Those Unknown Seconds
Title: Those Unknown Seconds
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Prompts: comfort, numbers
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Sex. Language. Plotlessness like whoah!
Notes: I should have never wandered over to oxoniensis's Porn Battle XI. Really. BAD IDEA. Because what do I find? Reid/JJ prompts. *facepalm* So, um, here's some porn. Carry on.
Time is always too short.
His fingers remind her of this, spread in a circle between the bare blades of her shoulders, the tick tick tick of his touch like a clock. Spencer is never still, his body perpetually hurtling towards what's next. Those unknown seconds seduce him the way all unknown things seduce him. Solve me. Puzzle me out. Unravel my numbers, my patterns, the tangled logic of my DNA.
The eroticism of a secret.
That's why she stays covered, always; some part of herself maintaining the promise of a climactic revelation. Her shoulders are naked now, her breasts pale in the vanity mirror, her panties discarded in a handful of purple cotton and lace on the floor beside them.
This time, it's the shoes.
Too high to dance. Too red for work. Too demure in their closed toe and matte finish for a swing around a pole.
No. They're shoes to get fucked in. Shoes to hide the baby-pink polish of her toes, the graceful lines of her arches. Shoes to give him a mystery to solve.
"I want you to watch," she says, leaning down onto the points of her elbows on the dresser. Her legs are open and her tailbone is tipped up, and she can see him behind her, his adam's apple dipping in a swallow, as he considers the view.
He's hard. She can feel it, sticky against her ass.
His fingers push deeper. One slides up against the knot of bone at the nape of her neck and she leans into it, rolling her spine in a pleased, feline stretch. She shakes her head back, and he takes the hint, wrapping her hair around his hand like reins. His grip is gentle.
"Good," JJ says, her voice as subtly insistent as time. "That's perfect. Look at me." Their eyes meet in the mirror, and she makes a show of exposing her throat and licking her lips. He isn't naked, either. He's wearing his glasses. Lenses and mirror, layer upon layer of refraction and reflection, magnification and distortion. She wonders how much of what they're seeing is real. "Not here," she says, cocking her chin and swinging her hips to bring his attention where it belongs. "Look at me."
He swallows again. Perpetual motion.
JJ watches his eyes dart down and linger, and she smiles. "Am I ready?" He moves to touch her, the fingers of his free hand slipping from the outside of her thigh towards the inside, but she shakes her head at him. He feels the tug of her hair against his knuckles and stops. "Don't touch. Just look."
She watches him examine her, lean back and purse his lips like he's pondering her chemical makeup, exacting the friction and the thrust. She loves to watch him think, to observe his intensity of focus. Especially when it's on her.
"Yes," he says, disobeying her now with one finger tracing the hinge of her thigh. Her muscles leap against his touch like a squirrely second-hand, and inside of her shoes, her toes clench and curl.
"Yes what?"
"You're ready."
"Ready for what?"
His hand stops, and his fingers trace the arc of her ass then come down across her hipbone. He has warm palms. Possessive ones. Magic is about owning the room, owning the gazes of your audience, owning the illusion. He has hands that own things. When he answers her, his pitch is steady. "Ready for me."
"How do you know?" Her voice is the smoke to the mirror, low and thick. Incense.
"You're..." Spencer's hand tightens against her in the pause, like the word is working its way out through his skin. "You're wet."
JJ adjusts her weight, and her heel clicks against the floor. The noise doesn't distract him. She's watching, her eyes fixed on the length of his body behind her, the faint hitch of his breath moving his ribs, the darkness pooled in his eyes like ink as he takes her into his eidetic recall and holds her there, like this, forever.
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. In the space behind her lids, she imagines him calling her up when he's alone, taking his cock in his hand, making himself come to the memory of her bent over and spread wide for him. Her cunt pulls in hard, tightens around the thought of it like she's fucking herself with the fantasy, and he sees it. She knows he does. She can hear it in his breathing.
"Good. Watch yourself fuck me." JJ's heart speeds up at her own words, and she pushes herself up onto her hands. The dresser's warm from her body heat, glossy-feeling. She grips its edge.
