(Thor) Jingle Boobs
Title: Jingle Boobs
Fandom: Thor (Movieverse)
Pairing: Jane/Darcy
Rating: R
Words: 562
Notes: For Femslash Yuletide, prompt "trimming the tree".
Summary: Jane fights the Christmas tree. Darcy 'helps'. With bells on.
It’s an artificial Christmas tree, thin and weedy and kind of pathetic looking. It’s also a total bastard, and Jane’s hands ache red raw from spending the last half hour trying to fluff its branches out and arrange it just so. It feels like she has a million paper cuts, but her hands aren’t bleeding at all, just pink and sore.
The tree barely looks any better than when she first started, the whole damn thing listing dangerously to the left.
Jane sighs and surrenders to the fact that it isn’t going to get any better than what she’s looking at. She hadn’t even been the one who wanted the tree set up in the first place. That would be Darcy, who’d whined throughout the entirety of November about how England didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so if she couldn’t have turkey she at least needed sparkly lights to keep her festive spirit high. Now it’s the first day of December, and Erik looks like he’ll need to double his dosage if he has to hear Darcy moan about Christmas decorations one more time, so Jane’s taking one for the team. Even though she has a whole stack of paperwork that needs her attention.
She probably wouldn’t be so grumpy about the whole situation if Darcy was actually helping.
“Look,” Darcy grins at her. She shimmies her shoulders, chest swaying, the silver bell decorations she’s shoved down between her breasts instead of on the tree chiming cheerfully from their nest within her shirt. “Jingle boobs!”
Jane sighs again. Her palms throb irritably.
“What? C’mon, that is hilarious,” Darcy grins, bouncing slightly on the spot. Bells chime; Jane gets a little hypnotised by the movement of her cleavage. “Jingle boobs!”
Jane pointedly turns away from Darcy’s breasts and makes a show of poking through the remaining decorations. Which aren’t terribly impressive, split between a box of her mother’s tasteful white and gold baubles, and the rainbow contents of a Poundland bag Darcy had appeared with the second their Christmas stock had hit the shelves.
The bells are still chiming. “Jingle booooobs,” Darcy sings.
Jane looks at the tree. She looks at the decorations. She looks at her sore hands.
“Jingle all the waaaay!”
Erik’s a grown man, he can take one more day of Darcy whining about there being no decorations up.
Darcy’s squeal is even louder than the tinny cacophony of the bells when Jane tackles her to the couch. Jane kisses her quiet, the chiming muffled between their chests. Her hands sting uncomfortably as she opens the fly of Darcy’s jeans, the denim rough and scratchy against her palms, but she manages to drag both jeans and panties down Darcy’s legs through stubborn determination, Darcy’s helpful wiggles being more distracting than anything.
Darcy smirks up at her, face flushed, hair all over the place.
“You’re the one who wanted the stupid tree up,” Jane reminds her.
Darcy’s knees spread wide. “Sex first, then Christmas.”
Jane wants to roll her eyes, but she’s too fixated on leaning down, inhaling the scent of warm skin and sex as she presses her mouth between Darcy’s legs. The bells down Darcy’s shirt jingle as her back arches, hips rocking up against Jane’s face. Jane decides she kind of likes the sound after all.
Midway through Darcy’s first orgasm, the Christmas tree falls over. Neither of them notice.
Fandom: Thor (Movieverse)
Pairing: Jane/Darcy
Rating: R
Words: 562
Notes: For Femslash Yuletide, prompt "trimming the tree".
Summary: Jane fights the Christmas tree. Darcy 'helps'. With bells on.
It’s an artificial Christmas tree, thin and weedy and kind of pathetic looking. It’s also a total bastard, and Jane’s hands ache red raw from spending the last half hour trying to fluff its branches out and arrange it just so. It feels like she has a million paper cuts, but her hands aren’t bleeding at all, just pink and sore.
The tree barely looks any better than when she first started, the whole damn thing listing dangerously to the left.
Jane sighs and surrenders to the fact that it isn’t going to get any better than what she’s looking at. She hadn’t even been the one who wanted the tree set up in the first place. That would be Darcy, who’d whined throughout the entirety of November about how England didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so if she couldn’t have turkey she at least needed sparkly lights to keep her festive spirit high. Now it’s the first day of December, and Erik looks like he’ll need to double his dosage if he has to hear Darcy moan about Christmas decorations one more time, so Jane’s taking one for the team. Even though she has a whole stack of paperwork that needs her attention.
She probably wouldn’t be so grumpy about the whole situation if Darcy was actually helping.
“Look,” Darcy grins at her. She shimmies her shoulders, chest swaying, the silver bell decorations she’s shoved down between her breasts instead of on the tree chiming cheerfully from their nest within her shirt. “Jingle boobs!”
Jane sighs again. Her palms throb irritably.
“What? C’mon, that is hilarious,” Darcy grins, bouncing slightly on the spot. Bells chime; Jane gets a little hypnotised by the movement of her cleavage. “Jingle boobs!”
Jane pointedly turns away from Darcy’s breasts and makes a show of poking through the remaining decorations. Which aren’t terribly impressive, split between a box of her mother’s tasteful white and gold baubles, and the rainbow contents of a Poundland bag Darcy had appeared with the second their Christmas stock had hit the shelves.
The bells are still chiming. “Jingle booooobs,” Darcy sings.
Jane looks at the tree. She looks at the decorations. She looks at her sore hands.
“Jingle all the waaaay!”
Erik’s a grown man, he can take one more day of Darcy whining about there being no decorations up.
Darcy’s squeal is even louder than the tinny cacophony of the bells when Jane tackles her to the couch. Jane kisses her quiet, the chiming muffled between their chests. Her hands sting uncomfortably as she opens the fly of Darcy’s jeans, the denim rough and scratchy against her palms, but she manages to drag both jeans and panties down Darcy’s legs through stubborn determination, Darcy’s helpful wiggles being more distracting than anything.
Darcy smirks up at her, face flushed, hair all over the place.
“You’re the one who wanted the stupid tree up,” Jane reminds her.
Darcy’s knees spread wide. “Sex first, then Christmas.”
Jane wants to roll her eyes, but she’s too fixated on leaning down, inhaling the scent of warm skin and sex as she presses her mouth between Darcy’s legs. The bells down Darcy’s shirt jingle as her back arches, hips rocking up against Jane’s face. Jane decides she kind of likes the sound after all.
Midway through Darcy’s first orgasm, the Christmas tree falls over. Neither of them notice.