fanfiction: amat. haine/Euphie ish.
This is why I shouldn't listen to The Fray at night, and not sleep, fuuuuck.
---
She goes skimming through old posts because there's nothing to do. A few posts here and there-- people she knows, people she might normally talk to, but right now, she's sick and sad and angry, and doesn't want to force her poor mood on people who don't deserve it.
Instead, she goes through old entries, goes and looks at months ago, looks at the first time she talked to Haine and Badou
He's got this allergy, you see. Breaks out in hives all over the place. Really nasty.
and wants to cry again because not long after, there's her and Haine sitting on her bed in the hostel, and they're trying to touch. Not for the first time, not for the last, though it marks the beginning of the end in a way.
They're sitting on her bed in the hostel, and that just brings up the memories that she'd rather shove down as far as she--
wants to slide her hands over his skin-- she can smell the suntan lotion on him, hears the creak of leather with each move he makes, and gives him a slow smile when he smiles at her.
He looks so nice when he smiles, looks so nice above her, and he's so close that she can almost imagine touching him, reaching out and curving her hands over warm skin, cupping his face in her hands, tangling her fingers in his hair, just touching him.
It's not something that will happen right now, she knows that, so she touches herself like he's talking about touching her, and tries to ignore the way her stomach flips and tightens with more want at the idea of spending an entire day in bed with him.
"I'll take that as a promise," Haine says, and Euphemia wants, wants so badly, wants to reach out and touch and taste and have, wants to be selfish for once, but knows she can't.
Tipping her head back, she brushes her fingers over her nipples, imagining they're his fingers, wanting them to be his fingers, but it's good enough like this, curving fingers between her legs eventually, touching herself on her own with Haine over her, jerking off and
"I want to fuck you," Haine says in that strained voice that makes her wonder if he's close, the words making her jerk and shudder, because she wants it too, is startled when she finds she likes the coarse language, likes being told that he wants her, wants to do that to her. He comes all over her breasts (embarrassing, god, so embarrassing, but she's so turned on at seeing him like this that she can't even care that much) and she knows she
--can, but she can't, she can't.
Choking out a soft sigh, she presses her fingers between her legs, slides a hand up her shirt and cups one breast, fingers teasing a nipple just on this side of too rough, because she's upset and remembering things not too long ago, and this helps put off collar-tightening, so.
So she slips her fingers down under her panties and touches herself, muffles her sharp, ragged gasps into the pillow, biting down on it the closer she goes, warmth curling and pooling until she sobs out a name she has no right to say, shuddering and panting for a breath. Tense, and half disgusted with herself, Euphemia slides her fingers out of her panties and wipes them on a tissue, shuddering.
God, what's this place doing to her?
Part of her wants to push this memory away, shove it far down and out and away, but in a place where memories are taken as punishment for death at times...
She wants to remember because memories are all she can really keep here.
Euphemia can't keep the people she meets, all she can keep are the memories that she has from the six months she says here, and each one is precious, even the painful ones,
I don't want to see your face.
I don't want to fucking see you. I don't want to speak to you.
because all she has to make here are memories of the precious people she knows.
Pressing her face into the coolness of the pillow, she shudders and holds it tighter, willing herself to sleep.
---
She goes skimming through old posts because there's nothing to do. A few posts here and there-- people she knows, people she might normally talk to, but right now, she's sick and sad and angry, and doesn't want to force her poor mood on people who don't deserve it.
Instead, she goes through old entries, goes and looks at months ago, looks at the first time she talked to Haine and Badou
He's got this allergy, you see. Breaks out in hives all over the place. Really nasty.
and wants to cry again because not long after, there's her and Haine sitting on her bed in the hostel, and they're trying to touch. Not for the first time, not for the last, though it marks the beginning of the end in a way.
They're sitting on her bed in the hostel, and that just brings up the memories that she'd rather shove down as far as she--
wants to slide her hands over his skin-- she can smell the suntan lotion on him, hears the creak of leather with each move he makes, and gives him a slow smile when he smiles at her.
He looks so nice when he smiles, looks so nice above her, and he's so close that she can almost imagine touching him, reaching out and curving her hands over warm skin, cupping his face in her hands, tangling her fingers in his hair, just touching him.
It's not something that will happen right now, she knows that, so she touches herself like he's talking about touching her, and tries to ignore the way her stomach flips and tightens with more want at the idea of spending an entire day in bed with him.
"I'll take that as a promise," Haine says, and Euphemia wants, wants so badly, wants to reach out and touch and taste and have, wants to be selfish for once, but knows she can't.
Tipping her head back, she brushes her fingers over her nipples, imagining they're his fingers, wanting them to be his fingers, but it's good enough like this, curving fingers between her legs eventually, touching herself on her own with Haine over her, jerking off and
"I want to fuck you," Haine says in that strained voice that makes her wonder if he's close, the words making her jerk and shudder, because she wants it too, is startled when she finds she likes the coarse language, likes being told that he wants her, wants to do that to her. He comes all over her breasts (embarrassing, god, so embarrassing, but she's so turned on at seeing him like this that she can't even care that much) and she knows she
--can, but she can't, she can't.
Choking out a soft sigh, she presses her fingers between her legs, slides a hand up her shirt and cups one breast, fingers teasing a nipple just on this side of too rough, because she's upset and remembering things not too long ago, and this helps put off collar-tightening, so.
So she slips her fingers down under her panties and touches herself, muffles her sharp, ragged gasps into the pillow, biting down on it the closer she goes, warmth curling and pooling until she sobs out a name she has no right to say, shuddering and panting for a breath. Tense, and half disgusted with herself, Euphemia slides her fingers out of her panties and wipes them on a tissue, shuddering.
God, what's this place doing to her?
Part of her wants to push this memory away, shove it far down and out and away, but in a place where memories are taken as punishment for death at times...
She wants to remember because memories are all she can really keep here.
Euphemia can't keep the people she meets, all she can keep are the memories that she has from the six months she says here, and each one is precious, even the painful ones,
I don't want to see your face.
I don't want to fucking see you. I don't want to speak to you.
because all she has to make here are memories of the precious people she knows.
Pressing her face into the coolness of the pillow, she shudders and holds it tighter, willing herself to sleep.