Remember to Breathe


RoyRiza flut. ...Well, borderline flut. And by flut I mean fluffy smut (with a focus on the fluff). Nothing really explicit at all, though. Written because I promised I would write it, and so here it is. Fic title is zoinked from a song (by Dashboard Confessional), but has nothing to do with the song. I just like the sound of it, and there is mention of breathing. So uh, yeah.

Semi OoC, which is bothersome, but I wrote this in a sorta hurry. And flut is hard to write.

Comments and criticisms always appreciated.


She lies beside him, eyes open as she listens to the quiet, steady rhythm of his breathing. He's asleep, and has been so for over an hour. She grins at the thought. She always knew she had more stamina than him.

They're in her room, on her bed, sheets wrapped loosely around them, covers bunched at the foot of the bed. Even if it weren't summer time the covers would still be a mess at her feet, the room warm with the heat of their lovemaking, heady with his scent and hers.

She takes a deep breath, taking in the warm air, taking in him. This is the only time she allows herself such luxuries. During the day, whenever he's awake, she does not let him know that she loves the way his lip quirks to the side in his trademark smirk, that whenever he's near she always knows because she's memorized his scent. Or that she has an urge to always run her hands through his hair.

So she allows herself to take him in during these times, late at night, to just look at him and let herself feel whatever she wants to feel, when there are no codes to be broken and no such thing as superior or subordinate.

Just her, and him, and them together.

He shifts beside her, his skin smooth and warm against hers, chest touching back. There's a sound—a sigh. Contentment. The arm splayed across her waist and the hand against her belly move ever so slightly, running across her smooth flesh so lightly, so very lightly, that she shivers.

His breathing is uneven.

"Sleep. It's late."

His voice is slurred, deep and guttural but still so smooth, still with that purr only he can give it, and she shivers again even though his hands have stilled.

"Who says I wasn't?" She asks lightly, giving into the game he likes to play.

A game. A tease. Their mask.

Warm lips along the back of her neck. A quiet chuckle.

"Because you're you."

She raises an eyebrow, turning slightly so she can look at him. He's smirking in that way that's him, and it annoys her as much as pleases her.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Another kiss, underneath her chin. "Exactly what it sounded like. A compliment."

She smiles the smile she gives only to him. "Of course." The sarcasm is not lost.

But then his lips are against hers, and her hands are in his hair, pulling him against her. His hands touch, caress, take her in and she assaults him back, wrapping herself around his body. The air around them is sharp, charged, sweaty. And he's all around her, sight, smell, touch, and she can see only him, breathe only him and his skin is like fire, hot to the touch.

And they make love, consumed by each other, and when they finish she holds him to her, cradles his head to her chest and rests her hands in his hair. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, soft to the touch except in those places where he carries the wounds that were so hard earned. These places she lets her fingers hover over, memorizing each scar as a reprimand, as a reminder that she can and must do better. Each is branded in her memory, and even in the dark she can find them, finds them every night.

Her fingers trace along his shoulder and he moves slightly, knowing what she's doing, allowing her hand to trail down to his heart. The scar is still vivid, and she thinks it always will be, and she hates it but touches it anyway because she has to. But then he puts his hand over hers, pulling her fingers away after only allowing her a slight touch—enough to let her acknowledge the wound, the guilt, whatever it is that he doesn't know what she feels.

She frowns at him, eyes hard as he tries to distract her with light kisses to her fingertips, but she won't let him and pulls away, putting her hands on the back of his head once more and drawing him to her. His head nestled against her chest once more, above the swell of her breasts, she holds him tightly, fiercely, because he's hers and she's his protector and she can't allow herself to be anything else.

But his arms around her are just as tight, just as strong, and maybe she's not the only one who feels the need to protect the one she loves.

And they fall asleep in each other's arms as the night carries on silently around them.