Girl-Kisser
Title: Girl-Kisser
Fandom: RPS! Kate Moennig/Keira Knightley
Rating: R
Summary: Vogue wants Keira Knightley. The women want Kate. It's the honest truth.
Author's Notes: First-time RPS. Written for wheatgerm, who makes girls fancy batting for the other team. ETA: The lovely lidi got icon!bunnied and made a batch of Kate/Keira right here. The two are 5-16.
Girl-Kisser
Vogue wants Keira Knightley. So do Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair, Seventeen, The National Inquirer, and the thousand Internet gossip bloggers who troll Hollywood almost every night for a little bit of dirt and a piece of heaven.
"It's the honest truth," Kate Moennig says, a little louder than she would prefer, over the animated din inside Bar Marmont. "You can't argue that."
Keira examines the watery bottom of her glass, her lips pursed over a bit ice chip. She waves the bartender over, requests another Seven & Seven, and then smirks at Kate. Half the bar is gawking at her, and Kate is all too aware of the paparazzi camped outside and the hotel next door after which it is named. Kate scans the tables; the red interior lighting should have made it difficult to spot the starlets, but there they are: glowing orange as human skin isn't meant to be, and a shot of Tequila away from drunkenly stumbling out into the eighty-one-hundred block of Sunset Boulevard crowded with gaggles of tabloid photographers, fans and star-fuckers.
"That might be, but the women here want you," Keira answers, twisting in her seat to face Kate fully, one bare elbow on the counter and one hand cupping her chin. The highlights threaded through her dark blonde hair glow yellow-gold under the bar's artful lighting, as pretty and inorganic as the faux monarch butterflies appliqued to the ceiling. "See?"
***
"You kiss girls?" she asks.
Kate knows she should check herself, but it's hard to remain polite when Keira Knightley starts talking about women she'd "snog" - Britishisms are so weird, and she's had more than her fill listening to her cousin Gwyneth's prattle - an hour after initiating innocuous conversation about sharky entertainment reporters in Los Angeles.
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice rises a pitch with indignation, the syllables clear and clipped. Kate thinks of the many things a throaty British accent can do. "That's a question that would be more appropriate for you. Honestly, what a ghastly thing to ask a person you've just met."
Kate raises a brow and polishes off the rest of her drink. "This, from someone who just asked me if were gay."
That bit of personal information is just too private for public consumption.
***
They leave when Keira could no longer stomach the staring, when the umpteenth Johnny Hollywood makes an ass of himself in front of them, and when half the under-aged cast of The WB barge in looking pretty and pretty skanked out.
"It's getting really crowded here," Keira shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "What do you think?"
Kate finishes the last of her fries, catching the younger woman's eyes under the veil of her lowered lashes, her gaze moving from her full mouth to the long white column of her exposed throat - Keira's right, she does dress like shit when her handlers aren't around, who'd wear a ratty-ass outfit with leggings? - and soon she finds herself gulping down a groan.
"Is that an invitation?" Kate laughs, sucking the salt of the fries off her fingers before wiping them on a crumpled napkin.
"Well, if by invitation, you mean 'plea for sanity,' then, yes," she replies.
Kate slides off her chair and palms down five twenties on the counter. "Always so polite."
She grabs Keira by the hand, yanking her through a circuitous path of lovers, feuding beauties and scenesters to the rear entrance of the bar, from which they step out into the muggy Southern California evening.
***
"Hi."
Kate looks up from her hamburger and into the brown, kohl-lined eyes of a very haughty-looking blonde. "Hello."
"Would you mind passing the menu? Over there, by your elbow."
Nice accent. Kate hands it over, letting the woman check her out. She isn't dressed to the nines like most of the patrons walking into the bar, but she likes what she has on. It's straight out of Shane McCutcheon's closet - Dior Homme with a touch of thrift shop chic, just as she and Cynthia Summers envisioned for the character.
"Here."
The woman purses her lips a little. The gesture is all Kate needs to place her face.
"I'm Keira. Is this seat taken?"
***
Playing Keira Knightley's bodyguard is not exactly how she had planned to spend Friday night.
Kate had craved a solitary evening excursion spent people-watching and tuning her inner clock - presently calmed by two weeks of surfing and hanging out with friends - back to hectic. She leaves for Vancouver on Monday for production after enjoying a very short hiatus following her New York run with Guardians.
