Happy December, geminai5!
Title: Legendary
Pairing(s): past Elle/Reid, Reid/Emily, Elle/Reid/Emily
Prompts: Maple & toast. Ha!
Rating: NC17-ish
Warnings: Language, sex, a ridiculous premise?
Notes: So, I think this is probably the greatest threesome pairing of all time, and I was determined to make it work somehow... so, whatever, it's a little sketchy in the set-up. It was so damn fun, though! Thank you, geminai5, for letting me play with them. Not beta'd or any of that important stuff ;)
Elle Greenaway is the stuff of legend. Mostly the urban type, Emily suspects - every office has its haunted cubicle, and the BAU is no different - but, of course, she doesn't know for sure. She's seen her in pictures - slight but scrappy-looking, tough in the eyes and soft in the mouth, too beautiful for her own damn good - but never in person, and that's how she weeds the truth out of the bullshit. It requires all five senses and, more often than not, a good strong cup of coffee.
Which is exactly what Emily's got in her right hand the first time she sees Elle Greenaway in person. Her left hand is holding a slice of toast with mashed banana and maple syrup on top, and she's laughing at the slightly-fascinated disgust on Reid's face when she hears the click click click of thick heels on faux wood and looks up.
"Dr. Spencer Reid. In the motherfucking flesh." There's a smile in Elle's voice, and there's one on her face, too; Emily sees it before Reid twists his body around to look. Well. That's Myth Number One debunked.
Reid's face goes instantly soft in a way that makes Emily more than a little curious. "Elle!"
Elle's fingers run up the back of Reid's head and glide through what's left of his hair, taking a fistful of almost-curls at the top, and she leans down to kiss the high slope of his cheekbone. Her lipstick leaves a mark, a smudged scarlet O, and Reid doesn't move to wipe it off. "This my hot-shit replacement?" she asks, nodding across the table in Emily's direction.
Emily bristles, her tongue crashing against the back of her teeth, but there is something in Elle's tone that's disarming. Not at all malicious. The smile's still there, curled around every syllable like campfire smoke, and all Emily can manage is one cocked eyebrow.
"Agent Emily Prentiss," Reid answers. "And yes. Sort of."
Elle reaches her arm across the table and slides into the booth next to Reid, who moves his bag to his other side so that their thighs touch, a gesture not at all lost on Emily. Emily reaches back and they shake.
Elle's hands are warm. Myth Number Two? Gone.
"Nice to meet you," Emily says, and she thinks that she might actually mean it.
"Likewise," Elle replies, her eyes steady and discerning, and Emily thinks that she probably means it, too.
_______________
They're on their way back to the hotel, and Emily really ought to know better than to say these sorts of things to Reid when he's driving, but the question's been crawling all over her since Elle sat down with them at the diner. The itch is driving her nuts. "So. Did you fuck her?"
True to form, Reid nearly sends the SUV careening into oncoming traffic but, also true to form, makes a miraculous last-minute recovery and saves the day. "What?"
"Greenaway. Did you two have a thing?" Emily studies him in profile - a position he is struggling mightily to maintain, eyes glued to the road ahead with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel - and knows the answer even before he lies and gives himself away.
"No. Absolutely not. We did not.... what sort of a thing are you talking about?"
"Considering I just asked you if you fucked her, that sort of a thing. Off the record, of course." Emily props her feet up on the dash, feigning casual, and hopes he's too unnerved to pick up on the phoniness.
"No. The fraternization policy is very specific. I did not fuck her." His grip gets tighter for a split second.
"Ohhhh, that's how it was, then," Emily says with a smile. "She fucked you."
Reid screeches to a stop in the hotel lot, nearly taking out the concrete barrier with a hard right swing, and hits the gearshift into park. His face is ashen but for the remnants of Elle's lipstick and a bright red spot at the top of his left ear. When he moves to open his door, Emily reaches across the console and grabs his arm. "Relax," she tells him. "I get it."
