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harryandmolly · 6 years

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Ruby Woo

Summary: A green shirt and an iconic shade of lipstick make some memories.

Warnings: NSFW, language

Word count: 2700 (oof, wtf guys)

A/N: WE CAN THANK THE CHEST HAIR FOR THIS ONE, Y’ALL.

They’ve been flirting with disaster for so long, she doesn’t remember where it started.

No one believes them when they insist they’ve never hooked up.

“C’mon, not even a kiss? One kiss?” her best friend prods when she visits and sees them together.

She shrugs, pretending not to think about the startling number of times it’s gotten close. She bites her lip as it occurs to her that given the frequency of these occasions, it’s surprising she can remember each one so vividly.

The first time, they’re both pretty lit at a bar somewhere in Santa Monica where the drinks are expensive but he’s buying so she indulges a little. He’s ignoring his social responsibilities, hunched over the counter with her so he can lean into her ear and tell his story. She’s totally overwhelmed by his presence, though, and can’t remember anything he said after “… and then he started trying to leap frog over parking meters, so I knew it was time to take him home.”

He’s… imposing to say the least. He’s broad in the shoulders that she’s brushing up against and the thighs she’s looking down at. If he’s flirting with her, he’s not doing a great job. He’s just talking animatedly with those big walnut eyes and sucking down Stella after Stella, his attention straying to pick at interesting speckles in the bar’s granite top. She’s not sure if he’s noticing the signals she’s dropping, the innocent tugging at his shirt sleeves or the playful nudge of his boot with her sandal. And then she pulls back a little to comment on something he said and she’s sure she should kiss him. But she doesn’t, and he doesn’t, so they don’t.

The seventh time is more of an event. They’re friends now, real friends that text and get coffee when he’s in town, not just friends of friends at bars and bougie West Hollywood house parties with sangria flavors written on chalkboards. He invites her and two of his guy friends to a fundraising event at someone important’s absurd Pacific Palisades beach house. She leaves work early so her friend Marshall can help temporarily tailor her Rent the Runway dress and she almost has an ankle-breaking disaster on the way into the impressively well-secured mansion, but she arrives unharmed and sparkling and he feels his heart in his throat when he looks at her.

He hopes it’s not obvious to her that he’s largely ignoring his other friends in favor of making her laugh and generally doting on her all evening. He’s also supposed to be schmoozing, which he doesn’t tell her because he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s interrupting business by being with him. They have a near miss again in the moments after sunset when she finds him staring out at the water looking pensive and with the jaw and the lips and the curls, she finds herself at his arm before she can figure out how she got there. This time, she’s the one yammering on about nothing while he’s watching her and deciding if kissing her is his best or worst idea ever. When she busts into giggles mid joke, he’s so stunned he can’t remember he was supposed to do anything but watch her enjoy herself, so he misses his moment.

Now they’re here at the same house where they met in Los Feliz and he’s wearing that fucking sage green shirt that she likes with the buttons undone to here and his curls ruffling in the breeze from the Santa Anas. They’re on the back patio surrounded by tiki torches. She didn’t expect this many people to show for Paloma and Nat’s engagement bash given how last minute it was, but she swears she hasn’t been at a party this crowded since college. She’s keeping an eye on him, clearly, and he’s doing the same.

He may be wearing the shirt, but she’s wearing the lipstick. It’s that kind of lipstick where there’s no going back – when you kiss a woman wearing that lipstick, she owns you for the rest of the night. Everyone will know and everyone will be just a little bit jealous. That lipstick has warded him off enough times, but makes her lips look so tempting that he’s a moth to a flame, continually burning just to feel her warmth.

He finds her again in the crowd between a pair of strangers clearly five minutes away from looking for the nearest closet and a very bored looking married gay couple. She’s listening in on conversations again, he can tell by the way she tilts her head and twitches those ridiculous lips at random moments. When she starts to turn her gaze toward him, he snaps his head back to his surroundings and listens to someone complain about Beyonce and Jay-Z’s latest album.

The party doesn’t empty out like she expects it to around midnight. It must be a full moon or something – most of the company here are in their 30s. She and Shawn are perhaps the only attendees under 25. What are these fuckers doing here so late? Go home to your kids, you irresponsible fucks.

