Anti-Valentines Ficathon: Nice Suit
Title: Nice Suit
Author's Name: Purplepapillon
Rating: 18
Fandoms Crossed: Bad Girls / The L Word
Pairings/Characters: Helen Stewart / Bette Porter
Prompt: Alcohol
Seasons/Spoilers: I guess sometime around S3 Bad Girls / S2 L Word, but don’t think it really matters
Warnings/Disclaimers: Characters aren’t mine and belong to Shed / Showtime respectively
Summary: Because the 'nice suit' line was so wasted on Fenner!
Author's Notes: Let's assume Bette's in London on business or something!
Helen:
Empty shot glasses litter the bedside table. Clothes are strewn across the floor. She’s pouring champagne, the silk bedsheet draped around her slender body. Her long dark hair still looks perfectly styled, despite your best efforts to the contrary. The room service bill will be huge. But you’re not the one paying. You sink back into the pillows, watch her as she moves gracefully around the room. She hands you a glass and you take it gratefully, sipping the sparkling liquid. You’ve had far too much to drink. So has she. But you’re not complaining. You set the glass down and pull her back on top of you. She fights for control but you don’t give in. She was in charge last time. Now it’s your turn. You grip her wrists, pin her to the bed. Her breath catches and her head jerks back as your fingers find their goal. Your head is swimming, but whether with alcohol or with her, you’re not sure.
This wasn’t why you came to the bar tonight. You didn’t plan this. All you wanted was a few drinks, some way of blocking it all out. Alcohol is the only way to fill the void these days. You’d noticed her looking at you as you ordered the first drink. You’d spoken to her and she’d offered to buy the second. The third too. After the fourth drink you’d gone across the road, to her hotel. The fifth had seen your lips locked on hers; the sixth, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Her hands had slipped underneath your skirt sometime after the seventh drink, and you’d stopped counting shortly after that.
This isn’t how you normally behave. She’s rough, predatory, the opposite of what you’re used to. But you like it that way. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to feel. You don’t want to talk. Her fingers inside you are all that matter now.
Bette:
Two words were all it took. Two words and you knew you wanted her. Two words and you were prepared to do whatever was necessary to get your way.
You’d watched her as she walked into the bar and ordered a drink. She was cute enough. Shoulder length light brown hair, hazel eyes, leather jacket, and a red top that showed just the right amount of cleavage. But it was her voice which had really caught your attention. You’d never heard anything quite like it before, not in L.A. and not here. She’d turned her head, caught you looking. It was too late to look away, to feign disinterest. So instead you’d sat there, a rabbit trapped in the headlights of her scrutinising gaze. Eventually she’d smiled and raised her eyebrows in amusement.
“Nice suit.”
It wasn’t what she’d said as much as how she’d said it. And from that moment you’d wanted her, pictured her naked, in your bed, crying out for more. And you’re used to getting what you want. You’d introduced yourself, told her you ran an art gallery. And instead of being impressed, of falling at your feet, as most people did, she’d smiled wryly and told you she ran a women’s prison. You couldn’t help being impressed by that. There’s something about power which you find irresistibly sexy. It draws you in, a moth to a flame.
You’d offered her a drink, she’d accepted, and now here you are, pinned to your bed, as she arches over you, tantalising in her simple black bra and pants. Her fingers are everywhere at once, teasing you, making you crazy for what you know is to come. You try to take control, but she resists. She’s going to do this her way. All you can do is give in.
Author's Name: Purplepapillon
Rating: 18
Fandoms Crossed: Bad Girls / The L Word
Pairings/Characters: Helen Stewart / Bette Porter
Prompt: Alcohol
Seasons/Spoilers: I guess sometime around S3 Bad Girls / S2 L Word, but don’t think it really matters
Warnings/Disclaimers: Characters aren’t mine and belong to Shed / Showtime respectively
Summary: Because the 'nice suit' line was so wasted on Fenner!
Author's Notes: Let's assume Bette's in London on business or something!
Helen:
Empty shot glasses litter the bedside table. Clothes are strewn across the floor. She’s pouring champagne, the silk bedsheet draped around her slender body. Her long dark hair still looks perfectly styled, despite your best efforts to the contrary. The room service bill will be huge. But you’re not the one paying. You sink back into the pillows, watch her as she moves gracefully around the room. She hands you a glass and you take it gratefully, sipping the sparkling liquid. You’ve had far too much to drink. So has she. But you’re not complaining. You set the glass down and pull her back on top of you. She fights for control but you don’t give in. She was in charge last time. Now it’s your turn. You grip her wrists, pin her to the bed. Her breath catches and her head jerks back as your fingers find their goal. Your head is swimming, but whether with alcohol or with her, you’re not sure.
This wasn’t why you came to the bar tonight. You didn’t plan this. All you wanted was a few drinks, some way of blocking it all out. Alcohol is the only way to fill the void these days. You’d noticed her looking at you as you ordered the first drink. You’d spoken to her and she’d offered to buy the second. The third too. After the fourth drink you’d gone across the road, to her hotel. The fifth had seen your lips locked on hers; the sixth, her fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra. Her hands had slipped underneath your skirt sometime after the seventh drink, and you’d stopped counting shortly after that.
This isn’t how you normally behave. She’s rough, predatory, the opposite of what you’re used to. But you like it that way. You don’t want to think. You don’t want to feel. You don’t want to talk. Her fingers inside you are all that matter now.
Bette:
Two words were all it took. Two words and you knew you wanted her. Two words and you were prepared to do whatever was necessary to get your way.
You’d watched her as she walked into the bar and ordered a drink. She was cute enough. Shoulder length light brown hair, hazel eyes, leather jacket, and a red top that showed just the right amount of cleavage. But it was her voice which had really caught your attention. You’d never heard anything quite like it before, not in L.A. and not here. She’d turned her head, caught you looking. It was too late to look away, to feign disinterest. So instead you’d sat there, a rabbit trapped in the headlights of her scrutinising gaze. Eventually she’d smiled and raised her eyebrows in amusement.
“Nice suit.”
It wasn’t what she’d said as much as how she’d said it. And from that moment you’d wanted her, pictured her naked, in your bed, crying out for more. And you’re used to getting what you want. You’d introduced yourself, told her you ran an art gallery. And instead of being impressed, of falling at your feet, as most people did, she’d smiled wryly and told you she ran a women’s prison. You couldn’t help being impressed by that. There’s something about power which you find irresistibly sexy. It draws you in, a moth to a flame.
You’d offered her a drink, she’d accepted, and now here you are, pinned to your bed, as she arches over you, tantalising in her simple black bra and pants. Her fingers are everywhere at once, teasing you, making you crazy for what you know is to come. You try to take control, but she resists. She’s going to do this her way. All you can do is give in.