Now both of his hands are on Chougi’s body, strong and possessive. Maybe even protective.
“I do.”
Chougi always does.