Breathe

There's a bushel of flowers on the kitchen table, the stems bound tight with white wire and frilly paper cupping the colourful heads of pedals. She stares at it. Crinkles her brow. A note sits wedged into the mess of fiery colour on the top, all fat hearts and something-something Valentine, and now she's gone from slightly puzzled to absolutely gobsmacked.

Redfield doesn't do flowers.

Or did he? No. She leans forward, sticks her nose in there and takes a whiff. They smell nice. Very nice. Roses and lilies in shades of red and orange, like they're trying to pass for flames instead of innocent plants.

Huh. Roses. Lilies. If she was to pick shrubs, those'd be them, but— she sighs. Her stomach does the thing where it knots up briefly and a flush of panic creeps up to poke at her heart.

She's got nothing to show in return. No— whatever it is one'd get a B.S.A.A field captain. More gun oil? Magazines? With guns? Fishing tackle? Uh- well, this is all just straight out distressing , she thinks. Though maybe if she hurries—

The front door opens and she twitches a little, startled by the sudden noise. And by how the familiar rhythm of swishing cloth (put coat away) and the two quick thumps (boots off) tell her that she's going to be standing here empty handed and be left feeling like an absolute failure.

So she picks up the flowers. Grasps them tight, like she's about to swat someone with them (maybe him for getting her something without warning her?), and holds them up in question.

Chris stops halfway over the kitchen threshold, a hand in his hair to flick a bit of February snow from it, and stares at the bushel she's clutching like a weapon. He looks about as puzzled as her. Blinks. Turns his eyes to her. Quirks one brow.

"Are they for me?" he asks.

. . .

Her stomach unfurls, and she has to swallow down the batty giggle wanting out.

Two more steps and he's stood in front of her. Hello to you too, how-was-your-day— except she doesn't get to say any of that, what with a faceful of Redfield-chest right in her… face… the flowers squashed between them. They tickle her nose. And when the Redfield-wall seems to get ready to squish her, she twists her head to follow where he's groping for a piece of paper she'd neglected (because flowers ). He flips it around.

'Yo, got you something to give to the gf. Thank me later. -K'

Chris grunts. She scoffs. And that's that answered.

No, Redfield doesn't do flowers after all— except now that she's holding them and sticking her nose in again, she kind of thinks it'd be neat if he did. Once in a while, anyway.

No one'd given her a manual on how to spend Valentine's day with a Redfield, which was really damn inconsiderate at this point. Like, was she supposed to cook something particularly nice? Or was he the one expected to serve up a special meal?

Eh. They order pizza.

It's nice pizza.

He vanishes into the basement after dinner, off to spend time with his weights, and she flops around in the bathtub singing very badly. Which all makes today look like any other day, and it wasn't like she'd ever expected anything different. Then she shouts obscenities at some inconsiderate cunt spawn camping her and ruining it all, while he ducks into the shower. Otherwise, he knows damn well, he'd not be allowed anywhere near the couch. Stinky man.

Turns out, spending Valentine's day with a Redfield was just like spending any other day with one.

Least until something soft and light whispers down over her nose. Blocks out the light, the TV— and she grips the controller in her hands so tight the plastic creaks, ready to break. Her heart stalls.

"Just me," he says, which goes a long way to get her heart back to beating with conviction. She relaxes her grip, too. Her palms are clammy. Her throat a little too dry. And there's a familiar lump lodged halfway down. It's small. Much smaller than it'd once been. But it's there.

"Breathe."

She does as instructed, because apparently she'd all forgotten about it. In she breathes. Out again, and his fingers gently twist at the back of her head, tying the piece of cloth in place. She feels his knuckles bump against her skull. His thumb sliding off and riding down her nape, and then he leans over her, hands tracking lightly along her arms, and snatches the controller from her.

Beep-blip and the console is off. Another barely audible electronic huff and the TV goes all still, too. Her ears itch with straining to hear it all— and the silence that settles only makes that itch worse, least until she leans her focus away from what isn't, and instead pays heed to what is.

