A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who followed and reviewed this. I hadn't written anything in so long that I was a bit scared to post it, but you guys were great. And to anyone who's still confused, the parenthetical bits are the inner voice that Jane hears of the little devil on her shoulder – he's a very opinionated little fecker.

Anyway… hope you enjoy!

Right. So. Her hand is on Maura's boob. Her hand. Maura's boob. Right now. It could be worse, right?

(Oh, you idiot. Really? You two have been not-so-subtly eye-fucking each other for years. If the time to admit that is not when you're fondling her breast and she's arching into it, then I don't know what is. And if you honestly don't know a moan when you hear one then we should probably be having a different conversation.)

There's only one way forward, she's convinced of it. Especially given that a handful of seconds have pulsed by and neither she nor Maura seem all that interested in stopping the slightly-more-than- friendly contact between them. (And it's really hard to resist the urge to brush your thumb just there, isn't it?) Jane's only thought is to hope she doesn't seem too eager when she dives in – and that the satisfied fuuuuuck that reverberates through her head when she finally makes contact isn't actually out loud.

It's early in the morning – and still Maura's mouth tastes impossibly like… strawberries and cream: something summery, sweet, and decadent, despite the simplicity. It's insane. This woman is insane. In a stupid but achingly amazing, head-over-heels and small chirping birds, Disney princess kind of way. And Jane finds herself laughing, the sound pushing into Maura's mouth.

'What?' Maura asks, pulling away.

'Sorry… nothing.'



It's that authoritative, almost chastising tone, where the woman always seems to know she's won the argument before it's even begun – Put on your uniform, Jane; We're going to yoga, Jane; Let's go to your reunion, Jane.

(Don't lie – you love when she's all bossy. You always choose the hard way.)

And she'll say anything to keep Maura from pulling so much as another millimetre away, even the truth – and even if it makes her feel like a blushing and gawky teenager. 'You're…' Jane fumbles, grasping at the first word that comes to her, still reeling at the taste and touch and Maura-ness of it all. 'You're ridiculous.'

(And you're an absolute fucking idiot.)

Maura's breath catches as uncertainty snags her, her words soft in apology. 'I didn't mean to….'

'No. It's just…' There's actual physical pain in the space that grows between them, and Jane fills it quickly, smoothing her palm down Maura's arm. '… It's crazy…. You're – ' ( I leave you alone for three fucking seconds…. Dig up, woman! Find adjectives that aren't generally used in mental hospitals!) ' – incredible. You're… perfect.'

'That's a scientific impossibility.' Maura's toying with the fabric of the sheets over Jane's knee, every once in a while, the pressure penetrating. 'People don't have the ability to achieve perfection. There's too much diversity in – '

'Maura.' Jane pushes her knee up into Maura's palm, the feeling of it quick and strong and beautiful. 'Take the compliment.' Please?

'Oh.' Maura's adorable when she's flustered – (Yes, you, big bad-ass Jane Rizzoli, just thought in terms of adorableness – and you loved it). 'Well… thank you.'

'Yeah, don't mention – ' Jane's tank top is over her head before she even registers the movement, the chill sharp and sudden, '— it.'

And that's how Jane finds herself sitting half naked on her bed, trying not to panic. Maura Isles is staring at her breasts. That is all. Just Maura. They've changed in front of each other before – Maura's probably seen them already. No big deal.

Except Maura's not just staring at them, she's studying them – as enthralled as if she's searching Jane for evidence.

(Yeah. Sexy evidence.)

'Jane,' Maura breathes, and even from the queen of science and logic, it sounds like a prayer. 'Your breasts are very –'

'Please don't say symmetrical.'

'Why?' The hand that comes forward isn't at all tentative as Maura reaches out and gently cups one of Jane's breasts. 'It's a compliment.'

(And she has a point. Maybe all those years of squashing those puppies into sports bras has finally paid off.)

A strange, strangled noise escapes Jane's throat, and it's all she can do to not flat-out moan. 'Science-y stuff about my boobs while you're… 'She raises an eyebrow and flicks her gaze down to her own chest. '… is just weird.'

'Fine. Sexy then.'

'But you're using it in place of – of symmetrical. I know you are.'

(Your voice cracked. I wouldn't let it pass if you were a thirteen-year-old boy, and I'm not gonna let it pass when you're a damn grow-ass woman – I don't care who's feeling you up.)

'The terms aren't mutually exclusive, Jane.' There's a thumb, so-slowly circling before quickly flicking her nipple – then twice more for good measure. 'And you are sexy.'

The words are flying pigs and hell freezing over, but arguing seems futile when it's all but assured that Maura will win. Jane can only roll her eyes and try to level the playing field by pulling Maura's shirt over her head. The execution isn't perfect, the fabric catching on honey-blonde hair; Maura helps her free it with a quick shake of her head, the momentum traveling downward, and – oh dear God….

(Seriously. Dive right in, the water's fine.)

Jane does. Without an ounce of hesitation. The first touch of that so-soft skin is fantastic, and she wants more of it, and everywhere. Easing Maura back, Jane starts a rotation – fingertips, palm, lips, thumb, tongue – she is a detective, after all, and no one can accuse her of not being thorough. Maura is humming, electric, and Jane finds her head framed in both the other woman's hands as she pulls her up, their mouths connecting – a bit off the mark at first, but getting there in the end, and she thinks this must be heaven.

(That place is overrated. Hell is much more fun.)

The kisses are long and languid, smouldering – smoke and fire, and something like burnt sugar sticking to her throat, and Jane wants this to continue forever. Her hips have other ideas – are just on the verge of her control, and she strains to keep them still.

'Maur – ' The last syllable catches in a kiss so she leaves it there. '… I know I'm…' (Hot and wet? Ready? Trying not to come in your pants?) '… We don't have to…' Bottom lip between teeth. And a whimper – she's not sure whose. '… if you're not….'

(Really?! You've picked a hell of a time to become ladylike. Have I taught you nothing?)

Jane never really thought about this as something that would ever actually happen – doesn't know why it suddenly occurs to her that maybe it should be a slow, inquisitive, getting-to-know-you. So when Maura takes her hand and puts it between them, Jane doesn't realise what's happening until she finds her own fingers driven beneath Maura's waistband and pressed insistently where the other woman wants her.

Or, more accurately, where she's slick and warm and wanting her. Her.

(Yeah, yeah. Jane and Maura sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-and-all-that-jazz. Get on with it.)

'Christ, Maura….'

'I've always found you to be sexually stimulating, Jane, but I could never tell where you stood on the matter.' Maura pushes against her. 'And the somatosensory stimulation now is – ' And again, her breath hitching this time, escalating to a sigh. 'Take off your pants.'

It shouldn't come as a surprise that this woman knows just what she wants and isn't afraid to ask for it – Maura has always been open about her sex life. Even risked a literal tongue-lashing from Giovanni to sate it. (Why are you thinking of that idiot now of all times. Focus, woman.)

Okay. Yes. Focus.

Step One to taking off pants would probably involve something like moving her hand from –

Yeah, that can't be right.

There's got to be another way. Any other way, because moving her hand seems like absolutely the wrong thing to do right now. She's sure of it. Well, wait. Not all types of moving. Because she flutters her fingers, and the way Maura jerks against her—

'Now, Jane.'

(Yes, Ma'am!)

Jane jumps up, trying for effortless but ending up more like Bambi on ice, tripping out of the rest of her clothes and nearly falling face-first onto the floor. Maura, of course, is much more graceful – disrobed in a few smooth seconds, and… how is this woman even real?

(Close your mouth, Rizzoli. You can't pretend you've never seen a vagina. You're not some gawky teenage boy in the backseat of his dad's borrowed car trying not to come in his pants on top of his drunk prom date. Not far off, maybe, but definitely not that far gone. And you can't pretend those few so-called 'experimental' months in the Academy never happened. Those girls might not have been stellar, but they had all the same parts you're looking at now.)

But this is Maura. Maura.

And Christ, it's better than any twisted, hurried, half-asleep fantasy.

(Even that one where –)

'Yes.' The out-loudness of it is emphatic. And accidental.

'Hmm?' Maura asks, brows knitting in question.

Jane simply reaches for her. 'C'mere.'

The how of it… just happens. Someone pushes, or pulls, and suddenly Jane's lying on rumpled sheets and Maura's murmuring something incoherent as she lands with one of Jane's thighs between her own. Jane's hands run laps along the length of Maura's body – tracing up her back, her neck, along a cheekbone, and then down – and with Maura's hair falling in a curtain around her, it's satisfaction and security and so damn good all at the same time.

(For fuck's sake – literally – get on with it!)

Maura seems to have her right where she needs her, so Jane brushes blonde hair aside and busies herself by running her tongue up the newly-exposed skin on Maura's neck, focusing on a spot that makes the other woman hum and grind harder against her. And Jane would stay like this forever, except – she's pretty sure that if she doesn't touch Maura soon she might actually die. It's a chance she's not willing to take, especially since she can think of another way she'd much rather go, so she reaches.

But the good doctor must have the same idea, and they find themselves at a logistical impasse, until Maura finds a way to make it work – probably using some complicated math to calculate the different lengths and angles. She rests on her side, pressed against Jane, and as Jane feels Maura's fingertips drawing circles and squares and probably goddamn hexagons on her inner thighs before dipping inside, she has never been so fucking grateful for geometry in all her life.

'Fuck, Maura….'

(That's the point.)

And somehow. Despite how unbelievable it feels to have Maura's fingers pushing in and out of her, and the back-and-forth of her thumb just there – it all pales in comparison to the sound Maura makes as Jane brushes her clit, a trilling sigh that vibrates her entire body.

The friction, the heat, the pressure is all… God, it's fantastic – and yellow, somehow, bright and billowing, soft cotton in springtime. Jane wants to remember every second of this, but thinking is… what again? And her nerve endings have exploded so that every touch melts into colours in a curiously impossible way that seems to make perfect sense. Her pulse hammers purple in her throat and Maura's tongue tastes pink and blue, and the silver-and-gold of her slips frenetically against Jane's hand over and over until –

A lack of colour.

Or all of them at once.

Maura would know. But Maura is reduced to fragments before her: a lock of hair; a damp palm; the tip of a nose pressing into her cheek; staccato breaths in her ear.

Jane doesn't know if her muscle-memory kicks in enough to keep her fingers in motion – or if that's even a thing that muscles can do at all. But something must work because Maura's mmmm'ing into Jane's shoulder, and then she's kissing her and kissing her, frantically at first, and lazily as she comes down from her high.


So clear and full that it feels like breathing.

And that's all there is – rapid breaths gradually slowing, her muscles yawning as she traces squiggles and lines up and down Maura's side. No nagging little voice. No angry ache deep within her. Just that strange mixture of satisfaction and wanting-more, topped off with a bit of why the fuck haven't we been doing this all along?

'Maura?' She hasn't stirred, only burrows deeper at the sound of her name, and Jane presses a soft kiss to the side of her head. 'You okay?'


(Wow, no science-y stuff. You must've fucked her good and proper. You gotta be feeling pretty damn good about yourself right now.)

Ah, not so gone after all.

(You're a bigger idiot than I thought if you think after all those weeks putting up with you, I'm letting you off the hook with just one orgasm. It was only polite to give you a little space – I may be the devil, but I'm not a monster.)

At this point, little Lucifer's almost growing on her – he's practically more cupid than devil anyway.


'Researchers at the University of Groningen have found that a woman's orbitofrontal cortex essentially switches off during climax.' Gone are any traces of Maura's sleepy mumblings from just seconds ago, this fact ringing out as clear as a bell.

(Well, if that's not pillow talk, I don't know what is.)

'Good to know,' Jane offers with a smile – some things never change, and she hopes this quirk is one of them.

Maura props her head up on her elbow and runs a hand through Jane's hair, grinning when it refuses to be tamed. 'Is this why you've been so….'


'I was going to say on edge, but yes.'

The shrug is automatic, but Jane thinks better of it and nods apologetically, hoping the way her hand gently squeezes Maura's hip says I'm sorry. 'I don't know how you put up with me.'

'It's easy to excuse the behaviour of the people you love, Jane.'

Jane has heard the words before, doesn't know why her heart chooses now to do a funny little flip that lands it somewhere within her throat, trying to push out onto her tongue. Maybe it was the smooth sound of the word or the way Maura tilted her head as she said it. But something within Jane bursts – a sudden tightness in her chest, and just a spark of realisation and Maura.

(Fine. If you must. But you're something else – you know that, right?)

Permission granted – though why she's looking for permission from an imaginary shoulder-devil is… not a matter to look into right now. Still, she can't connect the letters the right way in her mouth – they slide like alphabet soup, broken and twisted, and she's pretty sure she had a v at one point, but there's a b in its place now, and lobe isn't right at all. So she stops trying to force it, instead, threading a hand through honey-blonde hair and guiding Maura's mouth to hers.

She's always been a woman of action anyway.

It's soft and sweet, the cotton candy of kisses, and Lucifer's probably throwing up in his mouth (Oh, give me more credit than that.) but Jane doesn't care. The feeling's there and right and whole, even if the words are something she can't quite get out yet, and Maura's smiling against her.

'So,' Jane breathes into Maura's mouth – doesn't quite want to move away from her – and she's never felt more like a girl in her life, and it's almost scary how completely okay that is. 'Now you're gonna tell me all about how the symmetry and angles and weird chemicals were reacting with our feel-good receptors?'

Maura looks almost thrilled at the thought. 'Do you want me to?'

'Want is a pretty strong word. But I'll let you.'

'I don't think you will.'

'Maura!' Jane teases lightly, widening her eyes in mock surprise. 'Are you guessing?'

'Not at all.' Maura places a hand on top of Jane's, which… has somehow escaped her control again and is palming Maura's breast. 'Merely forming a hypothesis based on present information.'

(Face it, Jane Rizzoli. You're a boob woman.)

Surveying the goods before her, Jane swipes her thumb across a nipple, loving when Maura presses into her, eyes snapping closed. She's pretty sure she can live with that.