New fic: Fedora, M, DWP
Title: Fedora
Rating: M
Notes: For the Green Beer & Kisses porn battle going on over at femslash_today. Prompt: private show. Sometimes prompts like these result in a good deal of Andy wearing something interesting; I went in another direction and threw in something extra. Thanks to Xander for the look-see.
Andy waits in what’s called “the parlour,” which is really a living room that no one spends much time in unless there’s a party going on. It’s a nice enough room, but a little cold, like the persona Miranda wears for much of the outside world. Tonight, she lies on a leather sofa, and the surface is cold against her naked skin. It’s a small price to pay.
Her heart pounds in anticipation, knees rubbing together. She glances at the clock on the cherry wood desk and tries not to let her excitement get the better of her. If she gets started first, Miranda will never, ever agree to do this again. Instead she laces her hands together behind her head, and waits.
The door opens and closes downstairs. Andy shivers, imagining she can feel the blustery air blowing in behind Miranda. Only moments pass before Miranda ascends the stairs. Andy’s eyes widen at the image she’s confronted with-Miranda has really dressed for the occasion. A fedora covers silver hair, and Miranda shakes the snow off the hat before tossing it on the desk. She never once glances at Andy, though she knows Andy’s there. Watching. Next, Miranda opens her suit jacket and loosens the tie around her neck. Andy holds her breath, trying hard to keep silent.
This desire to watch Miranda do this thing, this private thing, makes no sense to Andy, yet she still wants it. She’s amazed it’s actually happening. As discussed, Miranda turns on the desk lamp, and it throws beautiful light and shadow against the contours of Miranda’s face. Miranda pours a glass of scotch and sips it once, twice, before downing the rest of it in a single swallow. She actually pours a second glass, and Andy imagines it’s only for show, for Miranda only sniffs the liquor before taking her seat with a grunt.
Miranda’s eyes close, and her head falls back. Andy hears her inhale through her nose, and tries to imagine what she’s fantasizing about. Maybe about Andy unzipping her trousers and going down on her, maybe about fucking Andy up against the wall, maybe about sex with someone else altogether. Andy doesn’t mind; they each have their own fantasy lives, but Miranda always comes home to her.
“Mm,” Miranda hums, loosening her tie further, but not removing it. This is at Andy’s request. Instead, Miranda’s hand snakes down between her legs and presses without hesitation. Her feet, clad in outrageously expensive two-tone oxfords, plant on the floor as her hips lift against her palm. Andy gasps, biting her lip so as not to say a word. She touches her breast, but only a little, just enough to remind herself that she’ll get her reward in the end.
Andy’s attention is caught by the sound of Miranda’s belt being undone and dropped on the floor. The zipper is next, and in the shadows Andy spots men’s briefs. The kind with the little pocket. Miranda had wondered if Andy had wanted her to pack that night, but Andy doesn’t care about that. She just likes the trappings of masculinity on Miranda-a strange contrast to her utterly dominant femininity. This presents multiple levels of potentially confusing weirdness, but since Andy started up with Miranda, she’s learned to discard some of her early worries about gender and sexuality. Now she tries to go with the flow. If she wants it, Miranda gives it to her, and vice versa.
Miranda’s fingers slip inside that pocket, and Andy squeezes her own legs together. The leather beneath her skin has warmed from her body heat, and she’s sweating now. She pulls on one nipple as Miranda licks her lips while her fingers explore. Andy watches voraciously, wishing she could see exactly what those fingers are up to, but she can almost tell from Miranda’s expression. When her mouth opens a little, Andy decides Miranda’s circling her clit, testing its sensitivity. When she grits her teeth, Andy thinks she’s dipped inside, just at the entrance, where she loves to be touched. And when she curls forward, knees parting more widely, Andy makes a noise, because she believes Miranda’s gone deeper now, two fingers or more.
Andy doesn’t know how much longer she can wait. Miranda’s breath is fast, but if she comes, Andy’s going to be supremely disappointed. She loves the tension in the air, waiting to be broken; she wants to take it even higher, but then Miranda gasps-she’s close. With that, Andy rolls off the couch in one smooth motion and looms over Miranda. She grabs her head and kisses her, and both Miranda’s hands come around her waist to drag her down to the floor. Andy expected she’d be the one on top, but Miranda, still fully clothed, doesn’t seem to want to give up her autonomy. She pulls Andy’s hand into her trousers and underwear, where it’s wet, so wet, and pushes her own hand between Andy’s damp thighs. They rut against each other, Miranda thrusting in rhythm to Andy’s breathing. Their foreheads press together, and they don’t say anything. That is, until Miranda manages to groan, “Oh,” which makes Andy clench around her fingers as a warning-she’s going to come, and soon. “Yes,” Miranda hisses, undulating in shorter, sharp strokes, and somehow they manage to achieve that most challenging of clichés: the simultaneous orgasm. Of course it’s not exactly simultaneous-Miranda comes first, and the shock of it spurs Andy right after her. It’s not unusual; Miranda’s orgasm has always been a huge turn on. If Andy were a more patient person, she would have waited to watch Miranda get off on her own, but she is greedy.
Miranda huffs her scotch-infused breath into Andy’s ear as she sags. “Ungh,” she croaks, collapsing onto Andy’s prone body.
Andy just smiles. A few seconds pass before she rubs the sole of her foot along Miranda’s calf. “Thanks for the show,” she murmurs.
Miranda turns her head, one eyebrow raised. Her hair is mussed and sexy. “My pleasure.”
