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Nov. 15th, 2004 10:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
helsinkibabyI'm going to see Sting tomorrow! Eeeeee!!!
And I have fic.
Title: Behind Closed Doors
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Warrick/Sara
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the LiveJournal![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
warricksara CMT Love Songs challenge
Warrick likes looking at Sara, and always has, right from the first time he met her, even if that was a time that he shouldn’t have been looking at her in quite that way. After all, she was there to do a job, there to get him fired, and she was pissed off as hell at him, didn’t even try to hide it. He thinks that that was part of the initial attraction, because he knows the effect his looks usually have on women – and back then, he was far cockier than he is now, had no objection to trading on his looks if it got him where he needed to be – and it was rare to have someone not melt when he turned on the charm.
Besides, he thinks, he’s always had a weakness for strong, competent women, women who were completely in control of themselves, of their lives. He blames Grams for that, and it’s a description that suits Sara to a tee. She knows what she wants, knows who she is, and she doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her.
At least, that’s the image that she projects to the world.
To the world, she’s strong and confident, sometimes too much so. Sometimes she’s surly and combative, headstrong and aloof, and more than once, she’s pissed off someone (more often than not Catherine) with her stubborn ways. As far as the world is concerned, apart from the odd nightmare case that they all get every now and again, she never lets anything get her down, can handle anything that comes her away.
As far as the world is concerned, the two of them are just good friends, co-workers, two people who have progressed from a rocky start to forge a good relationship. They see them working well together, see them laughing together, joking around, and more than one person has asked Warrick just what his secret is, how he’s able to get along with Sara so well. His answer – an easy shrug, an expression of confusion as to what they’re talking about – leaves them none the wiser, and that’s just as well.
Because Warrick’s always been a little bit selfish, and he’s selfishly proud of the fact that he sees a Sara that no-one else sees.
Even more proud that she lets him see a Sara that no-one else sees.
He sees the Sara who’s not always so calm and rational. He listens to her rant and rave about Grissom and Catherine and anyone else who may have crossed swords with her over the course of the shift. He listens to her talk about the case, about the criminals they’re tracking and the victims that are left behind, and he rubs her shoulder and holds her when she cries. He’s the one who pulls her close to him, distracting her from her worries with his kiss, his hands, his body moving in time with hers.
He sees the Sara who’s able to laugh and joke easily, the one with the smile that could light up a room, the one whose eyes dance with light and laughter. He knows a Sara who can make him laugh so hard that his sides ache, that his vision is blurred from the tears in his eyes, a Sara who, far from being surly and uncommunicative, can talk to him for hours without ever running out of conversation.
He sees a Sara who, far from having a lack of people skills, can talk to anyone; who, far from being an outsider, fits in perfectly whenever he brings her over to Grams’s house (which isn’t frequently enough for Grams, who seems to have fallen in love with Sara, and is dropping more hints about hats and cribs than either he or Sara are ready for.) It surprised him the first time, and it continues to do so, how much he likes to see the two of them together, talking to one another, getting along. He thinks sometimes, before he catches himself, realises that he’s getting way ahead of the game, that he wouldn’t mind seeing it more, that he could see himself seeing the two of them talking and laughing for a long time to come, maybe even the rest of his life.
Just like he could see himself seeing this side of Sara for the rest of his life.
It’s especially easy to think like that when he goes home every morning and finds Sara waiting for him, or finds his car magically making its way to her apartment. Not when he finds himself pushing her up against the closed front door, lips pressed against hers, his tongue tracing the path of her lips, hers tracing the path of his. His hands wander freely over her body, tracing the curve of her back, the swell of her hip, pulling her as close to him as humanly possible, but never close enough. Her hands are just as busy, tracing the contours of his back, his chest, wandering down to the waistbands of his trousers, sliding over and under, before moving underneath the fabric of his shirt, her fingers tracing patterns over his skin.
Sooner or later, one or other of them takes the initiative, pushing clothing away from skin, letting it fall where it may; they’ll collect it up later. His hands trace and tease, his lips making a path down her neck, lingering on her collarbone before travelling down to her chest, and she holds onto him tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she gasps, twisting against him, her body not her own, seeking only to prolong each sensation. He always fights a grin at that moment, because that’s the moment he loves most of all; the moment that the always rational, always in control Sara Sidle is completely beyond thought, out of control, and it’s all to do with him.
