A/N: Warning: herein lies smut and tears (not at the same time, of course) and confrontation.
Things are weird, to say the least.
You know how sometimes, in the movies or on TV, they tint the color of the scene a washed-out blue color to portray a bleak situation or a character's bleak outlook on life? Then when the mood improves, the scene is suddenly bright and yellowish-orange?
Yeah, right about now, Sam and Dean are like the video editors, aggressively upping the bright, happy yellow-orange-ness to contrast earlier scenes and lighten the mood – but you, the protagonist (as far as the boys are concerned, at least), are still stuck running lines for the last scene, and all the mood lighting is giving you a headache.
But the boys are pretending that all is peachy-fucking-keen. Maybe it's because they think that if you all fake it long enough, and if you're really convincing, you'll eventually manage to convince even yourselves. Or maybe, they just want you to feel like like everything's "normal" again (the term being used loosely) so you can adjust. They have coddled you, sheltered you before, and you were miserable (well, you would've been miserable regardless, so—), so maybe they think that the other extreme will work out better?
A few days after you return to the bunker, you wake up one morning to find a small rest-stop-quality photo album that had been slid under your bedroom door.
You're very confused at first; when you open it up, you find that there are about two dozen 4"x6" pages worth of random family photos and kids' school pictures and newspaper clippings – both old and new. Your first thought is that it's like something a blackmailer would leave in your mailbox to scare you.
But once you start actually looking, you finally realize the central theme: each page, each photo, refers to a case that you've worked.
The first one is of a kindergarten class picture – a reminder of the very first case that you worked with the boys: it was a changeling case, where four family members tied to children in the class died, all the same way. It was right after the incident with your sister, when the two of you got tangled up in some demon nonsense that got her possessed and subsequently killed. The boys took you in after that – something about how you handled the demon hunt and how they liked your spunk or whatever. Point being, you wanted to learn how to hunt, so they taught you. You wanted to get away from your life and your grief, so they brought you along for the ride.
On the class photo, "you were right" is written in Sharpie, with an arrow pointing to the teacher's aide. You smile fondly at the memory – the boys thought the mother changeling was the teacher; they were totally convinced. And while they did find some very seedy files on the teacher's personal computer that led to her arrest, the mother changeling was actually the teacher's aide all along – which you called from the very beginning. The boys celebrated your victory, treating you to a round of drinks, even though you did nothing to actually kill the changeling. But they said that you saved the kids, and the teacher, and you accepted the drinks without argument.
Each subsequent page has very particular pictures on them, some with names or captions, like "werewolf case, November 2015" or "that time you gave CPR and saved a dude's life." A couple of pages just have index cards with little anecdotes on them, like, "remember that time you made us pull over to help an injured squirrel on the side of the road?" or "there was that time that you convinced us to let an innocent witch go," or "remember when you stopped to call animal control and give first aid to a deer that'd been hit by a car?" There are pictures of people you've helped save. There are obituaries and old newspaper clippings, detailing the gruesome deaths of those whose spirits you remember putting to rest.
The second to last page has two pictures on it: one of you and your sister, with the caption, "you helped her soul find peace," and the other of Dean, Sam, and Castiel leaning against the Impala, no caption needed.
The very last page has a post-it note on it, and in Sam's handwriting, it says,
Just in case you forgot. —S.W.
Your mind flashes back to the conversation that you and Sam had in your dream, when he tried to make you feel worth something.
"Nice try, Sammy. But you guys did all those things. I just tagged along and lugged the gear and dug up a few graves. All that I've actually 'done,' as you say, is help you guys in your hunts. Hell – I can't even take out a fucking djinn by myself. I'm nothing."
"I hope I can make you see otherwise, some day."
And you let the tears flow freely, touched beyond measure at the thoughtful gesture and pained to your very core that you're still not convinced in the least.
Dean pauses that period of weird mock-cheerfulness to have a talk, just a few days after your return home – on your first day off of bed rest, in fact. He catches you when you're vulnerable – when you're on your way to the fridge for a drink and the two of you are alone in the bunker – and sits you down in the library, getting his Big Brother Dean face on.
"I thought with you finally being off bed rest that you'd be up and about. Figured you'd be itching to get some fresh air or walk around or something," he says, trying to break the ice.
"Yeah, I guess I'm just not feeling one hundred percent yet," you say with a grimace. "But that's not what you wanted to talk to me about. So what's up?"
