fic: Homecoming
Aug. 7th, 2011 08:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: Homecoming
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Heather/Fiona (Otherwise known as Feather)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1052
Author's note: Porn battle 12. Modern AU. Foriridescentice's birthday, though it's been in-progress for a while.
She undoes her hair, and takes off her pearls which are biting at her neck. To be a queen in Marado these days is practically to be a figurehead, nobility in name only, but she does her best by her people. She does not wear extravagant dresses, or a crown. In her conservative pantsuit she more resembles a lawyer than a queen. Fiona undoes the pins of her bun and lets her hair fall free. She kicks off her boring, conservative, sensible heels and leaves them by the door.
She thinks a nice, long bubble bath with mineral salts is in order. Her left heel is killing her–she thinks she'll have to get a new pair of shoes, because the heel nearly gave out this morning. She tries to think of a point of free time between overseeing the new law coming into effect about laguz rights, and her meeting with the new queen of Daein. She finds only more things to be doing. Maybe she'll have to have her assistant get it for her instead.
Last birthday, Heather gave her a red teddy. Heather was of course, wearing the teddy at the time. She wasn't there for the winter holidays, having traveled to go visit her mother. Fiona would have liked to come and check on Heather's mother as well, but things are as they stand. Heather isn't quite truthful to her mother–there's a certain highly embroidered tale of her dating a high ranking politician who must keep it quiet. And of course, there is Marado at stake. She can't just up and leave to go to some middle class house in Crimea without the tabloids following her.
It is her duty as a queen. It separates her from what–who–she most wants at times. But she does not regret it, at least, not usually. Her hands are on the buttons of her white dress shirt when she catches sight of something glittery and red on the borough.
It's a card.
She picks it up and studies it. It smells thickly of Heather's perfume, a smell of bitter roses and earth.
She doesn't hear the footsteps, doesn't know until Heather's arms are around her neck and she's brought into an embrace. She squirms at the feel of Heather's breasts to her back. It's been a while, and her body aches with a need for closeness.
"I got it just for you," Heather says, a low purr to her ear. "I could've gotten you some of the crown jewels while I was Crimea, but I didn't think you'd approve of that."
Fiona smiles despite herself. "No, Heather. I daresay I wouldn't."
"Open it," Heather urges.
Fiona does. Her gloves make it hard to deal with papers at times. With a smile, Heather begins to pull them off. It's such an intimate gesture between them.
"Who did you steal this from?" Fiona says teasingly.
"Honestly, don't you think better of me?" Heather says. "I paid for it with my hard-earned money that I lifted from some stuffy noble back in Crimea."
It's a suggestive card. A very, very suggestive card, one seemingly tailor made for Heather. Despite some of the things they've gotten up to–sex on balconies, in hidden rooms and in the backs of rented cars–Fiona flushes.
"Let me help you with that," Heather says. She slowly begins to unbutton the shirt. Heather's very good at undoing things. Locks, clothing, even her reserve. Fiona doesn't have it in her to protest that anyone could come in–she's sure the door has been properly attended to, regardless–Heather is good at finding ways to spring locks, even though her natural exhibitionism streak makes her want to leave it ajar, daring anyone to come in and watch.
The card tips over on the borough, and it's to the wall they end up. Fiona's back to it as Heather peels off the rest of her clothes. One by one, they fall to the floor around her, until she's naked against the wall and Heather is kissing her.
Heather's quick fingers find their way into her. She's already wet and soft, and the entrance makes her moan against Heather's mouth and grip her shirt. When they break apart for a desperate, ragged breath, Fiona squeezes Heather's breasts, stroking them through the skintight tube top. She leans down just enough so suck Heather's hardened nipple through the material. The spandex begins to take on a darker tinge with moisture.
Heather falters in the thrust of her fingers, but only a moment, and then she's thrusting in deep and hard. Fiona buries her face in Heather's cleavage, she's clenched tight about Heather's fingers. Her breath is shallow as she works her hand into Heather's pants, touching along her hip until she's between her thighs, rubbing her way up.
They grip and grope each other with their free hands like newly released prisoners, not lovers only separated a few short weeks. It's quick, and with each using the extent of their knowledge of each other. Fiona's thumb is making circles about Heather's clit, and Heather in turn is thrusting in, rubbing the palm of her hand against her with every thrust of her fingers.
Fiona comes first. She always comes first, because it's Heather and in her own way, Heather hates to lose. She clenches around Heather's fingers, her own buried deep in Heather, feeling the same warmth together, like a conduit. They fall back against the wall, panting and murmuring soft words.
The worries of the day pass away. They slide down to sitting, leaning against the wall, their fingers still sticky with the scent of each other.
"You have so much to tell me," Fiona says. And she pulls Heather in for a kiss, resting her head close when their lips part just to feel her a little longer.
"Oh, I think you've got a few tales to tell of your own," Heather says.
And yes, she thinks. There's many things to be said between the kisses, the sheets, and the languorous shared sleep and everything she has missed in this absence.
Series: FE10
Character/Pairing: Heather/Fiona (Otherwise known as Feather)
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1052
Author's note: Porn battle 12. Modern AU. For
iridescentice's birthday, though it's been in-progress for a while.She undoes her hair, and takes off her pearls which are biting at her neck. To be a queen in Marado these days is practically to be a figurehead, nobility in name only, but she does her best by her people. She does not wear extravagant dresses, or a crown. In her conservative pantsuit she more resembles a lawyer than a queen. Fiona undoes the pins of her bun and lets her hair fall free. She kicks off her boring, conservative, sensible heels and leaves them by the door.
She thinks a nice, long bubble bath with mineral salts is in order. Her left heel is killing her–she thinks she'll have to get a new pair of shoes, because the heel nearly gave out this morning. She tries to think of a point of free time between overseeing the new law coming into effect about laguz rights, and her meeting with the new queen of Daein. She finds only more things to be doing. Maybe she'll have to have her assistant get it for her instead.
Last birthday, Heather gave her a red teddy. Heather was of course, wearing the teddy at the time. She wasn't there for the winter holidays, having traveled to go visit her mother. Fiona would have liked to come and check on Heather's mother as well, but things are as they stand. Heather isn't quite truthful to her mother–there's a certain highly embroidered tale of her dating a high ranking politician who must keep it quiet. And of course, there is Marado at stake. She can't just up and leave to go to some middle class house in Crimea without the tabloids following her.
It is her duty as a queen. It separates her from what–who–she most wants at times. But she does not regret it, at least, not usually. Her hands are on the buttons of her white dress shirt when she catches sight of something glittery and red on the borough.
It's a card.
She picks it up and studies it. It smells thickly of Heather's perfume, a smell of bitter roses and earth.
She doesn't hear the footsteps, doesn't know until Heather's arms are around her neck and she's brought into an embrace. She squirms at the feel of Heather's breasts to her back. It's been a while, and her body aches with a need for closeness.
"I got it just for you," Heather says, a low purr to her ear. "I could've gotten you some of the crown jewels while I was Crimea, but I didn't think you'd approve of that."
Fiona smiles despite herself. "No, Heather. I daresay I wouldn't."
"Open it," Heather urges.
Fiona does. Her gloves make it hard to deal with papers at times. With a smile, Heather begins to pull them off. It's such an intimate gesture between them.
"Who did you steal this from?" Fiona says teasingly.
"Honestly, don't you think better of me?" Heather says. "I paid for it with my hard-earned money that I lifted from some stuffy noble back in Crimea."
It's a suggestive card. A very, very suggestive card, one seemingly tailor made for Heather. Despite some of the things they've gotten up to–sex on balconies, in hidden rooms and in the backs of rented cars–Fiona flushes.
"Let me help you with that," Heather says. She slowly begins to unbutton the shirt. Heather's very good at undoing things. Locks, clothing, even her reserve. Fiona doesn't have it in her to protest that anyone could come in–she's sure the door has been properly attended to, regardless–Heather is good at finding ways to spring locks, even though her natural exhibitionism streak makes her want to leave it ajar, daring anyone to come in and watch.
The card tips over on the borough, and it's to the wall they end up. Fiona's back to it as Heather peels off the rest of her clothes. One by one, they fall to the floor around her, until she's naked against the wall and Heather is kissing her.
Heather's quick fingers find their way into her. She's already wet and soft, and the entrance makes her moan against Heather's mouth and grip her shirt. When they break apart for a desperate, ragged breath, Fiona squeezes Heather's breasts, stroking them through the skintight tube top. She leans down just enough so suck Heather's hardened nipple through the material. The spandex begins to take on a darker tinge with moisture.
Heather falters in the thrust of her fingers, but only a moment, and then she's thrusting in deep and hard. Fiona buries her face in Heather's cleavage, she's clenched tight about Heather's fingers. Her breath is shallow as she works her hand into Heather's pants, touching along her hip until she's between her thighs, rubbing her way up.
They grip and grope each other with their free hands like newly released prisoners, not lovers only separated a few short weeks. It's quick, and with each using the extent of their knowledge of each other. Fiona's thumb is making circles about Heather's clit, and Heather in turn is thrusting in, rubbing the palm of her hand against her with every thrust of her fingers.
Fiona comes first. She always comes first, because it's Heather and in her own way, Heather hates to lose. She clenches around Heather's fingers, her own buried deep in Heather, feeling the same warmth together, like a conduit. They fall back against the wall, panting and murmuring soft words.
The worries of the day pass away. They slide down to sitting, leaning against the wall, their fingers still sticky with the scent of each other.
"You have so much to tell me," Fiona says. And she pulls Heather in for a kiss, resting her head close when their lips part just to feel her a little longer.
"Oh, I think you've got a few tales to tell of your own," Heather says.
And yes, she thinks. There's many things to be said between the kisses, the sheets, and the languorous shared sleep and everything she has missed in this absence.