He pauses, and their eyes make contact for a fraction of a second. It's long enough. Emily's had her coffee. But then, so has Reid, and they've spent enough time together for her to know when he's sizing her up right back.
"I'm sure you do," he says quietly and raises both eyebrows at her before he steps out into the cold and hugs himself against the wind.
Emily watches him walk all the way to the door, watches it open neatly for his weight, watches him slip through. Then she closes her eyes and lets her head fall against the seat. She fingers the room key in her coat pocket for a moment before she follows, her footprints landing inside each one of his, leaving only one set of tracks in the falling snow.
_______________
Reid was right. But then, when is he not? The Bureau's fraternization policy is very specific. In fact, it goes beyond specific and ventures into uncomfortably detailed. It doesn't just forbid romantic relationships between co-workers, the kind with honeys and flowers and important dates and impending cohabitation. It explicitly prohibits casual sex.
They've all laughed through their inservices, rolled their eyes at each other, cheerfully propositioned one another afterward. But really, Emily gets it. The type of forced intimacy they experience on a daily basis - traveling together, eating, sleeping, talking, handling death and depravity and despair - it invites spontaneous blowjobs or a comfort fuck after a 20-hour shift. Practically Psych 101 shit.
So, yeah. It makes sense. It's logical.
So is Emily, generally speaking.
So is Reid, almost universally.
Almost.
_______________
He answers on the first knock. His phone is laying open on the nightstand; it's recently been in use. His personal phone. Not his work one.
Reid lets her in, his expression still guarded, though he has clearly had time to decide what he's going to say and what he isn't. He's calmer now. "What's up?" he asks, deadbolting the door behind her.
Emily shrugs and sits down on the bed, toeing off her shoes. "Nothing. Just thought I'd say hello." They stare at each other for nearly a full minute, Reid with his hands shoved into his pockets and her with her chin resting on one knee, before she clears her throat and says, "Come here." Her voice is so quiet that she nearly startles herself. The only thing that startles her more is that he listens. He gets within a meter of her before she wraps her foot around the back of his ankle and says, "Closer."
The air around them is suddenly so thick that Emily's throat feels like it's closing.
"What?" Reid asks, his voice breaking midway through. He coughs and averts his eyes, but he brings them back. They're dark, two wide pools of dangerous water.
Reid has his own myths, is his own tangled mess of speculation and fact. It makes sense, then, suddenly. All of it. Him and Greenaway.
This case is a hard one. Bodies in pieces, trash bags full of them, all dotting the shores of the Puget Sound. Two right hands, sometimes. Two left. Hips that don't match heads. Parts that aren't always human. Gruesome puzzle after gruesome puzzle, and Emily just wants to close her eyes and have them all click together, solve themselves, magic.
"So which way was it?" she finally asks. "Did you fuck her, or the other way around?"
"Emily..."
"Don't," she says, then her tone shifts. "Please."
"What does it matter?"
"It doesn't." Emily's heart beats once. Twice. Stutters.
"Are you here because you want me to show you?"
She doesn't have to answer. He's in her space before there's time, anyway, and then it's just more knots - long limbs and pulled hair and their hard, fierce fingers, and in the eerie shadows of the lamplight, sometimes he's dark and sharp when she lifts her heavy eyelids, and sometimes he's softer, almost little-boy. Either way, he's beautiful. Whole. Everything where it belongs.
His neck smells like woodsmoke. Campfire. Emily bites down somewhere that his collar will hide and holds on.
______________
The phone on his nightstand vibrates just as Emily's rolling the condom on. She swears and drops back against the pillow when he reaches for it. He hits the button by accident before he checks the number and has to answer.
It isn't Hotch. Morgan. Rossi. The voice is female, and the room is silent, and Emily hears every word.
"Boo!" Elle says. "Come to the lobby."
Elle might have been years gone, but a profiler is always a profiler, and Reid's silence, his shuddering breath, speaks louder than his voice. Emily would have known, too.
"You're busy," Elle says, her voice light, teasing, a little surprised. "That's cool, kiddo. Give me a ring before you leave."