"You're right – it's not. I just miss seeing you is all," he says, a small smile crossing his face before he gets serious. "Look, there's no polite way to broach this subject, but, uh, when me and Sam found you, you were tied down to an old operating table – which you wouldn't remember, I guess – but your, uh… your sleeves were rolled up a bit." You cast your eyes downward at your hands fiddling in your lap, rejecting his attempts to make eye contact. He doesn't need to say any more for you to know exactly where he's going with this: he wants to know about the fresh marks on your arms. "Hey, look –" he says, finally getting you to look up at him. You just didn't want him to see the tears in your eyes. "I'm not trying to grill you, here, kiddo." He holds out his hand for you to take, and you reluctantly accept it.
"I know," you say, the grimace you plastered on earlier returning in full force alongside your watery eyes, making a not-so-pretty picture as you start to snivel. "Sorry, I feel really stupid for crying right now, I just… I panic at the thought of having to talk to anyone about it, because I know how bad it is, and I know I need to stop, I just – I can't help but react this way. I'm sorry."
"You really, really don't need to apologize. I'm just relieved that we can finally talk about it," he assures you. "No secrets, okay? We gotta be honest with each other or this doesn't work at all." You smile and nod, and he continues. "Me and Sammy kind of, I don't know – assumed, I guess, that you'd stopped hurting yourself after you had to be hospitalized; we thought that you swallowing a bottle of pills would be a wake-up call, and that would be the end of it." It hurts you to hear him say it all out loud without hesitation, but at least he's not using the harsh words – words like cutting and suicide. That lessens the blow a little bit. "But we were pretty naïve in believing that, I gather."
You huff a single humorless chuckle. "Yeah, I agreed to nothing."
"I understand that now. But when we found you, we were pretty concerned about it – not gonna lie. Sam was particularly upset, but I don't think he wants to admit that. We all have our unhealthy coping mechanisms," he remarks with a bitter smile, "but, no pun intended, it looked like you were cutting it close a few times, there." You both smirk at the stupid joke. "The doctor asked about it. Said some of them were obviously infected as they healed, and some of them definitely would've needed stitches."
He's really good at this: making statements and presenting hypotheses that are enough to prompt a response without him having to ask too many questions.
"Yeah. I—I was neglectful, I guess. I didn't care how bad I let it get – probably because I didn't expect to be sticking around for very long. I did manage the stitches myself, though."
"On both arms? That takes skill."
You're both talking lightheartedly about some very tough shit, and you're so grateful to Dean for making this manageable. "Only a few times, and I didn't do a very good job. But it did the trick."
"So here's the thing," he says, his smile fading as his tone grows serious again, but it's not as intimidating as it would normally be. "We're hunters. We live shitty lives as the world's martyrs, and it sucks. And like I said before, we all have unhealthy ways that we cope. So Sammy and I had a little chat, and we're both on the same page – we're not going to take your razors and knives away, and we're not going to check you every day for fresh marks or anything like that. I'm not saying that you absolutely have to stop, or that we'll think any less of you if you do it again. As much as it hurts us to know that you're doing this to yourself, and as much as we want you to stop, we know that we can't force you to do anything. You're an adult and it's your body to do with as you see fit. But please, for god's sake, if you're in trouble again and you need stitches, come to us. If you let something get infected, let us help you take care of it. We want to help you stop this, but we know that it takes time, and this is the first step. All we're asking is that you be careful with yourself, and if you need help, be honest with us. We're there. We're not judging you or looking down on you. We just want to make sure that you're okay. Because we really do love you, kiddo."
"Dean, I—" you can't finish because you're suddenly full-on sobbing, a mix of good and bad emotions making for a very, very ugly cry. He seems to get the gist, not expecting you to say anything back. He just sits down beside you, holding you close and rocking you back and forth, hushing you like he would a crying child. But you aren't bothered by it at all; in fact, it's exactly what you need right now.
When your breathing evens out and you run out of tears to cry, he lets you go, saying, "You good?" And you can't help but laugh.
"Nope. But I'm working on it. I think I need a nap though, after that," you say, drying your puffy, red eyes and laughing. Leave it to Dean to lighten the mood – again.
"Hey, if you're feeling up to it, maybe we can watch something we don't agree on later, eh? I'll let you pick, 'cause I picked last time."
"Sure." On your way out of the room, you stop to add, "Thanks, Dean. For everything."
"Any time, sweetheart – really. Now go get some sleep."
You're in your room one day, sitting on your bed reading, when Sam decides to confront you.
Well, so much for running.