She sucks back the last sip of bourbon in her glass and pouts at the rocks left melting in her hot little hands. She’d rather make something else melt. She wants the group to thin out a little so she can get him alone. Resigned to wait it out, she hunts down the roving bartender for another glass of the same.

Somehow, incredibly, another wave of partiers shows up around 1. Now she’s really annoyed. She’s fiddling with the tube of lipstick she’s kept close to all night. It’s a great color, a color so cherry red she’s sure the term was invented to name this very shade, but not at all longwearing. Plus, she feels a little old Hollywood glam by periodically sliding her compact mirror out of her pocket and slamming it shut while she purses her lips.

She’s on her third reapplication and …somewhere beyond her fourth bourbon when she catches sight of him again. He’s leaning against the stone wall of the outside of the house. She can barely see him through the throngs of people. He’s talking to someone on his left but someone on his right keeps bumping into him and there’s a couple sitting below him talking. He looks like a live action Prince Eric and she decides to analyze later why that turns her on so much. Her eyes rake him from curls to boots and she springs off her perch, smoothly uncrossing her legs to stalk him like a panther.

He doesn’t notice her arrive until she’s there with what could be perceived as a friendly hand on his solar plexus to get his attention. He drapes one cool, clammy hand over hers and smiles at her greeting.

“Hey you,” he says quietly, sure she can’t hear his voice over the DJ, the laughter and the drunk people pitching feature ideas to each other.

She doesn’t look up. Instead, she slides her hand up from under his so it’s resting over the last button that’s fastened at the center of his chest. She has to focus on not biting her lip and getting red pigment on her teeth. She’s pretty sure she dissociates a little when she turns her hand vertically and her fingers start to toy with the soft haze of chest hair he seems pretty proud to display. She feels his fingers creep up her forearm to her wrist when her hand dips inward under the shirt.

He’s quite sure he’s on fire. He doesn’t know what the hell has gotten into her but he wants to know so he can replicate this because, yes, he’s already thinking about making this happen again when it inevitably ends. With part embarrassed horror and part elated disbelief he watches as she steps forward and presses her wet open mouth on the inside of his left pec. He gasps and grabs at the ends of her hair when he feels her tongue, looking around to see how many eyes, or phones, are on him. And it is definitely a weird night because no one has even looked over at them as she’s mauling his chest amidst actual adults talking about parent teacher conferences. He looks back down at her as she retracts her reluctant lips from his skin, eyeing him warily.

His breath shakes as he lifts his free hand, because he just realizes the other is on her ass, to pull at his shirt and take stock of the damage. He wants to moan when he sees the red splotch she left him. He actually does moan a little when his eyes meet hers and she’s licking her lips and the pigment has bled out to smudge a little at the corners and below her lower lip.

“Oh my god,” he croaks.

She looks like she’s about to panic at his reaction so he grabs her by the wrist and yanks. Imposing definitely comes in handy now as he drags her, a little less gently than he would if he were sober, to the patio doors and into the low-lit house. He slams the door behind them and strides forward, lifting both his hands into his hair and facing away from her as his body heaves.

She’s working on gathering words of shameful apology when he’s turning around again and headed for her like a hurricane, knocking her against the wall behind her hips first because that’s where his hands land. She grabs at his shoulders as he thrusts his mouth into hers and it’s all tongue and teeth and relief and she could just die happy right there. But he’s got other ideas, so he begins leading her off the wall, aiming for where he’s pretty sure the laundry room was the last time he was invited to dinner and spilled pasta sauce on his white Saint Laurent tee like a dope.

She’s not sure how he finds it but they’re there and she’s formulating ideas about turning on the dryer for some added stimulation until he pulls away a little to lift her blouse over her head and gets another look at her all mussed up and fucked for him.

That’s when she gets another idea of where she’d like to see that classic MAC lipstick shade.

“Drop your pants,” she orders, pursing her lips and dropping her chin a little so her stare levels him.

