(Also uploaded in "Everything I Long For", but here for organisation purposes). The sex scene from 8x21. (I took a different approach than the regular smut with this one). Enjoy!
Maybe it was inevitable.
Maybe she was always supposed to end like this. Bare and naked, silently exposed to a beautiful set of eyes that she had never once dreamt of seeing her this way.
What if this was the way things were meant to be? If she was destined to kiss him, and claw at him, and convince him into loving her. If she asked him to turn the lights out and let him touch her, discover her.
The dimly lit room they're in doesn't do much to hide her goosebumps. She shivers, and trembles, and he acquaints himself with every curve and crevice of her body. His hands trace, and feel, and tease and she breathes. Quietly, then heavily. Her chest pants and her legs wrap around him like she was clinging on for dear life. Maybe she was. Maybe she could die like this. Maybe she wanted to.
It's painful at first, as it should be, but he takes his time with her. He's a perfectionist, by art and by trade, and she now understands just why people compliment him on his steady hands and subtle touch.
He's a perfectionist, and he makes her feel perfect, special.
"Hey," His voice is low, almost husky and silent and she opens her eyes at his words, "Look at me."
Her red hair is sprawled across the pillow beneath her, and her arms lay by her side and down his back.
He moves, slowly and tentatively, and she's not sure she's ever felt anything like it. It hurts, cripples her, makes all of her joints go numb, but she lets the pleasure override the pain and, pretty soon, she's in ecstasy.
She cries, though her tears linger behind her gaze and fail to fall, to trace her cheeks. She sobs, hiccups, moans when he runs his hands along her body. Feeling her, touching her, learning about her. Discovering her, just as she had asked him to. Learning things about her that no man, no one, ever has. Kissing her and pleasing her in secret like she'd always wanted.
For a perfectionist, he's pretty perfect. And pretty.
"I can't-"
Her words don't come out, and she's afraid that if she speaks she'll say something embarrassing that she'll later regret.
Maybe this is embarrassing though.
Maybe letting him, her best friend of five years and the only man to ever show her something other than a father's love and support, see her truly and proudly, to worship her body and face and name, was a bad idea.
Maybe she'll regret it. But the humiliation that might feel would definitely have been worth it.
Her face reddens, her cheeks blush and she licks and bites her lip. He does the same, pushing his teeth into her lip and slipping his tongue against hers. It's sweet, and almost sickly, and she almost doesn't want it to end.
But soon enough, he's panting her name, and she's crying for him and for God, and they're done. They're spent and wounded, and her back arches into him, fingertips clutching at his shoulder-blades.
And then she's on top of him, her body now covering his, the tables turned and her new confidence in charge. He grasps her hips beneath the bed sheets, fingers gently pressing into her touched flesh, and she moves. Steadily, evenly, almost desperately against him. He made her feel good, alive, and she wants to be with him for as long as she can.
Until she falls beside him and they laugh, awkwardly and softly, obvious tension lingering between them. What had they just done?
"That was... really great."