an informal study in breath
this isn't even porn, just truly irresponsible breathplay. we got misuse of roseway's potential AND misuse of sylvie's potential and qharles is just along for the ride.
consensual but prolly not safe and DEFINITELY not sane
the only thing he knows is that he can’t breathe.
that’s not entirely true. he knows who he is and when and whereabouts but it’s hard to reach and he doesn’t care. he can’t breathe.
there’s a hand on his neck (calluses long fingers neat nails dig into the soft under his jaw) but there’s no pressure on his throat to explain the dizzy. he reaches (not physically hands behind his back something tying them?) blindly for the Wind (everything he is the gift from the saviours of this world) but it is snatched away.
“Nope,” says someone, soft and right behind him, half laughter half disappointment; the fingers on his neck dig in and he feels the indent of nails bloom red on his frontierpale skin. his chest moves very slightly without his permission, and the tiniest snatch of air rushes not-enough into his lungs. the hand on his neck moves down, palm flat to his chest, and he finds himself leaning instinctively into the contact. “This breath is mine. If you try to breathe without me, it’s gonna hurt.”
it already hurts so badly, feels like his lungs are straining not to collapse in on themselves, so he does his best to follow the other’s lead. sylvie’s lead, he thinks vaguely, and a few things click into place. not much, but the nerves strangling vinelike around his lungs fall back and he feels a bit less like he’s about to die.
still, he inhales, reflexive and desperate and wrong, and everything suddenly stops and it all feels like powdered glass and fire. tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes and soak into the blindfold (oh, there’s a blindfold) and he manages the first second of a cry before there is no more wind to move through his larynx. there is silence and stasis and stale air and there’s nothing he can do but hope for mercy.
sylvie sighs, so deep and disappointed and it’s so fucking infuriating that he can spend his precious air on a sigh. “Told you.”
there’s nothing for what feels like half a bell but is probably a verdani tick at most; then, the air at his face finally moves, creeping down into his lungs and forcing out the stale. it doesn’t feel like breathing, but it doesn’t feel like suffocating either, so he fights back his instincts and does his best to let sylvie breathe for him.
he sits so achingly still—and he aches, and burns and trembles—pulled so taut between the pain of his knees against the ground and his lungs against the air and the bloodrush under his skin that he’s afraid he’ll shatter if he moves. sylvie holds him still, holds him together, holds him.
somewhere in front of him, there’s a sound of boots on hardwood, which doesn’t make sense because he’s knelt on the floor and sylvie’s holding him and they haven’t moved and it’s only when she speaks that he realises that there’s another person here at all.
“How’s he holding up?”
he feels sylvie shrug. “He hasn’t safeworded.” the smile is audible.
“He can’t talk, genius.”
“He’s got nonverbals. You’re Sighting him anyway, you tell me how he feels.”
roseway doesn’t say anything, but her hand makes its way into his hair, idly playing with the strands and pulling them from his braid. a small whine is all he manages as an acknowledgment; it’s not worth the sharp flare of pain in his lungs or the reprimanding press of sylvie’s palm on his sternum, but it is worth her tugging the blindfold down around his neck. sudden light burns his eyes but all he sees is blue, blue vibrant as alloy in the right angle of light.
“He’s fine for now.” she stares down at him like he’s a knot she’s trying to unpick, or a puzzle to solve, maybe the puzzle of why he agreed to this—because he did agree to this, didn’t he, maybe asked for it himself, he’s not sure, but that’s probably her doing, he vaguely recalls that her potential affects memory—he wants to shrink away from her stare but there’s nowhere to go. she goes back to playing with his hair, gently guiding him to look up at her.
even beneath the cheap, buzzing arc-lights, roseway is glowing.
“Still can’t believe you let people do this to you,” she muses. (not just anyone, he wants to say, but doesn’t try.) “You’re fucking crazy. You gave this guy your breath.”
the air stills, abrupt and painful, and he hears sylvie laugh softly. “You don’t hear me complaining.”
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” her smile is all teeth, all predator, and he isn’t sure whether her eyes flash with mischief or potential. he feels foggy either way—he thinks he should be able to hold his breath easier than this but it’s hard to think much of anything now—and it’s not really his breath anyway, it’s sylvie’s, and with roseway here who knows if the thoughts are his either.
it vaguely occurs to him that they’re still talking; the words are far-off and hard to parse, but the back-and-forth between the timbres of their voices is enough to hold onto as his eyes lose focus and his chest aches.
sylvie kisses the back of his neck and, without thinking, he gasps.
a wave of agony ripples out from the back of his throat, gasp turns to a pained keen, takes more air than he’s given, strangled sob, feels his diaphragm spasm lungs trembling lightheaded and finally finally air rushes into his lungs and he collapses, strings cut, against sylvie’s chest, at least as far as roseway’s hand in his hair allows. without the blindfold, tears rush down his face and mingle with sweat at his chin, and he feels more than hears himself sob.
never-ending ticks pass by. sylvie keeps dropping kisses to every bit of bare skin he can reach. roseway says something he can’t quite understand but nods to anyway, she’s probably right. his lungs ache still, though now from being overfilled rather than emptied, and he thinks he probably shouldn’t have been allowed to breathe on his own that quickly; he doesn’t want to think about how appealing it is, the idea of giving his breath over so soon after getting it back. roseway is right, he’s fucking crazy.
he’s not complaining.
“Qharles—” he’s lucid enough now that he actually processes words instead of just voices, looks blearily up at roseway, still smiling at him, though a bit softer now. “You actually with me?”
qharles makes a vague mhm noise that he hopes qualifies as an actual response, sits up a bit straighter to further prove he’s alright. she crouches in front of him and just stares him down for a moment; her eyes gleam of potential, but stay their normal colour, so he assumes she’s sighting his emotions. he braces himself for some kind of commentary, but she just looks to sylvie and nods.
“Need us to untie you?” sylvie asks, and qharles feels him toying with the knot at his wrists.
it takes a moment to call up the breath and the words, but he manages. “N-no, I’m okay,” he says, the act of talking such a relief he feels himself smile dazedly. “Keep going. Please.”
“Anything else?” roseway asks; her tone threatens (promises) to turn condescending as soon as he gives the go ahead.
“Just… Give me a second to breathe on my own? Sylvie can still do stuff, just… Lemme use my lungs for a bit.”
“Oh no, I have to get creative.” sylvie’s voice drips sarcasm. “How would you feel if I took your oxygen?”
he isn’t sure if it’s a genuine offer or a threat. “Sylvie…” he pleads anyway; if it is a threat, it’s a poor one. hopefully it’s a promise.
“I wasn’t asking,” sylvie chastises, though he still plants a kiss to his jaw, and qharles feels him smile sickly sweet against his skin. “Remember, this breath is mine.” it sounds like a warning; it feels like an i love you.
roseway laughs. “Aw, don’t tell him to remember anything, that’s just unfair.”
“He’ll remember this,” sylvie says, so surely that qharles almost believes him. “So, how would you feel if I took his oxygen?”
“Only if I can take his memory.” she pauses, staring him down and—oh, that was an offer for him.
he feels himself nod before he really decides to—has sylvie already gone for his air? he shouldn’t feel this lightheaded off a single question—but of course she can, he doesn’t need to think twice, she wouldn’t hurt him. neither of them would.
he doesn’t know if he hears sylvie tell him he’s good. he doesn’t know if he sees roseway’s eyes glint.
the only thing he knows is that he can breathe.
isn’t it great how 100% of my crosswinds output rn is qharles getting obliterated. stay tuned next time for more of the same, prolly.