Happy December, ginny214!
Title: Refract
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Prompt: hands
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied infidelity, sexuality
Notes: I had the worst time choosing from all of your fantastic prompts, but this is what I ended up with. I hope you enjoy it, Ginny my love! Thank you for all of your kindness and beta work and general ridiculous amount of awesome ♥ I hope you don't mind the Christmas-y-ness.... 'tis the season ;)
The buttons on JJ's sweater are little crystals, fussier than anything she would wear to work. They're difficult to push through their corresponding holes, clunky and awkward and almost a shade too large. She's struggling with them, swearing under her breath as they slip through her fingers and change the angle of the light they refract, sending the tree's red and green and gold and blue shooting off in random directions as she rocks on her knees in her haste to get them undone.
Spencer wants to help her - he would be quicker, smoother; he's already figured out the trick, the fractional turn that would slip them right through - but he can't quite bring himself to move. She's undressing in front of him, for him, her hands trembling like she's nervous, and it freezes him helplessly in place. The only thing he can move is his eyes, back and forth across her body as, one by one, her buttons come apart and she shrugs the sweater from her shoulder and shivers. It isn't cold.
That's what does it, what finally reanimates him. She shivers. She needs.
Every time he needs, JJ gives. She gives and she gives and she gives, and there is no one who fills her back up. No one who warms up her coffee or replaces the pens she chews or plugs in her phone when she forgets to charge it. No one who helps her with her buttons.
She waves it all away, rolls her eyes, tells Will it's fine, go ahead, take Henry to Louisiana for Christmas. Maybe next year she can take off. Maybe next year women who look like her won't be mutilated and dumped on railroad tracks in December. Maybe. Maybe.
JJ shivers in the 71-degree heat of her living room, shivers as she strips herself, gives this, too, and Spencer can hardly stand it. He reaches for her, and she moves into his arms, and her lips are so close that her words kiss him along his jaw.
Thank you, she says. I would have been so lonely, she says, and her hands curve around the backs of his ears, hold him, her thumbs - habit or instinct or something else entirely - reach down for his carotid and press, and he can feel his blood speed up, feel his pulse rush to meet her, feel all of his heat trying to make its way inside of her.
Me, too, he says. Me, too, because loneliness is the interest charged by Death when you borrow against Him, when you snatch back a little boy or someone's mother from His hands. Spencer knows this. So does JJ. It's what they signed up for, what they chose, what they have the option to walk away from.
They don't, though. They won't.
Instead, they will kneel face-to-face on the floor two days before Christmas and be bare, be warm, be skin and bones and lips and tongues, be sweat and spit and blood and come, be real and alive and not alone. JJ's spine will curve up along the hardwood floor, and Spencer's knee will ache where he balances, and the tree they just put up will totter, and they will laugh and clang their teeth together like flat church bells. He will be the thing that fills her and she will be the thing that stills him, and together they will catch the light and throw it back, bend it through the silence, make a halo from the unholy and sleep naked inside of it.
No one will shiver. No one will be cold. They will thread their fingers together, and they will breathe, and neither one will dream.
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Prompt: hands
Rating: R
Warnings: Implied infidelity, sexuality
Notes: I had the worst time choosing from all of your fantastic prompts, but this is what I ended up with. I hope you enjoy it, Ginny my love! Thank you for all of your kindness and beta work and general ridiculous amount of awesome ♥ I hope you don't mind the Christmas-y-ness.... 'tis the season ;)
The buttons on JJ's sweater are little crystals, fussier than anything she would wear to work. They're difficult to push through their corresponding holes, clunky and awkward and almost a shade too large. She's struggling with them, swearing under her breath as they slip through her fingers and change the angle of the light they refract, sending the tree's red and green and gold and blue shooting off in random directions as she rocks on her knees in her haste to get them undone.
Spencer wants to help her - he would be quicker, smoother; he's already figured out the trick, the fractional turn that would slip them right through - but he can't quite bring himself to move. She's undressing in front of him, for him, her hands trembling like she's nervous, and it freezes him helplessly in place. The only thing he can move is his eyes, back and forth across her body as, one by one, her buttons come apart and she shrugs the sweater from her shoulder and shivers. It isn't cold.
That's what does it, what finally reanimates him. She shivers. She needs.
Every time he needs, JJ gives. She gives and she gives and she gives, and there is no one who fills her back up. No one who warms up her coffee or replaces the pens she chews or plugs in her phone when she forgets to charge it. No one who helps her with her buttons.
She waves it all away, rolls her eyes, tells Will it's fine, go ahead, take Henry to Louisiana for Christmas. Maybe next year she can take off. Maybe next year women who look like her won't be mutilated and dumped on railroad tracks in December. Maybe. Maybe.
JJ shivers in the 71-degree heat of her living room, shivers as she strips herself, gives this, too, and Spencer can hardly stand it. He reaches for her, and she moves into his arms, and her lips are so close that her words kiss him along his jaw.
Thank you, she says. I would have been so lonely, she says, and her hands curve around the backs of his ears, hold him, her thumbs - habit or instinct or something else entirely - reach down for his carotid and press, and he can feel his blood speed up, feel his pulse rush to meet her, feel all of his heat trying to make its way inside of her.
Me, too, he says. Me, too, because loneliness is the interest charged by Death when you borrow against Him, when you snatch back a little boy or someone's mother from His hands. Spencer knows this. So does JJ. It's what they signed up for, what they chose, what they have the option to walk away from.
They don't, though. They won't.
Instead, they will kneel face-to-face on the floor two days before Christmas and be bare, be warm, be skin and bones and lips and tongues, be sweat and spit and blood and come, be real and alive and not alone. JJ's spine will curve up along the hardwood floor, and Spencer's knee will ache where he balances, and the tree they just put up will totter, and they will laugh and clang their teeth together like flat church bells. He will be the thing that fills her and she will be the thing that stills him, and together they will catch the light and throw it back, bend it through the silence, make a halo from the unholy and sleep naked inside of it.
No one will shiver. No one will be cold. They will thread their fingers together, and they will breathe, and neither one will dream.