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rainbowfic2014-01-30 04:19 am
bookblather) wrote in rainbowfic2014-01-30 04:19 am
Admin Yellow 19, Glitter 7, Twilight 20: Femme Fatale
Author: Kat
Title: Femme Fatale
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Glitter 7 (Another suitcase in another hall. - Evita), twilight 20 (Supine), admin yellow 19 (The thing about striking out on your own is that's usually how you end up.)
Supplies and Materials: Stain (Honesty is a good thing, but it is not profitable to its possessor unless it is kept under control. - Don Marquis), feathers (You and Me./We were never in love./But, Oh boy, /We could have been. - 4:09pm), fabric (icicles), fingerpainting (I am NOT GOOD at noir), glitter (suspicion), glue (the details will come back to haunt you later on if you ignore them today.).
Word Count: 957
Rating: R. At least.
Summary: Sam knew she was trouble.
Warnings: sexytimes.
Notes: One of Miranda's one-night stands. Written for my (NSFW) Sex Is Not The Enemy ficathon prompt. They're still going, if you're interested!
As soon as he saw her, Sam knew she was trouble.
She looked like she should be smoking a cigarette in the dim half-light of a cut-rate PI's office, not watching the strobing dancers gyrate and grind with an amused little half-smile. Thick black hair in vintage waves, a carmine dress that skimmed sleek curves—fuck, the hell was she doing here? She'd stepped right out of a noir film, and of course he headed straight for her.
She turned her head and watched him come, that little smirk unchanging. When he got there, leaned down on the bar next to her, she said nothing, but lifted her half-empty glass to her mouth, took a sip, and arched an eyebrow at him, silently.
"You look like you're about to murder someone," Sam told her. Shitty line, but her smile only widened.
"Would you believe that's not the first time I've been told that?" Even her voice was perfect, low and smoky, half-lit. She raised her glass again, not quite to her red-painted mouth. "It can be a useful effect."
"I bet." He watched her fingers shifting on the glass. "Girl like you, it's a good bet that she wants something."
"Always." If this had been a movie, she would blow smoke from the perfect o of furled lips. It was reality, so she merely took another sip. "Is this the part where you ask me what that is?"
As if she'd tell him the truth. "No," he said. "This is the part where I ask what you want me to do."
She smiled like an arsonist, white teeth and red, red lips. "Good answer."
--
She told him her name was Andrea, which Sam didn't believe for a second, but he was willing to pretend that he did. She told him that she didn't care what his name was, which he did believe, though he told her it was Sam anyway. And she told him to pick a hotel, any hotel, flicking through names on her phone like a magician fanning out a deck of cards. He picked blindly and followed her to the cab.
In the cab she said, "I want you to fuck me like a whore," her red lips curling around the words, so he grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her hard, biting at her lips, forcing her head back. She made a sound like a gasp, and another like a moan when he groped at her breasts, and when he let her go she rocked backwards panting, her lipstick smudged over swollen lips.
From the front the driver yelled, "Hey, hey! Save it for the Hilton!" and she smiled, running her tongue over her sharp little teeth.
Sam watched her, panting himself, wondering what the hell he'd gotten into.
--
He pinned her against the door and unzipped her dress, pushed it down to her waist. She shoved him back and tore at his shirt, buttons pinging off the dresser, her nails biting at his skin. She was going to leave marks—of course she was, she was Ingrid Bergman, Mata Hari, she was going to bite and scratch and he'd leave the hotel bleeding, grateful. Jesus. She wasn't wearing underwear.
Sam pushed her back against the bed, pulled her heels off and threw them somewhere, and cupped his hands around her calves, slid them up her thighs. Silk stockings caught on the calluses of his palms. Her hip popped sharp against his hand when she groaned and lifted into his touch, arching her back, stretching her skin tautly over her bones. "Harder," she demanded, so he dug his thumbs in and grabbed a hard handful of her perfect ass, made her yowl.
He ate her out then, licking her hot and biting at her thighs, while she twisted in his grasp, her head pressed into the pillow, her back arched up to his level. It looked painful but her expression wasn't pained, more transfixed, pinned.
She came howling on his teeth and tongue, and he let her collapse onto the coverlet for a moment while he fumbled for a condom. Hard and fast, he'd fuck her like she wanted and make her come again, they'd both get what they wanted—He paused, condom in hand, struck by a sudden incongruity.
Her body lay long and pale on the coverlet, the streetlamps outside and the one lamp they'd lit casting black shadows across her white skin. Just one splash of color, just her red, red lips... and...
In the elegant little dip above her ankle, someone had painted a flower.
He rubbed a thumb over it, wondering. It was... pretty, purples and pinks and a nearly neon green tracing lacy patterns around delicate petals. Not at all the kind of thing he'd expected this woman to have. Who had done it? A friend? A lover?
She jerked her ankle away suddenly, and Sam looked up to find her glaring at him, arms crossed over her breasts and a strange sort of embarrassment flushing under the anger. "That is not for you," she snapped.
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly embarrassed himself. He'd seen more of her than she allowed. "I didn't mean..."
She shook her head suddenly, and snatched the condom away from him. "Forget it," she said, and tore it open. Her hands were shaking. "Fuck me."
He pushed her back down on the bed and did as she told him. It was why he was here, after all.
And afterwards, after she'd dressed and left without a word, after he'd washed the smudges of lipstick off his skin, long after he'd forgotten the ruthless twist of her hand, the bitter swing of her hips—he remembered the flower, and wondered.