He knocks on the door and asks, "Hey, you got a minute?"
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fu —
"Yeah, sure. What's up?"
When he comes into your room, you can immediately tell that he's nervous. He lingers by the doorway, and he does that thing where he awkwardly tucks his hands in his pockets, rocking subtly from his heels to the balls of his feet, and his eyebrows are raised halfway up his forehead – a few of his token nervous tells.
"Sit down. You're making me nervous, Sam," you say jokingly, but it comes out sounding a little desperate and panicky.
"Right, yeah. I'll do that." He pulls out the chair by your desk, turning it around to sit on it backwards, because he wants to come off looking cool and aloof, most likely. He's quiet for a few moments before he remembers that he instigated the conversation. "I'll be honest – I didn't really have any idea what I was going to say coming in here," he admits, laughing to himself. "I just wanted to resolve whatever this weirdness is between us," he says, gesturing between you.
Of course he just comes right out and says it.
You shoot for comedy, feigning your best clueless southern belle voice and asking, "Why, Mr. Winchester – whatever do you mean?"
He laughs, and you feel a small pang of accomplishment at that. "I think you know exactly what I mean," he says, a little suggestively. Is he joking now too?
You consider what to say for an excruciatingly long six or seven seconds, the tension in the room freezing over into a block of ice – shatterproof. "I–I don't know what you want me to say, Sam. I'm embarrassed, I guess, and I'm sorry, for, you know…" Your voice and your hands shake violently. You take a few calming breaths. "I'll… I'll go if you want me to. I know this is weird, and I wouldn't blame you if, if—"
"Whoa, hold on," he says, moving from the desk chair to sit beside you on the bed. "Hey," he says, taking one of your quivering hands in his. What is with these boys and their pervasive eye contact? "That's not what I mean. I guess I'm just asking – what you had in your dream, there – is that…" he trails off, his voice hesitant as he looks down at your hand in his, "…is that really something you want?"
You huff a single, pathetic little laugh, and in a small voice, you reply, "…d-do you really need to ask that question?"
And as you drag your eyes up to his face, you're surprised at the sight that you're met with: pure, unbridled adoration. His smile is warm, his eyes bright, and you can't help but feel like you're back in your fantasy. And for the first time in a while, you feel the desire to stay (among, you know, other things).
And it's in that moment, as you feel your heart beating out of your chest, that he takes your face in his hands, looking at you like you're the most precious thing he has ever seen, and brings your lips to his. It feels nothing like your dream – no, because there, the action felt empty, and you knew that it wasn't real. But now – now, when he kisses you, it's full of everything that you've ever dreamt of and more (literally), and you can feel the passion radiating off of him in waves.
But as per usual, you can't help the doubt that crosses your mind. You pull away from him just the slightest bit, your hand on his cheek as you ask, "Sam?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you doing this just because of what you saw in my dream? Like, because you're just trying to make me feel better?"
He should be offended that you'd even conceive of such a thing, but he's not. He gets it; it's a valid concern. "In a manner of speaking, sort of," he replies, completely genuine. "I've… I've wanted you for a long time. Ever since that night at the bar after that very first case, I think I really, you know, saw you for the very first time, and I knew that I wanted you. But I kept it to myself. I fought it for so, so long, first because I didn't know if you would feel the same way, and then because I didn't want you to get hurt even more. But after nearly losing you, and after seeing that in your best, most ideal of circumstances, you and I were engaged," he pauses, huffing a laugh and smiling sweetly at you, "if us being together had anything to do with why you so desperately wanted to keep dreaming, well – I wanted you to know that you could have that here, too. Only if you truly wanted to, of course."
"Sam… we just kissed for the first time and now you're proposing?!" You're purposely being facetious here, but it's the only response that you can manage when Sam is making confessions of love to you. You share a laugh, the awkwardness drawing it out longer than it should be. To stop yourself from laughing again, you bite your lip, wanting to reciprocate, but struggling to find the right words. "I…I think I understand. I know that you and Dean are trying to make the real world more like my fantasy, and I really appreciate the effort you guys are putting in to help me. I just – I guess I was just afraid that you were only playing along with the ruse so that I don't, you know—" you make a gesture, hoping that he gets where you're going with it.
He grabs your hand out of midair, stopping your wild gesturing to bring your hand to his lips and kiss it. "I want this and always have, but I've just been a total pansy. Even today, I was oscillating in the hallway outside of your bedroom for at least three hours, psyching myself out then working myself up to it again." You can't help but giggle. "Now, if you don't have any more concerns…" he trails off, kissing you again when you shake your head.
