Perfectly Imperfect

eighteen > > of dreams and hands.

prompt eighteen: write a scene in a mansion. 

alternative prompt: scroll through your photo library, close your eyes, and choose one photo randomy. write a scene about it. 

A/N: Yes, I am in fact still alive. So is this challenge. Hopefully I will be updating more regularly from now on. However, don't hold your breath because I'm having a kind of crappy time writing much of anything I'm satisfied with as of late. Although, I think we should all appreciate the talent it takes to turn a one month challenge into a nearly three month challenge. Slow clap for that.

His fingers are simultaneously gentle and rough. They are calloused and hard, but also move so lightly that I barely feel them. Every touch is intoxicating, which is such a cliche but it's true. I finally understand what the songs meant when they said that someon's touch was electric. I feel like I'm being shocked quickly over and over again, a jolt of electricity shooting through me.

I can rationalize this, as I do with everything in my life. I can say that it is simply a rush of hormones releasing in my brains and sending signals to my nerves. I can say that it's oxytocin and dopamine that makes me want to pull him closer. I can make this all make sense to myself. He's her boyfriend and it's wrong as hell for me to like this, but it's simple science. He is just getting a chemical reaction from me, and I'm hoping to do the same for him. 

Ugh, I'm a shitty person. 

I manage to think all of this as I am taking off his shirt, which speaks volumes about my ability to multitask. His fingers trace my collarbone, my waist, anywhere they can reach. I really hate him for being good at this. Almost as much as I hate myself for allowing it to progress. A voice within me screams to stop, but I want to be impulsive for once. I am so sick of being predictable. Poor poor pitiful nerd, right? 

I want to stop thinking, just for once. Is that okay? 

I push aside my thoughts and kiss him back, deciding to shut my moral thoughts up and do just one bad thing. 

Then his shirt is back on, and we're kissing all over again. It is absolutely glorious and I'm no longer thinking about it. Me, the girl who is always analyzing every detail. I'm not thinking. This should all be a weird sign, but I find it oddly normal. His hands slide under my shirt. 

I jokingly bat them away, coy in a way I have never been before. He gently touches my cheek. then my neck, whispering, "Is this okay?" Another sign. He never asks for anything. He just takes. 

"Yeah," I breathe. "Perfect."

He smiles.

I smile.

That's when I wake up. I'm in a cold sweat, like I have awoken from a nightmare as opposed to a hot makeout dream. I sort of have. 

I just dreamt about kissing my best friend's boyfriend.