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We Met	By : elegyenigma Category: +S through Z > Tomb Raider (all) > Tomb Raider (all) Views: 12660 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Tomb Raider game series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Before I start:

My name is LG Mills.�
What does LG stand for?� Doesn�t matter.� I�ll
be your host for this show�
Oh god, fuck this.
Ok, I�m Lg, and I just randomly
decided to write a smutfic with Lara Croft.� Why is this?�
Cuz I feel like it.� And if you�ve seen the newest Tomb Raider
game, and you like women, you�ll probably agree with me, unless you�re a woman
who is basically the jealous type and therefore doesn�t like her because she�s
just too hot, but I digress.� But if that
IS the case, well, whatever, but your jealousy is half of why you aren�t as
attractive as her.� Pride, dignity, and
kindness are three things that boost your appearance more than any amount of
makeup can help with.� And,
of course, a diet.� Don�t expect
to be putting away a whole pizza every meal, then just be proud of yourself and
expect guys to fall all over you, cuz it won�t
happen.� We�ll just feel nauseated by
it.� And if you are on a diet and it�s
not helping, then realize this:�
EXERCISE!!� IT WORKS WONDERS!

Uh, anyway, enough of my mini-advice
column.� >_>� I do have one, though, by the way�ask
if you�re interested.� :D

ANYHOO.

This fic is basically, in summary,
Lara Croft, getting hooked up with one of my characters.
Yes, I�m a loser who obsesses over women who are not real.� I�ve got a whole list of them, if you want to
hear it.� It numbers
somewhere near 500 women.� None of
them are real.
But hell, if there was a one of them, who was a non-furre (If you don�t know what I�m talking about, ask.� If you don�t have anything nice to say about
it, zip it or I�ll rip you a new one.� If
you�re a fan�Holla!�
�Never again.) anyways,
then it�d be Lara Croft.� If it included furres, though�have to say Krystal,
from Starfox (Adventures � Assault).
Anyways, fuck, I need to stop digressing.� On with the fic
before I get side tracked again!

Ps.� I do not own Lara
Croft.� And to be honest, I�m not sure
who does, but she�s copyrighted to whoever those types of people are.� Lucky bastids.

Chapter 1:� Damsels in
dresses and dudes in duds.

� National
Archeology Convention, 2006.� All
the big names in archeology were here�and strangely, some of architecture�and
zoology.� And
paleontology, although that was kind of expected.� Some were at the center of attention, others
weren�t.� Women that were, in their usual
place of profession, covered in dust, going without showers two weeks at a
time, looking more like men than fem, were decked out in elaborate,
form-hugging dresses, some that glittered, others that shone, others that
rippled, and some that almost showed nipple.�
Men, often seen in the same state as their female counterparts, were
dressed in tuxedos, three-piece suits, and expensive threads.� Champagne
was passed around, martinis were shaken, wine uncorked, and dark beers popped.
� In the midst of this
stood one woman in particular, who held a name for herself far higher than any
of the others as far as the professional world went.� Strangely, not many paid attention to
her.� Not for that, anyway.� The real attention-grabber on her part was
the part of her most wanted grabbing.� Their
men�s eyes transfixed on her DD chest and firm rear, many girlfriends and wives
couldn�t help but glare at her for the attention being stolen from them.
� Lara couldn�t care
less.
� Her dress was a
glittering, elegant black.� It was a �
chest cover, and reached halfway down her thighs, displaying her long, powerful
but not overly athletic legs nicely, 3 inch high heels, black,
worn over her feet.� She held a glass of
grey goose martini in one hand, taking a slow sip through her full,
maroon-glossed lips, licking her lips slowly of the smooth liquor.� It was all a show, of course, this entire
convention.� All the pompous, old
assholes smirking as they spoke with the dirt-scrabblers,
bragging on their past exploits of museums and how rich it had made them and so
on and so forth.� Hell, half of them had
just STARTED rich, then employed a workforce of illegal immigrants to cut up
some rare pieces here and there, sold them to a two-bit museum in the middle of
nowhere, and called it success.
� She had pride in
herself for doing what she did, and actually being successful at it, too.� Her 43-room estate, 20-car garage (all filled
with various imports and some of the finest US-made cars), and 1,000 acre
property were testament to that.
� Everyone thought she
was a snob.
� Maybe three guys and
one woman in this place, packed to the brim with every archeologist and
paleontologist, actually had ever spoken to her or done something besides read
a newspaper article about her. �It sure
as hell had stunned plenty of people when she�d gone onto the Dave Letterman
late night show, and seemed as humble as a common city girl, actually genuinely
blushing at some of the compliments directed at her.
� Everyone thought
wrong.
� Yes, she had a ton
of cash�yes, she had the fame�
� But she had herself
to share it with.� Nobody
else.
� She set the
now-empty glass down on a small table, taking a look around before deciding to
make her exit, unannounced.� This was
even more boring than it had been last year.
� She could get any
guy she wanted.
� But none of them
wanted to hear ANY of that �romance� stuff.�
And those that did were so obvious in lying that they�d do it, that it
would be easier if they just said �Yes, I want to screw your tits, bask in your
limitless supply of cash, and divorce you when I get bored.�
� It would be at least
truthful, then.
� No, the sultry,
famous tomb raider had no luck finding her one.
� Was she being picky?
� Far
from it.
� She was just tired
of every guy being so shallow that it made the kiddy pool look
like the middle of the pacific ocean.
� Her heels clicked on
the concrete as she walked along outside the sidewalk, as she reached up behind
her head.� Her luxurious, dark brown hair
was held up in an elegant bun, but she liked it down, or at least in a
pony-tail style.� She undid the wrap
holding her hair in place, letting it cascade down her back.
� She heard him before
she saw him.
� A hand, scarred and
rather hairy, managed to wrap around her breast, before she delivered a
blindingly-fast karate-chop to the arm attached to the hand, breaking her
�assailant�s� forearm in half.� As the
man pulled back, about to scream in pain, she spun and delivered a roundhouse
kick to the side of the man�s head.� He
probably got a brief glimpse of her panties, but the thing was, the blow was
enough to render the man unconscious and in a state to not remember very much
besides that he was in a lot of pain when he�d wake up, which would take a day
or two.� She huffed in annoyance, smoothed
her dress out, and hailed the next cab that passed by.� The driver raised an eyebrow in puzzlement at
the unconscious man, but she shook her head.
� �Just
a homeless guy.� East
Sheston avenue, number
6,� she said.� The driver shrugged,
nodded, and the taxi drove off.
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