FIC: "The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin' & General Badassery" [RPF]
Title: The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery
Pairing: Michelle Rodriguez/Jordana Brewster, Michelle Rodriguez/Cast of Thousands
Genre: RPF, crack!fic, PWP
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2498
Summary: It‘s the apocalypse. There are zombies. Michelle Rodriguez gets laid.. a lot.
A/N: It's not my fault, really. There was Michelle Rodriguez picspam. I can not be held responsible for actions after Michelle Rodriguez picspam!
The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery
Rule Number Four: It’s the end of the world? Let’s fuck!!
Jordana Brewster hates Michelle Rodriguez.
She didn’t wanna do the goddamned movie anyway. Like, how many Fast & Furious remakes could the studio possibly make? Sure, it was just a cameo and she was only doing it for the cash. Two days in Soggy Dry Lake and, bam!, her vacation to Spain was paid for.
But, oh no, the fucking apocalypse had to happen. And, sure, it was kinda funny when that extra ate McG (he was an asshole anyway). Then reality hit and that shit stopped being funny with a quickness because, while watching McG get his guts munched on by a bunch of extras may have been funny, it dawned on them all that the shit had truly hit the proverbial fan.
They got organized quickly. They had a weapons master, who was like some fucking cast-off from Tropic Thunder! And Vin! Apparently, all those years playing Dungeons and Dragons has the side effect of preparing one of the apocalypse. Who knew? And they had Michelle FUCKING Rodriguez, who, like everything else in life, took a little too much glee in shouldering a shotgun and blasting people in the face.. dead or alive.
It took two days for the world to end. Two fucking days, for humanity to say ‘screw it’ and turn back into the animals it’d taken millenia of evolution to evolve from.
They were on the run with Vin Diesel and Michelle fucking Rodriguez leading the charge. Jordana rolled her eyes at that one. Star in one friggin’ zombie movie and, apparently, you’re an expert or something.
They didn’t have much choice really. It was either follow Vin and Michelle or face what was out there alone. Jordana chose to stick with the people with the guns.
Now, she was stuck in some roach-trap of a motel, standing in her underwear, washing Paul Walker’s brains out of her shirt as her jeans soaked in the tub. Standing in her underwear in a roach-trap of a motel listening to the whack!whack!whack! of the headboard in the room next door slamming against the wall.
There was no point in banging on the wall, or turning on the tv to drown out the noise (there weren’t any tv stations left anyway). She’d lost the charger to her iPod when Paul had tried to eat her brains.
Nope, Jordana was going to have to just not so much with the grinning but bear it. Bear it as Michelle and Esme, the extra who‘d only been on set that day to give her boyfriend the Oxycotin she’d scored, and what’s-her-face the waitress they’d picked up outside Sausolito finished doing whatever it was they were doing. There may have been a third person but Jordana didn’t really wanna think about that too much.
And Jordana Brewster hates Michelle fucking Rodriguez because she’s stuck imagining just what exactly those three, possibly four, *were* doing.
“I’m not jealous,” Jordana mumbles aloud as a muffled scream filtered through the walls.
It was the end of the world. The end of the FUCKING WORLD!! And Michelle was getting laid.. again.
Jordana angrily scrubs her t-shirt harder, wondering how someone as dumb as Paul Walker could have so much brain material. Satisfied, the water in the sink having turned a deep shade of pink, Jordana hangs the t-shirt over the shower rack and moved to working on her jeans.
She sits on the edge of the tub in the flimsy panties frantically picked by the chick in wardrobe because fucking McG didn’t think the previous pair was ‘sexy enough’.
There’s a knock at the door. Startled, Jordana quickly rises from the towel she placed on the floor to keep her knees from touching the stain a couple oceans of bleach couldn’t clean. She grabs the Glock off the counter, pulling back the slide and listening to the bullet chamber. A smile curls her lips, she may not have been in a movie about zombies (where she dies in the third act) but she was Lucy fucking Diamond and that should count for something.
Her steps slow as her thoughts skip to Sara, their love scene and that moment when Sara’s fingers slipped to a place they definitely did not rehearse for them to go. And Jordana didn’t say anything, because she was a trooper, because Sara’s fingers had felt *really* good and.. was she really thinking about Sara’s fingers during the middle of an apocalypse while a zombie was knocking at the door?
The pounding returned and knocked Jordana from her thoughts of Sara and Sara’s fingers and the orgasm shot left on the cutting room floor that had been anything but acting.
“C’mon, JayBee, open the fucking door!”
“Michelle..” Jordana groans. No one else called her JB. Michelle had started that during filming of the first movie. Jordana didn’t like it then. She didn’t like it now.
“What?” Jordana growls as the door’s yanked open only to be stopped by the chain still attached.
“I said open the fucking door!” Michelle’s using her ‘I’ll break it the fuck down’ tone, which means, yes, she *will* break it down and Jordana’s not in the mood to search for another room. Besides, she thinks she has the cleanest one anyway. So Jordana rolls her eyes and opens the door.
Michelle’s leaning one hand against the doorframe, her other loosely holding a bottle of tequila by her fingertips. Strands of hair are plastered to her sweat dotted face. She’s wearing a white sports bra, tight, black leather pants, the zipper down so low Jordana swears she can tell Michelle’s religion. Michelle smells like cheap cigarettes, cheaper booze and sex. But then, Michelle always smells like sex.
“’Bout fucking time.” She swaggers into Jordana’s room, her combat books thunking softly on the old carpet. She’s tipsy-drunk but ‘tipsy-drunk’ for Michelle Rodriguez is the rest of the world’s ‘alcoholic coma’.
“What do you want?” Jordana asks, closing the door and re-attaching the chain.
Michelle turns towards her. She raises the hand holding the tequila, swiping the underside of her nose before taking another swig. She lowers the bottle, eyes raking over Jordana’s body like she has x-ray vision.
“You got any lube?”
“What?” Jordana gasps, folding her arms over her breasts because Michelle’s eyes are making her nipples hard.
“Lube?” Michelle grunts. “You know, lube, lubricant, sex grease, KY, Sylk Sylk, Aqualube, Astroglide. Fuck, I’ll take some Anal Ease if ya got it. The substance introduced between two moving surfaces to reduce the friction between them..”
“I know what lube is! Why are you asking me?”
“You really wanna know?”
“No!” Jordana lies and her ears start to burn. “I don’t.”
Michelle slumps down onto the easy chair next to the bed like she owns it; legs splayed open, tequila bottle sitting in her crotch a little too phallic-like for Jordana’s tastes. Jordana subconsciously licks her lips. Michelle smirks and gazes at Jordana expectantly.
“What?” Jordana huffs.
“I asked for lube,” Michelle points a finger lazily about the room. “You gonna look for it?”
“Oh for fuck’s..” Jordana actually feels her eyes rolling into the back of her head. But, there she is, rummaging through her purse, the only thing of hers she’d been able to grab when the world ended. Rummaging through her purse, searching for something she KNOWS she doesn’t have. Because what Michelle wants, Michelle gets, even if Jordana doesn’t have it.
“Shit,” Jordana groans as her fingers grip a tiny clear bottle buried at the bottom of her purse. Her ears burn and it bleeds down into her cheeks because why the fuck does she have lube in her purse?
Jordana turns and walks back towards Michelle. She extends her arm, handing the bottle of Astroglide to Michelle. She’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary, her eyes going from Jordana’s face, to her breasts, stopping at Jordana’s crotch staring like she could burn Jordana’s panties with her eyes.
“Stop it,” Jordana mumbles.
“Stop what?” Michelle lifts her eyes again. There’s a wicked glint in them, a glint Jordana’s seen before.
Jordana gives a little sigh like she‘s resigned herself for what‘s to come and then she smiles because, she, she‘s totally resigned herself for what‘s to come. “Stop looking at my pussy like you’re wondering what it tastes like.”
Michelle sets her bottle of tequila down on the floor. With the same hand, she reaches out, curling her fingers into the waistband of Jordana’s panties, pulling the standing woman towards her and between her legs. “I already know what your pussy tastes like.” Michelle flashes a wide and toothy grin because, yeah, she knows what and who’s about to come next.
Jordana kisses first, pouncing on Michelle, sexual tension popping like a cork under too much pressure. Her kiss is hungry, wet, sloppy, all lips and tongue and spit. Michelle tastes like tequila and pussy which, on anyone else, would sound (and taste) kinda gross. But on Michelle it tastes exotic and Jordana’s whimpering into Michelle’s mouth, because she wants to taste *her* pussy on Michelle’s tongue.
She wiggles out of her panties as Michelle yanks them off her hips. Then Michelle’s arm is about her waist, Jordana’s fingers are threading in Michelle’s hair, raking against her scalp like she knows Michelle likes it. They’re turning around, the kiss breaks as the air leaves Jordana’s lungs. She’s flopped rag-doll like on the chair, legs are tossed over the armrests, spread open like an all you can eat buffet - Pussy! Get Yer Fresh, Hot Pussy!
Michelle’s gazing at her, panting and breathless, eyes dark and predatory. Then she’s gone. A head of hair between Jordana’s legs. She mouths Jordana’s pussy like her fucking jaw’s come unhinged, taking it all into her mouth. Jordana cries out, fingers clawing, digging into the armrests, writhing underneath Michelle like a landlocked fish.
Nobody can eat pussy like Michelle fucking Rodriguez. Her tongue is everywhere - slathering, licking, probing, fucking. It’s every where, all at once, too much, not enough and just when Jordana thinks she’s about to come, Michelle pulls back, breaking the rhythm so she can start all over again. It’s the best kind of torture.
Michelle pulls her lips until they’re just wrapped around Jordana’s clit. She slides three fingers into her pussy, but her fingers aren’t hard or painful, they just fit, curling inside Jordana, sensually stroking her spot in contrast to the lips and tongue assaulting her clit.
It’s a symphony of contrasting rhythms, a musician playing two instruments, two songs at once - hard and heavy metal on her clit, slow and sensual aria in her cunt. And Jordana’s ready to fucking bounce off the walls. There’s no break in rhythm, no merciless taunting or cruel teasing, Michelle wants Jordana to come. Jordana is more than eager to oblige.
A keening, all cat on a hot tin roof, wail erupts from Jordana’s throat. Michelle doesn’t stop because Michelle *never* stops, one orgasm is never enough, barrels through Jordana’s orgasm like a train through a brick wall. And Jordana’s coming again, wailing and writhing and screaming until she thinks she’s going to black out.
Maybe she does, because Michelle’s lips are no longer pulling on her clit and Jordana feels empty because Michelle’s fingers are no longer inside her.
Michelle leans back onto her heels, palms still pressing down on the insides of Jordana’s thighs, keeping Jordana spread open, certain she can wring a few more orgasms before Jordana’s begging her to stop. So she waits, admiring her handiwork, tongue dragging around her lips and relishing the lingering taste.
“I hate you,” Jordana groans.
“I know,” Michelle grins cheekily, leaning down and running her tongue up the length of Jordana’s pussy. “You got anything else in that purse?”
“Like what?”
Michelle rises onto her knees, grabs Jordana by the hips and pulls her towards Michelle’s crotch. “Like something I can strap on and fuck you with?”
Jordana purrs at the feel of Michelle’s crotch on her sex and the feel of Michelle already grinding against her, already thinking about fucking her. Although, Jordana’s pretty certain she doesn’t have *that* in her purse. Then again, she was pretty certain she didn’t have any lube either.
“I guess,” Jordana licks her lips. “You’ll just have to look and see.”
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire fills the air. Michelle’s up like a shot, grabbing Jordana’s glock and pulling back the curtain an inch.
“SADDLE UP, PEOPLE!!” Vin’s voice booms through the thin walls from somewhere outside. “WE’VE GOT COMPANY!”
Jordana’s sprints towards the bathroom, yanking on her still soaked clothes. Michelle’s waiting for her at the door.
“That’s my gun,” Jordana says.
“Mine now,” Michelle smirks. She thrusts her arm forward, grabbing Jordana by the shirt and yanking. Their lips mash together. Michelle tastes like tequila and pussy. Jordana’s pussy. She pushes Jordana back, breaking their kiss, lips all Cheshire cat grin. “You’re mine too.”
She turns on her heel and runs out the door. She jumps the second story railing, gun firing into the night as she lands on the hood of the car parked below. The engine roars to life like a chainsaw cutting through wood.
“You comin’?” Jordana can hear Michelle yelling up at her.
Jordana grimaces, rushing out the door and hauling ass down the stairs. It’s the end of the fucking world. There are zombies. She hops into the passenger’s seat, holding the steering wheel as the car burns rubber in reverse and Michelle sits on the windowsill plugging holes into dead people’s heads.
The car spins around. Michelle pulls herself back into the cab, plopping down in the driver’s seat. She shifts the gears, hitting the accelerator, the two of them joining the dozens of other cars following Vin down the highway.
Michelle looks at Jordana, handing her the glock. “You remember my bottle of tequila?”
“No,” Jordana takes the glock, empties the chamber and puts in a full clip. “I didn’t remember your fucking bottle of tequila.”
“You remember the lube?”
“No..” Jordana pauses, looks down at the purse between her feet, blushes. “Yes.”
“And is there something in there I can fuck you with?”
“Jesus,” Jordana gapes. “Do you think about anything else?”
Michelle snickers. “Why? Just because it’s the end of the world doesn’t mean it’s the end of fucking. Besides,” Michelle shifts into another gear, the car lurches forward and they’re at the head of the pack. “If I’m gonna die fucking, I’m gonna die fucking you.”
Jordana thought about arguing but how could she argue with logic like that? Because, if it really was the end of the world and they really all were going to die, she could think of worse ways to go than dying while fucking Michelle Rodriguez.
It would be, she decided, a Hell of a way to go.
END
Pairing: Michelle Rodriguez/Jordana Brewster, Michelle Rodriguez/Cast of Thousands
Genre: RPF, crack!fic, PWP
Rating: Mature
Word Count: 2498
Summary: It‘s the apocalypse. There are zombies. Michelle Rodriguez gets laid.. a lot.
A/N: It's not my fault, really. There was Michelle Rodriguez picspam. I can not be held responsible for actions after Michelle Rodriguez picspam!
The Michelle Rodriguez School of Pimpin’ and General Bad-Assery
Rule Number Four: It’s the end of the world? Let’s fuck!!
Jordana Brewster hates Michelle Rodriguez.
She didn’t wanna do the goddamned movie anyway. Like, how many Fast & Furious remakes could the studio possibly make? Sure, it was just a cameo and she was only doing it for the cash. Two days in Soggy Dry Lake and, bam!, her vacation to Spain was paid for.
But, oh no, the fucking apocalypse had to happen. And, sure, it was kinda funny when that extra ate McG (he was an asshole anyway). Then reality hit and that shit stopped being funny with a quickness because, while watching McG get his guts munched on by a bunch of extras may have been funny, it dawned on them all that the shit had truly hit the proverbial fan.
They got organized quickly. They had a weapons master, who was like some fucking cast-off from Tropic Thunder! And Vin! Apparently, all those years playing Dungeons and Dragons has the side effect of preparing one of the apocalypse. Who knew? And they had Michelle FUCKING Rodriguez, who, like everything else in life, took a little too much glee in shouldering a shotgun and blasting people in the face.. dead or alive.
It took two days for the world to end. Two fucking days, for humanity to say ‘screw it’ and turn back into the animals it’d taken millenia of evolution to evolve from.
They were on the run with Vin Diesel and Michelle fucking Rodriguez leading the charge. Jordana rolled her eyes at that one. Star in one friggin’ zombie movie and, apparently, you’re an expert or something.
They didn’t have much choice really. It was either follow Vin and Michelle or face what was out there alone. Jordana chose to stick with the people with the guns.
Now, she was stuck in some roach-trap of a motel, standing in her underwear, washing Paul Walker’s brains out of her shirt as her jeans soaked in the tub. Standing in her underwear in a roach-trap of a motel listening to the whack!whack!whack! of the headboard in the room next door slamming against the wall.
There was no point in banging on the wall, or turning on the tv to drown out the noise (there weren’t any tv stations left anyway). She’d lost the charger to her iPod when Paul had tried to eat her brains.
Nope, Jordana was going to have to just not so much with the grinning but bear it. Bear it as Michelle and Esme, the extra who‘d only been on set that day to give her boyfriend the Oxycotin she’d scored, and what’s-her-face the waitress they’d picked up outside Sausolito finished doing whatever it was they were doing. There may have been a third person but Jordana didn’t really wanna think about that too much.
And Jordana Brewster hates Michelle fucking Rodriguez because she’s stuck imagining just what exactly those three, possibly four, *were* doing.
“I’m not jealous,” Jordana mumbles aloud as a muffled scream filtered through the walls.
It was the end of the world. The end of the FUCKING WORLD!! And Michelle was getting laid.. again.
Jordana angrily scrubs her t-shirt harder, wondering how someone as dumb as Paul Walker could have so much brain material. Satisfied, the water in the sink having turned a deep shade of pink, Jordana hangs the t-shirt over the shower rack and moved to working on her jeans.
She sits on the edge of the tub in the flimsy panties frantically picked by the chick in wardrobe because fucking McG didn’t think the previous pair was ‘sexy enough’.
There’s a knock at the door. Startled, Jordana quickly rises from the towel she placed on the floor to keep her knees from touching the stain a couple oceans of bleach couldn’t clean. She grabs the Glock off the counter, pulling back the slide and listening to the bullet chamber. A smile curls her lips, she may not have been in a movie about zombies (where she dies in the third act) but she was Lucy fucking Diamond and that should count for something.
Her steps slow as her thoughts skip to Sara, their love scene and that moment when Sara’s fingers slipped to a place they definitely did not rehearse for them to go. And Jordana didn’t say anything, because she was a trooper, because Sara’s fingers had felt *really* good and.. was she really thinking about Sara’s fingers during the middle of an apocalypse while a zombie was knocking at the door?
The pounding returned and knocked Jordana from her thoughts of Sara and Sara’s fingers and the orgasm shot left on the cutting room floor that had been anything but acting.
“C’mon, JayBee, open the fucking door!”
“Michelle..” Jordana groans. No one else called her JB. Michelle had started that during filming of the first movie. Jordana didn’t like it then. She didn’t like it now.
“What?” Jordana growls as the door’s yanked open only to be stopped by the chain still attached.
“I said open the fucking door!” Michelle’s using her ‘I’ll break it the fuck down’ tone, which means, yes, she *will* break it down and Jordana’s not in the mood to search for another room. Besides, she thinks she has the cleanest one anyway. So Jordana rolls her eyes and opens the door.
Michelle’s leaning one hand against the doorframe, her other loosely holding a bottle of tequila by her fingertips. Strands of hair are plastered to her sweat dotted face. She’s wearing a white sports bra, tight, black leather pants, the zipper down so low Jordana swears she can tell Michelle’s religion. Michelle smells like cheap cigarettes, cheaper booze and sex. But then, Michelle always smells like sex.
“’Bout fucking time.” She swaggers into Jordana’s room, her combat books thunking softly on the old carpet. She’s tipsy-drunk but ‘tipsy-drunk’ for Michelle Rodriguez is the rest of the world’s ‘alcoholic coma’.
“What do you want?” Jordana asks, closing the door and re-attaching the chain.
Michelle turns towards her. She raises the hand holding the tequila, swiping the underside of her nose before taking another swig. She lowers the bottle, eyes raking over Jordana’s body like she has x-ray vision.
“You got any lube?”
“What?” Jordana gasps, folding her arms over her breasts because Michelle’s eyes are making her nipples hard.
“Lube?” Michelle grunts. “You know, lube, lubricant, sex grease, KY, Sylk Sylk, Aqualube, Astroglide. Fuck, I’ll take some Anal Ease if ya got it. The substance introduced between two moving surfaces to reduce the friction between them..”
“I know what lube is! Why are you asking me?”
“You really wanna know?”
“No!” Jordana lies and her ears start to burn. “I don’t.”
Michelle slumps down onto the easy chair next to the bed like she owns it; legs splayed open, tequila bottle sitting in her crotch a little too phallic-like for Jordana’s tastes. Jordana subconsciously licks her lips. Michelle smirks and gazes at Jordana expectantly.
“What?” Jordana huffs.
“I asked for lube,” Michelle points a finger lazily about the room. “You gonna look for it?”
“Oh for fuck’s..” Jordana actually feels her eyes rolling into the back of her head. But, there she is, rummaging through her purse, the only thing of hers she’d been able to grab when the world ended. Rummaging through her purse, searching for something she KNOWS she doesn’t have. Because what Michelle wants, Michelle gets, even if Jordana doesn’t have it.
“Shit,” Jordana groans as her fingers grip a tiny clear bottle buried at the bottom of her purse. Her ears burn and it bleeds down into her cheeks because why the fuck does she have lube in her purse?
Jordana turns and walks back towards Michelle. She extends her arm, handing the bottle of Astroglide to Michelle. She’s smiling like the cat who ate the canary, her eyes going from Jordana’s face, to her breasts, stopping at Jordana’s crotch staring like she could burn Jordana’s panties with her eyes.
“Stop it,” Jordana mumbles.
“Stop what?” Michelle lifts her eyes again. There’s a wicked glint in them, a glint Jordana’s seen before.
Jordana gives a little sigh like she‘s resigned herself for what‘s to come and then she smiles because, she, she‘s totally resigned herself for what‘s to come. “Stop looking at my pussy like you’re wondering what it tastes like.”
Michelle sets her bottle of tequila down on the floor. With the same hand, she reaches out, curling her fingers into the waistband of Jordana’s panties, pulling the standing woman towards her and between her legs. “I already know what your pussy tastes like.” Michelle flashes a wide and toothy grin because, yeah, she knows what and who’s about to come next.
Jordana kisses first, pouncing on Michelle, sexual tension popping like a cork under too much pressure. Her kiss is hungry, wet, sloppy, all lips and tongue and spit. Michelle tastes like tequila and pussy which, on anyone else, would sound (and taste) kinda gross. But on Michelle it tastes exotic and Jordana’s whimpering into Michelle’s mouth, because she wants to taste *her* pussy on Michelle’s tongue.
She wiggles out of her panties as Michelle yanks them off her hips. Then Michelle’s arm is about her waist, Jordana’s fingers are threading in Michelle’s hair, raking against her scalp like she knows Michelle likes it. They’re turning around, the kiss breaks as the air leaves Jordana’s lungs. She’s flopped rag-doll like on the chair, legs are tossed over the armrests, spread open like an all you can eat buffet - Pussy! Get Yer Fresh, Hot Pussy!
Michelle’s gazing at her, panting and breathless, eyes dark and predatory. Then she’s gone. A head of hair between Jordana’s legs. She mouths Jordana’s pussy like her fucking jaw’s come unhinged, taking it all into her mouth. Jordana cries out, fingers clawing, digging into the armrests, writhing underneath Michelle like a landlocked fish.
Nobody can eat pussy like Michelle fucking Rodriguez. Her tongue is everywhere - slathering, licking, probing, fucking. It’s every where, all at once, too much, not enough and just when Jordana thinks she’s about to come, Michelle pulls back, breaking the rhythm so she can start all over again. It’s the best kind of torture.
Michelle pulls her lips until they’re just wrapped around Jordana’s clit. She slides three fingers into her pussy, but her fingers aren’t hard or painful, they just fit, curling inside Jordana, sensually stroking her spot in contrast to the lips and tongue assaulting her clit.
