Being a Meme!Sheep... I'm doing it right.
Seriously, my body will do absolutely nothing but sit on the couch this evening, no matter how hard I try to encourage it otherwise. So I'm just rolling with it, and I am convincing myself that I am being productive because I am forcing myself to type.
So I did the music!meme that's been creeping around today. It goes like this:
1. Pick a character, fandom, pairing, friendship, whatever.
2. Put on your music program on shuffle/random and start playing songs.
3. For each song, write something inspired by the song related to the theme you chose earlier. You only have the song length. No pre-planning and no writing after the song is over. No skipping songs either.
4. Do 10 songs and post. Make sure to include the song name/artist.
Notes: I did seven, not ten, because my body couldn't take any more than that. I only wrote for the length of the song, but I did allow myself to finish a sentence if I'd already started it. I also went back when I was done and formatted, as well as corrected spelling/typos. So maybe I cheated a little? Eh. Maybe not.
And with that I bring you...
001. "Lightning Crashes" - Live: JJ, gen, PG13
This is, without a doubt, the most difficult thing she has ever done.
Every day, she makes decisions about whose lives are worth rushing to save. She has put a bullet into the back of a man's head without a second thought. She has stood, shaking, in front of a mirror and looked herself in the eye after allowing someone she loves to be kidnapped and thrown into the back of a car by a psychotic religious zealot. All of that means nothing now: her steel spine, her decisiveness, her willingness to do what must be done.
This - the pull of the earth through her bones, the force of the universe pulling life from life, this cracking wide open of her soul - this is the business of birth, and this, JJ thinks as she comes up for air in between the skull-splitting shifts of her body, is the fucking big time.
002. "Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover" - Sophie B. Hawkins: JJ/Reid (kind of), PG13
JJ has the startling thought one afternoon as she watches him drag the capped tip of a pen along the seam of his lips that she wants to see him kneel. She imagines what he would look like gazing up at her through the locked gate of his lashes, cheekbones high and dangerous, neck bent low like a half-sun claiming the horizon, and she nearly drops his over-sugared, over-creamed coffee down the front of her shirt.
Reid raises his eyes just in time to reach up to stop a full-on disaster, their fingers meeting along the hot edge of the cup, and as it spills over - like a heart that keeps going when a body has stopped - she says Oh, big and sharp and surprised and apologetic, and she swears he knows. He has to know, because he drops down and uses the now-damp hem of his too-long sleeve to mop the toe of her shoe, and their eyes meet with him down at her feet, and for a moment the background fades to black and she can't get enough spit for a good swallow.
"I'm sorry," she says, and he says it at the same time, and the tips of his ears go red like he's five years old and caught, and he's so fucking pretty like that that it can't be anything but on purpose.
003. "Good Enough" - Sarah MacLachlan: Prentiss & Reid, gen, G/PG, warning for implied drug use
Emily finds him later, alone at his desk long past when he should have gone, and she has it in her head that she's going to hard-line him. She's spent the past fifteen minutes staring at herself in the BAU bathroom mirror practicing the right way to tell him that she knows, she's been there, she can see it written all over him like graffiti.
But the longer she spends on a plan, the less likely it is to go off the way she wants it to, and so when she approaches him, she does it with a warm palm against his shoulder and two fingers at the bone poking at the skin on the back of his neck. She does it with a soft voice and scared eyes, because she can't lose him, too; can't let it take him away from her the way it took so many of her friends and part of her self.
You think I don't know anything, she says, but I know this: you are way too young to look so fucking old, and I love you, and I've been where you are, and she artfully ignores his And where's that? and takes Reid's hands instead, even when he fights her, and rests her chin inside their clammy hinge and stares into him as deep as she can go. And she can go deep. Deeper than anyone else on the team, because God, she was him, and she hopes he can see it.
For a moment, they just stare, and then the defiance fades from his face and he just looks sad, and she whispers, her breath against his skin, and she says I have always been good to you, you can trust me.
And he does.
004. "Push" - Matchbox 20: Elle, gen, PG13
Elle walks out calmly, her badge and her gun arranged across Hotch's desk like a bouquet of fucking flowers, but when she hits the sidewalk, she hits it. She scrapes her knuckles raw against the brick of the building and imagines the security cameras blinking like stupid, vacant eyes, lighting up like jackpot lights, clang clang clang crazy crazy crazy as everyone watches her give up the only thing she's ever wanted.
005. "#1 Crush" - Garbage: JJ/Reid, R/NC17, warning for implied adultery
He's thin and angular like the blade of a knife against her body. He is dangerous. He is precariously close to her throat, her femoral artery, her shaky pulse that fades in and out like a bad radio signal.
Reid doesn't look it - he's too pale, too sharp - but he's hot. Her tongue dragging along his neck is like summer rain on pavement, all steam and sizzle, and she wonders if he's feverish, sick like her with this gnawing in his belly and buzz in his brain. He has to be. If he wasn't, they wouldn't be skin-to-skin now, face-to-face, lie-to-lie in the backseat of her fucking car trying to work around the baby seat strapped regulation-safe on the driver's side, and he wouldn't be whimpering like he's about to die, like she's killing him with her slippery thighs and the raw need of her shrieking Id.
