challenge: sheets at night
Usually after coming, bed wet and hair plastered across his forehead, he pictures himself smoking, cigarette dangling between parted lips, panting and exhaling between whispers of 'oh god' and 'fuck.' He thinks your face would be gorgeous framed in his smoke trails, outlined against the ironically white bed dressings.
"We ought to die in flames; arms tangled, breathing as one, my mouth against your mouth."
Blonde hair, once almost identical, pushes up against brown. And eye to eye you say, "Matt, we're never going to die."
His mouth is ashen with stale smoke and for some reason he believes you.