porn battle: rpf: this is not film noir
My first porn battle fill because LJ comment text limits are literally the devil.
rpf:
this is not film noir, ellen page/joseph gordon-levitt, cigarette, unexpected; hard r.
He shows up at three outside her hotel room.
It’s the last day of the press tour and after the party, when she’s more than a little drunk and dizzy on her feet, he shows up at three outside her hotel room.
“Go away,” she calls, lightly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, open the door.”
He’s still wearing his suit, tie loosened and jacket hanging a little looser on his frame - he smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Her lips twitch. “Well?”
He grins then, the kind that makes his eyes wrinkle at the corners, the kind that generally spell trouble. “One last smoke, for old time’s sake?”
“You make it sound like we’re never going to see each other again,” she gripes, although she stands aside to let him into her suite.
“You never know.”
“Joseph,” she intones. “You left me like twenty drunk texts the other night.”
“How do you know I meant to text you?” His voice goes low, husky.
She sinks onto the bed, her dress rustling loudly, and she suddenly wants another glass of champagne, some vodka, anything. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watches as he fishes out the papers from his inside pocket. “Yeah, who were you trying to text?”
“Emma Roberts,” he says, without missing a beat.
She coughs a laugh. “Try not to get arrested.”
“You’re such a pal.”
Silence settles then and she busies herself with watching his fingers as they smooth tobacco and pot into a cigarette, rolling it carefully.
They settle into a comfortable silence that’s partly the alcohol, and she closes her eyes, listening to the faint click sound of his thumb striking the lighter.
“Admit it,” he says, and she can imagine the smirk he probably has right now, “you’ll miss me.”
She scoffs, reaching for the cigarette. “Please.”
He leans in close then and she can smell him, the faint smell behind the aftershave and the smoke -
She bites his lip.
He laughs, raspy, against the corner of her mouth as she just digs her hand into his hair and pulls him down roughly.
“Pushy,” he says.
“Impatient,” she replies between kisses. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure thing, Juno,” he says, working his hands along her back to ease the zipper of her dress down. His palms are warm against her skin and all she can think is that she wants him here, now, as quickly as possible.
He roughly shoves her dress down to her hips and she reaches for him through his pants, moving her hand as best she can in their awkward position. His eyes fall closed, his jaw clenching, and she bites her lip to suppress her grin - a minor victory.
She loves the way he looks, hair messy, falling a little into his eyes, and then he’s moving onto his knees, peeling off her underwear before he places a hot wet kiss against her. The ceiling’s got these boring basic patterns on it, but somehow she finds them fascinating right now with his head buried between her legs and his tongue flicking lightly against her clit.
His name ekes out as a hiss; she wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
He pulls back with a playful flick of his tongue before he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, even as she squirms, hips pushing down against the bed, hands urging his mouth back. He says something then, something something Ellen and she doesn’t really hear it but she hopes if she nods, he’ll just start touching her again.
Instead, he moves to look up at her with an amused expression.
“What?”
She tugs at his head roughly and he moves to press a kiss against her lips - you so would miss me - before finally, finally sinking two fingers into her. She gasps softly, her hips tilting upward as he slowly strokes her, eyes dark.
She can’t even place the words that are coming from her right now, although they’re probably some oh gods with his name thrown in (and he probably gets a kick out of that, the egotistical asshole).
He rubs her clit with his other thumb, watching as her head slams back against the bed, hair tangling with her movements as her breathing grows more rapid, as she starts whimpering.
He shoves his fingers deeper then, up to the knuckle, curling them, and her hands fist the sheets - “Fuck!”
“That’s the idea.”
She pulls him up onto the bed, pulling at his clothes until she can feel his skin, warm and smooth. He groans when she moves to straddle him, rocking lightly against his length.
And then his pants are down and she’s sinking down on top of him, his fingers splayed out along her shoulderblades.
She has to say, as much as he knows how to play her, they’ve always worked well as a team. He moves with her, hands moving down to her hips, as she grinds down against him.
She leans forward and he takes the opportunity to slip a free hand up to cup her breast; she bites her moan into his shoulder, a little thrilled to see the hint of bite marks.
He turns them over, burying his head into the side of her neck, her leg hitched up, speeding up his thrusts as she makes these soft noises in the back of her throat and she’s close, so close -
His teeth scrape against her collarbone as he comes and she slips her hand down between them to rub herself, biting down hard on her lip as her hips push down against the bed, her body shaking.
-
He’s halfway through getting dressed, and she’s just lying on her side watching him, head on her hand.
She bites her lip, and he looks up at her and for a second, she guesses it could be mistaken for A Moment, whatever that is.
“Make sure you text the right person next time,” she says, as he’s got his hand on the door.
His smile flickers.
-
Three months later, she gets another text from him.
Six months after that, they meet in New York for a coffee.
He’s halfway through a sentence about some band or a Godard film and she just stirs her coffee loudly, the sound of the spoon scraping against the cup, and says, “God, do you ever hear yourself speak?”
He stifles a smile.
