Leah Clearwater/Quil Ateara

A/N: You may recognise this from my one-shot collection - doing a bit of rearranging to find some fics their new home. Mature content ahead!

001.

She had always thought that her second first time would mean something. She had given Sam every inch of her heart, her soul and her body; he had taken everything from her in one fell swoop, and there wasn't a single thing he had left untouched.

Fixing herself meant fixing that.

Her second first time was quick. It was fumbling hands and averted eyes, darkness and silence, uncaring touches and hurried gestures. When he touched the places Sam had been, it didn't feel like forgetting; it felt like an endless parade of comparisons and buried memories.

Leah had cried herself to sleep in her childhood bed after it was done.

It was done.

002.

She had expected that the next first time would be different. She'd been more careful this time, letting the moment come to her, instead of running full-throttle towards someone new. That was what she told herself, at least, refusing to admit that the real Leah Clearwater didn't frequent seedy dive bars on the edge of town.

This time, when the strange man had run his roughened palms up her soft thighs, ruching her denim skirt up to her waist, she hadn't thought of him. She'd thought of many other things instead, like when is this meant to feel good and surely there's more to it than this . She'd thrown her head back, regardless, trying to lose herself in the moment and in the heat spreading through her body. She curled her hands tight into his shoulders, realising far too late that she'd left angry red crescent moons in the place her fingers had been. He'd chuckled at the marks, remarking that clearly she'd had a good time - had she? she wasn't quite sure - but it had sufficed as a distraction, and a distraction was really all she had needed.

Her third first time gave her what she needed. It was unhurried and forgettable, slow hands caressing skin in the dim glow of the streetlights that streamed through his car windows. Their breath had fogged the glass, the air growing sticky around them, but he hadn't minded. He'd held her close after, embracing her in the dampness of the truck, and if she closed her eyes tight enough she could pretend that it was him.

The third first time made her realise that fucking wasn't forgetting.

003.

The next time came a while later, when many moons had come to pass without the touch of another on her skin.

She had come to realise many things in her time alone, like how she'd never completely let herself go in the company of a man, or how she'd rarely felt appreciated in his arms. Knowing these things was one thing, but putting her knowledge to use was another.

Her newfound knowledge was how she had ended up on a blind date with a friend of a friend, directed by the sole impure (and selfish) intention of pursuing one meaningless, anonymous night.

He had been pleasant enough, kind enough, gentle enough; he was enough. Enough for her to shed her jacket mid-way through a perfectly agreeable dinner at his apartment; enough for her to let her dress fall to the floor without further conversation. He didn't speak much that night, but he was plenty resourceful with his lips and tongue in ways that had Leah singing his praises to her friends for nights to come. The way their bodies had come together that night didn't mean anything, but it didn't have to for Leah to find the memory beautiful in its own way.

That night was the first time that she'd let herself command her own pleasure; her voice had filled the room, direct and assertive in ways that she'd tried to subdue. After everything that had happened, the countless nights of arguing and crying and pleading with them , she'd been characterised as aggressive. Combative. Belligerent.

The way he'd held her in his arms that night, lavishing her with silken soft touches that made her feel delicate, breakable, made her feel as if she could be somebody else. A person that he'd never known, never touched. A person of her own.

The fourth first time was healing.

004.

Her next first time was fast and unrestrained, a chaotic melding of bodies in the sweaty club that her cousin had dragged her to.

He'd approached her from across the room, swift in his pursuit and in his seduction. It didn't take much to convince her; it was the firm grip of his hand, the wild look in his eye, that spoke to the animal within her.

Cut to the bathroom stall a tidy five minutes later, with his head buried betwixt her thighs, lapping at her centre like a parched beast. She'd gripped at his hair and dug her heels into his shoulders as she twisted and contorted against the cool tile, finally realising what it felt like to touch the stars.

