Breathless
It's the snuff prompt.
Warnings for sex and character death.
Save what has been lost.
There’s a bright light, clear as white crystal, warm like the sun, filling him with hope and joy the likes of which he’ll never be able to describe. He’s flying towards it, down a dark tunnel that grows brighter and brighter as he grows warmer and more contented. He’s so eager to reach it, to let it embrace and consume him, to let every particle of his being fizzle out of existence so he can become part of the bliss that’s just beyond his fingertips.
Bring back what once was mine.
The light fades, just a subtle dimming that’s not noticeable at first. As his vision blurs, her voice grows from the distant, indistinguishable hum of melancholy to a voice, to words, to a tune that he recognizes.
What once was mine.
He comes back with a great, rattling gasp, sucking in air as his life is sucked back into his body, his eyes wide and rolling, his back arching. There’s a tightness to his chest as he collapses, and a tingling in his extremities as the numbness slips away to be replaced with pure sensation.
It almost hurts - the most blissful kind of pain - as she cups his face in her worried hands.
Everything is more. Colors are more vibrant. Every faint sound is voluminous and rich. He can feel every strand of her hair - so delicate against his skin, like tinsel, like music - wrapped twice around his bare chest, then looped up one arm to tie his wrists together above his head. To stop him from struggling.
He always does. No matter how much he wants it, he struggles every time. It’s a reflex he can’t fight off and it’s better just to tie him up so he doesn’t hurt her with his flailing.
“Eugene?” her voice cracks. “Eugene, are you alright?” She’s crying - trying to hold it back, but crying nonetheless.
She cries every time.
Hurting her is not the point and he hates that he makes her cry. But then again her tears are for him. Just for him because she cares that much. He’s lucky that way. Special.
She bites her lower lip, watching him, her hands stroking his face again and again, tickling his stubble in a way that almost makes him moan.
Until he answers with something flippant and disgusting, she’s not going to believe it actually worked. She never does. If he says something caring or sweet or needy, she’ll just sob harder, and he doesn’t want to hurt her.
He takes a deep breath - which feels amazing - and manages a tired smirk. He manages not to melt at the color of her eyes and the color in her voice and the thrilling, silken movements of her fingers. He holds it together and manages something crass.
“Was it good for you?”
Her shoulders slump with relief and she throws herself on top of him, her arms slipping around his neck to squeeze him deliciously. Her ear presses against his neck to hear his steadying pulse and her breath rustles over his sweaty skin, drawing a heat back into his chest.
“Eugene.” Her voice is like a sigh, musical and fleeting as the wind. It resonates like a siren’s song, full of deepest love and greatest fear, of hope and relief.
She kisses him in that way she reserves for kisses after he’s died, passionate, aching kisses, expressing every bit of worry and panic and anger, every bit of painful longing to hold him near and safe forever, to never let him go again.
At least not until the next time he asks for this.
He burns for her so much he feels dizzy, the rough press of her lips sealed over his, kneading and pulling as if she can pull out his soul and keep it safe within her, someplace he can’t hurt it any more. He pulls at his bonds in a need to hold her and she immediately releases him, needing to revel in his arms.
One time she didn’t untie him. He opened his eyes and she flew into a frenzy, screaming at him for being selfish, each of her words sharpened to the point where they were almost tangible things, slapping him across the face, each of her tears shining unnaturally against her cheeks. Then she had had her way with him, angrily, possessively, rough and unyielding, swearing at him and growling that she loved him and hated him.
It was the single most mind blowing experience of his life.
He cradles her to his chest, this perfect girl who loves him more than either of them have ever known. He can feel her warmth, amplified a hundred times in his hands, a warmth that spreads all the way into his arms, as if she’s feeding him life and he’s soaking it up. He imagines that he can hear her speeding heartbeat like the beat of a drum, dragging his own pulse into a quicker rhythm. He can hear the flutter of her breath within her fragile rib cage. She feels so delicate, so small.
Just like all mortals.
He’s never felt this alive. Maybe it’s his distorted senses, or maybe it’s a bone numbing thankfulness that he’s breathing, and he has her, and she loves him. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care, and he focuses on how every touch sends him reeling with sensation, as if the world is new. He focuses on how every single thing she does - the frantic squeeze of her thighs and the fist in his hair and the desperate, swaying press of her chest - screams that she loves him. Hers was the face hovering over him as he came back. She was the one willing to do this for him.
He flips them over, surprised like always that he has the strength to do so, and immediately feels powerful as he flexes his arms around her and she makes the most beautiful, delicate cooing noise.
She releases his shoulder for only a moment to pull the pillow that smothered him out from under her back and throw it disdainfully to the floor.