She kicks him under the table.
rpf:
this is not film noir, ellen page/joseph gordon-levitt, cigarette, unexpected; hard r.
He shows up at three outside her hotel room.
It’s the last day of the press tour and after the party, when she’s more than a little drunk and dizzy on her feet, he shows up at three outside her hotel room.
“Go away,” she calls, lightly.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, open the door.”
He’s still wearing his suit, tie loosened and jacket hanging a little looser on his frame - he smells like alcohol and cigarettes. Her lips twitch. “Well?”
He grins then, the kind that makes his eyes wrinkle at the corners, the kind that generally spell trouble. “One last smoke, for old time’s sake?”
“You make it sound like we’re never going to see each other again,” she gripes, although she stands aside to let him into her suite.
“You never know.”
“Joseph,” she intones. “You left me like twenty drunk texts the other night.”
“How do you know I meant to text you?” His voice goes low, husky.
She sinks onto the bed, her dress rustling loudly, and she suddenly wants another glass of champagne, some vodka, anything. Crossing her arms over her chest, she watches as he fishes out the papers from his inside pocket. “Yeah, who were you trying to text?”
“Emma Roberts,” he says, without missing a beat.
She coughs a laugh. “Try not to get arrested.”
“You’re such a pal.”
Silence settles then and she busies herself with watching his fingers as they smooth tobacco and pot into a cigarette, rolling it carefully.
They settle into a comfortable silence that’s partly the alcohol, and she closes her eyes, listening to the faint click sound of his thumb striking the lighter.
“Admit it,” he says, and she can imagine the smirk he probably has right now, “you’ll miss me.”
She scoffs, reaching for the cigarette. “Please.”
He leans in close then and she can smell him, the faint smell behind the aftershave and the smoke -
She bites his lip.
He laughs, raspy, against the corner of her mouth as she just digs her hand into his hair and pulls him down roughly.
“Pushy,” he says.
“Impatient,” she replies between kisses. “There’s a difference.”
“Sure thing, Juno,” he says, working his hands along her back to ease the zipper of her dress down. His palms are warm against her skin and all she can think is that she wants him here, now, as quickly as possible.
He roughly shoves her dress down to her hips and she reaches for him through his pants, moving her hand as best she can in their awkward position. His eyes fall closed, his jaw clenching, and she bites her lip to suppress her grin - a minor victory.
She loves the way he looks, hair messy, falling a little into his eyes, and then he’s moving onto his knees, peeling off her underwear before he places a hot wet kiss against her. The ceiling’s got these boring basic patterns on it, but somehow she finds them fascinating right now with his head buried between her legs and his tongue flicking lightly against her clit.
His name ekes out as a hiss; she wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
He pulls back with a playful flick of his tongue before he presses a kiss to the inside of her knee, even as she squirms, hips pushing down against the bed, hands urging his mouth back. He says something then, something something Ellen and she doesn’t really hear it but she hopes if she nods, he’ll just start touching her again.
Instead, he moves to look up at her with an amused expression.
“What?”
She tugs at his head roughly and he moves to press a kiss against her lips - you so would miss me - before finally, finally sinking two fingers into her. She gasps softly, her hips tilting upward as he slowly strokes her, eyes dark.
She can’t even place the words that are coming from her right now, although they’re probably some oh gods with his name thrown in (and he probably gets a kick out of that, the egotistical asshole).
He rubs her clit with his other thumb, watching as her head slams back against the bed, hair tangling with her movements as her breathing grows more rapid, as she starts whimpering.
He shoves his fingers deeper then, up to the knuckle, curling them, and her hands fist the sheets - “Fuck!”
“That’s the idea.”
She pulls him up onto the bed, pulling at his clothes until she can feel his skin, warm and smooth. He groans when she moves to straddle him, rocking lightly against his length.
And then his pants are down and she’s sinking down on top of him, his fingers splayed out along her shoulderblades.
She has to say, as much as he knows how to play her, they’ve always worked well as a team. He moves with her, hands moving down to her hips, as she grinds down against him.
She leans forward and he takes the opportunity to slip a free hand up to cup her breast; she bites her moan into his shoulder, a little thrilled to see the hint of bite marks.
He turns them over, burying his head into the side of her neck, her leg hitched up, speeding up his thrusts as she makes these soft noises in the back of her throat and she’s close, so close -
His teeth scrape against her collarbone as he comes and she slips her hand down between them to rub herself, biting down hard on her lip as her hips push down against the bed, her body shaking.
-
He’s halfway through getting dressed, and she’s just lying on her side watching him, head on her hand.
She bites her lip, and he looks up at her and for a second, she guesses it could be mistaken for A Moment, whatever that is.
“Make sure you text the right person next time,” she says, as he’s got his hand on the door.
His smile flickers.
-
Three months later, she gets another text from him.
Six months after that, they meet in New York for a coffee.
He’s halfway through a sentence about some band or a Godard film and she just stirs her coffee loudly, the sound of the spoon scraping against the cup, and says, “God, do you ever hear yourself speak?”
He stifles a smile.
She kicks him under the table.