Title: Leather
Author: A. Magiluna Stormwriter
Feedback address: stormwriter@shatterstorm.net
Date in Calendar: 26 June 2010
Fandom: Criminal Minds/CSI
Pairing: Emily Prentiss/Sofia Curtis
Rating: PG
Date Written: 19-25 June 2010
Word Count: 806
Written for: [community profile] kink_bingo
Prompt: Leather/Latex/Rubber
Additional prompt: [community profile] femslash_kink's Criminal Minds/(Any): Emily Prentiss/Any, leather
Summary: While on vacation, Emily Prentiss meets a mysterious stranger.
Spoilers/Warnings: none really
Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Frisked & Conquered
Link to: http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/
Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
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Disclaimer: "Criminal Minds", the characters, and situations depicted are the property of CBS Productions, Touchstone Television, The Mark Gordon Company, and ABC Studios. "CSI: Crime Scene Investigators," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Jerry Bruckheimer Television, Alliance Atlantis, and CBS Productions. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with these series, their owners, or any representatives of the actors.

Author's Notes: Sometimes I have no idea where my muses come up with their ideas. Then again, I have a goal of writing crossovers where Sofia Curtis is paired up with every one of my favorite lovely ladies from the various procedural shows. There's a similar goal for Calleigh Duquesne, too, but that's for another time. Emily Prentiss is a fascinating character, one that I hope to work with again someday. Which means, there might be a sequel and there might not…

Dedication: My muses, for never backing away from trying something new…

Beta: [personal profile] shatterpath & [personal profile] ct

"Leather"
By A. Magiluna Stormwriter


"Are you kidding?"

Garcia's voice rises in shock -- and volume -- forcing me to pull my phone away from my ear. She continues to ramble on in this same vein as my eyes dart around the room to see if anyone else can hear her. Thankfully, the bar is just noisy enough that she's probably no more than the high-pitched background hum of a mosquito to most of its denizens. Also fortunately, it's just quiet enough so that I can hear her without having to strain.

Movement in my peripheral vision has me turning to study the latest person entering the bar. From the ragged round of greetings, she must be a regular to the establishment. What was the name again? Tribadations? I think that was the name that cute little desk clerk gave me when I asked. The clerk is completely obliterated from my thoughts as the new arrival steps further in toward the bar.

Long blonde hair falls without curl to the middle of her back, made even lighter against the dull black of her biker's jacket. No decorations adorn the leather, but there are obvious worn areas that speak of a lifetime of use and abuse. Worn jeans tight enough to be painted on accentuate the curve of ass and hips, while the long lines of the black chaps draw the eyes down those legs that seem to go on for days, only to disappear into scuffed boots. Even in the dim light of the bar, I can see calculation and affection in her pale blue eyes.

Without thought, I start doing the one thing I'm not supposed to be doing while on this little "vacation" of mine. There's an aura of mystery and control about her that is fascinating. The other women in the bar regard her either as competition or blatantly show their desire to submit to her. The latter is only cemented when she pins that smoky blue gaze on a particularly giddy young thing; I have to wonder if the girl is really legal enough to be here in the first place.

"Emily! Are you even listening to me?"

The clearly annoyed tone of Garcia's voice is the only thing that can tear my eyes away from the spectacle before me.

"Sorry, I was -- distracted," I finally reply, wincing at the high, clear decibel indicative of her disdain at being ignored. I don't have to look to know that my mystery woman has heard and is watching me; I can feel those eyes boring into my skin. "Look, I'll talk to you later, okay? I'll explain everything then. Promise."

She's still protesting when I end the call and turn the phone off, stuffing it into my pocket. Downing my beer, I signal the bartender for another one. A couple of deep breaths shake off any reluctance at my decision to come here in the first place, and then I'm glancing over my shoulder to survey the bar's inhabitants again. Okay, so I'm looking for my blonde hottie.

"Looking for someone?"

The dark, throaty chuckle in response to my jerk of surprise shouldn't really shock me. It makes sense that anyone with such a dark and mysterious aura, would never have a high, girly voice. The wardrobe suits the persona she wears as comfortably as the leather itself. Leaning on the bar with a nonchalance I don't really feel, I regard her calmly, trying to be cool. That slow, knowing smile is both hot and irritating, sparking my interest further and making me want to snarl.

"Maybe." The word is out of my mouth before I even registered it as a thought. Great! Now I'm flirting with the unsu-- this unknown woman. Eating, sleeping, and breathing the job, even when I'm not on the job? Damn, Hotch was right! I do need a vacation.

"I’m something of a regular around here," she says in that low, slow tone that has been known to drive me to distraction. "Maybe I can help?" When I don't say anything automatically, she stretches out a hand. "Sofia Curtis, formerly of Las Vegas."

Much to my dismay, my mother's insistence that I learn proper manners kicks into gear as I take the proffered hand. "Emily Prentiss, not from around here."

"So I gathered."

And she's got a sarcastic streak? Why am I getting the feeling that I'm about to be in a world of hurt? Before protocol would require me to answer, she turns to lean over the bar to signal the bartender for another round. This offers me the chance to study the curves so nonchalantly encased in well-worn leather and denim. Maybe it's some vestige of my wild youth, but the sight of a woman in leather does something to me, something involuntary and -- if I'm lucky -- very messy.