Title: Better than Better

Summary: If it's not it baby, hope it's progress baby. Porn and feelings.

A/N: This fic is deceptively short for how long I've been working on it, and obviously inspired by listening to "Diced Pineapples" by Rick Ross. Not season 3 compliant. Let me know what you think!

diced pineapples, talking diamonds by the jar

Allison is spread out before him, heavy-lidded with the time they've already spent. He's come twice already, condom discarded over the side of the bed, and everything is quiet, just the sound of their breathing, deep and steady.

Scott's inhalation is still rough, drunk on the heady scent of Allison and desire. He'd almost lost hope that he could ever have this again, that even though their stars were destined, it was to spend eternity in parallel, never touching.

He'd read a lot of poetry, waiting for her to come back to him.

She smiles at him sleepily, her breasts a tilted curve across her chest, still heaving with quieting breaths. He smiles back helpless, moving down the bed.

He nudges her knees apart and it's so easy to push them up, slide between them again. Her scent is intoxicating, sugar and sweat, semen and the plastic of the condom. His mouth waters.

He has to taste, just a little, tongue slipping out and running over her clit, a quick little motion. She lets out a half laugh at the playful sensation, hand falling to bury itself in his hair, pulling a knee up higher.

With that, she's open in front of him, open and so wet, and he can't stop himself. His nose is buried against her mons, tongue trying to get everything, taste everything. He can't get drunk anymore but he thinks he could on this, on the liquid pooling between her thighs as she gasps and flexes around him.

It's heaven. She'd been his first, and now he thinks she really might be his only.

Love you, he murmurs into her. It's the most certain he's ever been about anything. It's solid in his chest, a warm feeling through his stomach. She sighs above him and this thing between them feels permanent, the opposite of ephemeral.

Scott, she whispers back to him. She's still so uncertain, tattered by confusion and guilt, but he's convinced enough for the both of them.

I love you, he repeats between slow licks through her folds. Forever, now, tomorrow.

She clenches her eyes shut as she flexes against him. I- I love you too, she echoes, but her voice is thin and hesitant. It's a sharp spike of pain, seeing her so afraid. She's sunshine every time she smiles, but her core of confidence has been so rattled.

You do, he says, smiling up at her, sliding his thumb into her to feel the heat. I know you do, it's okay.

He lets it go after that, goes back down between her legs like it's his entire world. She's his entire world.

She's so spent, and his cock is only half-hard against the sheets, but he could stay there all night, the next day. He's faced bullets for her, but this is adoration unconnected to fear. He wants this, so much.

Her hair is a mess of ringlets around her shoulders, sweaty and beautiful, a pink blush spread across her face and down her chest. She tugs on his hair again, half grown out from the shorter cut he'd tried, but she likes the grip and he likes to follow her lead when she gives it.

The build this time is slow, a hypnotic throb as he circles around her clit and down between her labia, diving into her again and again until he loses track and it's a nirvana of her taste and smell and the tightening of her around him, swelling higher and higher until it breaks and she comes again.

They don't speak. He kisses the inside of her thigh and runs a hand up her side again. After a moment she's asleep, eyelids closed with her lashes feathering her cheeks, and the swelling in his chest is enough to take his breath away.

This is forever, he thinks, laying his head on her hip and closing his eyes. He has forever to convince her of that.

to get on a higher tree, gonna have to climb a sequoia