Crossing Lines
Crossing Lines
Hartbig. Mildly nsfw.
She hasn't been kissed quite like this before, where the breath exchanged between their lips feels like something precious and at the same moment, something to be dismissed - as if breathing itself is can be dismissed as long as this doesn't end. She is already entangled, entwined and yet she wants to get closer to the body that is pressed against her. A soft mouth presses against the hollow beneath her ear, the soft concave flesh of her collar bone, and she can feel the soft laughter brush like feathers against her skin. And then in the dim lighting, it’s soft blue eyes smiling at her with lips that curve into a smile the same shape of the fingers cupping her cheek, the same curve of the soft line of breasts above her. There’s nothing but light hair that dances with her own breath and trailing fingers down her side. Fingers that are here, there, and there. She inhales deeply and laughter fills the space between them again, and it is sweet, and it is warm in the way that they are both occupying the same space and in the way that she can feel every muscle in her body beginning to tense.
She wakes with a start.
Her breathing is uneven, jumpy, and it takes her more than a few moments for her to understand where she is. Even when she understands that she is in her own bed, that it’s been nothing but a very vivid dream, there is still a hollow feeling when she stares at the empty space of mattress beside her. This is a decidedly new experience - not the sex dream of course, but the sex dream with Hannah - well... that was new. As was this empty feeling, bottoming out in the pit of her stomach.
Blearily, she shifts her gaze from the tangled sheets around her legs to the out of focus digital numerals of her alarm clock. It’s six something, and although she decides that it’s an ungodly hour, Grace sits up, rubbing the back of her neck, still trying to shake off the feeling of phantom kisses left there. She’s trying to conjure up a laugh, something of nonchalance to shake the inexplicable guilt she feels, but it’s hard because her skin is still warm to the touch - and suddenly Grace realizes that she is feeling guilty because she is still thinking about the way that Hannah had touched her arms, her cheeks - or at least dream Hannah had. Because it was a dream. A weird dream. Because friends probably didn’t have sex dreams about each other. Or maybe they did. If they hadn’t had sex in a long time, and one friend was an incredibly charismatic, touchy person. That happened sometimes, right?
A grimace swells across Grace’s lips as she wonders if that was the most elaborate no homo she’s ever heard. It had only been a dream, after all. Finally the laughter stutters out, and Grace swings her legs over the edge of the bed.
---
Hannah watches Grace side glance at her again, making for seven times in the hour that they have been out to lunch, and although she knows that she looks good today, she hardly thinks that explains the casual shift of dark eyes across the table. Nor does it explain the crimson that has crept up her friend’s neck and bloomed across her cheeks periodically throughout their conversation.
Hannah has always considered herself an intuitive person, but Grace is hard to read, especially when she is not in one of her few preset emotions. She attempts to think of a subtle way to broach the topic and to coax an explanation out of the brunette, but as she is contemplating, the redhead to her right is three, loud steps ahead of her.
“Grace! Heyoo, earth to Gracieland, you okay? You look..” The uneven draw of brows precedes what Hannah knows is about to be something vaguely inappropriate and clearly hilarious, but she also does not miss the rapid jerk to attention that Grace comes to, the soft dark curls shifting on her shoulders as an uncomfortable grimace slides onto her lips.
Suddenly Mamrie’s hand comes down so hard on the table that the party next to them shoots them a dirty look.
“I know what you look like! You look guilty as fuck, like some teenage kid who’s just discovered internet porn.”
“Mamrie!”
Both Grace and Hannah say it at the same time because now both neighboring tables are shooting unfriendly glances at them, but Hannah doesn’t fail to notice that Grace is blushing in a way that she has never seen caused by any of Mamrie’s jibes before. She wonders if this actually is going to turn into a conversation about porn and whether she should suggest they should move to a location that is less occupied by people within earshot.
Before she can decide, she is again cut off, this time by Grace laughing in a half-hearted way, her eyes not fully meeting Mamrie or Hannah’s. She is looking down at her drink instead where all ten of her fingertips are pressed tightly against the glass.
Mamrie’s voice is quieter, and more sincere this time.
“Really though Grace, why you looking so shameful?”
Hannah at least does not have to think about what to do next. She knows that she is good at taking care of people, that compassion and empathy are her strong points - instincts, especially so when it comes to Grace.
“You okay? Did something happen? Do you want to talk about it?”
Grace looks up by increments, and finally looks across the table as her shoulders come up in haphazard, jerking motion that Hannah assumes to be a shrug - as if it were attempted by a robot, which to be fair, Grace may be part.
“Oh you know,” and now Grace is smiling as she raises a long fingered hand in front of her face, “ just a weird dream, with like inappropriate things, and it’s early, too early.” Grace laughs again, this time the sound more genuine.
The words are casual, plausible, and so Hannah nods understandingly.
“Was it someone we know?”
And even though they have been friends for what she can actually say years now, she still feels anxious asking people these things, and she wonders if perhaps she has crossed the line. But she’s curious, and this is what girls do right? Talk about sex dreams - it’s a relatable subject; she’s had her fair few, waking up with her heart hammering in her chest and her fingers tangled in a fist in the linens.
Grace’s eyes shift from Hannah’s face to Mamrie’s to a spot above both of their heads in a quick, flickering motion and then steadies so that she is not really looking at either of them when she answers.
“No, just some stranger who I knew in the dream apparently.” Another robotic shrug follows this answer.