Rating: M
Notes: For the Green Beer & Kisses porn battle going on over at femslash_today. Prompt: private show. Sometimes prompts like these result in a good deal of Andy wearing something interesting; I went in another direction and threw in something extra. Thanks to Xander for the look-see.
Andy waits in what’s called “the parlour,” which is really a living room that no one spends much time in unless there’s a party going on. It’s a nice enough room, but a little cold, like the persona Miranda wears for much of the outside world. Tonight, she lies on a leather sofa, and the surface is cold against her naked skin. It’s a small price to pay.
Her heart pounds in anticipation, knees rubbing together. She glances at the clock on the cherry wood desk and tries not to let her excitement get the better of her. If she gets started first, Miranda will never, ever agree to do this again. Instead she laces her hands together behind her head, and waits.
The door opens and closes downstairs. Andy shivers, imagining she can feel the blustery air blowing in behind Miranda. Only moments pass before Miranda ascends the stairs. Andy’s eyes widen at the image she’s confronted with-Miranda has really dressed for the occasion. A fedora covers silver hair, and Miranda shakes the snow off the hat before tossing it on the desk. She never once glances at Andy, though she knows Andy’s there. Watching. Next, Miranda opens her suit jacket and loosens the tie around her neck. Andy holds her breath, trying hard to keep silent.
This desire to watch Miranda do this thing, this private thing, makes no sense to Andy, yet she still wants it. She’s amazed it’s actually happening. As discussed, Miranda turns on the desk lamp, and it throws beautiful light and shadow against the contours of Miranda’s face. Miranda pours a glass of scotch and sips it once, twice, before downing the rest of it in a single swallow. She actually pours a second glass, and Andy imagines it’s only for show, for Miranda only sniffs the liquor before taking her seat with a grunt.
Miranda’s eyes close, and her head falls back. Andy hears her inhale through her nose, and tries to imagine what she’s fantasizing about. Maybe about Andy unzipping her trousers and going down on her, maybe about fucking Andy up against the wall, maybe about sex with someone else altogether. Andy doesn’t mind; they each have their own fantasy lives, but Miranda always comes home to her.
“Mm,” Miranda hums, loosening her tie further, but not removing it. This is at Andy’s request. Instead, Miranda’s hand snakes down between her legs and presses without hesitation. Her feet, clad in outrageously expensive two-tone oxfords, plant on the floor as her hips lift against her palm. Andy gasps, biting her lip so as not to say a word. She touches her breast, but only a little, just enough to remind herself that she’ll get her reward in the end.
Andy’s attention is caught by the sound of Miranda’s belt being undone and dropped on the floor. The zipper is next, and in the shadows Andy spots men’s briefs. The kind with the little pocket. Miranda had wondered if Andy had wanted her to pack that night, but Andy doesn’t care about that. She just likes the trappings of masculinity on Miranda-a strange contrast to her utterly dominant femininity. This presents multiple levels of potentially confusing weirdness, but since Andy started up with Miranda, she’s learned to discard some of her early worries about gender and sexuality. Now she tries to go with the flow. If she wants it, Miranda gives it to her, and vice versa.
Miranda’s fingers slip inside that pocket, and Andy squeezes her own legs together. The leather beneath her skin has warmed from her body heat, and she’s sweating now. She pulls on one nipple as Miranda licks her lips while her fingers explore. Andy watches voraciously, wishing she could see exactly what those fingers are up to, but she can almost tell from Miranda’s expression. When her mouth opens a little, Andy decides Miranda’s circling her clit, testing its sensitivity. When she grits her teeth, Andy thinks she’s dipped inside, just at the entrance, where she loves to be touched. And when she curls forward, knees parting more widely, Andy makes a noise, because she believes Miranda’s gone deeper now, two fingers or more.
Andy doesn’t know how much longer she can wait. Miranda’s breath is fast, but if she comes, Andy’s going to be supremely disappointed. She loves the tension in the air, waiting to be broken; she wants to take it even higher, but then Miranda gasps-she’s close. With that, Andy rolls off the couch in one smooth motion and looms over Miranda. She grabs her head and kisses her, and both Miranda’s hands come around her waist to drag her down to the floor. Andy expected she’d be the one on top, but Miranda, still fully clothed, doesn’t seem to want to give up her autonomy. She pulls Andy’s hand into her trousers and underwear, where it’s wet, so wet, and pushes her own hand between Andy’s damp thighs. They rut against each other, Miranda thrusting in rhythm to Andy’s breathing. Their foreheads press together, and they don’t say anything. That is, until Miranda manages to groan, “Oh,” which makes Andy clench around her fingers as a warning-she’s going to come, and soon. “Yes,” Miranda hisses, undulating in shorter, sharp strokes, and somehow they manage to achieve that most challenging of clichés: the simultaneous orgasm. Of course it’s not exactly simultaneous-Miranda comes first, and the shock of it spurs Andy right after her. It’s not unusual; Miranda’s orgasm has always been a huge turn on. If Andy were a more patient person, she would have waited to watch Miranda get off on her own, but she is greedy.
Miranda huffs her scotch-infused breath into Andy’s ear as she sags. “Ungh,” she croaks, collapsing onto Andy’s prone body.
Andy just smiles. A few seconds pass before she rubs the sole of her foot along Miranda’s calf. “Thanks for the show,” she murmurs.
Miranda turns her head, one eyebrow raised. Her hair is mussed and sexy. “My pleasure.”