Damaged Bad at Best (S/M, NC-17)
Title: Damaged Bad at Best
Author: Michelle K.
Pairing: Sam/Martin
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Problem was, Sam didn't respond well to happiness.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
For ashism. Happy birthday!
*
Sam was happy.
(Problem was, Sam didn't respond well to happiness.)
*
Sam balled her fingers into fists, the white cotton chafing her palms. Her hips bucked as Martin entered her with a second finger. He'd long since learned how fast to move his hand, what sort of pressure to use. He kissed her chin, tongue darting out against her skin. Her orgasm rippled through her body and she arched, pressing against his erection. She flattened her palms against the mattress and, as he buried his face in her neck--
He said, "I love you."
She said nothing back.
His other hand moved down her chest, over one of her breasts. He said her name once as he brushed his lips over hers.
She wrapped her leg around him and guided him inside her. She pretended to come again, lied to herself that such a fallacy stroked the parts of his ego she'd wounded.
*
The morning wasn't as awkward as Sam would've feared, as Martin wasn't angry. Or, if he was, he wasn't overt about it. She didn't know if he just wasn't concerned (telling himself she'll say it soon or she's not the type who says it often) or if he was afraid to upset the balance (a little pressure and she might run back to Jack).
Sam didn't know if any of it was true. Didn't know if she loved him. Didn't know why happiness seemed fleeting even when she was in the midst of it.
She didn't think of Jack. She was never really happy with him.
(But when she loved him, she *knew* it.)
"I'll make you breakfast," Martin said, and Sam smiled.
*
Sometimes, in the moments where she was lost in her own thoughts, she missed therapy. The inherent implication that her problems were more important than everyone else's, if only for an hour. Talking didn't fix what was wrong with her, but it did make it easier to breathe to know that someone was aware of how fucked up she was.
(Then she'd fear that *everyone* knew she was fucked up. That made her feel like she was suffocating.)
She didn't go back to therapy. She didn't even go to a friend. There was nothing new to say. Nothing else to do.
*
In the middle of the day -- one spent mostly with Viv -- Martin brought her coffee. She thanked him. She smiled.
(She wondered why a part of her hurt.)
*
After work, they went out for a drink. Danny didn't tag along, probably because he knew about their affair.
(Relationship?)
They talked about work and his family, and Sam found herself pondering how much she missed smoke-filled bars. Sometimes, New York didn't feel like New York. She didn't tell Martin this; she didn't think he'd understand.
(She wasn't sure she did, either.)
When the conversation died down, he kissed her.
"I'm going to go out for a cigarette," she said after, the taste of his beer still on her tongue.
He followed her and, as the smoke mingled with the cool night air, she felt like her chest was going to cave in even (especially?) when he made her laugh.
*
"There's something wrong."
Sam gave him a tight smile. "That should be in question form."
"But you would've said no. I knew you would've been lying. I wanted to save time."
"I..."
(I'm second-guessing everything. I'm worried I'll hate you before I know I love you. That I'll never be anything else but a ruiner. That I want you to be something you're not.)
"It's," she continued. "Everything."
"It's because I said I loved you."
"It's not just that."
(It's just my time to pull away.)
Martin looked away, not smiling or frowning, as if he weren't sure how to feel about it. "I love you, Sam. You don't have to feel guilty for not saying it back."
"There's a lot of things I don't *have* to feel guilty for. But that doesn't mean I won't."
Martin smiled then. And: "Come here."
She slid closer, brought her mouth to his. That night, she actually did come twice, but she wasn't sure it mattered to either of them.
*
Martin stopped saying he loved her, and she wasn't sure if it was intended to make her more or less comfortable. It didn't particularly do either. Things couldn't be unsaid after they'd been uttered. He couldn't fool her into pretending he didn't have doubts that nagged at him.
(He wasn't entirely blinded by love, that she knew.)
She supposed she didn't fool him either.
But it was okay, and she was happy in her way.
(Her way might not have been best for him.)
*
One morning, she found that he left before she woke. On her nightstand was a note. Not "Dear Jane," but "I wanted to get to work early." No real insight about why he needed to get to his desk before everyone else. And when she got to work, she didn't ask. She couldn't imagine a good reason.
He brought her coffee in the middle of the day. She smiled.
(She hurt even more.)
*
"I don't want this to be over," she said.
He was silent for a moment. "Neither do I."
He touched the side of her face as he kissed her chin. She titled her head to let her lips brush against his.
They ended up having sex on her couch, and it felt like the beginning. Before expectations, when her fucking it up was far on the horizon. And maybe she could just go back to square one, but... but there was searching in his eyes, waiting for *it* so--
"I love you," she said.
