Work Text:
Jiang Cheng has no explanation for the way rope quiets the noise in his head, the endless imprecations his own internal voice hurls at him.
He's careful, always, keeps the safety shears right on the coffee table where he can reach them quickly. He sits on the sectional, legs stretched out in front of him, facing the (currently off) TV and carefully sets double loops of purple jute around his ankles, calves, thighs. It's a simple two-column tie, repeated as long as the rope lasts, and it's instantly grounding.
He finishes off the rope in an elegant little hip harness, strokes his thumb around one of the junctions, and then wraps the fleece throw around his shoulders and picks up his book.
Later, after he's untied himself, he can touch one of the marks where the rope dug in—it settles him.