Whatever it is, they're both going to burn - either from the inside out or the outside in, if she believed in Hell, which she might when this is over - and that's just fine. That's just perfect. That's exactly what she wants, and he'll be six-ways fucked if he's going to deny her anything when she's naked and wrapped around him like the snake from the Garden, moaning in his ear for him to just fucking put it in.
006. "Beloved Wife" - Natalie Merchant: Hotch/Haley, PG, spoilers for 100
He cannot count the number of times that he failed her in their years together. He missed birthdays, anniversaries, weekends, late and lazy mornings with the sun pouring over the bed like brandy. He missed the shared victory of their son's first words, first steps, first smile. He missed virtually every important moment of her life since he promised to love, honor, and cherish her.
But what he had never, ever failed to do for her was protect her. He taught her to vary her routine, to turn the deadbolt, to check under her car, to ask for ID from the repairmen and the police who pulled her over. He taught her how to shoot to kill if she had to. He taught her how to live when she thought for sure she was going to die -- when other people would. He had taught Haley to be a survivor.
And now here she is, just one more body on one more floor, and when he looks at her, all he can see is one more moment he missed, one more milestone that won't be a memory, one final time he wasn't there, and this is the biggest failure of his life -- and he thinks that's saying a lot for a man like him.
007. "Chelsea Hotel" - Dan Bern: Emily/JJ, PG13
JJ wakes up with her mouth wine-dry and her head pounding like there's a train rolling right through it, and the light feels like a sear on her brain, blinding whitehot. Every time she moves, her body screeches at her to stopitstopitstopit, but she is an adult, and this hungover bullshit is not acceptable, so she blinks beneath her lashes before closing them with an awful groan deep in her gut.
Emily's beside her, dark hair sprawled across the pillow like an ominous cloud, a dangerous-looking purple mark bitten into the side of her oddly-angled neck.
"Fuck," JJ mutters. "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK."
"No." The response is sleep-heavy, slurred, but unmistakable.
"What?" JJ croaks, trying to sit up.
"No. No more," Emily says, working to roll her body sideways. "No more fucking. God. Please. "
Their eyes meet in the chilly light spilling through the curtains of what can only be a motel -- Heaven knows they've both seen enough of them -- and the earth pauses for a moment, just a half second, before the sweet-Christ-did-we-really? laughter starts.
Ta-da!
Ha.
So I did the music!meme that's been creeping around today. It goes like this:
1. Pick a character, fandom, pairing, friendship, whatever.
2. Put on your music program on shuffle/random and start playing songs.
3. For each song, write something inspired by the song related to the theme you chose earlier. You only have the song length. No pre-planning and no writing after the song is over. No skipping songs either.
4. Do 10 songs and post. Make sure to include the song name/artist.
Notes: I did seven, not ten, because my body couldn't take any more than that. I only wrote for the length of the song, but I did allow myself to finish a sentence if I'd already started it. I also went back when I was done and formatted, as well as corrected spelling/typos. So maybe I cheated a little? Eh. Maybe not.
And with that I bring you...
001. "Lightning Crashes" - Live: JJ, gen, PG13
This is, without a doubt, the most difficult thing she has ever done.
Every day, she makes decisions about whose lives are worth rushing to save. She has put a bullet into the back of a man's head without a second thought. She has stood, shaking, in front of a mirror and looked herself in the eye after allowing someone she loves to be kidnapped and thrown into the back of a car by a psychotic religious zealot. All of that means nothing now: her steel spine, her decisiveness, her willingness to do what must be done.
This - the pull of the earth through her bones, the force of the universe pulling life from life, this cracking wide open of her soul - this is the business of birth, and this, JJ thinks as she comes up for air in between the skull-splitting shifts of her body, is the fucking big time.
002. "Damn I Wish I Was Your Lover" - Sophie B. Hawkins: JJ/Reid (kind of), PG13
JJ has the startling thought one afternoon as she watches him drag the capped tip of a pen along the seam of his lips that she wants to see him kneel. She imagines what he would look like gazing up at her through the locked gate of his lashes, cheekbones high and dangerous, neck bent low like a half-sun claiming the horizon, and she nearly drops his over-sugared, over-creamed coffee down the front of her shirt.
Reid raises his eyes just in time to reach up to stop a full-on disaster, their fingers meeting along the hot edge of the cup, and as it spills over - like a heart that keeps going when a body has stopped - she says Oh, big and sharp and surprised and apologetic, and she swears he knows. He has to know, because he drops down and uses the now-damp hem of his too-long sleeve to mop the toe of her shoe, and their eyes meet with him down at her feet, and for a moment the background fades to black and she can't get enough spit for a good swallow.
