Zaedah's been on quite the Life kick recently. If you accept the premise of Reese/Tidwell, please forgive my tearing them to shreds in favor of Creese.
Orderly Disaster
She's not one to remember names.
Men pressed from a generic mold have ambled in and out of her nights with faces and builds of no special consequence. She's always preferred the undistinguished and nameless, making the strangers and the deed easier to forget come daylight.
The habit defies explanation.
Fortunately, the faceless bodies on stiff motel mattresses don't often care what name she pushes through parched lips in a mindless mumble during the crucial moment. As long as they get there. They want her body, not her sob story. Dani never used to speak any name that wasn't the bland title of a distant deity until the drunken evening when his name escapes for reasons known only to her shoulder devil. Once her body notes the dual-syllabic trigger to blistering satisfaction, her traitorous mouth begins supplying it.
Every damned time.
In working hours she uses his last name exclusively and with a snipe approaching rude. It's a staunch wall separating the occupation from the orgasm. That his first name is only uttered in intimate times he's not present to hear is a secret dirtier than any addiction.
One her superior has uncovered.
Great care had been taken during the first few trysts. She's employed patience, understanding and pity typically reserved for decapitated puppies and battered children. Tidwell fumbles like a toddler in his attempts to please her, which ends with his own early release. No mood can survive this. Awkward flattery and a persistent chase hardly qualify as ingredients for sexual achievement. In her mind the flaccid flesh wrapped in moist skin becomes a study in lean, taut muscles. The slicked, dull hair is short and defiantly red. When her voice follows where fantasy stumbles, her partner's name chills a shocked man's bed. It's the closest to completion Tidwell has brought her and the sweating man realizes he had little to do with it.
Gratification equals break up.
Trusting her captain's discretion is made more difficult with every loaded glance he shots at his lead detectives. It's among the many things Crews notices but miraculously hasn't added to his shuffling playlist of abrupt questions. He also doesn't mention how harshly Reese has begun speaking his name, like it's an abomination on her tongue. She can't tell him that he's crafting havoc within her orderly disaster. Her bed isn't safe from him and neither is anyone else's.
The differences are assumed and maddening.
Damnations like 'Crews will be an all-night affair while others are a ten minute ordeal' tamper with the flux of her focus and her fuse is shorter daily. The resumption of the nightly rotation grants no reprieve and her thoughts become vocalized to the detriment of the random body above her. But when she returns to the alcohol solution, Crews tries to work out the problem. He's covered for her twice and there will be a reckoning.
Lies are no shield against bullets of blue.
With pale eyes licking a path across her skin, Reese is liquid. There's concern heightened by the slur she can't pack away, but Crews is blowing through the red light of the platonic. While it may be the liquor burn in her veins falsely transferring heated intention to his gaze, she's fairly certain her nod of submission is met with approval. She's always been the one who steers because he's prone to distraction.
But now Charlie wants to drive.