Follow-Through
Title: Follow-Through
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: Thunder via cm_het_drabble
Rating: R
Warnings: sexuality, language, spoilers for L.D.S.K.
The doorknob is at the small of her back, pressing deep like the butt of a gun, before Elle can even say hello, ask him how it went, pour him some coffee. The lock is useless, perpendicular to her slouching-down spine, and the metal riding up her shirt is cold.
Reid is cold, too, his anxious hands and the smooth skin of his cheek as he leans into her, all of his weight, and tells her I failed. His mouth is searching for hers almost before he can get the sentence out, seeing if maybe her tongue will shove it back in or suck it out like venom, but the best she can do is lace her fingers together behind his neck and push up into his hair and kiss him as slowly as he'll let her.
"I'm sorry," he mutters a few seconds later, "I'm sorry," and he's pulling away, shaking his head, looking anywhere but at her face. Just a kid shuffling in his shoes again, feeling stupid and presumptuous and embarrassed, backing towards her sink.
"Hey," she says, "hey it's all right," and she follows him, reaches for his hand before he can shove it into his pocket, brings it to her mouth and bites around one knuckle. "You failed your qualification?"
Reid nods and slides his finger free, but she catches it again, slippery in her hand, and holds on.
"Shitty of them to make it so fucking early," Elle says with a roll of her eyes, a step in his direction, a tilt of her head. "Ruin the day before it even starts."
He nods again, sharper now, following her approach with his gaze. She pushes her mug back against the wall and it spills over, coffee sloshing onto her counter and staining her sleeve, and then he's got his mouth on hers again, his frustration palpable, knocking their teeth together in his haste. He reminds her of herself sometimes, weighed down with all the things he thinks he has to prove, and suddenly her ache for him is so fierce that she wants to fuck him right now, when she's already running late, here in the middle of last night's dirty dishes, and tell him you're fine you're perfect you don't owe anyone a single fucking thing.
He'd never believe her, though, which she supposes is one of the reasons she smooths his brows down with her thumbs instead and kisses him between the eyes and says, "What the hell do you need a gun for, anyway? They're mostly just overcompensation. Can you imagine how tiny Hotch's dick must be?"
He smiles, at least, a little quirk at the corners of his mouth to let her know he loves her for trying, and Elle looks him up and down, calculating. She can see him working out what she's going to do and before he can, she pins him between her body and the counter and shoves her hand into the waist of his pants. He closes his eyes immediately, parts his lips, and she's got him whimpering for her in forty-five seconds, the creases gone from his forehead as he rocks his hips to the rhythm she sets.
She makes sure he comes on her shirt and not his own - she's already got to change it; the coffee spattered halfway to her elbow - and then whips it off and tosses it onto the floor. "Now get the hell out here," she says with a wink. "If we both show up late, they're gonna think we're fucking or something."
"But you..." he starts, slipping one finger under the strap of her bra, his eyes still dark like there's a storm brewing inside of his skull. There is, of course. There always is. He's full of thunder and lightning, crash and bang.
"I'll be fine," she answers. "I'll cross my legs and squirm like a lady and you can make it up to me tonight. Don't worry. I'll still be wet."
She doesn't stick around to watch him tuck his shirt in and buckle his belt, doesn't look over her shoulder to see him relock her door on the way out, doesn't peer out the window to watch him scrawl a note and stick it under her windshield wiper. When she finds it, though, she stops to trace the letters with her fingertip and smiles.
Elle -
Hotch says the problem is my follow-through. I promise you it isn't. 8pm.
- S.R.
Pairing: Elle/Reid
Prompt: Thunder via cm_het_drabble
Rating: R
Warnings: sexuality, language, spoilers for L.D.S.K.
The doorknob is at the small of her back, pressing deep like the butt of a gun, before Elle can even say hello, ask him how it went, pour him some coffee. The lock is useless, perpendicular to her slouching-down spine, and the metal riding up her shirt is cold.
Reid is cold, too, his anxious hands and the smooth skin of his cheek as he leans into her, all of his weight, and tells her I failed. His mouth is searching for hers almost before he can get the sentence out, seeing if maybe her tongue will shove it back in or suck it out like venom, but the best she can do is lace her fingers together behind his neck and push up into his hair and kiss him as slowly as he'll let her.
"I'm sorry," he mutters a few seconds later, "I'm sorry," and he's pulling away, shaking his head, looking anywhere but at her face. Just a kid shuffling in his shoes again, feeling stupid and presumptuous and embarrassed, backing towards her sink.
"Hey," she says, "hey it's all right," and she follows him, reaches for his hand before he can shove it into his pocket, brings it to her mouth and bites around one knuckle. "You failed your qualification?"
Reid nods and slides his finger free, but she catches it again, slippery in her hand, and holds on.
"Shitty of them to make it so fucking early," Elle says with a roll of her eyes, a step in his direction, a tilt of her head. "Ruin the day before it even starts."
He nods again, sharper now, following her approach with his gaze. She pushes her mug back against the wall and it spills over, coffee sloshing onto her counter and staining her sleeve, and then he's got his mouth on hers again, his frustration palpable, knocking their teeth together in his haste. He reminds her of herself sometimes, weighed down with all the things he thinks he has to prove, and suddenly her ache for him is so fierce that she wants to fuck him right now, when she's already running late, here in the middle of last night's dirty dishes, and tell him you're fine you're perfect you don't owe anyone a single fucking thing.
He'd never believe her, though, which she supposes is one of the reasons she smooths his brows down with her thumbs instead and kisses him between the eyes and says, "What the hell do you need a gun for, anyway? They're mostly just overcompensation. Can you imagine how tiny Hotch's dick must be?"
He smiles, at least, a little quirk at the corners of his mouth to let her know he loves her for trying, and Elle looks him up and down, calculating. She can see him working out what she's going to do and before he can, she pins him between her body and the counter and shoves her hand into the waist of his pants. He closes his eyes immediately, parts his lips, and she's got him whimpering for her in forty-five seconds, the creases gone from his forehead as he rocks his hips to the rhythm she sets.
She makes sure he comes on her shirt and not his own - she's already got to change it; the coffee spattered halfway to her elbow - and then whips it off and tosses it onto the floor. "Now get the hell out here," she says with a wink. "If we both show up late, they're gonna think we're fucking or something."
"But you..." he starts, slipping one finger under the strap of her bra, his eyes still dark like there's a storm brewing inside of his skull. There is, of course. There always is. He's full of thunder and lightning, crash and bang.
"I'll be fine," she answers. "I'll cross my legs and squirm like a lady and you can make it up to me tonight. Don't worry. I'll still be wet."
She doesn't stick around to watch him tuck his shirt in and buckle his belt, doesn't look over her shoulder to see him relock her door on the way out, doesn't peer out the window to watch him scrawl a note and stick it under her windshield wiper. When she finds it, though, she stops to trace the letters with her fingertip and smiles.
Elle -
Hotch says the problem is my follow-through. I promise you it isn't. 8pm.
- S.R.