DISCLAIMER: I don't own CSI nor any of the characters. This is just my warped mind hoping.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Falling Apart Together
Harsh, strong hands grab your sides, hungry lips meet yours in what seems like an endless kiss. It hurts. Her nails in your skin, her lips so hard on yours you fear your lips might bleed afterwards, having been pierced by your teeth. More pain; your back hits the wall she's shoved you against and you groan to signal your displeasure but instead of a groan, a moan comes out and it's then you know you are truly lost.
You awake, freaked out and wet. Sweat covers most of your body and as you clamber out of your bed, you realize your nipples are hard. It's only when you take a cold shower to remove the thoughts of the dream, turn the heat up as high as you can take it and stand under the stream until your skin is red and painful, they settle back to their normal state.
Your arousal, on the other hand, is far from gone. It's still there, lingering, as it has been for weeks, ever since that first thought of kissing her after a particularly nasty case. You didn't, of course you didn't. But you thought about it. Of walking up to her and turning her around to face you. She would meet your eyes, questioning, and you would look calm and collected and she would wait for you. You would make a decision and bring your lips together for a soft kiss. She would be stunned at first, wondering what was happening and if she wanted it to happen and then she would draw you to her and return the kiss. And she would be the first to make a sound of pleasure. Not you. Never you. Collected, strong you. You would never let anyone dominate you. Not again.
Three months now and the fantasies have only gotten worse. She knows body language, she should have read you long ago but she hasn't. Not a sign that she realizes your feelings for her.
Her mouth moves lower to your neck, nibbling, the occasional bite, you gasp and you feel her lips reverberate against your collar bone. She knows that you are broken, that you'd do anything to keep her going. That you are loving the taste of your own blood and knowing she's caused it with that devil's kiss.
You shake your head over the coffee you have just poured yourself. You can't stop thinking about her and you hate yourself for it. She works for you, she's probably straight and most of all, you're not into girls. Not like that. Your show girl years are far in the past and while the occasional fling with a woman back then had been fun, you made a decision to be straight. To leave that behind you.
Still the coffee is turning cold in the mug in your hands because you can't stop thinking about it, wondering if you should change your panties again before you go to work. You decide it would be useless anyway. As soon as you see her and the thoughts return, no underwear in the world can keep you from being soaked.
There is something about her. Her walk, her smile, the gap between her teeth. The way she handles cases; by feeling and skill. She can't be unattached, objective. She throws herself in it, every case. This one especially. Double murder, both kids. Kids are the worst, she can't take that, she's too shattered for that. You wonder how much overtime is in this case already, two days old. Too much, that's for sure. And she handles it all alone, every case. Never a shoulder to cry on. She goes home, out of your reach, while you want to grab her, hold on to her and let her cry. You would never let her go. You'd be strong for her and through her, you would heal.
Brown hair tickles your flesh after the sound of ripping material leaves the air. Your shirt hangs in shreds around your shoulders and her lips are already on your nipples, expert hands having undone your bra in seconds. It falls to the ground as you stifle a scream into her hair because she has bitten down on your nipple so hard, it'll probably be the second place you bleed from. Your legs just about give out and her strong hands come up to keep you upright. At least those hands are no longer in your sides, making you bleed. You miss the contact already.
The drive is hell. The continual fantasy is leaving it's marks on you, but it's nothing like the marks she leaves you in your mind. By the time you get to work you know that not changing your panties was a good choice. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. You find yourself able to walk and walk with the confidence you always have. It's even more energetic than normal. They think it's because you were actually off duty a few hours before showing up here again and that you got some sleep. You know it's because you have all this energy to burn. Burn with her.
You need her and not just psychically. So much has happened, you have lost so much. Your daughter is spiralling out of control. Of course she is, you know the hours you work, the horrors you see. She gets the backlash of it. It's all she's known all her life. Her father is dead and her mother is hardly at home. You try not to think about it. The thoughts of Brass's daughter you push aside. There is no use. You won't let it go so far. Never.
You need her, Sara. You need her to be vulnerable, to let you care for her so you can be strong. You love her, it's not hard to admit, not anymore. It's a break-through day. What's hard to admit is that you'll never do anything with it. You'll live your life without her, only see her at work and you'll have the dreams and while you dream, your life will spiral out of control.