Warnings for sex and character death.
Save what has been lost.
There’s a bright light, clear as white crystal, warm like the sun, filling him with hope and joy the likes of which he’ll never be able to describe. He’s flying towards it, down a dark tunnel that grows brighter and brighter as he grows warmer and more contented. He’s so eager to reach it, to let it embrace and consume him, to let every particle of his being fizzle out of existence so he can become part of the bliss that’s just beyond his fingertips.
Bring back what once was mine.
The light fades, just a subtle dimming that’s not noticeable at first. As his vision blurs, her voice grows from the distant, indistinguishable hum of melancholy to a voice, to words, to a tune that he recognizes.
What once was mine.
He comes back with a great, rattling gasp, sucking in air as his life is sucked back into his body, his eyes wide and rolling, his back arching. There’s a tightness to his chest as he collapses, and a tingling in his extremities as the numbness slips away to be replaced with pure sensation.
It almost hurts - the most blissful kind of pain - as she cups his face in her worried hands.
Everything is more. Colors are more vibrant. Every faint sound is voluminous and rich. He can feel every strand of her hair - so delicate against his skin, like tinsel, like music - wrapped twice around his bare chest, then looped up one arm to tie his wrists together above his head. To stop him from struggling.
He always does. No matter how much he wants it, he struggles every time. It’s a reflex he can’t fight off and it’s better just to tie him up so he doesn’t hurt her with his flailing.
“Eugene?” her voice cracks. “Eugene, are you alright?” She’s crying - trying to hold it back, but crying nonetheless.
She cries every time.
Hurting her is not the point and he hates that he makes her cry. But then again her tears are for him. Just for him because she cares that much. He’s lucky that way. Special.
She bites her lower lip, watching him, her hands stroking his face again and again, tickling his stubble in a way that almost makes him moan.
Until he answers with something flippant and disgusting, she’s not going to believe it actually worked. She never does. If he says something caring or sweet or needy, she’ll just sob harder, and he doesn’t want to hurt her.
He takes a deep breath - which feels amazing - and manages a tired smirk. He manages not to melt at the color of her eyes and the color in her voice and the thrilling, silken movements of her fingers. He holds it together and manages something crass.
“Was it good for you?”
Her shoulders slump with relief and she throws herself on top of him, her arms slipping around his neck to squeeze him deliciously. Her ear presses against his neck to hear his steadying pulse and her breath rustles over his sweaty skin, drawing a heat back into his chest.
“Eugene.” Her voice is like a sigh, musical and fleeting as the wind. It resonates like a siren’s song, full of deepest love and greatest fear, of hope and relief.
She kisses him in that way she reserves for kisses after he’s died, passionate, aching kisses, expressing every bit of worry and panic and anger, every bit of painful longing to hold him near and safe forever, to never let him go again.
At least not until the next time he asks for this.
He burns for her so much he feels dizzy, the rough press of her lips sealed over his, kneading and pulling as if she can pull out his soul and keep it safe within her, someplace he can’t hurt it any more. He pulls at his bonds in a need to hold her and she immediately releases him, needing to revel in his arms.
One time she didn’t untie him. He opened his eyes and she flew into a frenzy, screaming at him for being selfish, each of her words sharpened to the point where they were almost tangible things, slapping him across the face, each of her tears shining unnaturally against her cheeks. Then she had had her way with him, angrily, possessively, rough and unyielding, swearing at him and growling that she loved him and hated him.
It was the single most mind blowing experience of his life.
He cradles her to his chest, this perfect girl who loves him more than either of them have ever known. He can feel her warmth, amplified a hundred times in his hands, a warmth that spreads all the way into his arms, as if she’s feeding him life and he’s soaking it up. He imagines that he can hear her speeding heartbeat like the beat of a drum, dragging his own pulse into a quicker rhythm. He can hear the flutter of her breath within her fragile rib cage. She feels so delicate, so small.
Just like all mortals.
He’s never felt this alive. Maybe it’s his distorted senses, or maybe it’s a bone numbing thankfulness that he’s breathing, and he has her, and she loves him. He doesn’t know and doesn’t care, and he focuses on how every touch sends him reeling with sensation, as if the world is new. He focuses on how every single thing she does - the frantic squeeze of her thighs and the fist in his hair and the desperate, swaying press of her chest - screams that she loves him. Hers was the face hovering over him as he came back. She was the one willing to do this for him.
He flips them over, surprised like always that he has the strength to do so, and immediately feels powerful as he flexes his arms around her and she makes the most beautiful, delicate cooing noise.
She releases his shoulder for only a moment to pull the pillow that smothered him out from under her back and throw it disdainfully to the floor.