Through the dimness, Reid's eyes lock with Emily's, and she reaches for his phone. His hand shakes, but he gives it to her. "Hello?"
"... Who's this?"
"I..." Emily coughs. Her heart is beating so fast it's more like a buzz, some kind of weird vibration through her chest that's making her hair stand on end.
"Prentiss."
"... Yeah. Listen, I..."
"What room?"
Emily searches Reid's face, watches it change, watches the lightning storm behind his eyes, watches him swallow, watches his Adam's apple move, watches. Then she reaches up with her other hand and closes it around his cock and imagines Elle's fingers over hers and answers. "Three-oh-six."
_______________
They kiss like old lovers kiss, nostalgic and lingering and bittersweet, and Emily shuts her eyes and presses her body into Reid's from behind, lets her hands wander between them, finds that the curve of her palm fits neatly in the concave space between Elle's belly and Reid's cock.
He's lovely and torn, can't decide who to hold onto, and Elle laughs at him as he tries to figure out how to get a grip on them both. He can't, of course, not with them twisting towards each other, too, spinning in on themselves like a tornado or a black hole or some other unfathomable force. Eventually, he gives up and lets them slide him around like a chess piece, two Queens to his King, moving wherever they'd like and keeping him safe in all of their sacred space.
In the end, it's Elle backwards in his lap, her hands tight in Emily's hair as she kneels between their two sets of open legs and licks, eyes turned up to watch. It's slow and surreal, hard to keep a good rhythm, a steady one, the kind that works. Elle tastes the way she talks, sharp and humid and slippery, and she keeps her eyes on Emily the entire time, pets her, brushes her hair back from her face to keep it out of her mouth.
Reid is all low noise and breath, one hand on the bed behind him and one hand gripping Emily's across the top of Elle's thigh, squeezing her tight like he's afraid she might disappear. His eyes flutter open over Elle's shoulder to find hers, and Emily can read his expression even in low light, even half obscured by Elle's tangle of curls.
Facing away from him, Elle can read it, too. She knows it by the shift in his body, by the angle of his head behind hers, by a change in the tension of his muscles. There are things that Elle just knows.
"Don't you worry about her, baby," she whispers, her voice strung tight through the dimness. "We're going to take good care of her."
Emily closes her lips suddenly and sucks, and Elle gasps, and Reid's toes curl as Elle tightens around him, and then everything goes quiet.
Later, Emily crawls into Reid's lap, and he holds her and mouths her neck and draws wet circles around her clit as Elle fucks her with three fingers, and Emily is the only one who makes a sound, arching up like a bridge between them and swearing until Elle swallows the words.
It's the first time they kiss. It's the only time they kiss.
_______________
Elle pulls on her pants and Reid's shirt and steps out onto the balcony with a cigarette. She faces the city lights and smokes it down to the filter.
Myth Number Three turns out to be true. She uses one to light the next.
Emily goes into the bathroom and splashes her face, scrubbing at the smears of mascara under her eyes with the pad of her finger. Reid appears suddenly behind her, his face in the mirror. He looks wrecked. "Are you all right?" he asks her.
Emily takes a deep breath. "Yeah," she says. "You?" She steps aside to let him wash his hands and leans against the sink. The cold water splashes up and a shiver runs through her, her skin erupting into goosebumps and her nipples going hard.
Reid shakes out his hands, and Emily gives him a towel. "Yeah," he says softly. He looks at her for a long moment and then says, "You're pretty."
Emily laughs, a short, heavy sound, and leans her head against his shoulder. "So are you." After a pause, she says, "So is Elle."
Reid nods, and then Elle's hand shoots through the doorway and grabs him by the belt loop. The rest of her slides into the frame, and she's grinning. "Elle's what?"
Reid starts to answer, but Emily interrupts. "Legendary." She winks.
Elle throws her head back and laughs, big and hard and all in her throat. "I've been called worse," she says. She looks up at Reid, her face all fondness, and says, "I told you she was hot shit."
