Title: A Penny For Your Thoughts
Author: Skylarcat
Classification: One shot because, well, because I can. And because I couldn't sleep and this dumb little story came out, and because dumb things crack me up, so of course, naturally, I would share. Oscar Vega POV, Guest Staring Angie Flynn.
Rating: R (Due to language and subject matter) *Laughs and Laughs and Laughs*
Feedback: Hell YEAH. I live for that shit.
Summary: He was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? A god-damn pen, which he might add, dangled deliciously between a sexy pair of lips. (Because sometimes you want a smut biscuit to dip in your tea)
Note: Flynn and Vega are characters that do not belong to me. Yes, I have used them without permission. However, no copyright infringement is intended. And I will return them intact and a lot more satisfied.
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If he had a penny for every time he thought about her; well, simply put, he would have a shitload of pennies.
Like now for example, sitting at his desk, attempting to do paperwork—attempting being the key word there—because his thoughts kept returning to her—his partner, who sat just across the room, at her own desk, completing her own pile of paperwork. And there he was—totally fixated on her.
He felt as though the very atmosphere was trying to set the mood—literally. The precinct lights were slightly dimmed, due to the late hour, and the economic cost of running electricity twenty-four hours a day. Outside the rain fell in a soft cadence against the steel roof. It all screamed romance; in fact, the only thing missing was a candle-light dinner, and perhaps a mariachi band just waiting to play at his very command. It could only be described as fate drawing them together, some invisible gravity force field aligning them just right, so all that was left now was for them to crash into each other.
Now with all that being said, for her part, she didn't appear to even notice that he was still in the room with her. She was sitting at her desk, one leg propped on it, the other an anchor on the floor. And he wondered what she was thinking about.
Just sitting there, reading over a case file, while mindlessly twirling a strand of hair and biting the tip of her pen, fully engrossed in whatever it was that had her attention, and the only thing he could focus on was that damn pen.
Yes, he was actually jealous of a pen. How ridiculous was that? But how could he not be—there it was—just lingering on her lips—her very soft, kissable lips.
God help him. Maybe it would sound better if he described the pen as antique, the very one that Abe Lincoln used to sign the Emancipation Proclamation, or maybe he could say it was a very expensive pen, yes, a Genesis World Record breaking expensive pen, made out of gold, twenty-four karats to be exact, and wrote in flakes of gold, but no, truth be told, it was just a simple ballpoint pen, even plain old blue, if you could believe it.
But what made it special—jealous worthy—was its proximity to her mouth. He would never admit this to her, at least openly, but he had a small obsession with her lips. They were this delicate shade of pink, not too bright, like some lipstick shade of pink, but not too matted either, just this perfect tone, and often times he imagined how they would feel beneath his own.
She picked up the small box of Thai food, completely oblivious to his attention, and he watched as she jabbed a pair of chopsticks in the container, gathering a healthy potion of noodles and then shoved them into her mouth. And by luck, a single noodle bunched at the corner of her lips, and if he had been jealous a moment before over a damn pen, lord help him now, because his blood was practically boiling beneath his skin. He actually thought he growled aloud when her tongue flickered out and grabbed the noodle. He couldn't help but to imagine his own thumb tracing over the very same spot; or the way her lips would slightly part as he trailed a finger along her bottom lip, or the way they would pucker as he lowered to kiss…
His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing. Stupid—damn—phone.
Of course, she answered it.
Momentary distracted, the phone idly hanging from her right hand, the pen now discarded on a heap of paperwork. He couldn't help but think how sad it looked, just lying there, longing to be picked back up and placed once more between her lips. It reminded him of wrapping paper, how it just got tossed aside. There it was, all this time, making boxes pretty, but no one cared about wrapping paper, we just wanted to know what the gift was inside. She was like wrapping paper, sure she was pretty on the outside, but he just wanted to explore what was on the inside—and to be inside—her.
Holy crap. He was in deep. What would his partner say, if she knew, he sat just across the room with these wanton desires. Good thing she was completely ignoring him, talking on the phone. Which by the way, whoever was on the other end of phone, seemed to be taking their sweet time with the conversation, as though they didn't have more important things to be doing with their time—like talking to each other—he wondered if he should be jealous. He was interesting—he had interesting things to say.
So, he just watched as she talked, both legs now leisurely placed on top of her desk, her head slightly lolling to the side, a sea of curls cascading around her shoulders—and then in an instant—he imagined his own hand travelling through her tresses; the silkiness beneath his fingers.
And then his mind went in an entirely different direction—one, in which, she sat naked perched on top of him. He had one hand strategically placed along her hip, the other twirling a lock of hair before gliding down the scope of her neck, then over her shoulder, along the curve of her breast—there his thumb would caress her pink taut…
"Vega…"
The picture his mind had summoned popped like a balloon. He blinked. She was now off the phone and sitting on the corner of his desk, looking down at him in puzzlement.
"I said your name—like a million times, you were miles away. What were you thinking about?"
He wondered if you could feel red—the actual color—he imagined it would feel warm, burning, or at least that is how the back of his neck was feeling, and he was sure if he were to look in the mirror, he would find it quite red.
"I've been thinking…" she continued, already moved on to the next subject, and he knew he should be listening, but her voice was muted, the only thing he was focused on was how her lips moved. If asked, he knew he wouldn't be able to repeat anything she was saying, but he would be able to write a book on the movement of her lips; the sort of melody they had as they moved—up and down—sometimes the corners would turn upward, sometimes downward—and it all fascinated him.
He would like to describe the way she talked as graceful, but that wasn't Angie, she was a lot of things—graceful being near the bottom of the list. But her lips moved much like how the rest of her moved—quick and reckless. If he had to compare them to something, he would say a sprinter racing to the finish line: they moved with a reason, with a purpose, and he wanted to kiss the shit out of them.
"So what do you think?" She asked, finally finished, and just stared at him, one brow lifted, waiting for his thoughts. And for the life of him, he couldn't recall one damn thing she just said.
So he shrugged. "Sounds good to me." She smiled at him, pleased with his response, and then walked back to her desk, and for all he knew, she could have just asked him to get a tramp stamp. Oh brother.
But whatever, there were more important things on his mind, like clearing his desk and having his way with her right then and there. He wondered if she tasted as good as she smelled—felt as good as she looked—fucked as good as she teased.
And if she wanted to know what he was thinking about—he would tell her. "I was thinking about ravishing you right here on my desk. I was thinking about kissing every part of your body, even the hidden spots, those mostly. Kissing you until my lips knew every spot by heart." And she would completely understand, because she's Angie, and that is what she did. She got him. They made sense—to each other—with each other.
He glanced over at his partner and discovered she was staring at him. And for a moment, he swore her cheeks turned slightly red—before she turned her attention away and back to the paperwork, her pen back between her lips, and he wondered what she was thinking about—a penny for her thoughts.
XXX
