strange dream .

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She has the shyness of a virgin. Like the sixth grade girl who is mean to her male classmate because she has a crush on him, and when the question of feelings comes up she's running away. That's what Freya feels like doing in this moment, and she sits there with her mouth vomiting words. Is this really what she's saying? Is doing something because you want to really a valid excuse? She really is like a sixth grader. A kid who knows it's wrong to grab a cookie but does it anyway because she's wants to and well, the jar is right there. But he kisses her because he wants to as well and she doesn't really kiss back because her lips are shocked. When he pulls away they feel like they're on fire, and her cool eyes are confused as they meet his chocolate ones. She's given a second chances though, her body is willingly pulled onto and despite being out of practice her lips kiss back. It's not awkward or weird feeling, it feels proper and maybe like if it were in a movie there would be an orchestra playing in the background. Her hands eventually find the back of his head and she holds him with more purpose than she had an hour ago. When she let's go, her lips feel like they're burning. She still looks confused, her brow is heavy when she focuses on him. "This feels stupid," she says as her knees lock his hips tightly, and as she plays with the overgrown hair at the back of his neck. "What do you think?" She's contradicting her 'sometimes we do things we want' theory but she can't help but let her drunken mind run amiss.

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She weighs nothing at all as he hauls her into his lap, her minute frame dwarfed by his even wrapped up in a blanket. Alcohol has made him bolder than he would have been otherwise, his usual sheepishness around her dissolving away as their lips meet for what's the fourth time. Not that he's keeping count or anything. Her hands find the nape of his neck and he uses the blanket to hold her close to him, holding on to it as he kisses her properly for the first time, so used to usually being the one caught off guard. Finally she pulls away. He shakes his head a little as she speaks, his eyes firmly on her lips, eager to get back to kissing them. "Nah, it feels good," he says with a slight smirk, his hands dropping from the blanket to the bare skin of her legs, smooth and soft and infuriatingly tempting. Rational Nick would be freaking out beyond belief right now, but he's drowned out by drunk Nick, who can't quite believe his luck. Hungover Nick will cringe himself to death tomorrow, that is after he's panicked about what it all means and how he could be so stupid. But for now he's completely given himself over to his base desires, leaning back on the couch to look at her appreciatively, his eyes running over her body, clad in an oversized t-shirt as it is, before finally making it back up to meet hers. "I think you're stupidly hot."

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Her cheeks are flushed as she sits back. Her hands move from his neck to his down his torso, the alcohol has made her greedy and pushed her to go unknown places. She feels his strength beneath his shirt, the hours he's spent at the gym obvious. His words makes her feel better, like she's not going to hell for being so into his. As his warm hands run over her legs she kisses him again, letting her previous shyness fade as she presses her chest against his. She's back to laughing as she admires her, shrugging sheepishly. "You don't think the shirt' s a little much?" she tugs at it's excess fabric, and is tempted to tear it off but not at all bold enough. "The feeling is mutual... But don't let that go to your head," she grins at him, letting her thumb stroke his mustache again and then kissing him. "I wanted to so that earlier,, I'm really obsessed with it."

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If he had been asked before all the cocktails and the dancing to Sam Smith about how he'd like this to go down, Nick would probably have said something quite different to this. Naila was his whole world and she came before everything, even his tendency towards letting his hormones run away with him. It was what had always made Freya so off limits - not the connection to his brother, but the threat their fooling around posed to the family unit they had become. That, and Nick  would never have believed that Freya felt this way about him. Not even after her millionth comment on his looks, nor when she took his flirting with good humour and batted it back to him. This wasn't something he had ever seriously considered, and if he'd had the opportunity to, he might have decided to tread more carefully. But her hand is running along his chest, and then her chest is against his. He's overcome with a burning need for her, kissing her hungrily as his fingertips brush against the hem of her pyjama shorts. How could someone look so sexy in sleepwear? "Now that you mention it..." he starts, grinning as she gestures to her shirt. He goes to take hold of it, wanting desperately to pull it away and get at the skin underneath, but he pauses as she strokes his moustache. A flicker of the usual Nick shines through as she compliments him, a real smile on his face as he tilts an eyebrow. "You really think it's okay?" he says, genuinely flattered, the slightest hint of bashfulness creeping through the alpha enthusiasm he was showing mere seconds before. "You're not gonna like it tomorrow, it'll give you one hell of a rash," he warned, leaning forward to kiss her again.

