The Whys of Teeth

"May I mark you?"

There's a fragility in being owned, at times, in belonging; the way that sort of power goes has the vector nature, it flows one way. To be claimed is not to claim, and the obligations of one's master towards caretaking are not the same thing as a hand twined in hair, not the same thing as the weight of the pin or the feel of knots ground into one's breastbone.

To say "my master" is not the thing of pride of ownership that "my slave" or whatever other title might be; it is relational, not possessive. This is the one who may command; what claims may be made upon that person are limited, at least, by protocol. It cannot express possessiveness.

It's not a thing with much space for holding; it is a word of being held.

"May I mark you?"

There's a fragility in being engaged, at times, too, at least as a woman using somewhat culturally-familiar protocols. The meaning of the ring is obscured, perhaps, by the wedding band on my other hand, less obvious to the observer, but at the same time, I am marked by it and know myself to be so, and if someone were to ask me what it was, I would tell them.

I have the mark to touch, to remind me of promises made, intentions declared, to make a show of these to those who notice such things.

There will be no such signs for him before the vow-taking.

"May I mark you?"

"Yes."

There is a fragility in exposing the weakness that lies here, in being, in so many things, the one held, not the one with the authority to hold. Such a deep fragility, felt so keenly.

And there is protocol.

And with permission, the fear gone into reds and bloody golds and intense needfulness, teeth to shoulder, breath half-stifled in a halo of hair, a moment of wrestling here and a retaliatory nip (perhaps to prove that permission is not authority), the adjustment of his torc there so I could nuzzle roughness into the perfect curve of neck, and the holding on so tightly.

And he laughed at me, and was the one to hold on then, when he asked if that was enough, and I said, softly, fiercely, not for the first time, "Mine, damnit."

The marks will fade.

But right now, there is no fragility.

Right now, there is that dark, sweet, savage feeling, that tastes like pride.