Weekend
Title: Weekend
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Criminal Mind
Characters/Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Genre: Romance/Drama
Summary: It’s the weekend, and David Rossi intends to make good use of it
Author’s Note: I’ve been sick, and my brain feels like a fluffy brick, so take this with a grain of salt. It feels kind of choppy and uneven, but I have a writing compulsion that makes me need to post something every so often, questions of quality aside, so you’re getting it no matter what. Deal.
* * *
Weekend
It’s somewhat rare that they get a weekend to themselves; sometimes it’s a case, or the masses of paperwork, or consultations, but usually it’s the crippling truth that they’re all workaholics, and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it.
Still.
Like most free weekends they get, Emily follows him home, and the promise of sex and companionship means that he’s driving just the slightest bit faster than he would if he were going home alone.
He gets there first, and he’s damn near pacing while he waits for her car to pull into the driveway, and when it does, he all but drags her through the front door and takes her right there in the hallway, because it’s been a long, unhappy week. He manages to restrain himself to the bedroom at least, but once that door clicks shut, anything’s fair game, a fact of which neither of them have any doubt.
It’s fast, and rough, and blisteringly satisfying, but they’ve got all weekend to do slow and sensual. As it happens, though, slow and sensual comes after dinner; after Chinese food cross-legged and barefoot on his sofa, something he’s fairly sure he’d never done until Emily had come along. She laughs as Mudgie begs for table scraps, but he isn’t at all surprised when she drops a bit of Moo Shu Pork when she thinks he isn’t looking.
Saturday morning comes, and it’s slow, and lazy, and at the same time, quite unlike any of the Saturday mornings he’d had during his period of retirement. Then, there had been books, and ex-wives, and publicity and whatnot. Now, there’s just Emily.
She stirs slightly when he gets up, and he lays a soft kiss on her cheek - hard enough that she’ll feel it, but not hard enough that it will pull her out of her still sleeping state. Part of him wants to take a photo of her lying there, hair spread out against the maroon pillows, just in case. He’s not the kind of person that deals in “just in cases” though.
She pads into the kitchen ten minutes later, when the smell of bacon and eggs is starting to waft. She’s still hazy with sleep, but has an effortlessly sexy look going on, and he’s immediately reminded of the fact that he’s the only person who ever gets to see this side of her, and his heart swells.
Other parts of him are swelling a little bit too, but he attributes it to the fact that she’s showing a lot of thigh. The thought of the smoke detectors going off is the only thing that stops him from taking her right here, right now.
She yawns, and her eyes are tired and sad, but that seems to go hand in hand with the job sometimes, because even when they win, they lose.
It’s a slow and lazy day, a plan that had gone unsaid, yet had been agreed upon by both of them. She’s reading a book while he goes over the latest draft of his manuscript. Once upon a time he would have raised an eyebrow at a book title like The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse; it sounds more like something Garcia, or, at a stretch, Reid would be perusing. It’s the first time in a long while that his profiling skills had failed him.
At first, he’d pegged Emily down as a reader of classics - she’d mentioned Steinbeck and Joyce and Vonnegut in casual conversation long before they’d even started dating. More recently, he’s realized that Ulysses goes hand in hand with Neuromancer or The Eyre Affair or Watchmen, even though he has no real inclination to read those particular books himself.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks, breaking through the silence, and it’s then that he realizes that the book is lying pages down on her chest, and she’s looking at him. He doesn’t say anything, and she elaborates with, ‘You’ve got that contemplative look on your face. Did you want a second set of eyes?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m pretty sure I stopped proof-reading about ten minutes ago,’ he says, and being a profiler, it doesn’t take all that long for her to put two and two together.
‘You do realize you’re allowed to do more than just look, right?’ she asks, her eyes fiery.
‘I didn’t want to interrupt the hollow chocolate bunny apocalypse,’ he retorts drily, which causes Emily to sit up, and put the book aside entirely. She casually strolls towards him, levering herself onto the armchair to straddle his thighs.
‘Are you trying to imply something about my reading habits?’ she asks, in a tone that tells him she’s joking. Mostly.
‘No implications necessary,’ he grins, and her eyebrow raises. ‘You are a complete nerd.’
She shifts her hips just slightly, rubbing herself against the hardening bulge inside his pants. His whimper is unconscious and uncharacteristic, but neither of them really seems to notice.