He traps his swollen lower lip under his teeth and furrows his brow under the weight of his arousal. He obeys her, not noticing how the clinking of his belt buckle makes her breath catch in her throat. He drags his boxers and black skinnies down to his knees, pink cock slapping his stomach as she reaches into her back pocket. With the compact in one hand and the bullet-shaped tube of lipstick in the other, she continues staring at him as if daring him to wonder what she’s up to.

Gracefully, which is a wonder because they’re both sure she’s more bourbon than woman right now, she drops to her knees and uncaps the lipstick, pulling her eyes from his to watch herself reapply one last time for the evening.

“Oh, holy shit,” Shawn mutters when he catches on. She grins and for a flash of a second he sees the woman he recognizes in her, but just as quickly she’s gone, dropping her implements, unbuttoning his shirt and taking his dick into her hand.

He throws his head back at the much needed contact. She grips his thigh for balance with one hand and uses the other to feel him out, spreading the precum down his length and pumping him gently. He hums and alternates between letting his eyes flutter shut and looking down to watch her. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look at him at all. She’s focused on her task and he can practically see her strategizing in her head. How does she want this to go? What does she want to make him do? What does she want to make him feel?

It’s when his eyes are closed for a while that he feels the warm wetness around his tip and he moans loudly, but he’s too far gone for embarrassment now. He plants his massive hands on the dryer, wondering if his knees will give out before she even gets him all the way in her mouth.

She grasps him tightly as she pumps him in and out of her mouth, using her hand to stimulate what she can’t reach yet. She pulls back slightly to focus on the tip, thumbing down the ridge on the underside of his cock while she tightens her tongue to slide up the seam on his head. He cries out again and holds her hair away from her face so he can watch his length get covered in that wild color.

“Fucking—oh!” he gasps when she takes that steadying hand on his thigh and moves it to his balls, squeezing and rolling them in her hand experimentally.

She isn’t going for subtle here. She wants him to get off hard and fast because now that she’s started, she’s got other plans to execute and none of them involve fucking like undergrads drunk on orange juice and Malibu in their friends’ laundry room.

It’s working. Honestly, she could be kneeling between his legs without touching him, just looking up at him like she is with that color on her lips would probably be enough. He’s too polite to fuck her mouth so he pins his hips back against the dryer and listens to a combination of the lewd sucking noises and the roaring in his ears.

She can’t believe how fucking good he looks right now. He’s totally lost in it, his face expressing every feeling in his body. It’s like a game for her – if I do this with my tongue, can I make him hiss through his teeth again? If I pump him a little faster, what pet names will he call me? She’s never enjoyed a blow job this much in her life and even though part of her wants to make this last, she wants the real power, the power she gets from unraveling him like thread in her fingers. She looks up to see him staring at her, smiling a little when he sees her eyes again. That almost knocks her off-kilter. She feels so soft when he smiles at her like that.

Quickly, she refocuses and begins to hum low in her throat. Just like that, his eyes are shut and his jaw drops. He’s muttering unintelligibly and she wants to hear him louder so she clamps both hands around his hips and takes him to the back of her throat, stilling for a second to let him feel her as the tip of her nose brushes his stomach.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” he’s crying and his knees do give for just a second but he rights himself so she can continue. She does that three or four more times until he’s panting her name.

“Mmm… fuck, fuck I’m gonna come,” he announces, whimpering weakly and letting his head hang down to watch her.

He moans long and loud when it barrels through him, taking all his self-control not to fuck down her throat as she rides him out, swallowing every drop like she’s been waiting for it. She moans too at the taste of him, gasping breath against his inner thigh as they recover.

Lazily, she begins plodding more dull pink kisses up his leg until the pigment fades out altogether around the middle of his abdomen. He regains some strength and motor control, enough to help her up and kiss her more tenderly. When he starts to pull away to breathe, she holds the curls at the back of his neck to keep him in place, biting his lower lip firmly. His body relaxes in her grip and she smiles, releasing him when she’s ready.

“So…” he begins, clearing his throat.

“How did you know where the laundry room was?” she snickers, eyes glinting at him playfully.

He shakes his head and pulls her into his chest, sighing at the smell of tiki smoke and mint in her hair.

“Your place or mine?” she whispers.

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