He pulls you closer to him, deepening the embrace as his tongue dances across your lips. You give back in kind, biting down on his bottom lip before granting him entrance and tangling your tongue with his. This elicits a deep, throaty groan from him, like he wasn't expecting you to be so forward. But you dive in wholeheartedly, and it's like a dam breaking – all of the want that you've ever bottled up for Sam Winchester comes back to you not in single spies, but in battalions, returning to hit you all at once. You move to straddle his lap, enjoying the way he growls under his breath as he wraps an arm around your waist, holding you to him. You tangle one hand into his hair and place the other by his ribcage, feeling like a different person when you trail kisses along his jaw, then down his neck, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck as you bite at him a little more than playfully. With his mouth unoccupied, he makes the most delicious sounds; he groans and whimpers, panting as he tries to maintain control of his faculties. You smile at the thought of being the thing that takes Sam Winchester apart.
His shirt is the first to go, and yours comes off soon thereafter (albeit reluctantly). You wait for the other shoe to drop as he takes you in, his gaze faltering for only a second before returning to its previous state of awe and desire. You wonder what he must see – or what he must be trying to look past, rather – when he regards the stories etched into the skin of your arms, your stomach, and your thighs. You wonder what he, a regular Adonis in a flannel and a Carhartt jacket, could possibly find appealing about the bruises on your legs, or the stretchmarks on your hips, or the 'little-bit-extra' on your build, or the mismatched, practical underwear you're wearing. He'd be blind not to notice the sudden loss of your confidence as you avert his gaze and await his rejection.
"Hey, quit it," he says, taking your face in his hands again. "I want to look at you," he says, though the passion in his eyes does nothing to hinder the fear of rejection in your heart. In a quick maneuver, he takes both of your hands in his, flipping you so that you're lying on your back as he pins your hands to the bed on either side of you. He looms over you, lacing your fingers in his. and you can't help but look a little shocked at his sudden display of dominance. "You can believe whatever you want – feel however you may feel. I know that nothing I say can change that. But I have one teensy, tiny little request," he says, placing a kiss to the skin right below your collarbone. "Please just don't be afraid of what I'm going to think."
You chuckle and shake your head, muttering, "Easier said than done, I'm afraid." He looks like your hottest wet dream with the way he hovers over you, biceps flexed, jeans riding low on his hips. But mostly, it's the way he looks down at you, reflecting the same desire that you're currently feeling, that makes it all feel so unreal.
"Then how about this: if you can't help but be afraid of what I'll think, I want you to tell me when it happens. Can you do that?" You nod and swallow hard – probably soaking your panties with the way he's snaking kisses across your body. "Now, what is it that you were afraid for me to see?"
"It feels a little shameful, now that it's a game," you say, afraid of what he'll think when you tell him what part makes you afraid of what he'll think. Fuck. This is getting out of hand. You steel yourself. Big leagues, here, darling. Act like it, even if you don't belong. "My body – m-my scars, I-I'm afraid of what… of what you see w-when you look at me, of h-how repulsive I must be t-to… to someone who looks like you." Nailed it.
He pauses where hovers just above your belly button when he looks at you, speechless for an interminable moment as he registers what you've just said. He knows that you're not fishing for compliments here – that you actually feel this way about yourself, and it makes him feel sick.
You're expecting him to either give you this long, ridiculous pep talk, or as the disaster center of your brain suspects, to wonder to himself, 'what do I see in her?' before realizing that he's out of your league and deciding that you're not worth the effort. You know that that's not going to happen, but you can't help expecting catastrophe with the kind of life that you live.
His speechlessness endures, and moments before you can officially conclude that he's regretting this whole endeavor, he shakes his head and chuckles inwardly. "Christ, you – you have no fucking clue, do you?"
You frown. "Apparently not."
He half-smile-half-frowns at you, coming face-to-face with you again and says, "You... you are such a beautiful, radiant person – sexy, badass, kind, selfless, clever – you have so much about you that makes you so incredibly beautiful, and you think that the physical flaws that tell your story, the things that make you human, are going to change the way that I feel about you?"
Your mind is screaming wrong wrong wrong wrong WRONG! But something in your heart makes what he says feel genuine. Your eyes start to water, because it could all be false, but now there is no doubt in your mind that he believes what he said one hundred percent.