‘Does that bother you at all?’ she says, almost threateningly, as she pulls away just slightly, and he feels her absence. It takes everything in him not to pull her towards him and just let go, so to speak.
‘No,’ he breathes, and evidently that’s the cue that they’d both been waiting for, because that’s the end of the discussion, and Rossi is vaguely aware of Emily’s t-shirt being tossed in the direction of the fireplace, and it’s a damn good thing it’s not winter, because he’s really not in the mood to go and pull it out just yet.
His hands are on her breasts as she dry humps him through two layers of clothing, her nipples hard through the black material. He pulls her closer towards him, his mouth taking over, and his hands reaching around to the clasp at the back.
Soon they’ll be at a point where he’ll need to start counting the number of times they’ve had sex this weekend on two hands, but he doesn’t really care, because not even he is at an age where too much sex is a bad thing.
She lifts up slightly so that he can pull her jeans off, but the way they’re seating means that getting his pants off would be a task and a half, so he satisfies himself with simply slipping himself free, and adjusting their positions slightly, and he’s so fucking hard that it’s probably not going to make a difference, but he doesn’t really have time to consider the matter any further, because Emily’s sliding down onto him.
They’re both already sweating hard, and that seems to extrapolate once they start moving properly, her hands curled around the back of his neck, his hands clutching her ass as she rides him, properly this time. Any quips about nerdiness seem to have been lost to the heat of the moment, as casual conversation is wont to do once talking becomes just that little bit harder. No puns intended.
Her legs tighten as she starts to spasm, and he holds her through it, letting go almost immediately afterwards. She gives a shaky laugh.
‘Some weekend this is,’ she mutters, head against his neck. ‘We’re going to show up to work on Monday morning even more tired than when we left.’
‘Isn’t that what weekends are for?’ he asks her, still breathing hard. She shakes her head softly in an “I don’t know” gesture, and after a long while, she goes back to her book, and the rest of the weekend seems to pass by so quickly that it’s almost as though they hadn’t had one at all.
Still.
He looks forward to the next one.
By then, Emily will be reading a new book.
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Criminal Mind
Characters/Pairing: Rossi/Prentiss
Genre: Romance/Drama
Summary: It’s the weekend, and David Rossi intends to make good use of it
Author’s Note: I’ve been sick, and my brain feels like a fluffy brick, so take this with a grain of salt. It feels kind of choppy and uneven, but I have a writing compulsion that makes me need to post something every so often, questions of quality aside, so you’re getting it no matter what. Deal.
* * *
Weekend
It’s somewhat rare that they get a weekend to themselves; sometimes it’s a case, or the masses of paperwork, or consultations, but usually it’s the crippling truth that they’re all workaholics, and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it.
Still.
Like most free weekends they get, Emily follows him home, and the promise of sex and companionship means that he’s driving just the slightest bit faster than he would if he were going home alone.
He gets there first, and he’s damn near pacing while he waits for her car to pull into the driveway, and when it does, he all but drags her through the front door and takes her right there in the hallway, because it’s been a long, unhappy week. He manages to restrain himself to the bedroom at least, but once that door clicks shut, anything’s fair game, a fact of which neither of them have any doubt.
It’s fast, and rough, and blisteringly satisfying, but they’ve got all weekend to do slow and sensual. As it happens, though, slow and sensual comes after dinner; after Chinese food cross-legged and barefoot on his sofa, something he’s fairly sure he’d never done until Emily had come along. She laughs as Mudgie begs for table scraps, but he isn’t at all surprised when she drops a bit of Moo Shu Pork when she thinks he isn’t looking.
Saturday morning comes, and it’s slow, and lazy, and at the same time, quite unlike any of the Saturday mornings he’d had during his period of retirement. Then, there had been books, and ex-wives, and publicity and whatnot. Now, there’s just Emily.
She stirs slightly when he gets up, and he lays a soft kiss on her cheek - hard enough that she’ll feel it, but not hard enough that it will pull her out of her still sleeping state. Part of him wants to take a photo of her lying there, hair spread out against the maroon pillows, just in case. He’s not the kind of person that deals in “just in cases” though.
