volatile dreams

In her bewilderment, in her comfort, on the brink still of panic, she dreams of him.

This time there's no anger, no tears, just the scent that lives on his neck as it fills every space. It settles inside her as if intending to stay, making her entrails its home, so lovely as it burrows there, just enough for it to hurt.

The breathable air dissipates at an alarming rate, left in its place only him, always him

She can't see his face in her dream, not clearly anyways --all she can do is feel--and it feels like him, so big and warm and solid over her, all around her, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, his hands wandering to those places that she only lets herself imagine in her delusions.

In those hazy wisps of her dreams, her name falls from his lips over and over again. She swallows it each and every time and he's there, never gone, only filling the ache that echoes around her when she reminds herself of why their love won't work.

I can't trust you, Sanem

Not anymore

Sanem opens her eyes to a pale kind of light that filters through the tiny gaps in the curtains. The room is unfamiliar and still mostly dark in the places that the light can't quite reach. She blinks, once, and feels as wetness rolls down her face, saturating her skin as it falls onto the pillowcase.

Why is she crying?

And before the thought can really make its way around her head, a different one, more urgent perhaps, settles in its place-

Why is she moving?

Reality settles over her in gradual tides of logic and sensation, unfocused and slow to adjust into a complete picture. At some point in between her asking Can to stay and her current situation, they had met in the middle of the tiny bed, somehow fitting together just so and he had pulled her against him so that her back was pressed against his chest and his massive frame was curled around her. She can feel it now, the weight of his arms,one clamped around her waist, the other slanted upwards, hand open wide, fingers spanning almost the entirety of her stomach.

At some point, her dream had spilled over into reality and she's moving against him, the material of her borrowed shorts thin enough that she can feel the length of his hardness as it presses into her core.

Sanem knows she should stop, that she should disentangle herself from him and flee to the other side of the bed, to the other side of the world because, really, nothing should be allowed to feel this way but, truly, she's too groggy for common sense, too frustrated from her unfinished dream, too lost in the way she wants to belong to him, in the way she wants him to belong to her.

So she doesn't move away, only closer

Can might still be asleep but his breathing is harsh and erratic on the shell of her ear. Hes moving with her, subconsciously shifting his hips to reach a better angle and oh god when he finds it she fears she might shatter into a million tiny pieces. She feels her own wetness seep a little into the cotton of the shorts he lent her, the fabric of them both stifling and heightening the sensation as they scrape against his sleeping pants.

Perhaps it's a sound she makes that wakes him, though even the threat of mortification of him finding them like this can't stop the half gasp half moan that bubbles from her throat. She feels him stir behind her and hears him grunt into her neck as he instinctively grinds his hips against her backside, the outline of his erection nudging at the clothed, swollen bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs.