Hey, this was gonna be hardcore, but whatreya gonna do, amirite? I leave a lot to the imagination here because, well, I couldn't decide on certain "aspects" of Sara. Fill in as you see fit.
And I KNOW, I keep trying to write the dirty-dirty and failing. Ugh. (lizwontcry is awesome, the end.)
He says, "I love you."
She says, "I have tattoos."
The spoon stops half way to his mouth, errant milk dripping back into the bowl. Not the reaction he was hoping for, so he waits for her to elaborate.
She stirs her Cheerios and bites the side of her lip. Now's as good a time as any, right? "I don't, I mean, wow, yeah, Gil, I love you too, and hear you saying that..." Sara smiles, laughs a little at herself, drops the spoon and digs her teeth into her lip again. "I love you too, I just, this is one of those things you should know, right?"
They haven't made love yet, and she knows why. This relationship is a big deal for him, a huge deal, a one-time-only sort of deal that'll lock him down and in forever if he says those words he just said, and so she's in it, and he's in it and she can't go into this without full disclosure. Sara's told him all of her secrets, the big ones anyway, the ones that count. This is a doozy, she thinks, for someone as conservative as he is.
Grissom puts his spoon down and turns the corner of his lip up, as if to say, "All right, bring it on."
"You've seen the one on my ankle, at least I think you have and I have a... few more on my back. They're all on my back because, well, it's not exactly socially acceptable to work in a lab environment and be covered in tattoos, and I never really wanted anyone to see them unless I let them, because they're important to me, except for a few," she rambles on, her stirring becomes more hectic. "And so, I thought you should know because some men are really, really against tattoos and.... fair warning and all."
Gil rubs his hands on his trousers and licks his lips. He does this a lot when he's choosing the proper words to speak. Sara doesn't know why she's so nervous; this isn't going to break them, but she's still apprehensive.
"You think a little ink is going to change the way I feel about you?" It's rhetorical, and she smiles at herself, chastising herself for thinking anything like that to begin with.
"Like a little ink is going to make you any less attractive, alluring, amazing?"
It's the way he says 'ink', thick and deep and round, and as the word rolls against her ears, her pupils dilate. She's tired of waiting.
Sara stands and clears their bowls, not bothering to ask if he's done. "No, it's just, I didn't want you to be... surprised."
"Surprised?"
This isn't how it's supposed to go, she's sure. This isn't how she imagined it happening, but when she's through rinising the bowls and placing them in the dishwasher, she leans against the counter with her palms flat. "Yes," she says, roughly, her voice on the edge of a razor. "Look."
Her fingers find the hem of her t-shirt and she tugs up and off. The black bra she's wearing bisects the art on her back, the hem of her jeans just obstructing the edge of the most southern of the ink. Sara squeezes her eyes shut and listens as his chair scrapes against the tile of the floor. Behind her, he approaches and she thinks 'Now or never' and his hands find her shoulder blades and she stops breathing.
There's breath on the back of her neck as his fingers begin to explore the lines drawn across her back. "Oh," he says, low, and continues to explore. Maybe this wasn't what she'd expected, but this is better than anything she could have imagined. Gil's touch is so light it's nearly non-existent, but even if he wasn't touching her, she'd be able to sense him there, moving behind her. "Sara, this is..."
She can hear the water drip from the faucet to the sink, the clock tick from two, three, four, five, the distant traffic on the street outside and she can hear the blood pounding between her ears. This is torture, and it's gorgeous. "Yeah?"
His fingers slide beneath the waistband of her jeans and pull a little. Sara grunts and can't help but angle her ass back into him, just a little. A chuckle erupts just above her right ear and a flush runs over her chest.
"Come here," he urges and places a gentle kiss at the base of her neck.
She wants to cry, or shatter apart. One or the other.
He walks her to the bedroom and asks her to lay out on her stomach. A bizarre request from anyone else, but at this point she'd do jumping jacks on the damned mattress if he asked.
Gently, he unhooks her bra and waits for her to slide it off, her chest still flush against the cool sheets of the bed. This is a process, she understands and if he needs to take his time like this, she's more than willing to let him. "Jeans," he whispers and she maneuvers her hands underneath and releases the button, slides down the zipper. He tugs and manages to slide the denim off of her without removing her underwear.
Lying on the bed, naked from the waist up, she's never felt sexier. She's never felt more terrified.
"What's this one?" His palm slides over the left side of her back, just below her shoulderblade.
She sucks in a gulp of air and explains, "My brother and I each got it when we turned eighteen, to remind us..."
She trails off; he understands.
Gil's fingers meander to just above her tailbone. "And this?"
"After graduation, to remind myself how far I'd come and how I can do it on my own." In an instant, she remembers the parlor, the pinch of the needle in her skin. "That artist was so amazing, it's the reason red is one of my favorite colors."
He places a kiss against her left shoulder. "It is quite evocative."
God, she's never been wetter than she is in this moment; her hips grind against the bed impatiently.
There's a rustling of clothes behind her and she wants to turn around, watch him undress, but she waits. They're doing this his way.
"This one?" he's beside her on the bed, pressing his fingers against her ribcage.
"Wilderness retreat, Alaska, about three years ago when I took that leave. Me, four others on a parcel of land two miles away from anything." She swallows and her hand searches the right side of the bed for his skin; she turns her head, and meets his eyes. "Jillian, an artist, was on the retreat with us and... we all did it."
Sara turns to her side, facing him and his eyes travel from her face down her body and back. "Jesus."
A smile breaks across her face. "Yeah?"
"Yes."
He's on top of her; he's everywhere. Lips against her neck, her cheeks, her mouth. And her back finds the bed and her hands find his shoulders and she's holding onto him for dear life because he's come unhinged. "I love you," he says into her mouth as his hand finds her clit. "And I love your ink and their stories, too."
Sara laughs, or cries, she's unsure which because she's never felt this before, this whole. "Hmmm," she hums because there aren't words for what he's doing to her body.
He takes a nipple into his mouth and glances up at her from under lashes, "I love all of you." And all of a sudden, she wants to tell him about each of them, in detail, she wants him to know everything, everything at once.
This wasn't how she'd imagined it happening, with her leg thrown over his waist, him biting her neck and moving inside of her with such abandon. When she comes, her mouth is against his and Sara wants nothing more than to live this feeling over and over again until she can no longer take it. It's as close to perfect as she imagines a person can get.
He's sweaty and sated and so's she but he can't stop touching her. Elbow, hip, breast, leg, neck, everywhere. He can't stop touching her. When his hands skate over her back once more, he speaks words into the muffled seclusion of her shoulder.
"Why do you like tattoos?" he asks out of curiosity, his palm stroking lines between her stomach and thigh.
She could say a whole number of things, about how it can be a beautiful constant reminder of the good times, how it can provide expression for the deepest of feelings, but she says, "It's something about the needle."
Gil pauses. "The needle?"
Sara licks her lips; this is just as indescribable a feeling as what she's just experienced with him. "I can't... you'd have to feel it for yourself, really," she says, voice in some far off place. "It's... it's a different sensation than anything else."
He hugs her to his body and muses, "For myself..."
No, this isn't how she'd imagined it to happen, but now it's written on her memory, indelible and effervescent.