Stay Still

The knife was already on the table when Lena walked in.

Not hidden. Not announced. Just waiting. Clean, steel glinting under the kitchen light, handle facing towards Robyn like a quiet invitation.

Lena closed the door behind her and toed off her boots. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood still, reading the room. Robyn was seated, barefoot, legs folded under herself. Her face was calm, but Lena knew that look. It wasn’t casual.

“You’ve had a day,” Lena said eventually.

Robyn nodded. “Yes.”

“And you want to cut.”

Another nod.

Lena crossed the room slowly. “Me or you?”

“You.”

Lena’s shoulders loosened. That was the answer she’d hoped for. Not because she needed to be the one holding the blade—it wasn’t about that—but because Robyn only handed over that control when she was craving something deep. Real.

There was no ritual tonight. No candles, no scene-building. Just shared understanding and a history of trust. Lena picked up the knife. It was their usual one: mid-sized, thin-bladed, nothing fancy. Not a weapon, not a kitchen knife. Just sharp.

Robyn stood and began unbuttoning her shirt.

Lena let her. She didn’t rush her, didn’t speak. She just watched as Robyn slowly undressed, neatly folding each item and placing it on the side table. When she was naked, she stood in front of Lena, quiet, vulnerable, utterly willing.

“Table or wall?” Lena asked.

Robyn paused. “Wall.”

Lena nodded. She guided Robyn to the blank wall next to the hallway arch. It was clean and cold to the touch. Robyn placed her palms flat against it, feet slightly apart, back arched just enough to present herself. She didn’t need to be told what to do. They’d done this before. Many times.

Lena stepped in close. Pressed her body lightly against Robyn’s back. Her breath at Robyn’s ear.

“Colour?”

“Green.”

Lena kissed her shoulder. Then, she stepped back and ran the flat of the blade down Robyn’s spine. Just a whisper of contact, barely there. Robyn exhaled slowly.

They didn’t speak for a while. Lena traced lazy lines across Robyn’s skin, letting the cool steel wake her up. Down her arms, across her ribs, over the swell of her arse. The blade wasn’t cutting yet—just teasing, mapping out the paths it might take.

“Stay still,” Lena murmured.

Robyn’s nod was barely perceptible.

The first cut was shallow, just beneath the left shoulder blade. Clean, straight, no drag. Robyn didn’t flinch. Lena watched the skin part, a thin line of red following. No blood yet, just bloom.

She made another, lower, curved slightly. Then paused to run her finger over the line. Warmth radiated from the fresh sting. Robyn pressed her forehead to the wall.

“You’re doing well,” Lena said quietly.

“I know.”

It was cocky, but soft. Robyn was always like that once she dropped. Confident in her pain. Wanting more.

Lena worked with care. No showmanship. This wasn’t for performance. She drew lines and shapes slowly, sometimes symmetrical, sometimes not. Each cut was deliberate. Measured. She never pushed too deep, just enough to satisfy the ache under Robyn’s skin. That hunger for sensation. For proof.

After a while, Lena stepped back and admired her work. Robyn’s back was a canvas of fine red lines, some just grazes, others weeping slightly.

She placed the knife down and pressed her palms flat against the blood-warmed skin. Robyn shivered.

“Still green?”

“Yes.”

Lena picked the blade back up. Moved to Robyn’s side. This time, she held her hip with one hand and made a diagonal cut from the side of her ribcage, just under the breast, towards her navel. Robyn hissed through her teeth but didn’t move.

“Good girl,” Lena whispered.

That made Robyn smile.

They stayed like that a long time. Lena cutting, pausing, touching. Sometimes kissing. Her lips grazed blood more than once. Not tasting, just present. Intimate.

When Robyn finally broke posture—just a slight shift of weight, a tremble in the legs—Lena noticed. She put the knife down immediately and stepped in to catch her.

“On the floor,” she said gently.

Robyn nodded, and they moved together, slow and steady. Lena helped her kneel, then sit, then lie back on the thick rug near the couch. Her breath was ragged, but not distressed. Her eyes were glassy with endorphins.

Lena fetched the cloths and warm water they always kept ready. She cleaned each line carefully, speaking only when needed. Robyn was floating. It was the kind of float that didn’t need words.

After the cleaning came the ointment. A light antiseptic balm, unscented. Lena worked it in with her fingers, tender now. Her touch feather-light over the healing wounds.

Robyn reached up lazily and found Lena’s wrist, holding it with loose fingers.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“You’re welcome.”

“Needed that.”

“I know you did.”

They stayed like that for a while—Robyn half-lucid, Lena curled beside her, tracing soft shapes on her thigh.

It wasn’t sex, not in the obvious sense. But it was deeply intimate. They both knew what it meant when they played like this. It wasn’t about pain for pain’s sake. It was about control. Offering it. Taking it. Holding it gently.

When Robyn finally sat up, she was slow but steady.

“You okay?” Lena asked.

“Yeah. Bit floaty. Can you help me shower?”

“Of course.”

Lena helped her to the bathroom. Warm water, low light. No pressure. Just washing. Holding. Reconnecting.

Later, in bed, Robyn curled into Lena’s chest.

“I like when you cut me,” she said.

Lena smiled. “I like when you let me.”

They didn’t need to talk about why. They both knew. It wasn’t about fixing anything. It wasn’t about trauma or damage or healing. It was just them. This language they’d built over years, sharp and honest and trusting.

Not everyone would understand. They didn’t need them to.

Lena reached for Robyn’s hand and brought it to her lips. Kissed each finger.

“You’re marked now,” she said.

“I know.”

“Mine.”

“Always.”

And that was enough.