3 cm_het_drabbles: Elle/Reid & some HOTCH! Because he's the man.
Title: Thin Smoke and Darkness
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: shadows
Rating: PG13
Warnings: sexuality
It's no secret that he hates the dark, but the truth is that it isn't the dark so much as the pictures it creates when a point of light breaks through. The shadows. The Rorschach blots that undulate across the walls and the floor and the ceiling, abstractions that can be twisted and bent and imagined into any type of horror his mind can conjure. He has seen his share of horrors. He has seen things he could never have conjured before, not in his most gruesome nightmares.
He knows that Elle was being kind when she struck a match on the heel of her shoe and lit the candle on her nightstand. She is utilitarian, physical; it wasn't a gesture of romance. It was her speaking with her mouth shut. You're safe here; I understand; it's all right.
And, oddly enough, he feels safe, even with the guttering light that fills the room with silhouettes. It makes lace across her back where she lies, bare and trusting and breathing in rhythm, beside him. It makes her look delicate. It makes him want to touch her -- the knots of her spine, the points of her shoulders, the bows of her knees. It makes him want her, though he's technically just had her, and that, more than the flickering shadows that turn her skin into a surrealist canvas, is the unsettling thing.
He doesn't know what to do with this -- it's greedy and heedless and unprofessional and a thousand other things that he is not. It's the worst idea he's had in years. It's probably the worst idea Elle has had in years -- and he knows she's had some bad ideas.
But here he is. Here she is. Here they are, naked and sticky with cooling sweat and she's asleep, like this is a totally normal Tuesday night. Like he's supposed to be here. Like she expected him to wear her out and make her holler and bruise her thighs with the blunt curves of his hipbones. He can see them blooming dark there in the firelight, near the place where her sprawled legs meet.
Or maybe it's a trick of the light. Maybe they're just shadows. Maybe there are no traces of him anywhere on her, and his brain is making monsters.
Be logical. Just check, his mother used to say. Get out of bed and check. You'll feel better.
Tentatively, he takes his hand and brushes it against the side of her knee. When she doesn't wake, he draws it up her leg. The closer he gets, the hotter she feels, and when he presses against the place where he has bruised her -- maybe, probably -- she stirs. "Reid?" she mutters, sleepy but not startled, her head nuzzling the pillow. "It's okay, baby. Go to sleep. Shhh."
He curls his hand against the inside of her thigh and leans across her to blow out the candle. Everything disappears but thin smoke and darkness.
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: I keep bending til I break
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Language, sex
Elle does nothing halfway.
The full force of her -- and she is formidable -- goes behind every move she makes, every thought she has, every desire and emotion and fear and need. It's what makes her so brilliant, but it is also what makes her so unnerving. Ultimately, it's what pulls him in so far over his head he can't be sure which way is up.
The first time they kiss, she gives him a fat lip and an instant hard-on, then laughs for a full minute at the stunned look on his face.
The first time they fuck, she scratches bloody valleys into his back and swears and moans and swallows. She says goddamnit Reid tell me you can do better than that and put it in my mouth, and she isn't even quiet after he does, and that's the best part.
And the first time they fight -- really fight -- she levels her gaze the way she levels her weapon then breaks a glass against the wall beside his head, but thirty seconds later she licks the blood off of his cheek and mutters into his ear You can't break me baby I just bend and bend and bend.
And maybe he can't break her, but something can. Something will. Nobody can go that fast and hit that hard and burn that bright forever. It defies science and logic and all the rest of what is sacred.
No, she does nothing halfway, not even destruct, so all he can do is warm himself by her fire until she explodes.
Title: A Thousand Different Deaths
Characters: Hotch, Megan Kane, and a cameo by Rossi. Ha.
Prompt: I could get used to this
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilage for Pleasure is My Business
Everyone dies differently. Hotch knows this. He has seen a thousand different people die a thousand different deaths, and none of them are pretty or pleasant or anything but tragic, no matter how quiet or how dignified the end comes.
A thousand deaths, a thousand faces, a thousand short chapters in the long, exhausting book of his life, and he remembers hers.
Megan Kane didn't die like a serial killer. There was no blaze of bullets or standoff or stench of burning rubber. There was no bravado, no last futile act of imagined immortality. She died the way terminal patients die, quiet and slow, drifting back and forth between this world and whatever waits for them in the next.
Twice, he thought she was gone and leaned over to press at her delicate wrist, only to find her pulse still humming quietly inside. The first time, she turned her hand over and squeezed, and when he looked at her face, she was silent and smiling. The second time, she opened her eyes, big and wide and irrevocably beautiful, and met his gaze, square-on and calm. "Your hands are warm," she'd said. "They're big. You know, I could get used to this."
It was one of the few times in his life that he had been rendered speechless; that he didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing that came to mind and drew her hand to his lips and kissed it.
He doesn't know if she felt it, if she knew, if it made anything easier. When he laid it back down against the arm of the chair, there was no life left inside, and the whole thing made him feel gutted and hollow and sad.
Later, it occurs to him that he kissed the hand of a serial killer, that he had done it with full knowledge, that he had spent more time comforting her than he had spent comforting some victims. The realization, when it sinks into his stomach, makes it roll and heave and twist, and when he can't take it any longer, he leans heavily against his desk chair, closes his eyes, and asks Rossi, "What does that make me?"