Pairing(s): past Elle/Reid, Reid/Emily, Elle/Reid/Emily
Prompts: Maple & toast. Ha!
Rating: NC17-ish
Warnings: Language, sex, a ridiculous premise?
Notes: So, I think this is probably the greatest threesome pairing of all time, and I was determined to make it work somehow... so, whatever, it's a little sketchy in the set-up. It was so damn fun, though! Thank you, geminai5, for letting me play with them. Not beta'd or any of that important stuff ;)
Elle Greenaway is the stuff of legend. Mostly the urban type, Emily suspects - every office has its haunted cubicle, and the BAU is no different - but, of course, she doesn't know for sure. She's seen her in pictures - slight but scrappy-looking, tough in the eyes and soft in the mouth, too beautiful for her own damn good - but never in person, and that's how she weeds the truth out of the bullshit. It requires all five senses and, more often than not, a good strong cup of coffee.
Which is exactly what Emily's got in her right hand the first time she sees Elle Greenaway in person. Her left hand is holding a slice of toast with mashed banana and maple syrup on top, and she's laughing at the slightly-fascinated disgust on Reid's face when she hears the click click click of thick heels on faux wood and looks up.
"Dr. Spencer Reid. In the motherfucking flesh." There's a smile in Elle's voice, and there's one on her face, too; Emily sees it before Reid twists his body around to look. Well. That's Myth Number One debunked.
Reid's face goes instantly soft in a way that makes Emily more than a little curious. "Elle!"
Elle's fingers run up the back of Reid's head and glide through what's left of his hair, taking a fistful of almost-curls at the top, and she leans down to kiss the high slope of his cheekbone. Her lipstick leaves a mark, a smudged scarlet O, and Reid doesn't move to wipe it off. "This my hot-shit replacement?" she asks, nodding across the table in Emily's direction.
Emily bristles, her tongue crashing against the back of her teeth, but there is something in Elle's tone that's disarming. Not at all malicious. The smile's still there, curled around every syllable like campfire smoke, and all Emily can manage is one cocked eyebrow.
"Agent Emily Prentiss," Reid answers. "And yes. Sort of."
Elle reaches her arm across the table and slides into the booth next to Reid, who moves his bag to his other side so that their thighs touch, a gesture not at all lost on Emily. Emily reaches back and they shake.
Elle's hands are warm. Myth Number Two? Gone.
"Nice to meet you," Emily says, and she thinks that she might actually mean it.
"Likewise," Elle replies, her eyes steady and discerning, and Emily thinks that she probably means it, too.
_______________
They're on their way back to the hotel, and Emily really ought to know better than to say these sorts of things to Reid when he's driving, but the question's been crawling all over her since Elle sat down with them at the diner. The itch is driving her nuts. "So. Did you fuck her?"
True to form, Reid nearly sends the SUV careening into oncoming traffic but, also true to form, makes a miraculous last-minute recovery and saves the day. "What?"
"Greenaway. Did you two have a thing?" Emily studies him in profile - a position he is struggling mightily to maintain, eyes glued to the road ahead with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel - and knows the answer even before he lies and gives himself away.
"No. Absolutely not. We did not.... what sort of a thing are you talking about?"
"Considering I just asked you if you fucked her, that sort of a thing. Off the record, of course." Emily props her feet up on the dash, feigning casual, and hopes he's too unnerved to pick up on the phoniness.
"No. The fraternization policy is very specific. I did not fuck her." His grip gets tighter for a split second.
"Ohhhh, that's how it was, then," Emily says with a smile. "She fucked you."
Reid screeches to a stop in the hotel lot, nearly taking out the concrete barrier with a hard right swing, and hits the gearshift into park. His face is ashen but for the remnants of Elle's lipstick and a bright red spot at the top of his left ear. When he moves to open his door, Emily reaches across the console and grabs his arm. "Relax," she tells him. "I get it."