But there is little point in complaining. Keira's mouth is hot against Kate's cheek, her face hidden under a linty fedora she found in the back seat of Kate's compact. Her hands are cool against the older woman's skin, their distraction turning the simple task of unlocking a front door challenging. Kate's house key scratches against the varnished wood; all she could smell are the sharp citrus undertones of Keira's perfume and the dry-sweet scent of flowering pineapple sage dotting the house's short yard.
"How many shirts have you got on?" Keira demands.
Kate pulls away to steer the shorter girl before her, pushing her back-first against the door so she can kiss her properly, bowing over her to explore her mouth and hook a finger around the beltloop of her jean skirt. She can taste the 7Up and the whiskey when she kisses her deeply enough. In response, Keira clamps her hands over Kate's straight hips to tug her closer, breaking the kiss only to trace the line of her jaw with her tongue.
"Not as many as you," Kate answers, breathless.
The key slides into the lock. The door gives way and they nearly fall on each other as they make their way inside.
***
Kate finishes explaining the premise of the show. She expects neither extreme reaction nor interest - The L Word is a niche show, and a glossy portrayal of lesbian culture at that - so she is surprised when Keira exhibits the latter.
The bartender knowingly waggles his eyebrows at them, so Kate answers with an eyeroll. They have been sitting here for almost an hour, their cocktails watery, her half-eaten burger cold. Halfway through the conversation, Keira begins picking at the side of fries, though not before bidding her Los Angeles agent good night.
"There's that well-referenced appetite," Joseph the Agent says. "Your next interview's tomorrow at noon. Poolside at the Marmont, okay?"
She nods. "This is Kate," she says, gesturing to Kate by way of introduction.
"'Pleasure," the guy responds, not really meaning it, but taking Kate's proferred hand anyway. He gives her a once-over, locking his blue eyes with her green ones before dropping the shake. Kate can practically read his first-impression assessment - androgynous, probably modeled once upon a time, pretty if you're into lanky girls like that. "Good night. Make-up's scheduled at ten-forty-five."
He leaves, and the shit-talking concerning agents begins when two get into it at the other end of the bar. The fight is sure to be all over Page Six in a day or two.
"He's very friendly, as you can see," Keira notes, smiling through sarcasm before biting into a pickle. Kate takes it when she's done and bites off the other end.
***
Keira's fingers tangle themselves in Kate's dark hair, tugging at its ends when Kate breaks the kiss to come up for air.
"You're very friendly," Kate murmurs in Keira's ear, her voice smoky and hoarse. "Come here."
Kate gasps when the other woman runs her fingernails from the nape of her neck and to the small of her back, lingering over the bare tanned skin just above the waistband of her jeans.
Her own hands are on Keira's torso, caressing her sides until the skin puckers into small, fine goosepimples. Keira sighs and gives a small explosive laugh when Kate's fingers trace lazy circles on her flat belly before finding her small, pert breasts. She gives the nipples a soft pinch, then rolls them between her thumbs and forefingers.
Keira writhes under Kate's weight - there is only about an inch in difference between them in height - her body long and lithe. She grinds against Kate's left thigh, the light sheen of their sweat alternately sticky and sleek as their naked torsos press together, part, rub and wrinkle the discarded shirts on which they lay.
"I'm friendlier, though," Kate breathes, sucking on Keira's bottom lip.
She half-rolls off her, and it's now Keira's pale hands cupping Kate's breasts, now her own mouth and tongue teasing the sensitive peaks of her nipples.
Kate lets Keira climb over her, helps her wriggle out of her stupid black tights, and allows her to help tug off Kate's jeans. It's hard to tell what Keira has on under - it's black, slippery like water - but it's definitely fancier than Kate's own hip-hugging briefs. Keira parts her legs under Kate's touch, moaning and burying her face in the hollow of the older woman's shoulder when her fingers find her clit.
"I guess you have your answer," she gasps when Kate presses her thumb against the small dime-sized nub of sensitive flesh and uses her other fingers to fold back her slick lips. "As I have mine."
***
"So, you don't then." She's teasing and almost down-right mean about it, but Kate doesn't care. "So, it's all talk. Sensationalist, even."
Keira laughs. "Bollocks! You're changing the topic. Are you or are you not?"
Kate snorts. "Yeah, you'd kiss girls."
