it's like you hardly said a word
by: airebella e. spencer
feedback: disclaimer: jj es el hombre.
rated: PG-13
summary: He wouldn't dare make a sound. Syd/Vaughn, s1-centric.
It's something they share.
Stained sheet, white. Braided Egyptian cotton, scratching against the underbelly of her arms and his legs. It's 3 am, and she's sick of Formica, spilled brown coffee, lard frying on four burners. The look on his face, pale and sallow in the new moon.
(it's sitting up in a dead sweat, cold as ice with his hands on your face. seeing the flames when you close your eyes, Arvin Sloane gently touching your skin. its the smell of sulfur and copper running across your lips and into your mouth. it's-)
She's bare, then. He wouldn't dare make a sound. It's a Greek tragedy written on the lines of her back, the first act sown into the edges of her shoulder blades. The scars are pink, bright and glowing as his fingernails gently scrape their outline. Ivory, along the small of her back, nearly faded and forgotten with the heat of the fire, and his fingers.
It's the 220 from Phoenix, the Aspen Motor Hotel in Kansas. The chill of frost in Maine. It's Christmas in Vermont, snow stinging her smooth skin.
The smell of rubber, before she passes out cold. The last thing, there. Forcing its way into the back of her head, raping her. Her lip swells, and her cheeks bruise in Technicolor in the morning.
She forgot to look back.
fin