It’s a symphony of contrasting rhythms, a musician playing two instruments, two songs at once - hard and heavy metal on her clit, slow and sensual aria in her cunt. And Jordana’s ready to fucking bounce off the walls. There’s no break in rhythm, no merciless taunting or cruel teasing, Michelle wants Jordana to come. Jordana is more than eager to oblige.
A keening, all cat on a hot tin roof, wail erupts from Jordana’s throat. Michelle doesn’t stop because Michelle *never* stops, one orgasm is never enough, barrels through Jordana’s orgasm like a train through a brick wall. And Jordana’s coming again, wailing and writhing and screaming until she thinks she’s going to black out.
Maybe she does, because Michelle’s lips are no longer pulling on her clit and Jordana feels empty because Michelle’s fingers are no longer inside her.
Michelle leans back onto her heels, palms still pressing down on the insides of Jordana’s thighs, keeping Jordana spread open, certain she can wring a few more orgasms before Jordana’s begging her to stop. So she waits, admiring her handiwork, tongue dragging around her lips and relishing the lingering taste.
“I hate you,” Jordana groans.
“I know,” Michelle grins cheekily, leaning down and running her tongue up the length of Jordana’s pussy. “You got anything else in that purse?”
“Like what?”
Michelle rises onto her knees, grabs Jordana by the hips and pulls her towards Michelle’s crotch. “Like something I can strap on and fuck you with?”
Jordana purrs at the feel of Michelle’s crotch on her sex and the feel of Michelle already grinding against her, already thinking about fucking her. Although, Jordana’s pretty certain she doesn’t have *that* in her purse. Then again, she was pretty certain she didn’t have any lube either.
“I guess,” Jordana licks her lips. “You’ll just have to look and see.”
Suddenly, the sound of gunfire fills the air. Michelle’s up like a shot, grabbing Jordana’s glock and pulling back the curtain an inch.
“SADDLE UP, PEOPLE!!” Vin’s voice booms through the thin walls from somewhere outside. “WE’VE GOT COMPANY!”
Jordana’s sprints towards the bathroom, yanking on her still soaked clothes. Michelle’s waiting for her at the door.
“That’s my gun,” Jordana says.
“Mine now,” Michelle smirks. She thrusts her arm forward, grabbing Jordana by the shirt and yanking. Their lips mash together. Michelle tastes like tequila and pussy. Jordana’s pussy. She pushes Jordana back, breaking their kiss, lips all Cheshire cat grin. “You’re mine too.”
She turns on her heel and runs out the door. She jumps the second story railing, gun firing into the night as she lands on the hood of the car parked below. The engine roars to life like a chainsaw cutting through wood.
“You comin’?” Jordana can hear Michelle yelling up at her.
Jordana grimaces, rushing out the door and hauling ass down the stairs. It’s the end of the fucking world. There are zombies. She hops into the passenger’s seat, holding the steering wheel as the car burns rubber in reverse and Michelle sits on the windowsill plugging holes into dead people’s heads.
The car spins around. Michelle pulls herself back into the cab, plopping down in the driver’s seat. She shifts the gears, hitting the accelerator, the two of them joining the dozens of other cars following Vin down the highway.
Michelle looks at Jordana, handing her the glock. “You remember my bottle of tequila?”
“No,” Jordana takes the glock, empties the chamber and puts in a full clip. “I didn’t remember your fucking bottle of tequila.”
“You remember the lube?”
“No..” Jordana pauses, looks down at the purse between her feet, blushes. “Yes.”
“And is there something in there I can fuck you with?”
“Jesus,” Jordana gapes. “Do you think about anything else?”
Michelle snickers. “Why? Just because it’s the end of the world doesn’t mean it’s the end of fucking. Besides,” Michelle shifts into another gear, the car lurches forward and they’re at the head of the pack. “If I’m gonna die fucking, I’m gonna die fucking you.”
Jordana thought about arguing but how could she argue with logic like that? Because, if it really was the end of the world and they really all were going to die, she could think of worse ways to go than dying while fucking Michelle Rodriguez.
It would be, she decided, a Hell of a way to go.
END