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She feels so warm here. Her cheeks flushed cherry and goosebumps covering her thighs as he brushes his hand against them. Safe is a good description for Nick, and not in a way that makes him easy. Freya had been on a handful of dates since ending her marriage. Some reoccurring. But they never had the feeling of security that being with Nick gave her. Nick made her feel like she could be vulnerable, like she could put her guard down. Especially right now, drunk and in his arms. She really did feel like anything was possible, as silly as it sounds. She kisses him again, laughing as she does. "I really do," she can't stop kissing him though she shakes her head at the mention of tomorrow. "No talking about tomorrow till tomorrow," she leans back to take off her shirt, her dark hair falling on her shoulders like a cloak. Her hands tug off Nick's clothing, her teeth catching her bottom lip cheekily as she does so. "Ugh," she doesn't exaggerate, he's somehow better looking without a layer.

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If she were to show even the slightest hint of hesitation, it would certainly have infected Nick. If Nick had been in this position but sober, he would have been deeply concerned about making her feel comfortable, he would have been wary of every single touch lest he do something to make her remember the traumas of her past. This habit of treating her like a china doll was certainly part of the reason he had never made a move before now, and even in the haze of the moment he's surprised by how forward she's being. God, what a woman. He nods briefly, agreeing that tomorrow was a topic that should remain off limits. He watches her greedily as she strips her shirt off, biting down on his lip as he takes her all in. She was flawless. Her fingers are making short work of his button down and he helps her by shrugging out of it, the fabric tight around his biceps but coming off easily enough. He grins at her response, pulling her in for a long, slow kiss. "You sure you wanna do this?" he asks quietly, practically holding his breath as he silently urges her to say yes.

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The brunette hushes her partner's question with a deep kiss. Her arms pull his thick bare torso towards hers and as she releases him she can't help but pepper him with a few more. "Definitely," she concludes. And in this moment she's more sure of this than she is of anything else. It feels good, pure and like it's an appropriate chain of events. As she moves through the motions she feels powerful and as if their partnership were to happen anyway. Freya wakes up woozy. Her entire body hurts like she was thrown down a flight of stairs. Her head is pounding and screaming for painkillers. There's a weight around her shoulders and pressing up against her back, it's cozy for a second. She eases into it and almost yawns against it before she jumps, realizing whose naked body it is. She inaudiably curses, her blue eyes turning wide as she carefully moves her bare body away. Her eyebrows sink as she sees her underwear lying in piles, trailing to the bed. She's mortified realizing how naked she is. She's quick to dig through luggage and redress herself in jeans and a shirt, then she throws her panties and bra back in. She wishes she could just zip herself up with it and away from the realities of day. It's then she feels the nausea swoop in. Jesus. Hell. What the fuck. It's as though a tornados has swooped in and she's sprinting to the bathroom. Practically slamming the door before locking it and hanging her head over the toilet to vomit. You know when you have a puke after a night of drinking and it feels automatically good? This one isn't a release of any kind. It's impending doom, as if this is the first of many. And sure enough, she s vomiting again. Her fingers desperately clinging to the porcelain bowl. As far as mortification goes, she's sitting high.

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She’s the perfect weight in his lap and everything feels so right, like it was meant to happen, that it was fate and not just a drunken inevitability. Everything they’ve been through together feels like it’s culminating in this moment, her lips on his. His hands move from her legs to her waist, holding her against him, skin on skin, her scent so familiar and so enticing. He grins as she gives her final confirmation, taking it as a cue to stand, lifting her with him and carrying her through to the bedroom. That was how it felt at the time. In the morning LA sunshine pours through the floor to ceiling windows, drenching the room in light... they must have forgotten to draw the blinds. Nick’s first thoughts are to curse this oversight because it’s the light that wakes him up, the reality of the night before not hitting him straight away. Everything about the situation is unfamiliar, from the sunshine to the bedroom to the fact he was asleep at all, but it’s not until he realised he’s a) in the bed and not on the sofa, and b) completely naked, that he realises something was very, very wrong. The sound of vomiting drifts from the en suite bathroom and sheer, black dread pours over him. It’s all coming back. Running a hand down his haggard face, Nick squeezes his eyes shut as moments flash back from last night, drinks and dancing and god, oh god. “Fuck,” he mutters, glancing down at the empty space beside him. Easing himself out of bed, he takes stock of how rough he feels. His throat feels furry, his head is spinning, but overall he could be worse. What’s really getting to him isn’t the alcohol but the events it spurred on, he’s flooded with fear over the consequences of his actions... god, and he was supposed to be meeting August soon. He fires off a text to his friend saying he’ll have to run late, pausing for a second before deciding to tell him what happened. Running late. Fucked up. Fucked Freya - I know, I know, classic Khan. Will call soon. He takes a deep breath, readying himself to face the music. Having pulled on some sweatpants, he knocks tentatively on the door. “Hey,” he says, his sheepishness coming second to the pang of pity he feels seeing her clutching the toilet. “You poor thing,” he says with a sad smile, taking her hair and holding it back for her. “Come on, let it all out.”