He'd pushed into her soon after, reaching down to touch her in a way that only she'd done in the privacy of her bedroom before, the kind of touch that had her toes curling in bliss. When he came, he'd pressed his broad fingers into her hips so severely that if she were mortal she'd be purple and blue in his wake.

He left her quickly, but the feeling of his hands against her body did not. The memories were etched into the fabric of her brain, overwriting the fantasies she'd clung to from meaningful nights past. The stranger had given her something more valuable than romance, more meaningful than passion: he had given her the ability to pursue her own pleasure.

The fifth first time was discovery.

005.

Her last first time, the time when it actually mattered, was entirely unexpected. Her last first time wasn't with a stranger, either: it was a man she'd come to know well in the months since The Worst Day, a man who had seen the best and the worst and everything in between.

She gave her last first time to a man who had always seen the light in her, who had watched her scream and cry and lose herself in anger without batting an eyelash. She gave herself to the man who had waited for her, who had held her in times that she could barely keep herself human, who had seen it all and hadn't run in fear.

He'd surprised her that night, appearing at her window, his face illuminated only by the muted glow of the full moon. His skin was damp from the rain, small drops of moisture gleaming on his bare body like tiny diamonds under a lamp. She wanted to lower her face to his chest, to lick trails across his exposed skin, to taste what had always been so forbidden.

The chill of the night air blowing into her bedroom as she'd opened the window came with the realisation that she'd been staring. He didn't seem to mind, though, lithely slithering through the opening as if it were a well-practised routine. His expression was serious, a sudden appraisal of her profile, that had her feeling flushed and nervous and all wrong. Being in her room, alone with him, was wrong.

"Leah," he breathed, his eyes skimming across her pyjama-clad figure. "I needed to see you, alone."

He'd taken a step closer to her, and though her body was screaming to run, she stubbornly remained still. They'd come chest to chest, her body mere inches from his, and the heat radiating from his body was staggering in the most sensuous of ways.

"What are you doing, Quil?" she'd murmured, restraining the urge to press her palms against his hips. She'd noticed him before, many times over, but there was something so forbidden about really noticing the naked and exposed body of your packmate. Her admiration of Quil was something she'd come to bury deep inside her, memories to recall only in solitude.

He didn't share her restraint, though, reaching his hands out to grasp her waist. "Pretending that I don't think about you every night is getting old. I've seen what you try and hide from me, Leah. Don't act like you're not thinking about me too," he said, fixing his stare squarely on her.

She'd swallowed, feeling seen for the first time in a long time. He was right, and still the thought of admitting her lust was frightening beyond belief. He'd made it easy for her though, lowering his mouth to the shell of her ear, letting his warm breath blow across her skin in ways that set her entire body alight.

"If you want this," he murmured, grasping at her waist, "then all you need to do is nod. Nod, and I'll put you on that bed and keep you there until you're calling my name. It's your choice, Leah."

It was her choice. There were lots of things in her life that she hadn't chosen. He knew that, he knew her, and so she had nodded, falling back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs.

He kept true to his word, kept true to her, and had lavished her with the kind of attention that she'd only ever experienced in the fantasies, fantasies she believed she had under lock and key. When his mouth came down onto hers, she'd realised that she'd spent far too long thinking about how he was wrong for her, and not enough time about how he was right. His heat, his strength, his pure animalistic want, made him the perfect double.

And when he'd pushed into her, his body quivering above her in the inky blackness of her bedroom, she'd realised it was the first time she'd felt whole in a long time. His hips had snapped against hers again and again, building towards the kind of bliss she'd long forgotten about, and his hand low against her body was her undoing.

She'd fallen apart, calling his name again and again into the stillness of the night, and he'd shuddered long and hard, lowering his body to press against hers. They'd laid coiled together in comfortable silence for a long time, so long that she'd believed him to be asleep. It was only in the brief moments before she descended into sleep that he'd turned his mouth to press against her cheek, whispering into the night.

"I love you, Leah."

"I know," she'd whispered back, tucking her face into his neck.

They both knew, and it was enough.