Dodge City, RPF prompt, NC-17
Title: Dodge City
Author: dirty_diana
Prompt: RPF
Pairing: Nathan/Morena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none.
Summary: It's getting way too hot in the kitchen.
*
Nathan called his mother first. She sounded more relieved than excited, Nathan thought, but didn't say so. Then he called Adam.
"Congratulations, man. Hey, I've been looking at pictures of you fiancee. That is one hot peanut butter bikini."
"Pictures," Nathan repeated.
"Yeah, dude," Adam answered, and he sounded a little too excited, Nathan thought. "On the Internet. If you want, I can print some out for you."
"Sure," Nathan said. "We can use them in the wedding invitations."
*
Nathan kept his brand new car air-conditioned to crisp prairie coolness, and made phone calls as his Benz crawled along the 404 in the middle of the day. He sang along to classic rock in between phone calls, and barely resisted the urge to hang up on his agent and drive straight to the beach.
*
He called Summer next, unsurprised to get voice mail. He left her a long, wandering message about killer robots. "I'm getting married, Summ. Call me."
*
"Married?" Alan asked him. "Someone actually agreed to marry you?"
Nathan swallowed a comment about confirmed bachelors. Alan wasn't Sean. You couldn't make gay jokes to his face and expect to live. "Yup. And we're having an engagement party. Tell Gina you'll show."
"I'll be there, dude," Alan agreed. "Just look for me at the bar. And congratulations, okay?"
*
Gina asked, "Are you having a party?"
"Well, it just happened last night, so..."
"I'm going to throw you a party." There was a pause, a breathing sound and a turning of pages. "Laurence and I are free on June 7. Are you avilable on the seventh?"
"I'll check with my assistant."
"No problem," Gina answered, but she didn't seem to be listening. "I'll order the champagne. We'll have it in the garden, nothing too formal. Maybe a light meal." She hesitated. "Is it okay to invite Morena?"
"Shit." Nathan swore, and slapped his free hand against the steering wheel. Text was flashing on his cell phone display. Incoming call. Accept? Yes. No.
He'd forgotten to call Morena.
*
"Hi," he said carefully, and was greeted with ice-cold silence. He tried again. "Hello?"
"Fuck you, Nathan."
"Hi, Morena."
"You should have told me."
"You asked me to stop telling you things," Nathan pointed out. His voice rose. "I believe your exact words were, 'shut up, Nathan, and get the hell out of my car.'"
Morena swore, a long line of Portuguese over the telephone waves. Their lines weren't scripted anymore, but they were still always fighting. He should try to pitch this as a sitcom, Nathan thought. He could produce it, and star in it. Get Joss to write them a theme song.
Except Morena would never agree to be his leading lady. Morena was quiet, now.
He waited.
"You shooting that soap opera today?" she asked him.
"No," he answered, slowly. Waiting for the shoe to drop. He could practically hear her thinking.
"You at home?"
"I've got a meeting in Westwood." Nathan glanced at his watch, and at the traffic stretching out ahead of him. "I'll be a few hours."
She sighed. "Fine. I'll be there when you get there."
*
He didn't really remember how Morena got a key to his house. There wasn't any ceremony to it. It was just easier, when they were shooting on different schedules in different cities, for Morena to turn up when she could in the middle of the night, and slide into bed beside him.
"Angela?" Nathan would ask, and she'd hit him gently with the palm of her hand. He'd grab it, and kiss her fingers. "Oh, it's you. Whore," he'd whisper gently, and the kisses would travel up her palm, up the tender skin of her wrists.
"Asshole," she would answer, but her hips would fit easily against his body, and under the blankets both their bodies would be warm.
*
There were rules, Nathan knew, about not dating your drop-dead gorgeous co-star. Or rules that said that if you did, pictures and speculation would be on the internet before you had kissed her goodnight. Rules that working together would become impossible, that the breakup would be tragic and public.
Except that this was LA, where there were no rules, and dating wasn't anything close to the right word for what he and Morena had.
And every time she walked through his front door, and slammed it behind her, Nathan couldn't think of a single joke to tell. Not one.
*
He found Morena in his kitchen. She sat on a stool, her high heels kicked off by the front door. Bare toes curled around the supporting bar. She had made herself a sandwich, prosciutto, dripping mayonnaise and mustard. She had opened a beer to go with it, already half-empty. Unfolded beside her plate was the Los Angeles Times, one she must have brought with her. Nathan didn't read the newspaper.
Nathan dropped his car keys down on a table. "Hi."
She didn't look up. "Hey, Nate."
"You want to talk?"
Her gaze caught his, sharply. She held up one finger daintily, chewed, and swallowed down her mouthful. "Not really."
*
They didn't do it in the kitchen. They didn't make it to his bedroom, either. They stopped on the stairs, Morena pressed up against the raining in her bare feet. Nathan's knee pushed in between her thighs, forcing her long skirt upwards, and her fingers stroked his face, bringing him closer in for wet kisses.
