 |
|
|
|
|
Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R. Crossdressing.
Pairing: Smecker/Murphy
Feedback: Good lines, bad ones, etc.
Disclaimer: Does not belong to me.
Summary: Murphy’s going undercover as a woman. Smecker helps out.
***
“Hold still, you fucking little prick.” And Smecker’s knee gives Murphy’s crotch a hard shove, just in case Murphy hadn’t already gotten the point. Looks like Smecker’s been spending too much time cleaning up the stupidity of the local law
again, because Murphy’s definitely not that slow. And it also looks like Murphy’s turning into a reasonably good woman, which makes Murphy even less happier. He flicks his eyes away from the weird sight in the mirror in front of them, his face half-scribed in one gender and half-natural in the other, and Smecker curses again. Jerks up Murphy by the chin, make-up pencil aimed like a dagger at Murphy’s eye. Not that Smecker would, of course, but he gets a hell of a lot closer than anyone thinks he would, or should.
Fuck, this is uncomfortable. The pantyhose is riding into Murphy’s crotch and God, he does not want to think about what’s holding his prick and balls back behind that. He’d just caught a glimpse of it before Connor and that big fucking doggie of a cop had pinned him down for Smecker to tie it on—so much for brotherly love. “Fucking bastard. Laughing his head off, he was,” Murphy mutters.
“Yeah, well, if you fuck up tonight, next time it’s Connor’s turn to go undercover.” Smecker’s knee nudges conspiratorially at Murphy’s poor smushed-up prick. The rest of the man looks distorted and snorting from here, much too close to get a good bead on. He does the eyeliner in quick strokes, lip caught beneath his teeth. “Relax, would you? Half your problem’s that you’re tensing up your balls. Let the sling hold them and stop trying to yank ‘em back into your pelvis yourself.”
“If that happens, I’m making you dig them out. This is such a shite idea,” Murphy says, squirming. He can’t help it. Something’s twisted down there and Smecker’s knee is warm and hard against it, and goddamn it, Connor is so going to get it when Murphy gets back. His nails dig into the sides of the seat-cushion, and then he winces because something really twists. “Smecker!”
With a sigh, the other man puts down the pencil. He shoves his cold hands into the pantyhose without so much as a warning, then looks fucking surprised at Murphy’s hiss-and-jump. “Lamb to the slaughter. Now I’m wondering if you’re gonna be able to pull this off, messing around like this,” Smecker grumbles, hands squeezing further down. His fingers stretch out the nylon, make it move snake-like against Murphy’s skin. “How’s this?”
Murphy’s flushing, which is a weird feeling because of all the stuff slathered on top of it. He’d like to grab Smecker’s hand, but he thinks that’ll make it worse. “Um?”
Smecker jabs his thumb a little farther so it grazes along the sling, streak of touch that teases Murphy’s sudden itch. His snicker drops lower in his throat. “Oh. Idiot Irish mutts, can talk and talk but never can just ask when they need something.” His whole hand slides down and cups Murphy’s prick, hot cradle beneath the silky one. “How’s this?”
This? This is good, this is great, this is fan-fucking-tastic except for the little weirdnesses, like Murphy’s skirt riding up when he leans back, dry-mouthed and panting, and like the stretchy silk that’s not letting his balls drop heavy and proper where Smecker’s long fingers can get at them. Though they’re making an effort to—an effort, yeah, because Smecker’s laughing into Murphy’s hair and talking about there being ways and means but Murphy’s not really feeling any ways. More like he’s whimpering now and he’d be ripping off that goddamned tie that’s tickling his nose if his hands weren’t busy trying to break the chair. “Fuck, Smecker, for God’s fucking sake—”
And finally the bastard snaps his fingers or something that lets Murphy sag, head knocking hard against the top of the chair, while Smecker muffles his mouth. Afterwards Smecker gives Murphy’s knee a quick stroke before jerking everything up and inside again so Murphy sits bolt upright, hands reaching for his poor crotch. Smecker smacks them away.
“No putting runs in the hose, now,” Smecker says. “Now, just a touch of lipstick and girlfriend, you’ll be ready to go get ‘em. I don’t think you need blush.”
He’s right, because Murphy’s too damn red-faced to hit him.
***