He loves the flush that creeps over her body, the little sounds – whimpers and sighs – she makes when she’s close, the way she says his name, begging him not to stop, the sounds she makes when she comes. She’s been known to use language he’d never heard her use before, language he didn’t even think that she knew, and once, when he teased her about it, instead of going red, as he expected, she just pulled him close again, muttering something about him being wrong and how she was going to prove it.
As it happened, he’d been proven right, and has continued to be proven right every time that they’re together. In fact, if anything, her reactions have become more passionate as time passes, as he’d learned just what she likes, exactly what touch will have her gasping for breath, calling his name in just that tone of breathy need.
It surprises him sometimes that, for all he can’t imagine her life without her in it, without them like this, the rest of the world, Grams aside, knows nothing about them. As far as the rest of the lab are concerned, they’re just colleagues, just friends. Sara, conventional wisdom has it, is madly in love with Grissom, and that’s the same conventional wisdom that has Warrick in love with Catherine. It’s also the conventional wisdom that says that calm sensible Sara would never go for someone passionate and wild like Warrick, that Warrick, who could have his pick of women, would pick someone like Sara over someone like Catherine or Leah.
Conventional wisdom, Warrick knows, is all very well and good out in the wide world, but it has no place behind closed doors.
And when he and Sara are behind closed doors, wrapped up in one another, he’s glad of it.
>*<*>*<
Title: Disproving Wisdom
Fandom: Line of Fire
Pairing: Amiel/Paige
Rating: PG13/R
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the15minuteficlets photo challenge #17
Your eyes fly open at some strange sound, closing again when you see a pair of unblinking eyes staring back at you. It’s only a cat, Amiel’s cat, staring at the two of you from across the room, as if you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Who knows? Maybe you are.
You’re not sure how often, if at all, Amiel takes women home. After all, if office wisdom is to believed, you’re far from Amiel’s type; people have been speculating since the day you both started that Todd is far more to his liking. Of course, that’s the same office wisdom that’s been linking you to David Gwynne since he transferred in, so you know not to put too much store in that.
And then Amiel’s lips do something to your neck that make you gasp and arch against him, and you discover another reason never to trust office wisdom.
After all, office wisdom says that this is a bad idea; not only that, it says that this is absolutely against regulations. He’s not your partner, nor is he your direct boss, but he is your superior. There are a million regulations that the two of you are breaking, something that will have to be dealt with if things continue past tonight – and from the sensations that his hands are teasing out, you really hope that it will. Whether you do or don’t though, either way, it’s going to lead to awkwardness between the two of you, until you learn to deal with it. And if you do, and then you break up, what’s going to happen?
And if you do, and you don’t break up, what’s going to happen then?
His lips cover yours, and you reach up a hand to the back of his head, running it down his neck, across the planes of his shoulders. When his lips slide to your cheek, down to your neck, you sigh, the sound almost drowning out his whispered words, “Open your eyes Paige…”
It’s not the voice he uses in the field to give orders, but you obey it anyway, meeting his dark eyes – darker than usual, making your stomach twist pleasantly, your breath hitch – and he must mistake your reaction for something that it’s not, because he frowns, his hands slowing against your skin.
“You ok?” he murmurs, and you know, without even looking at his face, that if you say the word, he’ll stop. Doesn’t matter that you’re both lying tangled in his bed sheets, that your clothes are all over the room, that he’s the first man to touch you this way since your husband. You know this man, even if you don’t know a lot about him, and you know he’ll stop.
You know this, and you arch against him, pressing your body close to him, your voice hardly recognisable as your own. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, dragging your lips across his shoulder, the only part of him you can reach. “Please, don’t stop…”
He doesn’t reply, not in words, just resumes his ministrations, his pace faster, studying your reactions. You keep your eyes on his, never breaking his gaze, trying not to think about the cat and office wisdom and what might happen, until it’s all too much, and you squeeze your eyes shut as the world explodes into a million pieces.
When you come back to yourself, you can hear only two things – breathing, his slow and controlled, yours harsh and laboured – and the mewling of the cat.
Concentrating on the former, you draw him close to you again, and forget all about the latter.