She wants to watch, too. She can't see what he does -- the way he guides himself towards her, spreads two fingers against the underside of his cock, uses them to get himself slippery, get the angle right; the way he pushes in slow, inch by inch by inch, opening her up and making her gasp and push back -- but she can see his face. It's just as good. It tells her everything, parted lips and lashes like frantic wings, agonized and exquisite.
Everything.
Like this, he can't keep secrets.
She watches him move behind her, watches him as he watches their bodies come together and slip apart, watches one hand pull back on her hair and the other curl around to cup her breast, pinch her nipple until it's so hard it aches.
Like this, he can get so deep. He can bruise her if he wants to, break her apart, but he doesn't. He just pushes down on her back, lifts up, and goes slow and hard and perfect. "You're beautiful," he tells her. "Beautiful," the word riding his rhythm, holding on tight, and soon she can't watch anymore. Her body is tucked in on itself, focused down, her vision tunneling.
When his arm slinks around her waist and his fingers reach between her legs, she gasps, wails, and still. Still.
"Beautiful, beautiful," his voice desperate and wrecked, and then he slides his palm down and presses it against her, his fingers reaching back to feel himself fucking her, the heel of his hand giving her pressure and friction and a thousand points of light at the back of her eyes.
"Watch," she says, though it's more like a breath, and she forces her eyes open. They meet his in the mirror, the contact one endless second of calm before the hurricane tears through her body, and then she's shaking and arching and lost.
He holds on. He takes her through it, his hand free of her hair now to cradle her neck. He bends forward over her to kiss the loose line of her spine. He comes inside of her, pushed all the way forward, his hips stilled and his fingers clenched. Almost silent, but not quite. She has to listen for it, that soft, startled oh that sounds like a secret.
For a long moment, they lean slumped together with his heart hammering against her back.
JJ opens her eyes to his hair falling against her shoulder, his glasses askew, the flat of his knuckle stroking her wrist. Gently, she lifts her leg and draws the spike of her heel up his calf.
He reaches down and slides it from her foot, then does the same on the other side. His thumb presses into her arch, comforting.
She's five inches shorter now. Her feet are flat on the ground. All of her mysteries are solved. "You amaze me," he says, though, anyway, his voice hushed with awe. "Every time."
Pairing: Reid/JJ
Prompts: comfort, numbers
Rating: NC17
Warnings: Sex. Language. Plotlessness like whoah!
Notes: I should have never wandered over to oxoniensis's Porn Battle XI. Really. BAD IDEA. Because what do I find? Reid/JJ prompts. *facepalm* So, um, here's some porn. Carry on.
Time is always too short.
His fingers remind her of this, spread in a circle between the bare blades of her shoulders, the tick tick tick of his touch like a clock. Spencer is never still, his body perpetually hurtling towards what's next. Those unknown seconds seduce him the way all unknown things seduce him. Solve me. Puzzle me out. Unravel my numbers, my patterns, the tangled logic of my DNA.
The eroticism of a secret.
That's why she stays covered, always; some part of herself maintaining the promise of a climactic revelation. Her shoulders are naked now, her breasts pale in the vanity mirror, her panties discarded in a handful of purple cotton and lace on the floor beside them.
This time, it's the shoes.
Too high to dance. Too red for work. Too demure in their closed toe and matte finish for a swing around a pole.
No. They're shoes to get fucked in. Shoes to hide the baby-pink polish of her toes, the graceful lines of her arches. Shoes to give him a mystery to solve.
"I want you to watch," she says, leaning down onto the points of her elbows on the dresser. Her legs are open and her tailbone is tipped up, and she can see him behind her, his adam's apple dipping in a swallow, as he considers the view.
He's hard. She can feel it, sticky against her ass.
His fingers push deeper. One slides up against the knot of bone at the nape of her neck and she leans into it, rolling her spine in a pleased, feline stretch. She shakes her head back, and he takes the hint, wrapping her hair around his hand like reins. His grip is gentle.
"Good," JJ says, her voice as subtly insistent as time. "That's perfect. Look at me." Their eyes meet in the mirror, and she makes a show of exposing her throat and licking her lips. He isn't naked, either. He's wearing his glasses. Lenses and mirror, layer upon layer of refraction and reflection, magnification and distortion. She wonders how much of what they're seeing is real. "Not here," she says, cocking her chin and swinging her hips to bring his attention where it belongs. "Look at me."