"You should shave," she murmured, as her lips brushed a rough layer of stubble.
Nathan grimaced into the curve of her neck. Opened his mouth slightly, traced a salty line against her throat. "It's my day off."
"Doesn't Lisa complain?" Morena asked, and then gasped as Nathan's hand pushed inside her thin cotton shirt. His thumb circled a breast, making smaller and smaller motions until her nipple swelled under his touch.
There were things he didn't want to talk about right now.
Morena spread her legs a little wider. Her right leg bent on the higher step, making enough room for her hand to sneak down in between their bodies. Her palm cupped the front of his jeans, moving in gentle, even strokes.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, Nate."
He thrust his hips against her hand, grunted, and pushed his fingers between her thighs. No panties, either, just warm, soft skin, damp with want.
"Whore," he muttered, and she laughed, breathlessly.
Her opening was wet, juice running down. Nathan pushed his index finger deeper inside, and her laughter became thin, turning to moans. "Asshole," she answered, and pushed him gently backwards, into a sitting position on the cool hardwood steps.
He was hard when she slid his jeans down, and desperate. He shouted her name when she climbed onto him, skirt lifted high over her hips. She was wet, tight, perfect. Her hips rocked against him, and her fingers gripped his shoulders, nails scratching skin.
He didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around her. She whispered pleading words into his ear, but it wasn't English, and Nathan could only make out his own name. Could only focus on her body as she rode him, warm thighs and perfect mouth.
He felt every tremor of her orgasm as if it were his own, and the sensation undid him. He thrust once, twice more into her body, and then came, shaking, with his hands gently stroking the centre of her back, and his eyes closed.
*
"I'm sorry," he began, as she stood, and smoothed down her skirt.
"I'm not your fiancee," she said quietly. "Don't apologize to me."
*
She finished her beer afterwards, and took a shower. By the time she was dry and dressed again, she looked perfect. Exactly as she'd looked when he walked in.
As if he'd never touched her.
"I'm starting a shoot in two weeks," she said. "In Tunisia."
"That's great." He didn't know what else to say.
"I probably won't be back in time for your engagement party."
"I'm sorry," he said again, even though he'd been forbidden to say the words.
His phone rang. It was Summer, calling him back. Her high-pitched squeal echoed. "I'm so excited for you."
"Yeah, next spring. Are you going to be there?"
By the time he looked up for Morena, his hallway was empty, and the front door locked shut.
END
Author: dirty_diana
Prompt: RPF
Pairing: Nathan/Morena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none.
Summary: It's getting way too hot in the kitchen.
*
Nathan called his mother first. She sounded more relieved than excited, Nathan thought, but didn't say so. Then he called Adam.
"Congratulations, man. Hey, I've been looking at pictures of you fiancee. That is one hot peanut butter bikini."
"Pictures," Nathan repeated.
"Yeah, dude," Adam answered, and he sounded a little too excited, Nathan thought. "On the Internet. If you want, I can print some out for you."
"Sure," Nathan said. "We can use them in the wedding invitations."
*
Nathan kept his brand new car air-conditioned to crisp prairie coolness, and made phone calls as his Benz crawled along the 404 in the middle of the day. He sang along to classic rock in between phone calls, and barely resisted the urge to hang up on his agent and drive straight to the beach.
*
He called Summer next, unsurprised to get voice mail. He left her a long, wandering message about killer robots. "I'm getting married, Summ. Call me."
*
"Married?" Alan asked him. "Someone actually agreed to marry you?"
Nathan swallowed a comment about confirmed bachelors. Alan wasn't Sean. You couldn't make gay jokes to his face and expect to live. "Yup. And we're having an engagement party. Tell Gina you'll show."
"I'll be there, dude," Alan agreed. "Just look for me at the bar. And congratulations, okay?"
*
Gina asked, "Are you having a party?"
"Well, it just happened last night, so..."
"I'm going to throw you a party." There was a pause, a breathing sound and a turning of pages. "Laurence and I are free on June 7. Are you avilable on the seventh?"
"I'll check with my assistant."
"No problem," Gina answered, but she didn't seem to be listening. "I'll order the champagne. We'll have it in the garden, nothing too formal. Maybe a light meal." She hesitated. "Is it okay to invite Morena?"
"Shit." Nathan swore, and slapped his free hand against the steering wheel. Text was flashing on his cell phone display. Incoming call. Accept? Yes. No.
He'd forgotten to call Morena.
*
"Hi," he said carefully, and was greeted with ice-cold silence. He tried again. "Hello?"
"Fuck you, Nathan."
"Hi, Morena."
"You should have told me."
"You asked me to stop telling you things," Nathan pointed out. His voice rose. "I believe your exact words were, 'shut up, Nathan, and get the hell out of my car.'"
Morena swore, a long line of Portuguese over the telephone waves. Their lines weren't scripted anymore, but they were still always fighting. He should try to pitch this as a sitcom, Nathan thought. He could produce it, and star in it. Get Joss to write them a theme song.
Except Morena would never agree to be his leading lady. Morena was quiet, now.
He waited.
"You shooting that soap opera today?" she asked him.
"No," he answered, slowly. Waiting for the shoe to drop. He could practically hear her thinking.
"You at home?"
"I've got a meeting in Westwood." Nathan glanced at his watch, and at the traffic stretching out ahead of him. "I'll be a few hours."
She sighed. "Fine. I'll be there when you get there."
*
He didn't really remember how Morena got a key to his house. There wasn't any ceremony to it. It was just easier, when they were shooting on different schedules in different cities, for Morena to turn up when she could in the middle of the night, and slide into bed beside him.
"Angela?" Nathan would ask, and she'd hit him gently with the palm of her hand. He'd grab it, and kiss her fingers. "Oh, it's you. Whore," he'd whisper gently, and the kisses would travel up her palm, up the tender skin of her wrists.
"Asshole," she would answer, but her hips would fit easily against his body, and under the blankets both their bodies would be warm.
*
There were rules, Nathan knew, about not dating your drop-dead gorgeous co-star. Or rules that said that if you did, pictures and speculation would be on the internet before you had kissed her goodnight. Rules that working together would become impossible, that the breakup would be tragic and public.
Except that this was LA, where there were no rules, and dating wasn't anything close to the right word for what he and Morena had.
And every time she walked through his front door, and slammed it behind her, Nathan couldn't think of a single joke to tell. Not one.
*
He found Morena in his kitchen. She sat on a stool, her high heels kicked off by the front door. Bare toes curled around the supporting bar. She had made herself a sandwich, prosciutto, dripping mayonnaise and mustard. She had opened a beer to go with it, already half-empty. Unfolded beside her plate was the Los Angeles Times, one she must have brought with her. Nathan didn't read the newspaper.
Nathan dropped his car keys down on a table. "Hi."
She didn't look up. "Hey, Nate."
"You want to talk?"
Her gaze caught his, sharply. She held up one finger daintily, chewed, and swallowed down her mouthful. "Not really."
*
They didn't do it in the kitchen. They didn't make it to his bedroom, either. They stopped on the stairs, Morena pressed up against the raining in her bare feet. Nathan's knee pushed in between her thighs, forcing her long skirt upwards, and her fingers stroked his face, bringing him closer in for wet kisses.
"You should shave," she murmured, as her lips brushed a rough layer of stubble.
Nathan grimaced into the curve of her neck. Opened his mouth slightly, traced a salty line against her throat. "It's my day off."
"Doesn't Lisa complain?" Morena asked, and then gasped as Nathan's hand pushed inside her thin cotton shirt. His thumb circled a breast, making smaller and smaller motions until her nipple swelled under his touch.
There were things he didn't want to talk about right now.
Morena spread her legs a little wider. Her right leg bent on the higher step, making enough room for her hand to sneak down in between their bodies. Her palm cupped the front of his jeans, moving in gentle, even strokes.
"Fuck," she whispered. "Fuck, Nate."
He thrust his hips against her hand, grunted, and pushed his fingers between her thighs. No panties, either, just warm, soft skin, damp with want.
"Whore," he muttered, and she laughed, breathlessly.
Her opening was wet, juice running down. Nathan pushed his index finger deeper inside, and her laughter became thin, turning to moans. "Asshole," she answered, and pushed him gently backwards, into a sitting position on the cool hardwood steps.
He was hard when she slid his jeans down, and desperate. He shouted her name when she climbed onto him, skirt lifted high over her hips. She was wet, tight, perfect. Her hips rocked against him, and her fingers gripped his shoulders, nails scratching skin.
He didn't mind. He wrapped his arms around her. She whispered pleading words into his ear, but it wasn't English, and Nathan could only make out his own name. Could only focus on her body as she rode him, warm thighs and perfect mouth.
He felt every tremor of her orgasm as if it were his own, and the sensation undid him. He thrust once, twice more into her body, and then came, shaking, with his hands gently stroking the centre of her back, and his eyes closed.
*
"I'm sorry," he began, as she stood, and smoothed down her skirt.
"I'm not your fiancee," she said quietly. "Don't apologize to me."
*
She finished her beer afterwards, and took a shower. By the time she was dry and dressed again, she looked perfect. Exactly as she'd looked when he walked in.
As if he'd never touched her.
"I'm starting a shoot in two weeks," she said. "In Tunisia."
"That's great." He didn't know what else to say.
"I probably won't be back in time for your engagement party."
"I'm sorry," he said again, even though he'd been forbidden to say the words.
His phone rang. It was Summer, calling him back. Her high-pitched squeal echoed. "I'm so excited for you."
"Yeah, next spring. Are you going to be there?"
By the time he looked up for Morena, his hallway was empty, and the front door locked shut.
END