He's always liked the quality of sound underwater. The way it muffles noise from the surface and the indistinguishable rush of blood in his ears alike, even as he becomes more physically aware of his own pulse the longer he holds his breath. He's always been able to tread water naturally, without the struggle and exhaustion of the constant effort to stay afloat that seems to afflict most people. But he can also sink like a stone. He's practiced holding his breath to find the point where he actually needs to come up for air versus the instinctual animal panic of depleted oxygen. Eventually, it became a reliable way to slow down his heart, if not his mind.
He's not prone to anxiety like she is, but everyone has their limits. And anger can feel very much the same in the body.
Ransom goes under with closed eyes but then opens them, her legs in front of him in that almost prim way she sits, tucked in on herself, knees together but not hiding the softly floating curls of hair at the apex. He doesn't expect her to follow him, except that it occurs to him she would, so when she finally moves he gives a slight nod of confirmation to himself.
He's learning her. Maybe that will be all he needs someday.
She doesn't have a chance to get her legs fully positioned under her, or to finish her reach. Ransom bypasses her hands to grasp her wrists and pull her into his lap. Arms around her waist, keeping her down. And he kisses her. Fucking notwithstanding, he's had enough of these chaste, delicate things. First there's the taste and warmth of the water, then her mouth. So, slightly obscured, but more than the small sips he's gotten before. She tastes like he thought she would. He doesn't know what that means, but he wonders if it will be the same for her cunt, too.
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He's always liked the quality of sound underwater. The way it muffles noise from the surface and the indistinguishable rush of blood in his ears alike, even as he becomes more physically aware of his own pulse the longer he holds his breath. He's always been able to tread water naturally, without the struggle and exhaustion of the constant effort to stay afloat that seems to afflict most people. But he can also sink like a stone. He's practiced holding his breath to find the point where he actually needs to come up for air versus the instinctual animal panic of depleted oxygen. Eventually, it became a reliable way to slow down his heart, if not his mind.
He's not prone to anxiety like she is, but everyone has their limits. And anger can feel very much the same in the body.
Ransom goes under with closed eyes but then opens them, her legs in front of him in that almost prim way she sits, tucked in on herself, knees together but not hiding the softly floating curls of hair at the apex. He doesn't expect her to follow him, except that it occurs to him she would, so when she finally moves he gives a slight nod of confirmation to himself.
He's learning her. Maybe that will be all he needs someday.
She doesn't have a chance to get her legs fully positioned under her, or to finish her reach. Ransom bypasses her hands to grasp her wrists and pull her into his lap. Arms around her waist, keeping her down. And he kisses her. Fucking notwithstanding, he's had enough of these chaste, delicate things. First there's the taste and warmth of the water, then her mouth. So, slightly obscured, but more than the small sips he's gotten before. She tastes like he thought she would. He doesn't know what that means, but he wonders if it will be the same for her cunt, too.