He swallows again. Perpetual motion.
JJ watches his eyes dart down and linger, and she smiles. "Am I ready?" He moves to touch her, the fingers of his free hand slipping from the outside of her thigh towards the inside, but she shakes her head at him. He feels the tug of her hair against his knuckles and stops. "Don't touch. Just look."
She watches him examine her, lean back and purse his lips like he's pondering her chemical makeup, exacting the friction and the thrust. She loves to watch him think, to observe his intensity of focus. Especially when it's on her.
"Yes," he says, disobeying her now with one finger tracing the hinge of her thigh. Her muscles leap against his touch like a squirrely second-hand, and inside of her shoes, her toes clench and curl.
"Yes what?"
"You're ready."
"Ready for what?"
His hand stops, and his fingers trace the arc of her ass then come down across her hipbone. He has warm palms. Possessive ones. Magic is about owning the room, owning the gazes of your audience, owning the illusion. He has hands that own things. When he answers her, his pitch is steady. "Ready for me."
"How do you know?" Her voice is the smoke to the mirror, low and thick. Incense.
"You're..." Spencer's hand tightens against her in the pause, like the word is working its way out through his skin. "You're wet."
JJ adjusts her weight, and her heel clicks against the floor. The noise doesn't distract him. She's watching, her eyes fixed on the length of his body behind her, the faint hitch of his breath moving his ribs, the darkness pooled in his eyes like ink as he takes her into his eidetic recall and holds her there, like this, forever.
She blinks once. Twice. Three times. In the space behind her lids, she imagines him calling her up when he's alone, taking his cock in his hand, making himself come to the memory of her bent over and spread wide for him. Her cunt pulls in hard, tightens around the thought of it like she's fucking herself with the fantasy, and he sees it. She knows he does. She can hear it in his breathing.
"Good. Watch yourself fuck me." JJ's heart speeds up at her own words, and she pushes herself up onto her hands. The dresser's warm from her body heat, glossy-feeling. She grips its edge.
She wants to watch, too. She can't see what he does -- the way he guides himself towards her, spreads two fingers against the underside of his cock, uses them to get himself slippery, get the angle right; the way he pushes in slow, inch by inch by inch, opening her up and making her gasp and push back -- but she can see his face. It's just as good. It tells her everything, parted lips and lashes like frantic wings, agonized and exquisite.
Everything.
Like this, he can't keep secrets.
She watches him move behind her, watches him as he watches their bodies come together and slip apart, watches one hand pull back on her hair and the other curl around to cup her breast, pinch her nipple until it's so hard it aches.
Like this, he can get so deep. He can bruise her if he wants to, break her apart, but he doesn't. He just pushes down on her back, lifts up, and goes slow and hard and perfect. "You're beautiful," he tells her. "Beautiful," the word riding his rhythm, holding on tight, and soon she can't watch anymore. Her body is tucked in on itself, focused down, her vision tunneling.
When his arm slinks around her waist and his fingers reach between her legs, she gasps, wails, and still. Still.
"Beautiful, beautiful," his voice desperate and wrecked, and then he slides his palm down and presses it against her, his fingers reaching back to feel himself fucking her, the heel of his hand giving her pressure and friction and a thousand points of light at the back of her eyes.
"Watch," she says, though it's more like a breath, and she forces her eyes open. They meet his in the mirror, the contact one endless second of calm before the hurricane tears through her body, and then she's shaking and arching and lost.
He holds on. He takes her through it, his hand free of her hair now to cradle her neck. He bends forward over her to kiss the loose line of her spine. He comes inside of her, pushed all the way forward, his hips stilled and his fingers clenched. Almost silent, but not quite. She has to listen for it, that soft, startled oh that sounds like a secret.
For a long moment, they lean slumped together with his heart hammering against her back.
JJ opens her eyes to his hair falling against her shoulder, his glasses askew, the flat of his knuckle stroking her wrist. Gently, she lifts her leg and draws the spike of her heel up his calf.
He reaches down and slides it from her foot, then does the same on the other side. His thumb presses into her arch, comforting.
She's five inches shorter now. Her feet are flat on the ground. All of her mysteries are solved. "You amaze me," he says, though, anyway, his voice hushed with awe. "Every time."