And that's Chris, still standing behind her, probably leaning forward at an awkward angle with his arms propped up on the couch backrest. How else is he going to get down there with her, what with all that manner of tall he is. He's moved his hands up to her shoulders now, with one hitched a bit higher, giving his thumb enough reach to gently stroke up and down along the side of her neck. It's a reassuring, constant motion.

"Want me to take it off?" The words land on the top of her head, right along with his lips. Warm breath soaks through her hair. She closes her eyes, lashes catching stubbornly on the blindfold. Shakes her head. Slowly.

He puffs air at her and she feels his mouth turn up in a whispery smile.

That goes a long way of shrinking the lump in her throat, but it doesn't quite manage to get rid of all of it. Especially not when he suddenly vanishes and she's back to her ears itching. Luckily, he's not gone long. He rounds the couch. Drops her controller on it— she hears the light thump —and then he picks her up.

"Aaah— uh?" She goes, instantly wrapping both arms around his neck— elbowing him in the chin on the way there first, which gets her a grunt —and clings on as if for dear life. Not like she has to though, because far as she remembers he has yet to drop her. Ever. Except usually she's either passed out (because sleepy) or very much awake and able to see the where and the what.

So she sticks her nose into the crook of his neck, nuzzles the line where the soft cotton fabric of his shirt ends and skin starts, and asks: "Where we going, Redfield?"

Which, to be fair, is a silly question, because there's a shy ball of warmth gathering under her navel that already knows the answer.

She gets a light squeeze in response and has herself gathered up a little tighter as he reaches the stairs. Step by step he climbs them and she entertains herself with mapping out the things she can't see. His arms are heavy around her, trap her in a firm, warm cage against his chest. The shirt is fresh out of the washer, she figures. It smells of laundry detergent— more lilies, since she likes lilies —but doesn't quite manage to outdo the scent that clings to his skin. Rainy days married with the familiar, spicy woody fragrance of his aftershave— or perfume— or cologne— whatever these things are called. Potato, pot a to— she's always liked it and that's that.

Sniff-sniff, she goes for a few more heartbeats, until she's bored enough to start nipping at his shirt collar— and then nipping at his neck a little for good measure. They are the sort of light touches of her lips that make him twitch, because oh no, even Chris Redfield is a little ticklish. In particular— nip —right here.

His hand fastens around her neck, pulls her in tighter, muffling a huff and thwarting more nibbles.

She doesn't mind that. Doesn't mind the tight grip. Not from him, at any rate, though even that took time. Time he's given her.

Being blind though?

He puts her down. Mattress. Pillows. Bedroom, hadn't been difficult to guess. Still she sniffs and tilts her head up, eyes snapping open to see nothing more than a sheet of red with blurred shadows moving beyond the silky blindfold.

She squirms.

Being blind is new and she does mind it. A little. Her throat clicks as she swallows, and then her breathing stalls again when he kisses her. Out of nowhere— because she can't see. It's a wandering kiss, that one. Starts at her lips, moves down her chin and her throat. A wordless kiss. Wordless like a lot of him. He's do, don't talk, and the doing this time is peeling her clothes off, item by item. Shirt. (Carefully, because blindfold.) Jeans. Left sock. (She kicks at him, playfully, and he catches her legs again with a throaty grunt.) Right sock. Then she's shivering for a little while, the cool touch of nothing on her skin bringing goosebumps, the only overtly warm bits on her her earlobes. Mostly because well, I'm naked now, but also because those stupid ears are back to itching as she listens to the whispers of cloth that tell her it's his turn.

Shirt. Click-swish. Belt. Trousers next, and the bed leans a little until they are out of the picture. She blinks into the blindfold then. Once, twice, three times— and she kinda wants to see. Definitely wants to see, even if her mind is very much able (and willing) to paint him in great detail on its own.

Dark, fuzzy chest, neat treasure trail and all, and everything else just— incredibly— distracting. And warm. And since she's cold, she moves to sit up, tries to find the heat he took away with him.

Thump.

She's pushed back into the mattress. Gently, but firmly, a large hand being all manners of large as its splayed out across her collarbone.