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Vomiting, shakiness, an incurable dry throat, headache, body aches, exhaustion, laziness and poor decisions. All of these were the reason Freya avoided drinking. Liquid pours from her and she looks on the bright side, at least it's not chunks, that would hurt more. Right now it's just uncomfortable. Her teeth and mouth feel raw, her forehead is covered in a film of cold sweat. She feels poisoned. Why the fuck could she not stop after one. Enter Nick. Who for the first time, is the last person she wants to see. She opens her mouth to tell him not to come in, but another wave of nausea comes and she's puking into the bowl. "No touching," she waves her hand at him, her voice is raspy. Freya squats there for a few minutes, not talking but waiting for the volcano to erupt inside of her. When it seems like it's passed she heaves herself up. "That was fun," she refers to the vomit and she flushes the toilet and proceeds to wash her hands. "I'm fine, really. Nothing a little grease and a nap won't fix," she avoids his eyes and walks back into the bedroom to start making the bed.

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Nick notices that Freya is fully dressed, especially compared to him. Barefoot and shirtless, he sits on the edge of the tub, pulling Freya's hair back despite her feeble attempts to bat him away. It reminded him of all the times he pulled Naila's hair back into a ponytail before school, how long it had taken him to get the knack of tying it tight enough to hold but not so tight she whined. He also had flashbacks to playing with her hair the night before, to her body curled against his one second and his tongue on hers moments later. He couldn't help but cringe. Shame overcame him and he felt certain that it was all his doing, that he must have made the first move, or somehow pressured her into feeling like she had to. After all, Freya was always the sensible one. Not that you'd know it looking at her now. He watched as she straightened up, noted how she was avoiding his eye contact and determinedly not mentioning the elephant in the room. He ached to crawl back into bed, craved valium and a long nap, but he could see that she was more adversely effected. It occurs to him that he hasn't said anything for a while. As she makes the bed he brushes his teeth, catching glimpses of her in the bathroom mirror as she moved around the bedroom. Finally he emerged, picking up a white t-shirt and pulling it over his head. "Freya," he said finally, scratching at his stubble awkwardly. His shame is giving way to a mild sense of doom, horrid thoughts are creeping up on him through the fog... what if she didn't want him to adopt Naila anymore? What if she didn't want him to see Naila anymore? What had he said, what had he done, how the fuck was he going to undo it? "We have to talk about... it. What happened, I mean. I mean... what did happen?"

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She pulls the sheets off and then stretches them back over the mattress neatly. Her fingers work habitually, folding the sheets and throwing pillows. She can't help but feel guilty for obviously running away from the topic, which hangs so heavily in the air. So heavily that she needs to open a window in order to breathe. Nick is the relationship guy. He's the one that falls in and out of love as often as you change sheets on a bed. She doesn't want apart of that habit, there's no way she wants to be one of Nick's many girls. She wants to be more unique than a temporary girlfriend... which she'd never admit willingly. It was better to ignore the past night. She sighs with exhaustion, the whole task of making a bed was draining on her hungover body. When Nick renters and says her name, she looks up and just blinks at him. Of course he's bringing it up. He's sensible and she's awkward. Hearing him speak makes her want to bury herself under a rock. She tries to read his tone as he brings it up but it's hard, and it makes her heart hurt a lot. "Don't look so scared," she sighs again, pulling her hair into a low bun and crashing down on the freshly made bed. "People have sex and we had sex and that's fine," she rambles on a little, brushing a wisp of hair behind her ear and focusing on his tired gaze. "It really is okay, I'm not going to turn into your next girlfriend or freak out and fuck off. Think about it as casually as you like, I'm not going to hold it against you."

