go my snip!!! this is a very old one and actually a response to a prompt by my friend @prism-empurress / @siffussy!!
>The water drums against your skin, so hot it borders on pain, but it barely registers.
Your cheek is pressed to the cool tile, steam swirling around your face, condensation clinging to your eyelashes. You're panting. Trembling. Every breath you take fogs the wall in front of you, only to be wiped clean by the force of Isabeau’s rhythm behind you—every thrust jerking your body forward, harder, deeper, needier.
He’s got your hands in his. Pinned. Tangled. His grip is unrelenting, palms slick but steady, fingers locked between yours like he could anchor himself inside you. Like if he holds on tight enough, he’ll never have to let go. You're not sure if he’s trying to fuck you or fuse with you, but whatever it is, it has him half-delirious.
You hear him before you see him—ragged breathing, low moans, the helpless little sounds that start in his throat and die on your skin.
"I love you," he gasps again. It's ruined. No poise. No charm. Just him—voice breaking, breath hitching as his hips drive forward, grind against you. “I love you. I love you. I—Change, you feel so good—I can’t—”
His mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, and he’s mouthing at your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His teeth graze the curve of your throat as he thrusts again, slow and punishing. You feel the tremor run through him—from his chest, pressed tight to your back, to his thighs, slamming forward again, again, again. He’s falling apart and trying to fuck his soul into you at the same time.
You arch into him helplessly. He’s so big, stretching you open, splitting you around the thickness of him, your cunt clenching greedily like it wants to be destroyed. Like it wants to be ruined.
You're burning. Inside and out. There’s no place untouched by him—his breath, his hands, his weight, his cock. It’s all-consuming, a fever dream that you never want to wake from.
“I can’t stop,” Isabeau groans into your skin. “I can’t. You feel—change, Siffrin, you feel like—like heaven.”
And then he shifts his grip—slides one hand down from your wrist, down your arm, wrapping around your waist to pull you tighter against him. The other stays tangled in your fingers, your knuckles white from how tightly you’re holding back.
He’s shaking now. So close. His pace falters, hips jerking with each thrust, his rhythm breaking apart like he’s being dragged under.
“Tell me you love me,” he begs, voice hoarse. “Say it. Say it back—please.”
Your throat’s too dry to speak. Your body’s too far gone to lie. You want to sob from how deeply he’s inside you, from the pressure coiling low in your belly, from the way his voice cracks like he’ll die if you don’t give him an answer.
You try to speak—try to say anything—but it comes out as a broken whimper.
Isabeau just groans, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, and keeps going, keeps fucking, like he’s trying to carve the words into your body with every thrust.
“Please,” he breathes, barely more than a whisper now. “Please, please, please—”
Your body is trembling. His body is trembling.
Every part of you is slick—water, sweat, arousal—like you’ve melted together under the relentless heat of it all. His thrusts have lost any sense of rhythm, any pattern—just sharp, frantic pushes that grind you into the wall like he’s trying to shove himself all the way inside your chest. And still, his hand stays locked with yours, fingers clenched, holding on like if he lets go for even a second, you’ll vanish.
“Say it—say it—” he chokes out again, voice thick with something that’s more than lust. It’s too raw. There’s no performance here. No seduction. Just Isabeau, desperately trying not to fall to pieces inside you. “I need—Siffrin, I need—I need to hear it—”
“Please,” he says, and now it’s not just begging—it’s breaking. His hips stutter again, and a high, wet sob catches in his throat. “Please, I—I love you—I love you so much I don’t—don’t know what to do—!”
It feels like he’s unraveling. Each thrust is shallower, shakier, hips bucking with no control anymore. He’s gasping your name like a prayer, whimpering against your skin, helpless as he teeters on the edge of something so much bigger than just orgasm.
And you—shaking, bracing, full of him, marked by him, loved by him—you open your mouth, and it spills out:
A breathless whisper, barely audible over the sound of the shower and skin and gasping and need. But it lands.
He cries out—sobs—like it’s being torn from his soul, his whole body convulsing against yours as he slams in, once, twice, and then he’s burying his face in your shoulder and coming—hot and hard and helpless, cock pulsing deep inside you, hands clutching yours like he’s drowning in the feeling.
And he cries. Full-bodied, guttural sobs that wrack his chest, make his voice shake, his knees buckle. He’s whispering it over and over through the tears, through the aftershocks:
“I love you, I love you, I love you—I can’t—can’t live without you, Siffrin—I can’t—”
You hold onto his hand like you never want to let go.
And he holds on like letting go would kill him.<
