(no subject)
"Reinvention," originally posted here at Porn Battle XI. The prompt was Kara Thrace (BSG)/Justin Patrick (Fairly Legal), strangers. Mature audiences advised.
Justin doesn't date.
But it's because he's been off the market for five years and change. Two years were spent falling for Kate Reed, two years were spent married to her, eight months were spent falling apart at the romantic seams, and the past six have been an exercise in avoiding her, trying not to avoid her, loving her, not loving her, and finally learning to take what she's giving because maybe that's as much as he needs right now.
(It almost is.)
The week's trial has taken a toll: long hours, exasperated messages from Kate, less sleep than he'd like. When he leaves the office and goes to his favorite spot for a Friday night steak and glass of red, he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie.
He's not looking for a distraction. He's not looking for anyone to talk to. He's not looking for much of anything but a second glass of wine when he notices the blonde two tables away is barely taking her eyes off him. She smiles over her table at him like he should be able to place her.
He's almost not surprised when she picks up her drink (vivid green in a martini glass), leaves her companions (a taller blonde in a red dress and a man with an impeccable suit and eyes for that red dress), and walks over. "Kara Thrace." She extends a hand, eyes fixed on his.
The fact that he doesn't recognize her name doesn't stop him from taking her hand. "Justin Patrick."
*
He likes the way she looks: hair just past her shoulders, eyes shining, persistent grin giving way to no-holds-barred laughter. He likes the way she looks at him, her body leaned toward his like his tie's made of magnets. The sleeves of her shirt are short enough to bare the bottom half of some intricate tattoo, and her neckline offers a glimpse of a chain worn underneath her shirt.
Kara finds it funny that he's a lawyer (without the suit he wouldn't have struck her as the type, she claims), asks him if his middle initial is a T (there are ways she could've known that), wants to know if he's into sports (and looks at him with enough appreciation that he'd be willing to believe she can see right through the cotton blend of his shirt). She says she flies, and he's sure it's not the mere two and a half glasses of wine talking when he can only think of a few things that sound more exciting.
He tells himself that he's too established and getting too old for flings.
(He tells himself the ink on those divorce papers is too fresh for anything else.)
She's vibrant and passionate, more comfortable in her skin that anyone he's ever met, more than a little crazy, and he doesn't know whether to hurry himself out of here or hurry to taste-test those generous lips.
What he does know is that kissing her is something he can't do here.
*
Kate, he hears himself call her once they're both in a cab, and it's an accident (a slip of the tongue, so used to another 'K' name). He apologizes and feels like shit about it (he shouldn't be doing this anyway) but she laughs.
"The ex? It's okay. You remind me of the guy I married."
Like he's regained that sense of freedom to fuck that was such a novelty in college, he finds his eyes distracted by the curve of her breasts under her shirt, by her mouth as she moistens her lips. "What happened to him?"
Her lips twist wryly. "Flew off into the sunset." They're only another block away from her hotel, and before he can apologize she puts her hand on his thigh. "You are coming up, right?"
*
On the elevator trip up to the tenth floor, she stays pressed against him even after everyone else has cleared out. On the way down the hallway to her door, her laughter trailing behind them, she undoes his tie and slides it from around his neck like a snake charmer. When she pretends to fumble the lock, he hears himself laughing. "I thought pilots would be good with their hands."
It works: she lets them in, laughing (leering) and turning on him, making quick work of his belt. "I am."
"Where's your evidence?"
"Watch me." Briefcase, jacket, tie, and belt meet the floor, and she doesn't stand on ceremony when she unbuttons, unzips, his fly. Leaving his pants to gravity, she coaxes his erection out of his boxers. "I knew you liked what you saw."
In her grasp, worked relentlessly between her fingers, he can feel himself stiffen. Her thumb plays over his tip until precome seeps out, inviting her to taste him. The touch of her tongue is a jolt to his system, something he feels crackling through his pelvis and straight up his spine. (It's been a while since he's known anything but Kate's warmth, Kate's lips, Kate's damp thighs.) Without a word Kara says you want to pay attention to this, Justin: twice he thinks she's going to open her mouth and engulf him, suck his entire length in, but she doesn't either time. He's at the mercy of her more-than-capable hand and tongue until he aches from it and restlessly fingers the shirt she still hasn't shed, thumb edging under her neckline in search of warm skin.
A huff of laughter comes out of her and she lets go of him, rises to her full height, and pulls her shirt over her head. The tag on the chain around her neck is like none he's ever seen before, but he gets distracted by the way it hangs at the top of the valley between her breasts. Her grin teases as he reaches for the clasp of her bra. "I've gotta know: can that mouth work magic, or do you need a courtroom?"
He feels a grin spread across his face. (The thought of eating her out in a courtroom will hound him during his working hours for weeks.) "Sit your ass down and find out."
