Fic:We’ll Drown (We Won’t Come Up For Air) (1/1)
Title: We’ll Drown (We Won’t Come Up For Air)
Rating: R
Pairing: Charles/Eloise
Word Count: 437
Summary: It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not because of him. For lenina20, who requested “Charles/Eloise - Set in the (late)fifties” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers Through Season Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’m not sure I’m cut out to write these two very well -- I hope you enjoy, nonetheless!
We’ll Drown (We Won’t Come Up For Air)
It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not his doing, not because of him; she feels his breath move the sweat on her neck, the way he pants against her, flattens her breasts close to her chest, hard against the thrum of her blood.
He nips quick at the place where her collarbones come together, never touch -- she doesn’t watch, doesn’t cross her eyes to look down and see where his teeth break the skin. Her eyes never lower, her neck’s always strained against her pulse, against gravity and the sharp, tight need that builds at her core as he rocks, slips against her and grabs harder, digs bruises into her hips as he growls, as he changes the angle, hits her deep in places she didn’t know he could reach, never wanted him to.
Her eyes never lower, never leave the bomb suspended above their heads.
She doesn’t know how it started, how she put down her gun and he shrugged off a jacket with a dead man’s name; sometimes she swears that the feel of metal, the cut of certain death is carved against her spine, shapes the way she moves now -- that she’s changed somehow, intrinsically, somewhere in her breath and her bones, all because she let a boy with hate in his eyes and will on his tongue take her body beneath a swaying warhead, cracked at its seams, acid on her lips when she broke under his hands, around his length.
Sometimes, she just lets the gun weigh down, heavy in her hands as she grips it tight enough to feel her heart when it beats in the pads of her fingers, and wonders about a world beyond the sea.
When he’s close, and she’s far, he moves without rhythm or grace -- for what little he has at the best of times, gaze feral and chest heaving -- and when he thrusts against her, into her harder, faster, harder; the missile swings in time with them, and she smiles for the first time since he fit his mouth to hers -- not a fit so much as a force, a trial by fire when she slips her tongue across his -- since she set foot on solid ground: she smiles, goddamnit, and wonders how much longer metal can hold against shame as she clutches, carves the brand of nails and hate into his shoulders when he comes, when she shakes; wonders what it’ll take to bring the whole fucking thing crashing down.
It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not because of him.
Rating: R
Pairing: Charles/Eloise
Word Count: 437
Summary: It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not because of him. For lenina20, who requested “Charles/Eloise - Set in the (late)fifties” at my Winter Gift-Fic Extravaganza. General Series Spoilers Through Season Five.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: I’m not sure I’m cut out to write these two very well -- I hope you enjoy, nonetheless!
We’ll Drown (We Won’t Come Up For Air)
It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not his doing, not because of him; she feels his breath move the sweat on her neck, the way he pants against her, flattens her breasts close to her chest, hard against the thrum of her blood.
He nips quick at the place where her collarbones come together, never touch -- she doesn’t watch, doesn’t cross her eyes to look down and see where his teeth break the skin. Her eyes never lower, her neck’s always strained against her pulse, against gravity and the sharp, tight need that builds at her core as he rocks, slips against her and grabs harder, digs bruises into her hips as he growls, as he changes the angle, hits her deep in places she didn’t know he could reach, never wanted him to.
Her eyes never lower, never leave the bomb suspended above their heads.
She doesn’t know how it started, how she put down her gun and he shrugged off a jacket with a dead man’s name; sometimes she swears that the feel of metal, the cut of certain death is carved against her spine, shapes the way she moves now -- that she’s changed somehow, intrinsically, somewhere in her breath and her bones, all because she let a boy with hate in his eyes and will on his tongue take her body beneath a swaying warhead, cracked at its seams, acid on her lips when she broke under his hands, around his length.
Sometimes, she just lets the gun weigh down, heavy in her hands as she grips it tight enough to feel her heart when it beats in the pads of her fingers, and wonders about a world beyond the sea.
When he’s close, and she’s far, he moves without rhythm or grace -- for what little he has at the best of times, gaze feral and chest heaving -- and when he thrusts against her, into her harder, faster, harder; the missile swings in time with them, and she smiles for the first time since he fit his mouth to hers -- not a fit so much as a force, a trial by fire when she slips her tongue across his -- since she set foot on solid ground: she smiles, goddamnit, and wonders how much longer metal can hold against shame as she clutches, carves the brand of nails and hate into his shoulders when he comes, when she shakes; wonders what it’ll take to bring the whole fucking thing crashing down.
It’s warm, and she shivers, but it’s not because of him.