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Freya's insistence on making the bed feels metaphorical. Had she not just mentioned that she needed a nap? What was the point of making the bed if you were going to climb back into it imminently? The crumpled sheets told a story of the night before, both sides of the bed dishevelled and pillows askew. That it's the first thing she does after throwing up shows how much of a priority it must be to the petite brunette, how much she must want to clear the scene of the crime. There were other clues, though, ones that someone as experienced as Nick could see as clear as day. His boxers lay at the foot of the bed, obviously having been pulled off and shoved away in a hurry. A condom wrapper lay just under the bed (a small source of relief, he had to admit), and his wallet lay open on the bedside table, obviously discarded after that condom had been retrieved. He was mortified. Her insistence on tidying up and her obvious reluctance to talk about it reaffirmed his worst fears and he was now sure that he'd been too dominant. He runs a hand through thick, uncharacteristically dishevelled hair. His face turns from a look of worry to one of surprise, since he hadn't known his expressions had been so obvious. Of course they had, he had no poker face whatsoever. "I know," he said, hesitantly sitting down on the bed next to her. With his back to her, he's trying to work out what she's getting at. It all seemed to be about him. "What makes you think I don't want either of those things to happen?" he asks, looking over his shoulder to give her a weak smile. He turns back away though, looking down at his hands as he tries to figure out what sort of response he actually wants. Not this. "Did I... were you..." he's struggling to find the words. "Did I pressure you at all?" he asks finally, turning to look at her to see her honest reaction.

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Nick over thinks her actions. To Freya making a bed is just making a bed. She's embarrassed and to keep that off her mind she pulls the bed apart and puts it back together. She plucks the condom wrapper in the garbage where it belongs and folds his boxers neatly in his luggage. Her mind is clouded with anxiety and procrastinating the conversation by tidying up the messy bedroom seems to help quiet her brain. Nick turns shy and at once she's filled with motherly affection. Her teeth biting her lip as she wishes she could look inside his mind and see what he's thinking. He turns away, which is unusual for him as he's usually fairly open. Freya becomes soft, she quits her fidgeting and sets a pillow on her lap. "Oh, Nick," she says gently, she rests her hands on his shoulder and then her cheek. She pecks his shoulder with her plush lips and shakes her head at him. He really is too good a person. "Of course not, you couldn't," she means it. There was a large difference between Nick and his brother, and it hurt a little that he thought she could see him in that light. "Rest easily knowing that I came onto you," she rests her pounding head on his shoulder and tries to comfort him by rubbing his back. "It's okay."

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It didn't seem to add up that Freya would want particularly want to sleep with him. After all, it wasn't long ago that she had accused him of sex addiction, imploring him to take a break from the revolving door of women that made up the majority of his social life. Apart from that, she had never shown any interest in him that way. At least not since she had kissed him. He had thought about that kiss a lot, reflected on how broken she must have been to go there at a time like that, wondered if he should have brought it up since and offered her more support. Ignoring it had felt like the right thing to do at the time, but now he felt like he had paved the way for this indiscretion and he wished he had nipped it in the bud when he could. Soon her hand is on his shoulder and he feels a wave of relief. Maybe she was just feeling shy after all. The momentum of the #MeToo movement was one that Nick celebrated, having seen how awfully a man could treat a woman first hand, but it had made him nervous too. What if he was blinded by the same male privilege that caused so many others to misbehave? It felt arrogant to assume he was beyond something so far reaching. But he trusted Freya to tell him the truth, and there was really no one who knew him better. His shoulders eased with the revelation, the tension in his body visibly relieved. "God, thank fuck," he said finally, turning to look at her properly again. How could someone so hungover still look so good? "Why did you? Were you just drunk, or are you ready to admit I was right that it's been too long since that itch was scratched?" he offers her a grin, going to rest his hand on her knee but thinking better of it, instead picking at a loose thread on the bedsheet.

voer

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This response wasn't built into Freya. Being kind and affectionate was not a trait that she had carried with her through life. The maternal trait came when Naila was born. It especially kicked in when someone she loved turned sad and pathetic. Even in the end of her marriage, Rafi could make her stop being mad by turning into a soppy mess. Pretend you're a toddler who had tripped and Freya would come over to mother. To kiss shoulders and rub backs, to feed hot soup and tell you that everything will be okay. Until Nick suggests that she was either very drunk or very horny. Playing mommy drops and she becomes very annoyed. The brunette smirks a little and let's out a hollow laugh. "Oh my God, hilarious," she takes the pillow on her lap and chucks it at him. Better a pillow than a hand. "Is that what you usually say to women you've just fucked? Or are you usually more polite and wait till after breakfast? Maybe you text them that?" Freya stands up and fixes her hair a little, "don't try save yourself, Nick. You can fuck right off and dissect all of this with your little whiny boyfriend."