[mood|
anxious]
Fandom: RPS! Kate Moennig/Keira Knightley
Rating: R
Summary: Vogue wants Keira Knightley. The women want Kate. It's the honest truth.
Author's Notes: First-time RPS. Written for wheatgerm, who makes girls fancy batting for the other team. ETA: The lovely lidi got icon!bunnied and made a batch of Kate/Keira right here. The two are 5-16.
Girl-Kisser
Vogue wants Keira Knightley. So do Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair, Seventeen, The National Inquirer, and the thousand Internet gossip bloggers who troll Hollywood almost every night for a little bit of dirt and a piece of heaven.
"It's the honest truth," Kate Moennig says, a little louder than she would prefer, over the animated din inside Bar Marmont. "You can't argue that."
Keira examines the watery bottom of her glass, her lips pursed over a bit ice chip. She waves the bartender over, requests another Seven & Seven, and then smirks at Kate. Half the bar is gawking at her, and Kate is all too aware of the paparazzi camped outside and the hotel next door after which it is named. Kate scans the tables; the red interior lighting should have made it difficult to spot the starlets, but there they are: glowing orange as human skin isn't meant to be, and a shot of Tequila away from drunkenly stumbling out into the eighty-one-hundred block of Sunset Boulevard crowded with gaggles of tabloid photographers, fans and star-fuckers.
"That might be, but the women here want you," Keira answers, twisting in her seat to face Kate fully, one bare elbow on the counter and one hand cupping her chin. The highlights threaded through her dark blonde hair glow yellow-gold under the bar's artful lighting, as pretty and inorganic as the faux monarch butterflies appliqued to the ceiling. "See?"
***
"You kiss girls?" she asks.
Kate knows she should check herself, but it's hard to remain polite when Keira Knightley starts talking about women she'd "snog" - Britishisms are so weird, and she's had more than her fill listening to her cousin Gwyneth's prattle - an hour after initiating innocuous conversation about sharky entertainment reporters in Los Angeles.
"I beg your pardon?" Her voice rises a pitch with indignation, the syllables clear and clipped. Kate thinks of the many things a throaty British accent can do. "That's a question that would be more appropriate for you. Honestly, what a ghastly thing to ask a person you've just met."
Kate raises a brow and polishes off the rest of her drink. "This, from someone who just asked me if were gay."
That bit of personal information is just too private for public consumption.
***
They leave when Keira could no longer stomach the staring, when the umpteenth Johnny Hollywood makes an ass of himself in front of them, and when half the under-aged cast of The WB barge in looking pretty and pretty skanked out.
"It's getting really crowded here," Keira shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "What do you think?"
Kate finishes the last of her fries, catching the younger woman's eyes under the veil of her lowered lashes, her gaze moving from her full mouth to the long white column of her exposed throat - Keira's right, she does dress like shit when her handlers aren't around, who'd wear a ratty-ass outfit with leggings? - and soon she finds herself gulping down a groan.
"Is that an invitation?" Kate laughs, sucking the salt of the fries off her fingers before wiping them on a crumpled napkin.
"Well, if by invitation, you mean 'plea for sanity,' then, yes," she replies.
Kate slides off her chair and palms down five twenties on the counter. "Always so polite."
She grabs Keira by the hand, yanking her through a circuitous path of lovers, feuding beauties and scenesters to the rear entrance of the bar, from which they step out into the muggy Southern California evening.
***
"Hi."
Kate looks up from her hamburger and into the brown, kohl-lined eyes of a very haughty-looking blonde. "Hello."
"Would you mind passing the menu? Over there, by your elbow."
Nice accent. Kate hands it over, letting the woman check her out. She isn't dressed to the nines like most of the patrons walking into the bar, but she likes what she has on. It's straight out of Shane McCutcheon's closet - Dior Homme with a touch of thrift shop chic, just as she and Cynthia Summers envisioned for the character.
"Here."
The woman purses her lips a little. The gesture is all Kate needs to place her face.
"I'm Keira. Is this seat taken?"
***
Playing Keira Knightley's bodyguard is not exactly how she had planned to spend Friday night.
Kate had craved a solitary evening excursion spent people-watching and tuning her inner clock - presently calmed by two weeks of surfing and hanging out with friends - back to hectic. She leaves for Vancouver on Monday for production after enjoying a very short hiatus following her New York run with Guardians.
