Snuggle for faiththatfuelsu
She’s asleep, and she’s beautiful.
He reaches out, touching her hair, letting his hand slide down her back, smiling as his fingers whisper over her soft skin. He leans over and kisses her shoulder before settling back down on the bed.
The radiator is chugging away valiantly, trying to warm the air, but the wind is still whipping around outside, too many long miles of frozen prairie behind it. No little radiator is going to stand up against that, no glass, regardless of how thick it is, will keep out all that cold. The wind even whips through the thin crack under the door, and he pulls the covers up further over himself and adjusts them over Faith as well.
She’s beautiful. He’s known it since the first time he saw her. It’s obvious that she’s sexy, that she knows and owns it, that she lets her charisma settle over her skin like armor. But she’s beautiful, too -- when she’s laughing, more often than not at him, eyes dancing as she gives back even better than she’s given; when she’s fighting, moving like a bloody goddess on the battlefield killing everything that stands between her and her objective, between her and the execution of what she is; when she’s dirty and sweaty under the Impala with him, handing him tools with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirked in amusement; when she’s under him, when he moves deep inside her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, when her head’s thrown back and she’s moaning, clawing at him as she comes, body trembling --
But she’s beautiful, too, like this. Asleep, her face soft and relaxed, her hair spread out around her. She’s beautiful, and he --
He loves her. He didn’t want to love her, didn’t want to fall for her like this. Because it’s him, and because it’s her, and because of what they are. But when it’s like this, when she’s asleep beside him and the wind rages outside, when it’s just them against the world and the night and the cold, he loves her with a stupid love that he had always thought was made up in bad movies and fairy tales and hallmark cards.
He slides closer to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him, and she murmurs a bit but doesn’t wake up really, her arms circling around him, and he smiles, taking a deep breath.
He loves her and he wakes up amazed every morning that she’s in his arms -- and he knows that if he can’t find a way to tell her, that sooner or later he’s going to wake up and she’ll be gone.
He reaches out, touching her hair, letting his hand slide down her back, smiling as his fingers whisper over her soft skin. He leans over and kisses her shoulder before settling back down on the bed.
The radiator is chugging away valiantly, trying to warm the air, but the wind is still whipping around outside, too many long miles of frozen prairie behind it. No little radiator is going to stand up against that, no glass, regardless of how thick it is, will keep out all that cold. The wind even whips through the thin crack under the door, and he pulls the covers up further over himself and adjusts them over Faith as well.
She’s beautiful. He’s known it since the first time he saw her. It’s obvious that she’s sexy, that she knows and owns it, that she lets her charisma settle over her skin like armor. But she’s beautiful, too -- when she’s laughing, more often than not at him, eyes dancing as she gives back even better than she’s given; when she’s fighting, moving like a bloody goddess on the battlefield killing everything that stands between her and her objective, between her and the execution of what she is; when she’s dirty and sweaty under the Impala with him, handing him tools with a raised eyebrow, her lips quirked in amusement; when she’s under him, when he moves deep inside her, her legs wrapped tight around his waist, when her head’s thrown back and she’s moaning, clawing at him as she comes, body trembling --
But she’s beautiful, too, like this. Asleep, her face soft and relaxed, her hair spread out around her. She’s beautiful, and he --
He loves her. He didn’t want to love her, didn’t want to fall for her like this. Because it’s him, and because it’s her, and because of what they are. But when it’s like this, when she’s asleep beside him and the wind rages outside, when it’s just them against the world and the night and the cold, he loves her with a stupid love that he had always thought was made up in bad movies and fairy tales and hallmark cards.
He slides closer to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him, and she murmurs a bit but doesn’t wake up really, her arms circling around him, and he smiles, taking a deep breath.
He loves her and he wakes up amazed every morning that she’s in his arms -- and he knows that if he can’t find a way to tell her, that sooner or later he’s going to wake up and she’ll be gone.