You need her.
One of her hands reach into your hair and pulls your head back. The other hand covers your undamaged nipple and rolls it sadistically as her teeth leave marks on your now exposed neck. It's torture, pure and simple. It's harsh and not loving and you should be telling her to stop but you don't. You try to pull her to you by that awful t-shirt she's wearing and she forces your head into the wall so hard you actually see stars. There is nothing loving about all of this. It would be rape if you didn't consent to it one hundred percent. But that, of course, is true for all sex. It was just a thought really. A random thought just as the thought about her bite marks. Will they show that gap between her front teeth you like so much?
The day is slow, slower than ever. You're swamped with paperwork and you come out of your office exactly twice, once to find some coffee and the other for a toilet break. You don't see her and you're glad of it. It allows you to actually halve the pile of work you have been avoiding.
And then she's in your office. You knew you couldn't be so lucky as to walk out of this building in an hour and not have run into her. She looks beautiful, she always does, and as always she's totally oblivious. Your pupils must be dilated, your heartbeat increases instantly and you're sure you're flushed but she doesn't notice. She's here about the case and there is nothing else. It's getting to her, the two dead boys. It's getting to her and you feel horrible because you can't stop thinking about your fantasy.
Her hand slides lower, undoes the button of your pants as she possesses your mouth again. This time she uses her tongue to probe it and she chuckles when she tastes the blood still in it. Her hand slides into your soaked panties and pierces the warm wetness that has gathered between your lips. She pulls back from the kiss and captures your earlobe. Her voice is low and horny when she talks to you. She tells you you're hot. She tells you that she's going to fuck you and she tells you that you are going to like it. Then she adds in an amused tone that she can tell you are liking it already. Then, fully knowing what it'll do to you and not apologising nor hesitating, she calls you a slut.
She has come to bring you a report and to tell you that she's about to go home. You talk about the case and it's ridiculous how much talking about dead people can turn you on, or rather; how little talking about dead people interferes with the hots you have for her.
She invites you out for a beer, you decline. You couldn't sit through an entire evening with her and not jump her at some point. You don't tell her that, however, you tell her that it's because of Lindsey, that she will be expecting her mother home. You know full well that your daughter is at a friends house tonight because you were getting off early today and were planning on sleeping for every single minute you could.
She accepts your explanation and leaves. You resist the urge to go after her and then the urge to call her. Instead you focus on paperwork and hardly notice when the dream continues in that daydream fashion it has all day.
You strike out. She captures your arm, laughing out loud. Her hand slides from your pants to capture your other arm. Her longer body traps you against the wall, no matter how much you fight her. You tell her to let go, to stop, she doesn't. Either of them. You get even more angry at the look in her eyes. Is this the woman you've know for so long? Would she hurt you like this? She kisses you again, you try to turn your head away but she's faster. Her tongue is in your mouth before you can even protest. She lets go of your arms to massage your breasts and you don't fight her anymore. No. You let her call you a couple of other names, let her taunt you with your reaction to her. Especially to her abuse. You let her bring you so close to the edge you can taste it, smell it, see it and touch it. If there is a sixth sense you have just discovered it.
You go home, a slow and agonizing drive and not just because of the thoughts, the fantasies or the heat between your legs. Traffic is killer even though you have no idea what all these people are doing here at seven in the morning.
Lindsey is still at her friend's house, due to arrive back at six. You expect her home by seven, if you are lucky. She's a continual worry but not right now when you so desperately long for a shower.
As you turn on the hot water and let it run through, you disrobe, shaking you head at the stain in your panties. You throw them in the hamper, along with all the others. About two seconds after the now adjusted water hits you and smoothes down your hair, the doorbell rings. You decide to ignore it, after all, you're busy. Busy thinking of her.
It's not as if you want her to do the things she does to you in that endless dream. God no. That's not how it's supposed to go. Strong, collected you. She shouldn't break you but the other way around. You can't stop it though. Not even after the second time the doorbell rings.