(She wasn't sure if she was telling the truth.)
END
Author: Michelle K.
Pairing: Sam/Martin
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Problem was, Sam didn't respond well to happiness.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't sue.
For ashism. Happy birthday!
*
Sam was happy.
(Problem was, Sam didn't respond well to happiness.)
*
Sam balled her fingers into fists, the white cotton chafing her palms. Her hips bucked as Martin entered her with a second finger. He'd long since learned how fast to move his hand, what sort of pressure to use. He kissed her chin, tongue darting out against her skin. Her orgasm rippled through her body and she arched, pressing against his erection. She flattened her palms against the mattress and, as he buried his face in her neck--
He said, "I love you."
She said nothing back.
His other hand moved down her chest, over one of her breasts. He said her name once as he brushed his lips over hers.
She wrapped her leg around him and guided him inside her. She pretended to come again, lied to herself that such a fallacy stroked the parts of his ego she'd wounded.
*
The morning wasn't as awkward as Sam would've feared, as Martin wasn't angry. Or, if he was, he wasn't overt about it. She didn't know if he just wasn't concerned (telling himself she'll say it soon or she's not the type who says it often) or if he was afraid to upset the balance (a little pressure and she might run back to Jack).
Sam didn't know if any of it was true. Didn't know if she loved him. Didn't know why happiness seemed fleeting even when she was in the midst of it.
She didn't think of Jack. She was never really happy with him.
(But when she loved him, she *knew* it.)
"I'll make you breakfast," Martin said, and Sam smiled.
*
Sometimes, in the moments where she was lost in her own thoughts, she missed therapy. The inherent implication that her problems were more important than everyone else's, if only for an hour. Talking didn't fix what was wrong with her, but it did make it easier to breathe to know that someone was aware of how fucked up she was.
(Then she'd fear that *everyone* knew she was fucked up. That made her feel like she was suffocating.)
She didn't go back to therapy. She didn't even go to a friend. There was nothing new to say. Nothing else to do.
*
In the middle of the day -- one spent mostly with Viv -- Martin brought her coffee. She thanked him. She smiled.
(She wondered why a part of her hurt.)
*
After work, they went out for a drink. Danny didn't tag along, probably because he knew about their affair.
(Relationship?)
They talked about work and his family, and Sam found herself pondering how much she missed smoke-filled bars. Sometimes, New York didn't feel like New York. She didn't tell Martin this; she didn't think he'd understand.
(She wasn't sure she did, either.)
When the conversation died down, he kissed her.
"I'm going to go out for a cigarette," she said after, the taste of his beer still on her tongue.
He followed her and, as the smoke mingled with the cool night air, she felt like her chest was going to cave in even (especially?) when he made her laugh.
*
"There's something wrong."
Sam gave him a tight smile. "That should be in question form."
"But you would've said no. I knew you would've been lying. I wanted to save time."
"I..."
(I'm second-guessing everything. I'm worried I'll hate you before I know I love you. That I'll never be anything else but a ruiner. That I want you to be something you're not.)
"It's," she continued. "Everything."
"It's because I said I loved you."
"It's not just that."
(It's just my time to pull away.)
Martin looked away, not smiling or frowning, as if he weren't sure how to feel about it. "I love you, Sam. You don't have to feel guilty for not saying it back."
"There's a lot of things I don't *have* to feel guilty for. But that doesn't mean I won't."
Martin smiled then. And: "Come here."
She slid closer, brought her mouth to his. That night, she actually did come twice, but she wasn't sure it mattered to either of them.
*
Martin stopped saying he loved her, and she wasn't sure if it was intended to make her more or less comfortable. It didn't particularly do either. Things couldn't be unsaid after they'd been uttered. He couldn't fool her into pretending he didn't have doubts that nagged at him.
(He wasn't entirely blinded by love, that she knew.)
She supposed she didn't fool him either.
But it was okay, and she was happy in her way.
(Her way might not have been best for him.)
*
One morning, she found that he left before she woke. On her nightstand was a note. Not "Dear Jane," but "I wanted to get to work early." No real insight about why he needed to get to his desk before everyone else. And when she got to work, she didn't ask. She couldn't imagine a good reason.
He brought her coffee in the middle of the day. She smiled.
(She hurt even more.)
*
"I don't want this to be over," she said.
He was silent for a moment. "Neither do I."
He touched the side of her face as he kissed her chin. She titled her head to let her lips brush against his.
They ended up having sex on her couch, and it felt like the beginning. Before expectations, when her fucking it up was far on the horizon. And maybe she could just go back to square one, but... but there was searching in his eyes, waiting for *it* so--
"I love you," she said.
(She wasn't sure if she was telling the truth.)
END