She doesn't need convincing. Getting the rest of their clothes off is a hurried team effort. Once he's completely bare-skinned in front of her, her fingers walk up his right arm like they're searching for something, like she's blind and reading his skin with her fingertips, but she laughs when he kisses her and drives her backward, toward the bed. The backs of her legs meet its edge, and she goes down willingly, perching there with her knees open and patting her thighs like he needs the prompt.
He doesn't. He pushes her shoulders back before he dives between her legs; his fingers part her slick labia, his lips press against the eager nub of her clit. He flicks his tongue over her until her breath goes ragged, her approval throaty when it breaks the stillness of the room, but that's not the only telltale sign that she likes it. He can taste it on her, a salty tang that coats his lips and chin, making him throb for more attention. Her hips angle toward him, rock toward him, but just when he hears need hitching in her throat, she lifts her head. "You have a condom?"
"What?" Recognizing what she's asking is like squinting to see through a dense fog. "No, I don't." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but the taste of her lingers on the tip of his tongue. "Fuck." (The only woman he's been with lately is Kate, and she's been on the pill for years.)
Kara snorts out a laugh and pushes up on her elbows. "Here's a tip, Mr. Assistant District Attorney: at this rate, you may want to start." She jabs a finger toward her jeans on the floor. "Check my left back pocket."
He wants to protest, but he is naked in the middle of a stranger's hotel room, all wound up and hard as a rock. In theory it's everything years of being an attorney should've cautioned him against, and finding the single wrapped condom in her jeans makes him feel about fifteen years less responsible. "You always carry a condom in your pocket?"
"When it counts," she laughs. (The sharklike grin on her face makes him think it always counts.)
It's fair enough. It's fine. (His dick isn't arguing.) He stands, unwrapping the condom and putting it on, and the entire time she watches like he's putting on a show for her benefit and then rises up on her knees on the bed.
"Better?"
"Hey, you need it more than I do."
Closing the distance between them, he traps one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, smug in the knowledge that it's already perked right up for him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Can't have kids." She directs his other hand to her other nipple, and her eyelids go lust-heavy. "Don't worry: I don't want to, either."
"So why--"
She grips his hips, bumping him against her. "Don't tell me you wouldn't be thinking twice about this if I didn't have one."
She's right. He can't tell her that. (But thinking twice is one thing and having the willpower to give it up would be another.)
"Just be glad I'm that good," she goes on, self-satisfied, as she hooks her hands over his shoulders. "Come on, Justin. A hard-on like that deserves a good time."
Once again unable to disagree, he grabs her ass, lifts her up, and urges her legs around him.
Justin doesn't date.
But it's because he's been off the market for five years and change. Two years were spent falling for Kate Reed, two years were spent married to her, eight months were spent falling apart at the romantic seams, and the past six have been an exercise in avoiding her, trying not to avoid her, loving her, not loving her, and finally learning to take what she's giving because maybe that's as much as he needs right now.
(It almost is.)
The week's trial has taken a toll: long hours, exasperated messages from Kate, less sleep than he'd like. When he leaves the office and goes to his favorite spot for a Friday night steak and glass of red, he takes off his jacket and loosens his tie.
He's not looking for a distraction. He's not looking for anyone to talk to. He's not looking for much of anything but a second glass of wine when he notices the blonde two tables away is barely taking her eyes off him. She smiles over her table at him like he should be able to place her.
He's almost not surprised when she picks up her drink (vivid green in a martini glass), leaves her companions (a taller blonde in a red dress and a man with an impeccable suit and eyes for that red dress), and walks over. "Kara Thrace." She extends a hand, eyes fixed on his.
The fact that he doesn't recognize her name doesn't stop him from taking her hand. "Justin Patrick."
*
He likes the way she looks: hair just past her shoulders, eyes shining, persistent grin giving way to no-holds-barred laughter. He likes the way she looks at him, her body leaned toward his like his tie's made of magnets. The sleeves of her shirt are short enough to bare the bottom half of some intricate tattoo, and her neckline offers a glimpse of a chain worn underneath her shirt.
Kara finds it funny that he's a lawyer (without the suit he wouldn't have struck her as the type, she claims), asks him if his middle initial is a T (there are ways she could've known that), wants to know if he's into sports (and looks at him with enough appreciation that he'd be willing to believe she can see right through the cotton blend of his shirt). She says she flies, and he's sure it's not the mere two and a half glasses of wine talking when he can only think of a few things that sound more exciting.
He tells himself that he's too established and getting too old for flings.
(He tells himself the ink on those divorce papers is too fresh for anything else.)
She's vibrant and passionate, more comfortable in her skin that anyone he's ever met, more than a little crazy, and he doesn't know whether to hurry himself out of here or hurry to taste-test those generous lips.
What he does know is that kissing her is something he can't do here.
*
Kate, he hears himself call her once they're both in a cab, and it's an accident (a slip of the tongue, so used to another 'K' name). He apologizes and feels like shit about it (he shouldn't be doing this anyway) but she laughs.