And I have fic.
Title: Behind Closed Doors
Fandom: CSI
Pairing: Warrick/Sara
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the LiveJournal
warricksara CMT Love Songs challengeWarrick likes looking at Sara, and always has, right from the first time he met her, even if that was a time that he shouldn’t have been looking at her in quite that way. After all, she was there to do a job, there to get him fired, and she was pissed off as hell at him, didn’t even try to hide it. He thinks that that was part of the initial attraction, because he knows the effect his looks usually have on women – and back then, he was far cockier than he is now, had no objection to trading on his looks if it got him where he needed to be – and it was rare to have someone not melt when he turned on the charm.
Besides, he thinks, he’s always had a weakness for strong, competent women, women who were completely in control of themselves, of their lives. He blames Grams for that, and it’s a description that suits Sara to a tee. She knows what she wants, knows who she is, and she doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of her.
At least, that’s the image that she projects to the world.
To the world, she’s strong and confident, sometimes too much so. Sometimes she’s surly and combative, headstrong and aloof, and more than once, she’s pissed off someone (more often than not Catherine) with her stubborn ways. As far as the world is concerned, apart from the odd nightmare case that they all get every now and again, she never lets anything get her down, can handle anything that comes her away.
As far as the world is concerned, the two of them are just good friends, co-workers, two people who have progressed from a rocky start to forge a good relationship. They see them working well together, see them laughing together, joking around, and more than one person has asked Warrick just what his secret is, how he’s able to get along with Sara so well. His answer – an easy shrug, an expression of confusion as to what they’re talking about – leaves them none the wiser, and that’s just as well.
Because Warrick’s always been a little bit selfish, and he’s selfishly proud of the fact that he sees a Sara that no-one else sees.
Even more proud that she lets him see a Sara that no-one else sees.
He sees the Sara who’s not always so calm and rational. He listens to her rant and rave about Grissom and Catherine and anyone else who may have crossed swords with her over the course of the shift. He listens to her talk about the case, about the criminals they’re tracking and the victims that are left behind, and he rubs her shoulder and holds her when she cries. He’s the one who pulls her close to him, distracting her from her worries with his kiss, his hands, his body moving in time with hers.
He sees the Sara who’s able to laugh and joke easily, the one with the smile that could light up a room, the one whose eyes dance with light and laughter. He knows a Sara who can make him laugh so hard that his sides ache, that his vision is blurred from the tears in his eyes, a Sara who, far from being surly and uncommunicative, can talk to him for hours without ever running out of conversation.
He sees a Sara who, far from having a lack of people skills, can talk to anyone; who, far from being an outsider, fits in perfectly whenever he brings her over to Grams’s house (which isn’t frequently enough for Grams, who seems to have fallen in love with Sara, and is dropping more hints about hats and cribs than either he or Sara are ready for.) It surprised him the first time, and it continues to do so, how much he likes to see the two of them together, talking to one another, getting along. He thinks sometimes, before he catches himself, realises that he’s getting way ahead of the game, that he wouldn’t mind seeing it more, that he could see himself seeing the two of them talking and laughing for a long time to come, maybe even the rest of his life.
Just like he could see himself seeing this side of Sara for the rest of his life.
It’s especially easy to think like that when he goes home every morning and finds Sara waiting for him, or finds his car magically making its way to her apartment. Not when he finds himself pushing her up against the closed front door, lips pressed against hers, his tongue tracing the path of her lips, hers tracing the path of his. His hands wander freely over her body, tracing the curve of her back, the swell of her hip, pulling her as close to him as humanly possible, but never close enough. Her hands are just as busy, tracing the contours of his back, his chest, wandering down to the waistbands of his trousers, sliding over and under, before moving underneath the fabric of his shirt, her fingers tracing patterns over his skin.
Sooner or later, one or other of them takes the initiative, pushing clothing away from skin, letting it fall where it may; they’ll collect it up later. His hands trace and tease, his lips making a path down her neck, lingering on her collarbone before travelling down to her chest, and she holds onto him tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she gasps, twisting against him, her body not her own, seeking only to prolong each sensation. He always fights a grin at that moment, because that’s the moment he loves most of all; the moment that the always rational, always in control Sara Sidle is completely beyond thought, out of control, and it’s all to do with him.
