Atticus
I KNOW I’M DREAMING. I can tell because I’m in a house I’ve never seen before. The little bedroom is dingy but clean, with a four-drawer dresser, a sliding-door closet, and a full-sized bed by the far window.
The spring rain pounds against the glass.
And on the bed, lying on his side as he stares into the trees outside, is Cameron.
He doesn’t seem to notice me, at least not yet, as I stand in a corner and watch him. As I take in his surroundings, which seem slightly misplaced, as if I’m taking them in through someone else’s prescription. This is another indicator that I’m dreaming.
As I walk toward the bed, I realize I’m not in control of my body. It’s moving on its own, approaching Cameron from behind with slow, measured steps.
But dream-Cameron seems to hear a creak or two, and he peers over his shoulder, his eyes widening in fear at the sight of me. Well, fear and lust.
“W-who are you?” he stutters out, and I take stock of his red-rimmed eyes and patchy cheeks.
He’s… he’s been crying. I hate it when he cries—unless it’s in pleasure. Earlier today, when I was awake and blowing him in the forest, it took everything in me not to soothe him. To fall into his trap.
Or worse, to allow him in again and have this stupid deal I made with that demon affect him. How would I explain to him that I only have a limited number of years to live?
“Cameron,” I can hear myself draw, sensual and low. It appears I cannot control when I speak, either. I hate not having control.
Cameron flinches, sitting up in his bed as he takes me in. “What do you want? Why do you… Why do you look like him?”
Look like him? I guess dream-Cameron doesn’t believe I’m really here for him. He believes I’m an imposter.
That tracks. I did just tell him to leave me alone, and my subconscious is punishing me for it.
“Shh,” I murmur, approaching the bed. “Come here, corculum.”
Sweetheart.
Am I… was that Latin? What is happening in this dream of mine? And why can I understand it?
“W-why?” Cameron asks, drawing his knees in tight.
But I’m climbing onto the bed like some crazy predator, my own heart beating so fast I feel as if I’ll explode. And I’m cold, borderline freezing.
“To touch,” I explain, and I realize my own voice sounds… weird. “Be good.”
Cameron swallows thickly, and as I shove him backward onto the bed, he doesn’t fight. No, he watches me with a healthy mixture of terror and desire, a titillating concoction that’s making me hard and feral.
“Are you human?” Cameron suddenly asks, his stormy eyes growing wet as I drag my hands up his thighs.
I can feel it—his skin—but it feels muted. Far away.
Without responding, I lean forward and begin dropping wet kisses on his bare chest. I’m shocked to see the sheen of sweat on Cameron’s skin, considering how cold it is in here.
But there is no need for logic in dreams, so I ignore it. That, and the fact that my fingertips look slightly purple from the cold.
“Are you going to hurt me?” Cameron appears to be full of questions.
And he thinks I’d hurt him. I’ve created this apparition, this version of him, and it’s this.
“Adsum ut tibi placeam. Ut mihi ipsi placeam.”
I’m here to please you. To please myself.
Cameron doesn’t seem to understand me the way that I can in this dreamworld, and he blinks up at me in confusion.
But I don’t elaborate—instead, I pull his briefs down, freeing his soft cock to the cool air around us. He gasps, moving to cover himself, but I grab his wrists with one hand and pin them above his head.
It’s a sight to behold: Cameron panting and wide-eyed as I hold him to what I assume is his bed.
Suddenly, I’m starving. My stomach aches as if I’ll die in the next second if I don’t devour a five-course meal.
“W-wait,” Cameron whispers as I shove my own pants down, freeing my hard, pulsing length to him.
Oh, it’s that kind of dream.
“Shh,” I hush him again, my distorted voice thick with arousal. “Behave now, corculum.”
And Cameron does. He shuts his mouth tight, his face pale as I line us up, spitting on our cocks and stroking them in my fist with a tight grip.
Cameron groans, his eyes rolling back into his head as he shakes beneath me. The feeling of his hot, throbbing length against mine is intoxicating, even through the thin wall stifling some of the sensation.