You're very grateful when he doesn't make you respond; you just kiss him as fiercely as you possibly can, and hopefully he understands just how much those words meant to you. It's rough and tender all at once, and the hard press of his lips to yours is him telling you how much he means it.
"And, uh, if you need any further evidence…" he mutters, less than an inch away from your lips as he leans his forehead against yours. He then guides one of your hands down to feel the bulge at the front of his pants. You press down of your own volition, making him moan and squirm beneath your grip.
With one last kiss, he begins trailing his mouth down your body again, this time stopping between your breasts, reaching to unclasp your bra and hesitating. "Tell me to stop, and I will," he practically grunts as he presses his forehead into the valley of your chest.
"Please dear god don't stop," you say, and he grins like you've just sold your soul to him.
Within seconds, he has your bra off and discarded like a pro, using both hands to palm your bare chest before taking one nipple into his mouth. When he simultaneously sucks and tweaks the other nipple with his fingers, you whimper, causing him to moan obscenely. He calls your name, and as he moves to switch sides, he uses the breath in between to say, "You have no idea what you're doing to me right now, sweetheart," before getting back to work.
Once you're nice and stimulated, you find yourself groaning, "pants," like you're a fucking caveman. But he just smiles, content in knowing that he has reduced you to this breathless wanton goddess that lies before him. When he moves to your waistband, you say, "I-I meant yours, but both will do, I suppose." And he simply laughs. He removes your pants and underwear in one go, then stands from the bed to lock the door before removing his own. "Oh, fuck," you moan aloud, and he laughs. You can't hold back the dirty thoughts running through your head. Because honestly, I was gravely mistaken before; Adonis' form is but a mere speck in the shadow of Sam Fucking Winchester's glorious physique. The perfect v of his hips, with a perfect happy trail, leads down to the most perfectly beautiful cock you have ever seen. And you're not one to think of them as beautiful, per se – but you cannot help but admire the sheer… perfection that is his body. "You are so fucking fine – I really hope you know that. Christ, I-I can't even look at you anymore. I'm just gonna turn around now, kay?"
Then, he smirks at you and practically pounces onto the bed, pinning you down again and making you both giggle. He tilts his head to the side a bit and bites his lip. "Oh? Then I can't help but wonder…" he says, his face millimeters from yours as he trails one hand down your side. His voice suddenly drops to a deep, gravelly pitch when he says, "how wet you must be for me." With his last words, his fingers part your folds, teasing you with light touches as he feels your wetness. "Oh, fuck," he grunts, closing his eyes and pressing his cock against your thigh. "As much as I want to taste you, tease you, draw this out – I'm not gonna last very long, sweetheart."
You can't speak, all of your attention suddenly directed at the two long, glorious fingers that he's sinking into you right now, and you moan in unison. He's so affected by this – by the sounds you make, by the way you feel beneath him. You cry out his name when his fingers graze your g-spot, making you see stars for one fleeting moment. He's toying with you, smiling. "You like that?" He grazes the spot again, making you moan. "God, the sounds you make, you're killing me."
In some sudden burst of coherency, you say, "T-The way you talk, Sam. Fuck."
He grins, using his fingers to dance around your g-spot, his thumb finding and toying with your clit ever-so-gently. "Oh, I'm gonna have so much fun with this." Then, he leans in to whisper in your ear. "You like hearing me say what I'm gonna do to you? Hmm?" And suddenly, he's full-on assaulting your g-spot, using his thumb like he means it.
"Nngh… shit, oh, oh – fuck, Sam!" Your moans and whimpers grow louder as you start to squirm. He's giving you exactly what you need to have a mind-bending orgasm, and as it builds slowly inside of you, Sam bites at your neck and mutters in your ear.
"I'm gonna take you apart, like this at first – with just my fingers working you toward the edge. You're so tight, and those sounds you're making – I'm so hard for you, babygirl," he groans, pressing his hard cock into your thigh again. You're close. "I'll fuck you nice and slow, deeper and harder than you've ever felt before – so good, sweetheart." He's mostly just muttering nonsense right now, but it's doing the trick.
"I'm c-close," you moan, feeling yourself start to contract around his fingers.
He feels it too, needing to restrain himself lest he come before you even get to touch him. "Fuck, yeah – that's it, let go. You're so good for me, sweetheart."
And it's like nothing you've ever felt before. You tense up, focus zooming in on the pleasure pulsing through you, radiating from the places where Sam is touching you. The moan you make is embarrassing in retrospect, however much it turns Sam on – but for now, in this moment, you couldn't care less. You feel it pulsing through every part of you, until it fizzles out, leaving you quivering with aftershocks as Sam skillfully works you through it.
