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delicious poisoner, soren + isobel

Fic: Lipstick

Posted on 2008.05.28 at 15:36
Locus (Location): Philadelphia, PA
Affectus (State of Mind): curiouscurious
Camena (Music): "Tainted Love" - Marilyn Manson
Tags: ,

Title:  Lipstick
Series:  Vanity
Author:  Green Owl
Pairing:  Soren & Isobel
Fandom:  Underworld
Rating:  PG
Word Count:  400
Author's Note:  Inspired by the Midnight Poison perfume ad for Dior.

Another night, another endless and lavish gathering to endure…

He shed his trenchcoat, laid his vest and whips on the table, donned a jacket…life had been so much simpler when he’d worn a uniform. The modern emphasis on individuality with regards to attire ate at his natural sense of order and discipline.

Jagged lightning and splattered raindrops decorated his view of the lawn as he fixed his collar and cuffs.

The darkening had not gone well.

Lucian’s forces were increasing and Raze had the audacity to stare at him across the hood of the limousine.

He had had many misgivings about Kraven’s latest intrigue as they drove back to Ordoghaz, but he kept them to himself – the muscle was not expected to give (much less hold) an opinion.

She was waiting for him when he descended the stairs, standing at one of the windows, a forgotten glass of wine dangling from her long white fingers as she gazed at the storm that raged outside with a look of utter insouciance in her shaded eyes.

He was cautious as he approached, leaving enough space between them for private conversation, but not enough for public claming as he came to stand next to her.

They stood there for what must have seemed like an age to her before he spoke.

“You’re new,” he commented.

“You’re not,” she countered.

A general received accent. Intriguing…

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Does it matter?” she replied.

He considered her response for a moment before he answered. “Not really.”

Her provocative mouth, painted with lush red lipstick, curved into a wicked scimitar-shaped smirk. “I didn’t think so.”

Another long bit of silence stretched between them.

“What do you like?” he murmured quietly, turning to look at her.

“What do you want me to like?” she inquired softly, ever so slightly inclining her body towards his.

Hunger surged through his veins.

He had planned on appearing uninterested, on letting her believe that he was truly debating on whether or not to extend an invitation to her.

All designs of indifference departed as he glanced down at her beautifully decorated lips.

He held out his hand.

She placed hers in his.

He guided her with detachment through the crowd of indolent on-lookers, careful to maintain his mask of composure as they approached the stairs.

She trembled and he steadied her.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

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