"The ex? It's okay. You remind me of the guy I married."
Like he's regained that sense of freedom to fuck that was such a novelty in college, he finds his eyes distracted by the curve of her breasts under her shirt, by her mouth as she moistens her lips. "What happened to him?"
Her lips twist wryly. "Flew off into the sunset." They're only another block away from her hotel, and before he can apologize she puts her hand on his thigh. "You are coming up, right?"
*
On the elevator trip up to the tenth floor, she stays pressed against him even after everyone else has cleared out. On the way down the hallway to her door, her laughter trailing behind them, she undoes his tie and slides it from around his neck like a snake charmer. When she pretends to fumble the lock, he hears himself laughing. "I thought pilots would be good with their hands."
It works: she lets them in, laughing (leering) and turning on him, making quick work of his belt. "I am."
"Where's your evidence?"
"Watch me." Briefcase, jacket, tie, and belt meet the floor, and she doesn't stand on ceremony when she unbuttons, unzips, his fly. Leaving his pants to gravity, she coaxes his erection out of his boxers. "I knew you liked what you saw."
In her grasp, worked relentlessly between her fingers, he can feel himself stiffen. Her thumb plays over his tip until precome seeps out, inviting her to taste him. The touch of her tongue is a jolt to his system, something he feels crackling through his pelvis and straight up his spine. (It's been a while since he's known anything but Kate's warmth, Kate's lips, Kate's damp thighs.) Without a word Kara says you want to pay attention to this, Justin: twice he thinks she's going to open her mouth and engulf him, suck his entire length in, but she doesn't either time. He's at the mercy of her more-than-capable hand and tongue until he aches from it and restlessly fingers the shirt she still hasn't shed, thumb edging under her neckline in search of warm skin.
A huff of laughter comes out of her and she lets go of him, rises to her full height, and pulls her shirt over her head. The tag on the chain around her neck is like none he's ever seen before, but he gets distracted by the way it hangs at the top of the valley between her breasts. Her grin teases as he reaches for the clasp of her bra. "I've gotta know: can that mouth work magic, or do you need a courtroom?"
He feels a grin spread across his face. (The thought of eating her out in a courtroom will hound him during his working hours for weeks.) "Sit your ass down and find out."
She doesn't need convincing. Getting the rest of their clothes off is a hurried team effort. Once he's completely bare-skinned in front of her, her fingers walk up his right arm like they're searching for something, like she's blind and reading his skin with her fingertips, but she laughs when he kisses her and drives her backward, toward the bed. The backs of her legs meet its edge, and she goes down willingly, perching there with her knees open and patting her thighs like he needs the prompt.
He doesn't. He pushes her shoulders back before he dives between her legs; his fingers part her slick labia, his lips press against the eager nub of her clit. He flicks his tongue over her until her breath goes ragged, her approval throaty when it breaks the stillness of the room, but that's not the only telltale sign that she likes it. He can taste it on her, a salty tang that coats his lips and chin, making him throb for more attention. Her hips angle toward him, rock toward him, but just when he hears need hitching in her throat, she lifts her head. "You have a condom?"
"What?" Recognizing what she's asking is like squinting to see through a dense fog. "No, I don't." He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but the taste of her lingers on the tip of his tongue. "Fuck." (The only woman he's been with lately is Kate, and she's been on the pill for years.)
Kara snorts out a laugh and pushes up on her elbows. "Here's a tip, Mr. Assistant District Attorney: at this rate, you may want to start." She jabs a finger toward her jeans on the floor. "Check my left back pocket."
He wants to protest, but he is naked in the middle of a stranger's hotel room, all wound up and hard as a rock. In theory it's everything years of being an attorney should've cautioned him against, and finding the single wrapped condom in her jeans makes him feel about fifteen years less responsible. "You always carry a condom in your pocket?"
"When it counts," she laughs. (The sharklike grin on her face makes him think it always counts.)
It's fair enough. It's fine. (His dick isn't arguing.) He stands, unwrapping the condom and putting it on, and the entire time she watches like he's putting on a show for her benefit and then rises up on her knees on the bed.
"Better?"
"Hey, you need it more than I do."
Closing the distance between them, he traps one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, smug in the knowledge that it's already perked right up for him. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Can't have kids." She directs his other hand to her other nipple, and her eyelids go lust-heavy. "Don't worry: I don't want to, either."
"So why--"
She grips his hips, bumping him against her. "Don't tell me you wouldn't be thinking twice about this if I didn't have one."
She's right. He can't tell her that. (But thinking twice is one thing and having the willpower to give it up would be another.)
"Just be glad I'm that good," she goes on, self-satisfied, as she hooks her hands over his shoulders. "Come on, Justin. A hard-on like that deserves a good time."
Once again unable to disagree, he grabs her ass, lifts her up, and urges her legs around him.