He flops down onto the bed beside you, giving you a moment to catch your breath and collect yourself. Eventually, you say, "Shit, Sam. I never would've suspected you'd have a mouth like that." He laughs and you can feel his breath against your shoulder. "That was amazing," you say, turning onto your side to face him. "How will I ever repay you?" You take his hard, leaking cock in your hand and he groans something obscene, finally being touched skin-to-skin. "Sit up. Let me take care of you," you say, gesturing toward the headboard. He complies, surprised at the hint of a command in your voice.
You straddle his lap, your hands on his shoulders as you teasingly drag your wetness across his length. His hands immediately go to your hips, his grip just a little too tight. You kiss him now, slow, indulgent, lowering your heat over him again. One of his hands winds into your hair, tugging just the slightest bit to assert his dominance, and you bite his bottom lip playfully. With a single nod (mostly to yourself, you suppose), you reach for the drawer beside the bed, pulling a condom out of a box and holding it up in front of Sam's face as if you're about to do a fucking magic trick. You tear open the package with your teeth and roll it onto his length, and he kisses you hard to keep himself from making more noise.
But when you position yourself over him, readying yourself, you want nothing more than to see his face – to look into his eyes – when he enters you, and then again when he comes. You give him a questioning look and he smiles and nods – and with that, you slowly lower yourself onto his length.
As you sink down onto him, his eyes roll back in his head as he makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. Even as you sweetly rest your forehead against his, mouth hanging agape as you savor the sensation of him finally being inside of you, filling you, he has to refrain from flipping you over, pinning you down, and fucking you like an animal. When he bottoms out, you look into his eyes, and as soon as you raise yourself up for the first time, you're kissing him hard and rough and sloppy, teeth clashing, nails digging in to skin. Graceless. Uncoordinated. You ride him like this, eventually grinding down onto his lap, breath labored from feeling so full. You make a high-pitched moan that definitely belongs in a porno, topping it off with a breathless, "Sam."
In one quick movement, he holds you against him, keeping himself inside you as he flips you over onto the bed so that he's on top. He starts to thrust deep and slow, shutting his eyes tight and groaning, "Fuck, so tight, so perfect. You're fucking amazing – you hear me?"
You dig your nails into his back as he holds himself up over you, letting his head fall to rest against your shoulder. You whimper in his ear, "Harder, Sammy." He picks his head back up, a glint of something dark in his eyes as he accepts the challenge. He then slams into you, just holding you there and grinding his pelvis against yours. You cry out, back arching in pleasure. "Oh, fuck, fuck, Sam." And just like that, he draws another orgasm from you, holding that position for several seconds before pulling back and slamming into you hard again. He works you through your orgasm with a finger massaging your clit.
After your aftershocks have subsided, he leans back on his calves, dragging your hips up into his lap. He leans his head back, grunting as he speeds up; he's indulging in something purely animalistic here. He decides that it's not enough, that he wants you closer – so he scoops you up into his arms, bringing you upright into his lap. You wrap your legs around him, letting him move you and thrust up into you as he pleases; at this point, you're just along for the ride. He holds you close and you let your hands wander, exploring his body as he mouths and nips at your jaw and neck, breathing heavily into your skin. "Touch yourself. Come for me one last time," he says, panting as sweat drips down his forehead. You obey his order, rubbing yourself with two fingers and quickly bringing yourself to orgasm. "That's it, sweetheart. Oh god," he grunts, using your orgasm to chase his own release. "Oh, oh, fuck—" he babbles as he gets closer and closer to his peak. He hugs you close and you bite down into his shoulder. One last time, he pulls you down hard into his lap, pushing himself as deep inside of you as he can. And when he comes, it's with your name on his lips.
A/N:I have a problem with stories that make the reader out to be this flawless, attractive, pretty person – I don't see myself that way and I know that I never will. It's a bit sappy and unrealistic when you're suddenly the most beautiful creature that the character has ever laid eyes on, and reading that in a fic really causes me to disconnect from the reader character. But there are other kinds of beauty: a beautiful heart, a beautiful mind, a beautiful soul. And I think that outer beauty can often be a reflection of that, too. I truly hope that others might feel the same way – for my sake, at the very least.
I haven't written smut in a while, so I know that I might be rusty; please let me know what you think!
(P.S. ten points to whoever spots the Shakespeare reference!)