"I'm sorry," she says, and he says it at the same time, and the tips of his ears go red like he's five years old and caught, and he's so fucking pretty like that that it can't be anything but on purpose.
003. "Good Enough" - Sarah MacLachlan: Prentiss & Reid, gen, G/PG, warning for implied drug use
Emily finds him later, alone at his desk long past when he should have gone, and she has it in her head that she's going to hard-line him. She's spent the past fifteen minutes staring at herself in the BAU bathroom mirror practicing the right way to tell him that she knows, she's been there, she can see it written all over him like graffiti.
But the longer she spends on a plan, the less likely it is to go off the way she wants it to, and so when she approaches him, she does it with a warm palm against his shoulder and two fingers at the bone poking at the skin on the back of his neck. She does it with a soft voice and scared eyes, because she can't lose him, too; can't let it take him away from her the way it took so many of her friends and part of her self.
You think I don't know anything, she says, but I know this: you are way too young to look so fucking old, and I love you, and I've been where you are, and she artfully ignores his And where's that? and takes Reid's hands instead, even when he fights her, and rests her chin inside their clammy hinge and stares into him as deep as she can go. And she can go deep. Deeper than anyone else on the team, because God, she was him, and she hopes he can see it.
For a moment, they just stare, and then the defiance fades from his face and he just looks sad, and she whispers, her breath against his skin, and she says I have always been good to you, you can trust me.
And he does.
004. "Push" - Matchbox 20: Elle, gen, PG13
Elle walks out calmly, her badge and her gun arranged across Hotch's desk like a bouquet of fucking flowers, but when she hits the sidewalk, she hits it. She scrapes her knuckles raw against the brick of the building and imagines the security cameras blinking like stupid, vacant eyes, lighting up like jackpot lights, clang clang clang crazy crazy crazy as everyone watches her give up the only thing she's ever wanted.
005. "#1 Crush" - Garbage: JJ/Reid, R/NC17, warning for implied adultery
He's thin and angular like the blade of a knife against her body. He is dangerous. He is precariously close to her throat, her femoral artery, her shaky pulse that fades in and out like a bad radio signal.
Reid doesn't look it - he's too pale, too sharp - but he's hot. Her tongue dragging along his neck is like summer rain on pavement, all steam and sizzle, and she wonders if he's feverish, sick like her with this gnawing in his belly and buzz in his brain. He has to be. If he wasn't, they wouldn't be skin-to-skin now, face-to-face, lie-to-lie in the backseat of her fucking car trying to work around the baby seat strapped regulation-safe on the driver's side, and he wouldn't be whimpering like he's about to die, like she's killing him with her slippery thighs and the raw need of her shrieking Id.
Whatever it is, they're both going to burn - either from the inside out or the outside in, if she believed in Hell, which she might when this is over - and that's just fine. That's just perfect. That's exactly what she wants, and he'll be six-ways fucked if he's going to deny her anything when she's naked and wrapped around him like the snake from the Garden, moaning in his ear for him to just fucking put it in.
006. "Beloved Wife" - Natalie Merchant: Hotch/Haley, PG, spoilers for 100
He cannot count the number of times that he failed her in their years together. He missed birthdays, anniversaries, weekends, late and lazy mornings with the sun pouring over the bed like brandy. He missed the shared victory of their son's first words, first steps, first smile. He missed virtually every important moment of her life since he promised to love, honor, and cherish her.
But what he had never, ever failed to do for her was protect her. He taught her to vary her routine, to turn the deadbolt, to check under her car, to ask for ID from the repairmen and the police who pulled her over. He taught her how to shoot to kill if she had to. He taught her how to live when she thought for sure she was going to die -- when other people would. He had taught Haley to be a survivor.
And now here she is, just one more body on one more floor, and when he looks at her, all he can see is one more moment he missed, one more milestone that won't be a memory, one final time he wasn't there, and this is the biggest failure of his life -- and he thinks that's saying a lot for a man like him.
007. "Chelsea Hotel" - Dan Bern: Emily/JJ, PG13
JJ wakes up with her mouth wine-dry and her head pounding like there's a train rolling right through it, and the light feels like a sear on her brain, blinding whitehot. Every time she moves, her body screeches at her to stopitstopitstopit, but she is an adult, and this hungover bullshit is not acceptable, so she blinks beneath her lashes before closing them with an awful groan deep in her gut.
Emily's beside her, dark hair sprawled across the pillow like an ominous cloud, a dangerous-looking purple mark bitten into the side of her oddly-angled neck.
"Fuck," JJ mutters. "Fuck. Fuck. FUCK."
"No." The response is sleep-heavy, slurred, but unmistakable.
"What?" JJ croaks, trying to sit up.
"No. No more," Emily says, working to roll her body sideways. "No more fucking. God. Please. "
Their eyes meet in the chilly light spilling through the curtains of what can only be a motel -- Heaven knows they've both seen enough of them -- and the earth pauses for a moment, just a half second, before the sweet-Christ-did-we-really? laughter starts.
Ta-da!
Ha.