Her leg presses up against your crotch and you hump it even though you've told yourself you wouldn't, would never do such a thing. You could never be so desperate to come, not for anyone. But she's not everyone. She's Sara and you want her more than life itself. So you plead. You beg her to fuck you, to end it, to make her come. You vow you will do anything and that she can continue to do anything she wishes to you. She pulls her leg away and the loss is a physical pain.
It rings again, the doorbell, and you sigh into your waking wet dream. Three time's the charm after all. You holler you are coming and beat the thought that says 'you wish' to a pulp with a mental baseball bat. The water dies down to a drip as you wrap your hair in a towel and the rest of your soaked body in a robe. You leave footprints on the floor as you trot over to the door. The doorbell rings again just before your hand reaches out, pissing you off to no end. You are in control, damn it. Not whomever the fuck is on the other side of that door. You need to be in control, you need it so desperately you feel yourself tearing at the seams. You can't hold this up much longer, this façade of a power chick. You're too old for that, too much has happened and is happening now. You need to fall apart too much to hold on to the strings escaping your small hands on every side.
She's gone and you are practically dying because of it. But she isn't gone, not really. She has decided to give you exactly what you want. Another tearing of cloth, then cool air to your aching crotch. Then she's there, her fingers probing harshly but steadily. She'd inside you now and you feel how pathetically you're bucking up to her hand. Oh yeah, she broke you good alright but that is a thought from another you, from another planet for all you care. You would never admit any of this to yourself, just like you won't admit you're crying.
It's her, Sara, standing in your doorframe with an unreadable face. You are dumbfound, unable to speak. She does it for you, bless her heart. She invites herself in and you merely step aside to let her pass. You close the door and stay where you are, not trusting your voice or your body.
She invites herself to yet another thing, a beer, and she pops it, empties it half before looking at you. She makes a joke, something about the beer coming to the mountain or something and then she turns serious. She asks about Lindsey and you inform her of your daughter's ETA. She nods and sits down on your couch. You're annoyed, you are in control. This is still your house. Still, you're trembling and you have to fold your hands behind your back to hide that from her.
She's talking now, long sentences that come hard to her. She's waving her hands and the bottle around and you're a bit frightened she's about to knock something over. What she's saying though, it warms your heart and ignites the heat between your legs once more. First she tells you about the case, that she doubts she's gonna solve it because the evidence is running out. She's tearing up, needing to solve the case. Soon, though, her sentences tumble onto a different territory. She tells you she loves you, that she wants you, that she was so afraid you wouldn't want her. She tells you she is gay but that it is the only thing that she never wanted anyone to know. Better to date Grissom that let anyone know that she was into girls. She can't tell you why, not now but she promises she will if you will let her. You tell her you will, that she can tell you anything. A silence, an awkward one. You have to answer her, you know you have to. Something's holding you back, warnings of office affairs, the danger of their daily job, the fact they are both women, Lindsey, it's all so real all of a sudden and you are at a loss.
Her fingers are hard and deep inside of you, curling slightly to give you every bit of stimulation she can muster. Her mouth is everywhere, kissing, sucking, biting and before long the edge is at your feet and you dive off into the abyss willingly. When you come down, you're on the floor and she's holding you. She kisses your wounded body softly and then whispers that she's sorry. She adds that she just needed to break you, make you hers. You kiss her, laughing, exhausted and laughing. You tell her you were already hers and she believes it.
In the end it's all so easy. You lift a trembling hand and undo the knot you tied to keep your robe from falling open. Without the restraint, the robe quickly opens up and presents your naked form to her. You let it fall down your shoulders and add the towel you used for your hair to the pile, enjoying the empowering way your hair falls down your shoulders. She's looking at you with lust and love and she sets down the bottle on the ground next to the couch.
It's all so easy, it's like a bad movie. But it's not. It's real and it all feels so wrong. Still, you did it and it made you feel in control, if only for a moment. It's enough to make it right. So you take another trembling move. You walk to her and she reaches out for you. You set yourself down on her lap.
When she embraces you, you melt, when she kisses you, you ignite and you make the first sound together. You guess it's good enough as you wrap your arms around her. This time you're willing to admit to the tears that stain your face and hers. You're willing to admit everything to her. Within seconds you are even more naked than you were without your clothes. She holds everything you are in her hands and she's careful with it.
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