Lovers (or something just as tragic)

lover(s) – definition
I) an affectionate or benevolent friend
II) a person in love
III) a person with whom one has sexual relations


They are not lovers, no. That word sounds too much like a romance novel. It's too sickly sweet, too perfect for the kind of life she's carved out for herself. It conjures images of endless laughter and picnics at sunset by the beach and light kisses for no reason other than to say ' I love you'. No, they are not lovers because that word tastes like caramel popcorn and cotton candy that's lodged in the back of her throat. The sweetness coating – delicious lies – those treats would rot her teeth. And she knows she'll get a stomach ache from speaking those kinds of words into existence. Besides, it sounds like too much of a promise anyways. And promises are high on the pile of things that she cannot deliver on. Besides, she has always been better at reality anyways.

They are not lovers but they are a word she can't quite figure out. Not enemies that's for sure. God knows she's made her fair share of those. So, not enemies but can she really call what they are friends? Because sometimes, they'll share a laugh over an obscure reference no one else understands or one of them will offer a lift back home – which usually ends with a romp in the sheets which further proves her point – after a long case. She would like to think they are friends though. But then again she hasn't had much experience in that department in what feels like a lifetime. Also, friends don't know what the other person sounds like when they're three orgasms into the night. Or how their naked body looks writhing underneath glistening skin, voice hoarse from pleading and moaning and other unrecognisable string of sounds, knuckles white from fisting the sheets.

There has to be a word that describes how her skin scorches, practically scalds when those delicate fingers grip her breasts, her thighs. And how those incredibly soft lips tend to follow those hands soon after. Every place that she's been touched nearly burns and she feels herself vibrating after each flick of a tongue, teeth nipping, nails being dragged against skin in deliciously sinful friction. She can't bring herself to call it fucking – even though in technical terms it is the closest description for what they're doing – that word just doesn't sit right as it exits her lips. But there doesn't seem to be a word that makes more sense. After all, their arrangement is just sex. Sometimes though... no it is just sex.

She finally realizes the word she's been looking for, acquaintances. She rolls the word around in her mouth for a moment before deciding it fits. As they're both well acquainted with each other's body and yet unknowledgeable in all other areas of each other. They're friendly with each other but not quite friends. It's not as if they grab dinner on their days off or arrange drinks and a game of darts or bowling after work. No, they don't know much about each other except for how her body reacts when lips ghost over the shell of her ear and how heat pools in her stomach and lower when they're up against the door because the bedroom is too far away. And how any piece of red of lingerie the other woman wears sends her spraining.

They barely know a damn thing about each other. And maybe in the back of her mind she thinks about changing that. Not while they're in between the sheets, no. Those thoughts appear in the small moments outside of the bedroom, moments that are becoming more and more frequent as the days pass. Like how when she let's herself drift on the plane right home, a blanket tends to be placed over her half conscious body. And how when those heavy eyes wakeup, a water bottle and a bag of Cheetos appear beside her. When she shoots a quick glance around, a shy smile appears and a pink tinge warms the other woman's cheeks. Or when they lock eyes during a discussion and she swears there was a flicker of another emotion other than lust – affection, tenderness, warmth – but it is quickly smothered by desire and hunger for something secret. There's a thrill of something almost forbidden because she's pretty sure there's a rule about this, or four – about whatever the fuck 'this' is – in her FBI handbook. It would definitely be scandalous if anyone figured it out. And she knows that someone will eventually –they're surrounded by other profilers – but at this point, she's beyond caring. Sometimes she can't help but think that maybe she's not the only one that wants to become more acquainted. But then the moment passes and she decides that the distance between them is probably for the best. This could screw everything up. There's a reason why she never dates coworkers. It always ends up messy. And this job has always been something she's wanted. She cannot afford to screw it up by screwing a co-worker. But that's exactly what she's doing. Well, self-sabotage has always been one of her greatest talents.

They're definitely not lovers. But in the tiniest corners of her mind, she can't help but wonder if maybe someday they could be. And that is something she really doesn't know how to process because while they are not lovers, they are something else. Something that leaves a bitter aftertaste in her mouth when she tries to articulate what the hell they're doing. And why it makes her skull pound behind her eyes and her stomach start to lurch whenever she thinks too much about it. They're not lovers but she has a sickening feeling that her heart's going the get crushed just the same.

A/N Just a short piece that was originally supposed to be 200 words but it turned into an almost stream of consciousness for Emily. Thanks for reading, thoughts are always welcome!