Title: Femme Fatale
Story: Shine Like It Does
Colors: Glitter 7 (Another suitcase in another hall. - Evita), twilight 20 (Supine), admin yellow 19 (The thing about striking out on your own is that's usually how you end up.)
Supplies and Materials: Stain (Honesty is a good thing, but it is not profitable to its possessor unless it is kept under control. - Don Marquis), feathers (You and Me./We were never in love./But, Oh boy, /We could have been. - 4:09pm), fabric (icicles), fingerpainting (I am NOT GOOD at noir), glitter (suspicion), glue (the details will come back to haunt you later on if you ignore them today.).
Word Count: 957
Rating: R. At least.
Summary: Sam knew she was trouble.
Warnings: sexytimes.
Notes: One of Miranda's one-night stands. Written for my (NSFW) Sex Is Not The Enemy ficathon prompt. They're still going, if you're interested!
As soon as he saw her, Sam knew she was trouble.
She looked like she should be smoking a cigarette in the dim half-light of a cut-rate PI's office, not watching the strobing dancers gyrate and grind with an amused little half-smile. Thick black hair in vintage waves, a carmine dress that skimmed sleek curves—fuck, the hell was she doing here? She'd stepped right out of a noir film, and of course he headed straight for her.
She turned her head and watched him come, that little smirk unchanging. When he got there, leaned down on the bar next to her, she said nothing, but lifted her half-empty glass to her mouth, took a sip, and arched an eyebrow at him, silently.
"You look like you're about to murder someone," Sam told her. Shitty line, but her smile only widened.
"Would you believe that's not the first time I've been told that?" Even her voice was perfect, low and smoky, half-lit. She raised her glass again, not quite to her red-painted mouth. "It can be a useful effect."
"I bet." He watched her fingers shifting on the glass. "Girl like you, it's a good bet that she wants something."
"Always." If this had been a movie, she would blow smoke from the perfect o of furled lips. It was reality, so she merely took another sip. "Is this the part where you ask me what that is?"
As if she'd tell him the truth. "No," he said. "This is the part where I ask what you want me to do."
She smiled like an arsonist, white teeth and red, red lips. "Good answer."
--
She told him her name was Andrea, which Sam didn't believe for a second, but he was willing to pretend that he did. She told him that she didn't care what his name was, which he did believe, though he told her it was Sam anyway. And she told him to pick a hotel, any hotel, flicking through names on her phone like a magician fanning out a deck of cards. He picked blindly and followed her to the cab.
In the cab she said, "I want you to fuck me like a whore," her red lips curling around the words, so he grabbed the back of her neck and kissed her hard, biting at her lips, forcing her head back. She made a sound like a gasp, and another like a moan when he groped at her breasts, and when he let her go she rocked backwards panting, her lipstick smudged over swollen lips.
From the front the driver yelled, "Hey, hey! Save it for the Hilton!" and she smiled, running her tongue over her sharp little teeth.
Sam watched her, panting himself, wondering what the hell he'd gotten into.
--
He pinned her against the door and unzipped her dress, pushed it down to her waist. She shoved him back and tore at his shirt, buttons pinging off the dresser, her nails biting at his skin. She was going to leave marks—of course she was, she was Ingrid Bergman, Mata Hari, she was going to bite and scratch and he'd leave the hotel bleeding, grateful. Jesus. She wasn't wearing underwear.
Sam pushed her back against the bed, pulled her heels off and threw them somewhere, and cupped his hands around her calves, slid them up her thighs. Silk stockings caught on the calluses of his palms. Her hip popped sharp against his hand when she groaned and lifted into his touch, arching her back, stretching her skin tautly over her bones. "Harder," she demanded, so he dug his thumbs in and grabbed a hard handful of her perfect ass, made her yowl.
He ate her out then, licking her hot and biting at her thighs, while she twisted in his grasp, her head pressed into the pillow, her back arched up to his level. It looked painful but her expression wasn't pained, more transfixed, pinned.
She came howling on his teeth and tongue, and he let her collapse onto the coverlet for a moment while he fumbled for a condom. Hard and fast, he'd fuck her like she wanted and make her come again, they'd both get what they wanted—He paused, condom in hand, struck by a sudden incongruity.
Her body lay long and pale on the coverlet, the streetlamps outside and the one lamp they'd lit casting black shadows across her white skin. Just one splash of color, just her red, red lips... and...
In the elegant little dip above her ankle, someone had painted a flower.
He rubbed a thumb over it, wondering. It was... pretty, purples and pinks and a nearly neon green tracing lacy patterns around delicate petals. Not at all the kind of thing he'd expected this woman to have. Who had done it? A friend? A lover?
She jerked her ankle away suddenly, and Sam looked up to find her glaring at him, arms crossed over her breasts and a strange sort of embarrassment flushing under the anger. "That is not for you," she snapped.
"I'm sorry," he said, suddenly embarrassed himself. He'd seen more of her than she allowed. "I didn't mean..."
She shook her head suddenly, and snatched the condom away from him. "Forget it," she said, and tore it open. Her hands were shaking. "Fuck me."
He pushed her back down on the bed and did as she told him. It was why he was here, after all.
And afterwards, after she'd dressed and left without a word, after he'd washed the smudges of lipstick off his skin, long after he'd forgotten the ruthless twist of her hand, the bitter swing of her hips—he remembered the flower, and wondered.