The knot in her throat grows a little. She swallows again. Squirms.

Being blind is new, yes. And she doesn't like it much. Big deal. But being blind and shedding all control though, that is— more. It's frightening. A hesitant whine climbs from her chest and her knees knock together.

"Hey." A scratchy cheek slides against hers. A nose comes to bump along it, and then there's a mouth on her forehead. A gentle kiss from firm lips that linger for a couple of heartbeats before he asks, softly, "Want them off now?"

Yes— She chokes down the stupid knot. "No."

"Okay." He slowly— very slowly— swipes a hand up her side, his fingers riding between the bedsheet and her skin. While he counts the rungs of her ribs, she tries to count the nicks and bumps of scars that texture the roaming hand. Least until his thumb climbs the curve of her breast. Her breath catches. Her knees relax, no longer pressed together tight, and now she just wants to—

—her right arm comes up, though soon as she finds his hair with the tips of her fingers, Chris grabs her wrist. Pushes it back. And up. And does the same with the other arm, until she's stretched out with her knuckles brushing against one of the wooden spokes at the head of the bed.

She blinks. Sniffs. Swish something says a little to the left. And then his hands work around hers, until he gently drags a silken ribbon through her palm.

He huffs. How he can make it sound like he's smiling through that she doesn't know. "Breathe."

Oh. Yeah. Right. Breathing.

The ribbon wraps around one wirst. Then the other, his fingers nimble and careful.

"You can pull it open anytime. Just—" He places a loop in her hand. Closes her fingers around it. "Pull this and the knots come loose. Got it?"

She nods.

"Good girl."

Okay, now he's just playing dirty. She whines a little. Gives her arms a testing tug, only to have them held in place by the ribbon snug around her wrists. Breathe, she reminds herself. So she breathes.

She takes in the air that's mostly put together of him. Listens to his breathing. Notes the changing rhythm of it as he sets out to kiss an irregular line down her front. Trying to anticipate where his mouth lands— or his hands, for that matter — turns to torture. One moment he tickles her collarbone with his tongue. The next she bites at empty air and makes a unflattering noise because it's now busy rolling a nipple against his teeth.

Which he finds amusing, because that particular curl of his lips? That got to be a smile, she bets— and then he's somewhere else entirely, the stubble on his chin scratching light against the insides of her thigh, and she tries— she really does —not to whimper and whine.

She fails at that. Spectacularly. Almost considers tugging on that ribbon loop to free her hands and run her fingers through his hair, but when that urge— that want— that pleasepleaseplease— becomes almost unbearable, he stops. Stops.

Just.

Stops.

For a moment, anyway, in which she kind-of-sort-of-just-a-little hates him, until he starts doing the whole kissing his way up her front again, equally as unpredictable as on the way down. He starts some ways below her belly button with a kiss that has his tongue riding up her skin. Then he dips a little to the left, like he's about to take a bite out of her side, and she can't help squirming away because that tickles.

Though when he reaches her throat, the squirming stops and she's arching her back trying to— to— something— anything. Frustrated, she makes a bid at wrapping her legs around him, but she's fumbling and she's blind and this is not fair.

She tells him so.

To which all he has to say is a grunt that rumbles about low in his chest, quite possibly half growl, quarter agreement, and another quarter laugh. But he's not mean, and pulls himself down against her, one hand cupping the back of her head (and holding on, so she stops with all the wiggling). The other swipes over her rump. Guides her leg up (at which point she promptly hooks it into his).

Okay. So maybe he's a little mean. Mean enough to set himself between her legs, heat pressed to heat, but never-really-rocking-his-hip-right— always sliding back up instead of in and driving her absolutely insane.

Worse still, the moment she figures out if she can just snap her own hip forward at the right moment, he leans back, fingers now latched tight into the small of her back.

Blind and tied and with enough heat blooming between them that she's forgotten all about what'd once been a knot in her throat, she admits defeat. Throws out any concept of needing to be in control. Drops the reins on a life she's always kept tucked in short and close.

Since wherever they'd fall, they'd never fall far. Only just far enough for him to catch.