Author's Note: There's a lot of cursing in this one. I don't really know where it came from. The cursing, or the idea. And I'm not entirely sure why I can't write angst without sex. But hey. Whatever.
Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds. I don't even watch Criminal Minds anymore.
Oh Yeah: This one's for CJ, who not only waited for me to wake up and see the request, but also was patient enough when life got in the way. But its here, and its probably not my best work. I'll also probably rewrite it one day. But, I hate keeping people waiting. So, read responsibly.
Your finger tips trace over her cheek bones, down her jaw line, over her lips. Her arms come around your waist, and draw you near.
She's fucking beautiful. Something this beautiful could never belong to you.
And she doesn't. But she's here. She's soft, and warm. And she's looking at you with those blue eyes trained on your lips. And you know what she wants. Whether or not you will give it to her is not a question that needs to be asked.
Sometimes, you really fucking hate her.
You pull her into the house, shoving her back against the wall. You're in her personal space, and she's loving every second of it. Her hips pushing against yours, her hands in your hair, while yours slide up under her shirt.
You're wondering how long you'd have to tease her before she threatens to do it herself. But that's why she comes here. So she doesn't have to do it herself. Still the idea persists, and you find yourself watching as she kicks her jeans off, right there in your hallway. Her shirt is long gone, although you don't remember taking it off. But she's got your teeth marks just above her collarbone, and you are more than okay with that.
You also would like to know how she's going to explain those away. But that doesn't matter right now. What matters is the way her legs are wrapped around your waist, your left arm holding her up in a way you wouldn't think would work if it weren't...working.
Your right hand trails over her body, your fingers finding purchase between her thighs, your eyes locked on hers. Your teeth sink into her neck as she says it. The only thing she ever says when she's here.
"Emily...oh, Emily."
You let her down, kissing her softly, because that's allowed for the next few minutes.
She never tries to turn it back on you. But you don't really mind, because you get what you want when she comes undone for you.
Although, as she pulls her clothes back on and turns to leave, you can't help admitting that you're a fucking liar.
She'll go home tonight, and placate whoever is there with stories about having to work late, never really expanding on the torture she sees, or the raven haired woman who helps her get over it.
You'll pace through the house, seriously consider quitting your job; leaving this place, and every one in it. That's the part that will stop you. Leaving her was never an option, was it?
So you'll set every alarm in you have, settle on the couch, and drink too much scotch. You'll pass out, wake up cursing whoever had the bright idea to wake you with so much fucking noise, spend too much time in the shower, and race to work, where she'll be telling some story about her night, and you'll turn away so nobody can tell how much it fucking hurts that you're not part of this story, either.
A/N: This was supposed to be longer, but the rough draft really sucked. So I deleted it. And you got this.