you’re staring down at your hands. they’re fucking shaking and you hate yourself for taking one look at the prescription bottle on your nightstand this morning before shoving it back into the drawer. out of sight and now you’re out of your mind. again.
silence. awful, ugly silence. it feels vaguely like the nights you spent hiding in your old bedroom together years ago, pretending you don’t see the bruises on his body so he won’t pull away again. maybe that’s when you started to get sick at the thought of anyone else laying a hand on him. don’t bother dwelling on what a hypocrite that makes you.
you’re waiting for anger or at least criticism. anything except what actually happens.
“i didn’t know,” he says finally, stepping in closer, each movement slow but deliberate. he carries himself with a confidence that kills you even when you know it’s contrived. “i thought-“
“it would be you?”
hope swells in your chest and drops down to tingle in your toes when he knocks you back onto the bed. uncertainty and insecurity fall off your shoulders, lost for now but they’ll find you again tomorrow when he’s gone. when you remember the long list of reasons fantasy so rarely collides with reality.
but who cares when he’s on top of you like this? it’s exhausting how often you ignore what feels like an irresistible pull toward his body. at some point, it's impossible to hold out and ignore how much you need him. you already know this. you've known for awhile. stop fighting it.
“you wish,” he laughs, hovering so close to your lips that you taste the alcohol and cigarettes on his breath before he kisses you. god, that's probably what your amortentia smells like and it's hard to give a shit when your feelings act like devil's snare.
“dude, just shut up and fuck me already.” you’re smiling against his mouth and it’s just like heaven when you feel his lips twitch up, too, even if it only lasts a second.
time fades in and out after that. flashes of him fill your head. the frantic rush to take off each other’s clothes. the way his palms part your thighs and his fingertips dig into your skin. the hair in his eyes when he’s breathing heavy, barely able to get your name out. the hickey you leave on his collarbone, desperate to keep quiet, afraid to say too much.
he’s coming inside you and you couldn’t hold it together longer if you tried.
“you always taste like fucking pancakes,” he mumbles against your neck when the rise and fall of his chest slows down. “it’s stupid how cute that is.” he pins your wrists to the mattress when you try to turn and hide your face in the pillows. “fuck you, no running away without me.”
“never,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his lips press to your forehead.
then you wake up with nothing but your self-loathing.
this isn’t even the worst/best dream you’ve had since it happened.