He loves the flush that creeps over her body, the little sounds – whimpers and sighs – she makes when she’s close, the way she says his name, begging him not to stop, the sounds she makes when she comes. She’s been known to use language he’d never heard her use before, language he didn’t even think that she knew, and once, when he teased her about it, instead of going red, as he expected, she just pulled him close again, muttering something about him being wrong and how she was going to prove it.
As it happened, he’d been proven right, and has continued to be proven right every time that they’re together. In fact, if anything, her reactions have become more passionate as time passes, as he’d learned just what she likes, exactly what touch will have her gasping for breath, calling his name in just that tone of breathy need.
It surprises him sometimes that, for all he can’t imagine her life without her in it, without them like this, the rest of the world, Grams aside, knows nothing about them. As far as the rest of the lab are concerned, they’re just colleagues, just friends. Sara, conventional wisdom has it, is madly in love with Grissom, and that’s the same conventional wisdom that has Warrick in love with Catherine. It’s also the conventional wisdom that says that calm sensible Sara would never go for someone passionate and wild like Warrick, that Warrick, who could have his pick of women, would pick someone like Sara over someone like Catherine or Leah.
Conventional wisdom, Warrick knows, is all very well and good out in the wide world, but it has no place behind closed doors.
And when he and Sara are behind closed doors, wrapped up in one another, he’s glad of it.
>*<*>*<
Title: Disproving Wisdom
Fandom: Line of Fire
Pairing: Amiel/Paige
Rating: PG13/R
Spoilers: None
Notes: For the
15minuteficlets photo challenge #17 Your eyes fly open at some strange sound, closing again when you see a pair of unblinking eyes staring back at you. It’s only a cat, Amiel’s cat, staring at the two of you from across the room, as if you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever seen in his life.
Who knows? Maybe you are.
You’re not sure how often, if at all, Amiel takes women home. After all, if office wisdom is to believed, you’re far from Amiel’s type; people have been speculating since the day you both started that Todd is far more to his liking. Of course, that’s the same office wisdom that’s been linking you to David Gwynne since he transferred in, so you know not to put too much store in that.
And then Amiel’s lips do something to your neck that make you gasp and arch against him, and you discover another reason never to trust office wisdom.
After all, office wisdom says that this is a bad idea; not only that, it says that this is absolutely against regulations. He’s not your partner, nor is he your direct boss, but he is your superior. There are a million regulations that the two of you are breaking, something that will have to be dealt with if things continue past tonight – and from the sensations that his hands are teasing out, you really hope that it will. Whether you do or don’t though, either way, it’s going to lead to awkwardness between the two of you, until you learn to deal with it. And if you do, and then you break up, what’s going to happen?
And if you do, and you don’t break up, what’s going to happen then?
His lips cover yours, and you reach up a hand to the back of his head, running it down his neck, across the planes of his shoulders. When his lips slide to your cheek, down to your neck, you sigh, the sound almost drowning out his whispered words, “Open your eyes Paige…”
It’s not the voice he uses in the field to give orders, but you obey it anyway, meeting his dark eyes – darker than usual, making your stomach twist pleasantly, your breath hitch – and he must mistake your reaction for something that it’s not, because he frowns, his hands slowing against your skin.
“You ok?” he murmurs, and you know, without even looking at his face, that if you say the word, he’ll stop. Doesn’t matter that you’re both lying tangled in his bed sheets, that your clothes are all over the room, that he’s the first man to touch you this way since your husband. You know this man, even if you don’t know a lot about him, and you know he’ll stop.
You know this, and you arch against him, pressing your body close to him, your voice hardly recognisable as your own. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, dragging your lips across his shoulder, the only part of him you can reach. “Please, don’t stop…”
He doesn’t reply, not in words, just resumes his ministrations, his pace faster, studying your reactions. You keep your eyes on his, never breaking his gaze, trying not to think about the cat and office wisdom and what might happen, until it’s all too much, and you squeeze your eyes shut as the world explodes into a million pieces.
When you come back to yourself, you can hear only two things – breathing, his slow and controlled, yours harsh and laboured – and the mewling of the cat.
Concentrating on the former, you draw him close to you again, and forget all about the latter.
