A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this…
- Alfred Tennyson.
The thing is, Eugene isn't exactly fond of being tied up. He's been suspended from soon-to-crash chandeliers, lowered into terribly dank oubliettes, tortured with feathers by depraved older women that had bloody well paid for nothing but a simple romp, led wrists-first to a stinking, piss-soaked gallows, given sermons on good behavior by disturbingly hot-eyed clergymen that seemed to enjoy seeing him on his knees, and thrown across the backs of horses a lot less coordinated than Maximus.
So. He's been tied up plenty. And none of it has been nice. Or - or remotely exciting, at least, not in the way the depraved older women had seemed to think it would be.
Depraved younger women, though? Specifically, depraved younger women naturally equipped with bondage equipment and ridiculously beautiful blue eyes?
Well. Rapunzel is dangerously imaginative, and manages to look both innocent and joyous as she rids Eugene of every notion of what he might - and might not - find comfortable.
Her hair is so soft. And so thick. And nothing like a rope at all, nothing that chafes or injures or - god, it's - it's -
"Does it hurt?" Rapunzel is smiling, watchful and mischievous, her palms stroking warmly over his chest.
"You're ruining me," Eugene grits out, because she is, and Rapunzel - damn her - only giggles. Giggles, like this is anything but perverse in the extreme, anything but terrifying, anything but godfuckgood -
"Well, you ruined me plenty on our wedding night, so I'd say you deserve a little ruining, too."
"You - " are a demon, he doesn't say, because suddenly, that hair is on his mouth, a heavy, golden weight that silences him more surely than any other gag ever has, including the official leather bits used by this kingdom's stellar law-keeping force.
"Quiet, now, Eugene. It wouldn't do to have the servants hear you moaning like a, what was the word you used to describe that visiting duchess who seemed to remember you so well? Oh, yes. Harlot. Wouldn't do to have you moaning like a harlot, would it?"
Eugene glares -
"Or screaming, even?"
All right, first of all, that duchess had been one of his least favorite benefactors when he'd been a, uh, young man in need of, er, benefaction. She hadn't been one of the feather-wielding lunatics, but still. It's been years since then. Years since Flynn Rider got his name as a - a rider. He hasn't had to fund himself in that manner for the better part of a decade, and certainly not since having a ruddy kingdom at his disposal - not that that was why he married Rapunzel, of course - he'd resisted mightily -
"Look at me, Eugene."
But with Rapunzel, resistance is, of course, futile.
He looks at her. At her lovely face, her lush, beloved mouth, whose heat and softness he is more intimate with than he ever has been with his own soul, and at her eyes, her bright-lit eyes, that manage to be tender despite their devilishness.
Or perhaps because of their devilishness.
Rapunzel is incomprehensible.
I love you, he thinks, and Rapunzel's lips curve, like she can hear him.
Who knows? Maybe she can.
Just as she can wind her hair around his throat, and his torso, and his legs, stray tendrils tickling his thighs, making him shake and shudder and gasp. He feels not like a body but one continuous, burning surface, burnished like a mirror and just as defenseless, just as naked, caressed from the soles of his feet to the arch of his throat by the strangest, shifting texture he's ever felt. It's maddening, and perfect, and wrong, and the thing in him that still panics at being caught - at being imprisoned - struggles and begs and pleads, but he can't voice those pleas, can't sob them -
"Now, now. Be patient, husband." And that very texture wraps around his sex, an excruciatingly slow smother of a sensation that makes his hips twitch upward and his lips part helplessly under the world's most comfortable, most glorious, most surreal gag.
Rapunzel was right - he's moaning, in his throat - and the trapped buzz of that sound fills his ears and, it seems, his heart, like the song of a hummingbird, or of some strange, hovering creature that can only flit its wings feebly and that can never, ever taste - never drink, never slake -
"You want to have me, don't you?" Rapunzel's hands aren't touching him anymore, and it takes him a blind, fevered moment to focus beyond the haze in his head and realize that it's because she's touching herself, that she's -
She's kneeling astride him and touching herself, one hand between her thighs, gleaming wetly, and the other wandering her skin, her silken, flawless skin, small breasts casting crescent-moon shadows in the firelight, her hair gathered and moving around her like a cloud of glowing thunder, and she's -
She looks like a goddess, she looks -
"But you can't," she whispers, and there's such a sweet pain in her voice, in the strain of her breath, in her eyes - as though his agony is her agony, that it hurts her to hurt him so, heals her to heal him, pleasures her to pleasure him, and - "Oh, my love, you can't…"
He can't. He can't, but he can't stop moving, either, trapped between the bindings at his ankles and the weight across his throat and mouth - he can't stop, his own stifled whimpers resounding within his skull, his wrists twisting uselessly, sweat slicking him under all that hot, moving pressure, dampening him and her hair, darkening it, darkening his vision, darkening the world.
And it isn't entrapment, at all, it's safety, because Rapunzel is keeping him, having him, owning him -
"Eugene," he hears through the roar of it, through the tightening pull and lift of it, the pulse and spark of it, and, "oh," she breathes, oh, and maybe she's coming, maybe she's coming, too -
He arches -
"I love you," she says, and Eugene closes his eyes and groans, because, yes, yes, she does.