“D-does he feel this too?” Cameron asks, breathless. “What is he feeling now?”
A low, growling noise leaves me, and I tighten my grip. “Sic. He feels hungry for it.”
Who are we talking about? In my dreams, is Cameron truly seeing someone else, even though he just told me otherwise? But then again, he suddenly had a hickey, so…
And now I feel angry. Envious.
A gentle chuckle leaves me despite this, and I say, “He feels jealousy.”
Wait… Now I’m incredibly confused, and it’s kind of distracting me from the pleasure I’m feeling.
“Jealous,” Cameron repeats, his hips beginning to rock up into each pump of my fist. “Can I speak to him?”
“Non.” Good, even dream me knows not to let him speak with other men.
I’ve missed this sight, this intimacy with him, so desperately that I push everything else to the side and laser in my focus. I study the sweat dripping down his chest, his pleasure-glazed eyes, and his desperate panting.
“You’re perfect, corculum,” I groan. “Warm, pliant.”
Cameron practically keens, his thighs twitching with pleasure as he fucks into my fist, dragging his cock over mine in a devastating shove.
“Atticus,” he whispers, his eyes filling with unshed tears once more. “Please.”
His begging from earlier in the day floods my memory, and my heart clenches.
I think I love you, he’d said.
But how can I believe him when he’s said what he’s said, done what he’s done? I want to, though; I want to believe it so badly.
Not that I could do anything about it.
“Sic, Cameron. Feed me. Give me your release,” I tell him, watching the flashes of purple as I stroked us.
And Cameron tenses, his body trembling as he moans and grunts against the pleasure.
Then, he’s coming, spilling all over my fist and his stomach, soaking my cock. Something bursts open within me, and that feeling of being hungry? It begins to recede.
Only as he begins to come down from the high of his orgasm, his lashes start to flutter, his body going limp.
Then, he’s out, completely gone. And I continue to thrust against him, borderline howling in pleasure as I chase him over the edge, using his body as my own.
And as I explode, the hunger disappears completely, and a buzz so peaceful fills me, as if I’m high.
My come looks opposite of his, something a blush blue as it soaks into his skin and evaporates.
I’m no longer cold. Warmth floods my system, so hot and comforting that I feel drowsy with it.
“Bonus puer, Cameron. Tam perfectus,” I groan, finally releasing us and sitting up to my full height.
Good boy, Cameron. So perfect.
And it’s true. Cameron is a good boy when he wants to be.
The edges of my vision begin to blacken, and as I stare down at Cameron’s sleeping body, I drink the sight in greedily.
I won’t be seeing it again in the real world, after all.
As I wake, the light trickling in from the window, I take in a deep breath.
Clearly, my subconscious wants something I can’t have. That dream of Cameron and me circles my brain as I sit up, plucking the fallen earplugs from the sheets next to me and setting them on my nightstand.
Most of it makes sense. The dream, I mean. Wanting him, taking him, praising him. What doesn’t make sense is the Latin, the mentions of another man, and the way my body was discolored and out of reach. But dreams are funny like that, and if I’m honest, I’m just happy to see him again. To feel him.
Yesterday was hard. Hearing his pleading and apologizing, and not giving in, nearly killed me.
It’s probably best I stay away from him at all costs, the way I have been the past few years, but part of me knows that won’t be happening.
If I find out he’s with someone else, if I get him in my sights again, I might lose it.
Does he really love me? Is it possible, given how he spoke about me before? And what did he mean by saying that he only said it because he was afraid of losing me? It doesn’t make any sense.
Everything between us has gotten muddy and confusing, dragging me under waves of misery.
I wish I could go back in time, to before that stupid party, and hold him again with a clear conscience and no doubt in the world that he was mine.
But I can’t, and now I’m a broken, miserable thing who can only comfortably have him in my dreams.
With a sigh, I rub at my face and look around my empty quarters.
But all thoughts of Cameron leave me as my gaze falls onto the muddy, discarded sneakers in the corner of the room.
Someone has dirtied my things again.
Someone else has been in my room.