He pauses, and their eyes make contact for a fraction of a second. It's long enough. Emily's had her coffee. But then, so has Reid, and they've spent enough time together for her to know when he's sizing her up right back.
"I'm sure you do," he says quietly and raises both eyebrows at her before he steps out into the cold and hugs himself against the wind.
Emily watches him walk all the way to the door, watches it open neatly for his weight, watches him slip through. Then she closes her eyes and lets her head fall against the seat. She fingers the room key in her coat pocket for a moment before she follows, her footprints landing inside each one of his, leaving only one set of tracks in the falling snow.
_______________
Reid was right. But then, when is he not? The Bureau's fraternization policy is very specific. In fact, it goes beyond specific and ventures into uncomfortably detailed. It doesn't just forbid romantic relationships between co-workers, the kind with honeys and flowers and important dates and impending cohabitation. It explicitly prohibits casual sex.
They've all laughed through their inservices, rolled their eyes at each other, cheerfully propositioned one another afterward. But really, Emily gets it. The type of forced intimacy they experience on a daily basis - traveling together, eating, sleeping, talking, handling death and depravity and despair - it invites spontaneous blowjobs or a comfort fuck after a 20-hour shift. Practically Psych 101 shit.
So, yeah. It makes sense. It's logical.
So is Emily, generally speaking.
So is Reid, almost universally.
Almost.
_______________
He answers on the first knock. His phone is laying open on the nightstand; it's recently been in use. His personal phone. Not his work one.
Reid lets her in, his expression still guarded, though he has clearly had time to decide what he's going to say and what he isn't. He's calmer now. "What's up?" he asks, deadbolting the door behind her.
Emily shrugs and sits down on the bed, toeing off her shoes. "Nothing. Just thought I'd say hello." They stare at each other for nearly a full minute, Reid with his hands shoved into his pockets and her with her chin resting on one knee, before she clears her throat and says, "Come here." Her voice is so quiet that she nearly startles herself. The only thing that startles her more is that he listens. He gets within a meter of her before she wraps her foot around the back of his ankle and says, "Closer."
The air around them is suddenly so thick that Emily's throat feels like it's closing.
"What?" Reid asks, his voice breaking midway through. He coughs and averts his eyes, but he brings them back. They're dark, two wide pools of dangerous water.
Reid has his own myths, is his own tangled mess of speculation and fact. It makes sense, then, suddenly. All of it. Him and Greenaway.
This case is a hard one. Bodies in pieces, trash bags full of them, all dotting the shores of the Puget Sound. Two right hands, sometimes. Two left. Hips that don't match heads. Parts that aren't always human. Gruesome puzzle after gruesome puzzle, and Emily just wants to close her eyes and have them all click together, solve themselves, magic.
"So which way was it?" she finally asks. "Did you fuck her, or the other way around?"
"Emily..."
"Don't," she says, then her tone shifts. "Please."
"What does it matter?"
"It doesn't." Emily's heart beats once. Twice. Stutters.
"Are you here because you want me to show you?"
She doesn't have to answer. He's in her space before there's time, anyway, and then it's just more knots - long limbs and pulled hair and their hard, fierce fingers, and in the eerie shadows of the lamplight, sometimes he's dark and sharp when she lifts her heavy eyelids, and sometimes he's softer, almost little-boy. Either way, he's beautiful. Whole. Everything where it belongs.
His neck smells like woodsmoke. Campfire. Emily bites down somewhere that his collar will hide and holds on.
______________
The phone on his nightstand vibrates just as Emily's rolling the condom on. She swears and drops back against the pillow when he reaches for it. He hits the button by accident before he checks the number and has to answer.
It isn't Hotch. Morgan. Rossi. The voice is female, and the room is silent, and Emily hears every word.
"Boo!" Elle says. "Come to the lobby."
Elle might have been years gone, but a profiler is always a profiler, and Reid's silence, his shuddering breath, speaks louder than his voice. Emily would have known, too.
"You're busy," Elle says, her voice light, teasing, a little surprised. "That's cool, kiddo. Give me a ring before you leave."