Rossi looks at him for a good, long moment before he says, decisively, "Human."
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: shadows
Rating: PG13
Warnings: sexuality
It's no secret that he hates the dark, but the truth is that it isn't the dark so much as the pictures it creates when a point of light breaks through. The shadows. The Rorschach blots that undulate across the walls and the floor and the ceiling, abstractions that can be twisted and bent and imagined into any type of horror his mind can conjure. He has seen his share of horrors. He has seen things he could never have conjured before, not in his most gruesome nightmares.
He knows that Elle was being kind when she struck a match on the heel of her shoe and lit the candle on her nightstand. She is utilitarian, physical; it wasn't a gesture of romance. It was her speaking with her mouth shut. You're safe here; I understand; it's all right.
And, oddly enough, he feels safe, even with the guttering light that fills the room with silhouettes. It makes lace across her back where she lies, bare and trusting and breathing in rhythm, beside him. It makes her look delicate. It makes him want to touch her -- the knots of her spine, the points of her shoulders, the bows of her knees. It makes him want her, though he's technically just had her, and that, more than the flickering shadows that turn her skin into a surrealist canvas, is the unsettling thing.
He doesn't know what to do with this -- it's greedy and heedless and unprofessional and a thousand other things that he is not. It's the worst idea he's had in years. It's probably the worst idea Elle has had in years -- and he knows she's had some bad ideas.
But here he is. Here she is. Here they are, naked and sticky with cooling sweat and she's asleep, like this is a totally normal Tuesday night. Like he's supposed to be here. Like she expected him to wear her out and make her holler and bruise her thighs with the blunt curves of his hipbones. He can see them blooming dark there in the firelight, near the place where her sprawled legs meet.
Or maybe it's a trick of the light. Maybe they're just shadows. Maybe there are no traces of him anywhere on her, and his brain is making monsters.
Be logical. Just check, his mother used to say. Get out of bed and check. You'll feel better.
Tentatively, he takes his hand and brushes it against the side of her knee. When she doesn't wake, he draws it up her leg. The closer he gets, the hotter she feels, and when he presses against the place where he has bruised her -- maybe, probably -- she stirs. "Reid?" she mutters, sleepy but not startled, her head nuzzling the pillow. "It's okay, baby. Go to sleep. Shhh."
He curls his hand against the inside of her thigh and leans across her to blow out the candle. Everything disappears but thin smoke and darkness.
Title: Untitled
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: I keep bending til I break
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Language, sex
Elle does nothing halfway.
The full force of her -- and she is formidable -- goes behind every move she makes, every thought she has, every desire and emotion and fear and need. It's what makes her so brilliant, but it is also what makes her so unnerving. Ultimately, it's what pulls him in so far over his head he can't be sure which way is up.
The first time they kiss, she gives him a fat lip and an instant hard-on, then laughs for a full minute at the stunned look on his face.
The first time they fuck, she scratches bloody valleys into his back and swears and moans and swallows. She says goddamnit Reid tell me you can do better than that and put it in my mouth, and she isn't even quiet after he does, and that's the best part.
And the first time they fight -- really fight -- she levels her gaze the way she levels her weapon then breaks a glass against the wall beside his head, but thirty seconds later she licks the blood off of his cheek and mutters into his ear You can't break me baby I just bend and bend and bend.
And maybe he can't break her, but something can. Something will. Nobody can go that fast and hit that hard and burn that bright forever. It defies science and logic and all the rest of what is sacred.
No, she does nothing halfway, not even destruct, so all he can do is warm himself by her fire until she explodes.
Title: A Thousand Different Deaths
Characters: Hotch, Megan Kane, and a cameo by Rossi. Ha.
Prompt: I could get used to this
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilage for Pleasure is My Business
Everyone dies differently. Hotch knows this. He has seen a thousand different people die a thousand different deaths, and none of them are pretty or pleasant or anything but tragic, no matter how quiet or how dignified the end comes.
A thousand deaths, a thousand faces, a thousand short chapters in the long, exhausting book of his life, and he remembers hers.
Megan Kane didn't die like a serial killer. There was no blaze of bullets or standoff or stench of burning rubber. There was no bravado, no last futile act of imagined immortality. She died the way terminal patients die, quiet and slow, drifting back and forth between this world and whatever waits for them in the next.
Twice, he thought she was gone and leaned over to press at her delicate wrist, only to find her pulse still humming quietly inside. The first time, she turned her hand over and squeezed, and when he looked at her face, she was silent and smiling. The second time, she opened her eyes, big and wide and irrevocably beautiful, and met his gaze, square-on and calm. "Your hands are warm," she'd said. "They're big. You know, I could get used to this."
It was one of the few times in his life that he had been rendered speechless; that he didn't know what to do. So he did the only thing that came to mind and drew her hand to his lips and kissed it.
He doesn't know if she felt it, if she knew, if it made anything easier. When he laid it back down against the arm of the chair, there was no life left inside, and the whole thing made him feel gutted and hollow and sad.
Later, it occurs to him that he kissed the hand of a serial killer, that he had done it with full knowledge, that he had spent more time comforting her than he had spent comforting some victims. The realization, when it sinks into his stomach, makes it roll and heave and twist, and when he can't take it any longer, he leans heavily against his desk chair, closes his eyes, and asks Rossi, "What does that make me?"
Rossi looks at him for a good, long moment before he says, decisively, "Human."