When she finds it hard to breathe, she seeks his warmth.
His touch chases away the nightmares, the thoughts, feelings, the demons. His hands are rough but soft at the same time. They trail along her bare back and leave her shivering despite their room being warm. Her cheeks are flushed red and her lips are almost permanently attached to his neck, his jaw, his collarbone. It's 3 am, which is kind of ironic, in a way.
They were sleeping, she tells herself that but neither of them have slept properly since. At first, they'd avoided each other, after they got out, after they went to the hospital, they'd tried to stay away from each other but he sent her the address to his hotel anyway. It was a whole week after it'd happened that she'd sent him a text admitting she couldn't sleep, couldn't sleep without him, and before she knew it, he was in her hotel room, thrusting into her, sending waves of pleasure and pain over her but it was the only thing that kept her sane.
Kept both of them sane.
So, they barely slept. When they did sleep, they kept seeing hooded figures and stone demons and bones and death, so much death. His dreams are worse than hers, she realised that after they started spending all of their free time together. She feels guilty because it's her fault his dreams are bad, it's her fault he... It's her fault he died.
She keeps reminding herself of that too, the fact that he'd died down there. It was surreal, she knew he'd died but here he was, wrists trapped under her hands, head tilted to the side to give her more access to his neck, he's here, right here. She should know, he's inside of her.
This is their usual routine, waking each other up from their shared nightmares, staring at each other through the darkness before throwing off their clothes and fucking. She guesses it's because it's a sin, sex before marriage, that makes this easy. They've experienced Hell, they walked - crawled - through the front gate and wandered around until they found the exit. They've been to hell so they both, silently, agreed to the Fuck it, we're damned anyway, state of mind and fuck each other senseless.
She rocks her hips, causing his head to drop onto the pillow and a low, moan to escape his bruised and red lips. She digs her fingernails into his skin and ignores the images of nooses and blood and death. Death because of her.
They rectified their guilt but that doesn't mean she's not still full of it. Should she have to return and redo the whole thing all over again, she'd be stuck there. There was no way she would be able to forgive herself for the deaths of everyone they'd lost down there. Had she lost him, she was pretty sure she'd have taken the same route as her father. She knew that would have left her mother's heart shattered but hey, Reza did till her this was a path to madness.
She thinks she's found madness. She's revelling in it, making it her own.
Her grip on his wrists tightens and she squeezes her eyes shut as she rides him, drives away the nightmares but focussing on how good it feels to have him inside of her, have him underneath her, to have him. She's almost lost him twice and she sure as hell - ha - isn't going to let him go now. She'd rather go back to hell, kicking and screaming, than let him go.
Briefly, she wonders what would have happened if he hadn't gone with them, if that police officer hadn't shown up and forced him to join them, she wonders who she would run to then. Definitely not Zed, she wouldn't have this kind of emotional connection with Zed. They didn't have that one week in Turkey that changed her life.
He's her emotional tether, they're stuck together now.
They're going to always be together, they're going to go through life together and they're going to die together. They're going to join hands and walk into Hell again when the correct time comes. They've mutually and silently agreed to it. There's no one else they could go to, could have these kind of intimate moments with.
His hips buck and he moans of her name, low and guttural, as he cums inside her and after a couple more thrusts, she's cumming too. She throws her head back, red hair falling away from her forehead, and she cries his name before she rolls off of him, into his arms and begins to actually cry. It's silent, soft, sniffles and he runs a hand along her arm, reminding her that he's there and that he's not going anywhere.
His skin his warm and soft and it reminds her of that week in Turkey, where they had established this kind of bond. The first time had been rough and rowdy and she's screamed his name and he'd screamed her's and they'd ended up with noise complaints and the threat of being kicked out of their shitty hotel room.
And then she left him to rot in a jail cell while she hunted the very item that had brought them back together.
"You okay?" he asks, voice husky.
She nods, brushed strands of hair from his eyes, watching the way his brown eyes studied her carefully.
"I'm okay."