DISCLAIMER: CSI and its characters are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer and CBS. No infringement intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I loved writing with a deadline, even though it was a bit stressing. I hope that the writer who gave me the prompts likes this story. If not, I apoligize and I am willing to try and make a new one. Let me know.
CHALLENGE: Submitted as part of the Sara/Sofia 'Let's Get Sassy' ficathon.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
By Missy Holland
She told me 'You're the detective, go detect!'
So I do.
I start at her face, trailing my hands down her cheek and over her nose, kissing every inch of her before moving to her earlobes. I softly touch them with my index finger and she squints under my touch.
I travel down a bit, reaching her delicate neck, my fingers slowly stroking their way to her pulse point. Upon her hitching breath I replace my fingers with my tongue and lips, soon followed by my teeth. She's trying so hard to keep still, already sweating.
And I've only just started to detect...
With my mouth still nipping at her heartbeat, I ease my hands down her shoulders, to her sides and make sure she doesn't have any hidden guns underneath her shirt before ripping it away from her.
Yes, now I've found something. She has committed a crime indeed. Has she been hiding this underneath a shirt for all those years? I can't keep my hands away from her torso. Delicate freckled skin burns under my touch. Her eyelids drop, her mouth opens and she sighs. In a second I've moved my mouth to hers, kissing her with all I can give.
Again I spot something on her skin. Yes, I'm a detective, I'm supposed to notice.
Swiftly I undo her bra and kiss the tattoo that's on her right breast. It's a little cherry.
Torturingly slow I ease my hands and mouth over the coloured piece, making Sara moan.
Finally, after an hour of foreplay I've got here where I want her to be; she's writhing and moaning beneath me, pupils are so wide I can't see the brown around it anymore. She's sweating and her hands are desperately tangled in my hair as I finally ease my way down her body.
And when I slide two fingers inside of her, I have to do my best to keep her hips on the bed. I softly kiss her folds, nipping and licking as I just avoid where she wants me. As I thrust in and out, she moans with the pace, shuddering incontrollably. She pulls me back up and kisses me hungrily, tasting herself on my lips.
When she comes, it's my name on her lips. When she's come down from her high, it's me who she cuddles with. And after another hour, it's me who's screaming her name.
Yes, I think I detected something good.
'You're the detective, go detect!'
So I did.
But maybe I've searched too hard. She told me playfully that, if I wanted to know her, I should do my job. So I did. I kept digging deeper into her past, tracking her down, starting at Harvard and going all the way to her days in San Francisco. Dug into her personal record in CSI, finding things that were best to be buried. Found her poem-club she used to go to, found her favourite vineyard. I found her home town. I found out about her mother and father.
And idiot me, I told her. Proud of what I'd found I knocked on her door. Telling her her entire life-story over again, happy. I told her that I knew she loved art. Where she'd spent her days and whom she'd met.
She paled away. Asked what I knew more. Yeah, I say, I know a lot more. Sensitive I approach the subject of her parents. She stills eyes wide. I walk toward her, touch her arm.
She slaps my arm away, hatred in her eyes. She yells, screams and kicks me out. I think I might've hurt her ..
A week later and we're still not talking. I tried everything, letters, calls, waiting for her after shift. The letters come back unanswered, she doesn't pick up the phone, and she bluntly ignores me and walks out, talking to someone else. I think that this time, I screwed up big time with my detective skills.
And that's when I've had it. I'm a detective, damn it. I know I dug too deep, but she can talk to me, can't she? I have to admit I don't feel the slightest pang of guilt when I pick her lock, but I don't care.
I will and must talk to her; I'm going crazy on the inside.
And when she comes in and sees me she first wants to run away. I stop her and we fight. Mentally, physically. We wear each other out. With words, with arms and fists.
Cursing each other, trying reasonable arguments, throwing things at each other. Tomorrow things will change, but tonight all I want is to both kick her to hell and kiss her to heaven. We yell, scream, cry, and laugh. It's ironic, but I've never been more turned on by her. She's a fury, and with her eyes on fire, voice ragged and sweating, she's the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.
But we still fight. She calls me a slut, for hitting on Grissom. I call her a closed off freak, because she doesn't have a life. Weirdo, manipulative bitch, hardcore butch, motherfucker, everything flies across the room.
But we don't mean it.
How can you say stuff like that to the one you love most? How can you do stuff like that to the one who lights up your day?
It's in the heat of an argument. When all you want is to be right, for the other to be wrong. When all you can see is a red blur and you just want to punch someone's lights out. Everyone knows that's not how it's supposed to be, but angry sex is the best sex you can have when it comes to rough. Toys may be fun, but nothing's better than getting so angry at someone, and then feeling their lips on yours as you slam into a wall whilst ripping each other's clothes off.
Yeah, I might've detected something wrong, but I can assure you that we'll work it out.
'You're the detective, go detect!'
So I've done. I did all the things I should've done. Watched sappy movies with her to make her feel comfortable before I brought the topic up. Accidentally ended up at the ring department in a jewellery store. Somehow I made her go to a wedding of my cousin with me. Yeah, she's one good investigator if she hasn't figured out my plans by now. But I'm a detective, I go with my guts. I go with them all the way this time. The ring is picked on a hunch, thinking what I'd love to see on her hand. The place is chosen with eenie-meenie-miny-moo from a list of favourite places of ours. And the time is a day we both have off. God, I hope I'm a good detective! If I'm not, she'll say no. I've discussed moving in before, but we'd both signed a new contract for our apartment before things got serious. So that never happened. It's been almost a year now, and I've had it. I want her with me all the time. In one house, preferably with a dog and a white fence. I want the fairytale.
Yeah, I might've detected a dream, and from the look on her face, I'd say it's about to come true.
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