Hannah shifts her focus to Mamrie, to see if perhaps she buys this, not that there is any reason not to - and yet - Grace is so very hard to read.
Mamrie has one eyebrow raised, and a coy grin on her lips.
“But was it good? Like on a scale of high school hormone dreams to drank too much whiskey and watched HBO before bed...how was he?”
“Way to be heteronormative Mamrie,” and now the rouge is high in Grace’s cheeks as she winks dramatically at Hannah and stage whispers across the table, “I learned that from tumblr.”
It’s funny and even though Hannah feels like somehow Grace’s response is heavy-handed, or off, she can’t help but laugh, especially as Mamrie rolls her eyes and picks up the menu.
---
Grace wants nothing more than to go home, alone, switch on the television and attempt to shrug off this uncomfortable feeling that is still settled on her shoulders. It’s making her feel irritable and hyperconscious, a feeling she doesn’t appreciate since she already has a predisposition to social discomfort. But Hannah is in one of her particularly excited moods, and as tired or antsy as Graces is, she can’t bring herself to turn away Hannah’s bright smile that accompanies a steady stream of news about her book sales.
As they both enter her home, and Goose flounders over in a haphazard run, Grace allows her gaze to follow Hannah as the petite blonde walks across the room and falls onto the couch, still talking.
Hannah has the ability to express joy with her whole body, Grace thinks, because as she speaks her fingers dance in the air, and her feet shuffle on the rug as her eyebrows rise and fall with the inflections of her voice. It’s fun to be around and fun to watch, and it is funny how easily Grace manages to forget how much she enjoys Hannah’s presence until the younger woman is perched among her cushions, full of life and enthusiasm.
As she watches cerulean eyes glimmer, she feels the memory of the night before slide across her mind lightly like a curtain of tulle, and suddenly she’s seeing those eyes above her - just as sincere and happy, and yet intent and devoted and hungry. Her stomach drops in an ambiguous way, and her cheeks feel warm - and the memory of the dream is much too vivid for decency, yet she can’t shake the goosebumps that rise upon her arms. Grace doesn’t realize how enraptured she is in her observations until Hannah stops talking, the smile still pinned onto her lips as she tilts her head.
“Grace? Are you listening? What are you smiling at, you dork?”
Grace starts. She hopes that the blush isn’t as obvious as it feels; hopes that Hannah can’t read the entirely inappropriate thoughts sliding through Grace’s mind.
She has no idea what Hannah has been saying and the realization is discomforting.
“I-ahh-,” Grace can’t seem to find words, and she wonders if everyone gets so easily put off after something as trivial as a dream. Her eyes run across the room, eager for a distraction, and she thanks a string of deities as she realizes they have left the door open.
“Door’s open!”
It’s stupid she admits, but it’s enough reason to turn her back and take at least a step or two - and a moment is enough to collect herself or attempt to.
---
The afternoon had been long. Hannah had stayed for hours, and although Grace had enjoyed her company - something indescribable and fuzzy around the edges had skirted the perimeter of her consciousness the entire time, causing her to study the soft lines in Hannah’s forehead as she thought and the other woman’s lips as she spoke. The worst and best thing about people was that they were infinite, and so Grace had not run out of things to drown in the entire afternoon.
It feels dirty somehow to think of her friend so intimately, but even now after Hannah has left, Grace catches herself thinking about the easy angles of Hannah’s arms- a stark contrast to her own awkward shapes and movements. She wonders if a dream can make someone act so oddly, make them them so attuned to someone. It feels like a revelation, but that in itself feels naive.
This is just the aftermath of a particularly wild dream, she assures herself as she slips between the sheets of her bed after unsuccessfully trying to submerge herself in work. She’s had dreams about real people before, and it had caused a similar giddiness, confusion of feelings. This was only temporary.
Grace sighs and feels the breath leave her chest, but not the tension. The line of her body beneath the covers makes an uneven landscape of valleys and mountains, and somehow the sight makes her smile. The idea of being a land upon herself is comforting, and Grace does not realize her own intention as she slides a hand down the shape of her own body. Her fingers slide down the slope of her own breast and then across the taut midland of her stomach and then up the gentle incline of her thigh.
She laughs slightly as she realizes where this is heading, and then thinks that perhaps that is a good cure - if there is in fact one to be found. She allows her fingers to slide under the blanket instead and trail soft skin to the crease between her legs. Grace sighs again and closes her eyes and tries to think of something distinctly male and opposite of - she stops herself because it isn’t that women are the problem, she certainly wouldn’t be opposed to being something other than straight, but she corrects herself again, she is straight - and...this is the least erotic overanalysis she could have concocted. If women are the key tonight, then so be it - she can be flexible. Grace thinks of Jennifer Lawrence, of some racy picture she had happened upon on the internet the other day, of smooth thighs and the soft shape of breasts beneath a sparkling gown - her fingers slide against the slick heat of herself and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat. She focuses in on breasts because why not, thinks of hands upon her own breasts, hands with neat fingernails, and warm lips upon on her neck, on her lips, the soft warm kiss of somebody she trusts, of Hannah’s hands stroking her sides, of burying her own hands in the soft blonde tresses of her best friend - her fingers have quickened, but she’s imagining Hannah’s instead, blue eyes watching her sweetly as - Grace stops.
Fuck.
She pulls her hand out from beneath the covers as quickly as if she has burned herself.
Fuck.
Grace thinks that maybe friends can accidentally have sexual dreams about one another, but this...this might be crossing a line.