Through the dimness, Reid's eyes lock with Emily's, and she reaches for his phone. His hand shakes, but he gives it to her. "Hello?"
"... Who's this?"
"I..." Emily coughs. Her heart is beating so fast it's more like a buzz, some kind of weird vibration through her chest that's making her hair stand on end.
"Prentiss."
"... Yeah. Listen, I..."
"What room?"
Emily searches Reid's face, watches it change, watches the lightning storm behind his eyes, watches him swallow, watches his Adam's apple move, watches. Then she reaches up with her other hand and closes it around his cock and imagines Elle's fingers over hers and answers. "Three-oh-six."
_______________
They kiss like old lovers kiss, nostalgic and lingering and bittersweet, and Emily shuts her eyes and presses her body into Reid's from behind, lets her hands wander between them, finds that the curve of her palm fits neatly in the concave space between Elle's belly and Reid's cock.
He's lovely and torn, can't decide who to hold onto, and Elle laughs at him as he tries to figure out how to get a grip on them both. He can't, of course, not with them twisting towards each other, too, spinning in on themselves like a tornado or a black hole or some other unfathomable force. Eventually, he gives up and lets them slide him around like a chess piece, two Queens to his King, moving wherever they'd like and keeping him safe in all of their sacred space.
In the end, it's Elle backwards in his lap, her hands tight in Emily's hair as she kneels between their two sets of open legs and licks, eyes turned up to watch. It's slow and surreal, hard to keep a good rhythm, a steady one, the kind that works. Elle tastes the way she talks, sharp and humid and slippery, and she keeps her eyes on Emily the entire time, pets her, brushes her hair back from her face to keep it out of her mouth.
Reid is all low noise and breath, one hand on the bed behind him and one hand gripping Emily's across the top of Elle's thigh, squeezing her tight like he's afraid she might disappear. His eyes flutter open over Elle's shoulder to find hers, and Emily can read his expression even in low light, even half obscured by Elle's tangle of curls.
Facing away from him, Elle can read it, too. She knows it by the shift in his body, by the angle of his head behind hers, by a change in the tension of his muscles. There are things that Elle just knows.
"Don't you worry about her, baby," she whispers, her voice strung tight through the dimness. "We're going to take good care of her."
Emily closes her lips suddenly and sucks, and Elle gasps, and Reid's toes curl as Elle tightens around him, and then everything goes quiet.
Later, Emily crawls into Reid's lap, and he holds her and mouths her neck and draws wet circles around her clit as Elle fucks her with three fingers, and Emily is the only one who makes a sound, arching up like a bridge between them and swearing until Elle swallows the words.
It's the first time they kiss. It's the only time they kiss.
_______________
Elle pulls on her pants and Reid's shirt and steps out onto the balcony with a cigarette. She faces the city lights and smokes it down to the filter.
Myth Number Three turns out to be true. She uses one to light the next.
Emily goes into the bathroom and splashes her face, scrubbing at the smears of mascara under her eyes with the pad of her finger. Reid appears suddenly behind her, his face in the mirror. He looks wrecked. "Are you all right?" he asks her.
Emily takes a deep breath. "Yeah," she says. "You?" She steps aside to let him wash his hands and leans against the sink. The cold water splashes up and a shiver runs through her, her skin erupting into goosebumps and her nipples going hard.
Reid shakes out his hands, and Emily gives him a towel. "Yeah," he says softly. He looks at her for a long moment and then says, "You're pretty."
Emily laughs, a short, heavy sound, and leans her head against his shoulder. "So are you." After a pause, she says, "So is Elle."
Reid nods, and then Elle's hand shoots through the doorway and grabs him by the belt loop. The rest of her slides into the frame, and she's grinning. "Elle's what?"
Reid starts to answer, but Emily interrupts. "Legendary." She winks.
Elle throws her head back and laughs, big and hard and all in her throat. "I've been called worse," she says. She looks up at Reid, her face all fondness, and says, "I told you she was hot shit."