Dreams are all that's keeping me alive, if that's what I am.
Even when he's mean to me in them, at least he's there. We're together. I can fill my eyes with the glimpses of his taut jaw. The grin he gets from goading me. The goosebumps he can't help or hide - the ones that skim his arms when he touches my neck, my knees, the soles of my feet -
It doesn't matter where.
Anywhere Grim touches me fills him with adrenaline.
I'm so starved that even the illusion of his cruelty hits like manna. Nightmares of him holding me at arm's length by the roots of my hair while he strokes himself toward my lips but spills his soul across my tits leave me in tears, but at least I get to remember his grip. The way his breath catches and his pulse pounds -
I have throbbing fever-dreams that crush my heart all over again every night. Ones where he draws me close and bids me to take all, all, all of him. Where he buries himself against flutter-soft beats in the back of my throat and lets me adore him for hours. Just like he used to. Right up until he's panting and lifting and his whole frame strains, and he forces me off. Onto my back so he can waste rose water on my stomach, black sheets, and the sea of darkness rising around us.
Those are my favorite.
Even after they end.
Because just for a second, I can taste him again.