But there is little point in complaining. Keira's mouth is hot against Kate's cheek, her face hidden under a linty fedora she found in the back seat of Kate's compact. Her hands are cool against the older woman's skin, their distraction turning the simple task of unlocking a front door challenging. Kate's house key scratches against the varnished wood; all she could smell are the sharp citrus undertones of Keira's perfume and the dry-sweet scent of flowering pineapple sage dotting the house's short yard.
"How many shirts have you got on?" Keira demands.
Kate pulls away to steer the shorter girl before her, pushing her back-first against the door so she can kiss her properly, bowing over her to explore her mouth and hook a finger around the beltloop of her jean skirt. She can taste the 7Up and the whiskey when she kisses her deeply enough. In response, Keira clamps her hands over Kate's straight hips to tug her closer, breaking the kiss only to trace the line of her jaw with her tongue.
"Not as many as you," Kate answers, breathless.
The key slides into the lock. The door gives way and they nearly fall on each other as they make their way inside.
***
Kate finishes explaining the premise of the show. She expects neither extreme reaction nor interest - The L Word is a niche show, and a glossy portrayal of lesbian culture at that - so she is surprised when Keira exhibits the latter.
The bartender knowingly waggles his eyebrows at them, so Kate answers with an eyeroll. They have been sitting here for almost an hour, their cocktails watery, her half-eaten burger cold. Halfway through the conversation, Keira begins picking at the side of fries, though not before bidding her Los Angeles agent good night.
"There's that well-referenced appetite," Joseph the Agent says. "Your next interview's tomorrow at noon. Poolside at the Marmont, okay?"
She nods. "This is Kate," she says, gesturing to Kate by way of introduction.
"'Pleasure," the guy responds, not really meaning it, but taking Kate's proferred hand anyway. He gives her a once-over, locking his blue eyes with her green ones before dropping the shake. Kate can practically read his first-impression assessment - androgynous, probably modeled once upon a time, pretty if you're into lanky girls like that. "Good night. Make-up's scheduled at ten-forty-five."
He leaves, and the shit-talking concerning agents begins when two get into it at the other end of the bar. The fight is sure to be all over Page Six in a day or two.
"He's very friendly, as you can see," Keira notes, smiling through sarcasm before biting into a pickle. Kate takes it when she's done and bites off the other end.
***
Keira's fingers tangle themselves in Kate's dark hair, tugging at its ends when Kate breaks the kiss to come up for air.
"You're very friendly," Kate murmurs in Keira's ear, her voice smoky and hoarse. "Come here."
Kate gasps when the other woman runs her fingernails from the nape of her neck and to the small of her back, lingering over the bare tanned skin just above the waistband of her jeans.
Her own hands are on Keira's torso, caressing her sides until the skin puckers into small, fine goosepimples. Keira sighs and gives a small explosive laugh when Kate's fingers trace lazy circles on her flat belly before finding her small, pert breasts. She gives the nipples a soft pinch, then rolls them between her thumbs and forefingers.
Keira writhes under Kate's weight - there is only about an inch in difference between them in height - her body long and lithe. She grinds against Kate's left thigh, the light sheen of their sweat alternately sticky and sleek as their naked torsos press together, part, rub and wrinkle the discarded shirts on which they lay.
"I'm friendlier, though," Kate breathes, sucking on Keira's bottom lip.
She half-rolls off her, and it's now Keira's pale hands cupping Kate's breasts, now her own mouth and tongue teasing the sensitive peaks of her nipples.
Kate lets Keira climb over her, helps her wriggle out of her stupid black tights, and allows her to help tug off Kate's jeans. It's hard to tell what Keira has on under - it's black, slippery like water - but it's definitely fancier than Kate's own hip-hugging briefs. Keira parts her legs under Kate's touch, moaning and burying her face in the hollow of the older woman's shoulder when her fingers find her clit.
"I guess you have your answer," she gasps when Kate presses her thumb against the small dime-sized nub of sensitive flesh and uses her other fingers to fold back her slick lips. "As I have mine."
***
"So, you don't then." She's teasing and almost down-right mean about it, but Kate doesn't care. "So, it's all talk. Sensationalist, even."
Keira laughs. "Bollocks! You're changing the topic. Are you or are you not?"
Kate snorts. "Yeah, you'd kiss girls."
[mood|
anxious]