Work Text:
It was the dead of night. I stood over his sleeping body, looking down at him; wrapped so cozily in his heavy dark blanket, a soothed look on his face. His blonde hair stuck to his pillow, a few strands loosely covering his forehead. Seeing him like this, not talking, not moving, not plotting, not doing anything but breathing in and out, it almost made me pity him.
A cool wind was lazily blowing through the open window behind me. It was quite warm all evening so naturally he would’ve kept his window open. This worked for me even better, or else this whole ordeal would’ve been much louder.
I remember him being a heavy sleeper. He rarely tossed or turned, only when he exhausted himself he became an irritable sleeper. On occasion he would mumble something unintelligible too. Maybe he responded to something that was said in his dreams?
Tonight, though, he was still, barely moving. I could only see his chest rising rhythmically. For a second my breathing mimicked his and I, once again, felt closer to him. I broke the trance-like state I caught myself in and slowly climbed on top of him; I positioned my knees alongside his arms, or at least what I assumed were his arms underneath his blanket. I made sure to not put any weight on his body yet, for fear of waking him up.
For a second I held the position, listening to his breathing, whether it has kept the rhythm or if it it changed. Same as before.
I slowly trace one finger alongside his neck, barely putting any pressure on it. When I reached the mound signaling his larynx underneath the skin, I slowly wrapped my first hand around his neck. The second followed swiftly. And then I started.
I didn’t start easy, I didn’t make it slow; in one motion I applied as much pressure as possible on his larynx while digging my my nails into the back of his neck to steady my grip on him.
His eyes opened the instant he felt his neck getting pushed in. He must’ve not recognized me immediately, because he started spitting obscenities at my faces. He couldn’t finish one sentence without coughing and clawing at my still firm grasp around his neck.
When he realized he wasn’t able to free himself from my hands, he tried pushing me off. This realization came a bit too late, as his eyes told me he slowly started losing consciousness. His hits and digs on my shoulder became weaker and his shouting ceased too. He succeeded in getting a hit on my face once, making me lose my grip for a mere moment; although I tried to compensate this momentary loss of power by tightening my grip even more. Warm wetness ran down my nails as they clung deeper to his neck.
I could see his blonde streaks clinging to his sweaty forehead. His eyelids flutter open every so often.
The seconds trickled by and turned into minutes of holding this position. My arms and shoulders felt stiff and I wasn’t able to apply as much pressure as in the beginning, but it would’ve sufficed. His neck, too, felt stiff in my hands. The wind was still blowing slowly behind me. The night was still quiet. And after I extended my physical limit, my grip around his neck loosened instantly. I couldn’t make out the damage I’d done on him, I wish I could. Lazily I laid myself beside him on his bed and draped his sheets, that he kicked off when he tried to push me away, over us.
He was done, and so was I.