She pads into the kitchen ten minutes later, when the smell of bacon and eggs is starting to waft. She’s still hazy with sleep, but has an effortlessly sexy look going on, and he’s immediately reminded of the fact that he’s the only person who ever gets to see this side of her, and his heart swells.
Other parts of him are swelling a little bit too, but he attributes it to the fact that she’s showing a lot of thigh. The thought of the smoke detectors going off is the only thing that stops him from taking her right here, right now.
She yawns, and her eyes are tired and sad, but that seems to go hand in hand with the job sometimes, because even when they win, they lose.
It’s a slow and lazy day, a plan that had gone unsaid, yet had been agreed upon by both of them. She’s reading a book while he goes over the latest draft of his manuscript. Once upon a time he would have raised an eyebrow at a book title like The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse; it sounds more like something Garcia, or, at a stretch, Reid would be perusing. It’s the first time in a long while that his profiling skills had failed him.
At first, he’d pegged Emily down as a reader of classics - she’d mentioned Steinbeck and Joyce and Vonnegut in casual conversation long before they’d even started dating. More recently, he’s realized that Ulysses goes hand in hand with Neuromancer or The Eyre Affair or Watchmen, even though he has no real inclination to read those particular books himself.
‘What are you thinking?’ she asks, breaking through the silence, and it’s then that he realizes that the book is lying pages down on her chest, and she’s looking at him. He doesn’t say anything, and she elaborates with, ‘You’ve got that contemplative look on your face. Did you want a second set of eyes?’
He shakes his head. ‘I’m pretty sure I stopped proof-reading about ten minutes ago,’ he says, and being a profiler, it doesn’t take all that long for her to put two and two together.
‘You do realize you’re allowed to do more than just look, right?’ she asks, her eyes fiery.
‘I didn’t want to interrupt the hollow chocolate bunny apocalypse,’ he retorts drily, which causes Emily to sit up, and put the book aside entirely. She casually strolls towards him, levering herself onto the armchair to straddle his thighs.
‘Are you trying to imply something about my reading habits?’ she asks, in a tone that tells him she’s joking. Mostly.
‘No implications necessary,’ he grins, and her eyebrow raises. ‘You are a complete nerd.’
She shifts her hips just slightly, rubbing herself against the hardening bulge inside his pants. His whimper is unconscious and uncharacteristic, but neither of them really seems to notice.
‘Does that bother you at all?’ she says, almost threateningly, as she pulls away just slightly, and he feels her absence. It takes everything in him not to pull her towards him and just let go, so to speak.
‘No,’ he breathes, and evidently that’s the cue that they’d both been waiting for, because that’s the end of the discussion, and Rossi is vaguely aware of Emily’s t-shirt being tossed in the direction of the fireplace, and it’s a damn good thing it’s not winter, because he’s really not in the mood to go and pull it out just yet.
His hands are on her breasts as she dry humps him through two layers of clothing, her nipples hard through the black material. He pulls her closer towards him, his mouth taking over, and his hands reaching around to the clasp at the back.
Soon they’ll be at a point where he’ll need to start counting the number of times they’ve had sex this weekend on two hands, but he doesn’t really care, because not even he is at an age where too much sex is a bad thing.
She lifts up slightly so that he can pull her jeans off, but the way they’re seating means that getting his pants off would be a task and a half, so he satisfies himself with simply slipping himself free, and adjusting their positions slightly, and he’s so fucking hard that it’s probably not going to make a difference, but he doesn’t really have time to consider the matter any further, because Emily’s sliding down onto him.
They’re both already sweating hard, and that seems to extrapolate once they start moving properly, her hands curled around the back of his neck, his hands clutching her ass as she rides him, properly this time. Any quips about nerdiness seem to have been lost to the heat of the moment, as casual conversation is wont to do once talking becomes just that little bit harder. No puns intended.
Her legs tighten as she starts to spasm, and he holds her through it, letting go almost immediately afterwards. She gives a shaky laugh.
‘Some weekend this is,’ she mutters, head against his neck. ‘We’re going to show up to work on Monday morning even more tired than when we left.’
‘Isn’t that what weekends are for?’ he asks her, still breathing hard. She shakes her head softly in an “I don’t know” gesture, and after a long while, she goes back to her book, and the rest of the weekend seems to pass by so quickly that it’s almost as though they hadn’t had one at all.
Still.
He looks forward to the next one.
By then, Emily will be reading a new book.