By Minim Calibre
Notes: Crackgen fic prompt “Grace Choi: must pretend to be dating someone for undercover/secret reasons.”
“Why me again?” This is not her usual thing. No spandex tonight, just low-slung denim and a man’s white ribbed undershirt. The reflection in the mirror doesn’t even look like someone she knows.
Anissa stares at the teal spikes on the wig Grace has told her to wear, wondering how exactly she found herself talked into this. It looks weird, more like Grace than Anissa. At least it fits, though that means no way does it belong to Grace, meaning Grace just keeps them around, meaning she’s going to stop this train of thought right here. If Grace has a stash of women’s wigs, butch hooker style, that’s her business.
Grace stretches one leg up to lace her boot, and says in that seen-everything voice of hers, the one that gets under Anissa’s skin like a burr, “It’s dyke bar, Princess. You were thinking I’d bring Roy?”
“You put me in his wifebeater, I figure you could put him in my costume with a couple of tube socks down the front.”
There’s a pause and a snort of laughter. “That’s a picture I didn’t need. Though, shave the soul patch, give him a little lipstick and eyeliner, and he would make a pretty, pretty girl. Too bad I didn’t think of that before I picked you for my fake-a-date. C’mon, let’s get going.” Then Grace is tugging at her, and there’s no time left to fiddle with the wig or wonder how exactly she’s supposed to act because it’s show time.
The place is loud, hot, and teeming with women of all shapes and sizes, half of them metahuman from the looks of things. Grace barely stands out in the crowd. Anissa tries not to gawk as she takes it all in. Reminds herself they’re just there to make an ID on their mystery smuggler.
“Isn’t detective work a little more up Nightwing’s alley?” Anissa mutters as they slide into a corner bench. Grace pulls her in close, until the only thing keeping Anissa’s head from Grace’s left breast is the damn wig. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.
It only gets worse when Grace leans down and whispers, “You want him in a dress with tube socks, too?” Her breath tickles against Anissa’s ear, and she gets the sense Grace is enjoying this way too much. Could be intuition, could be the way Grace is shifting her hip to press it against hers.
Two can play at that game, and no one ever said she wasn’t a quick learner. Anissa leans in, letting her jaw slide slowly over Grace’s nipple as she tilts her head back. Hides a smile at the sharp intake of breath that says Grace wasn’t expecting that. “Just imagine them on a date together instead of us,” she stage-whispers.
“Don’t think I haven’t.” Grace looks down at Anissa’s watch. “10:15. Got another hour of keeping up appearances before our girl shows.” Then her hand is huge and hot on Anissa’s thigh, strong fingers kneading lightly, insistently.
By 10:20, Grace has expanded her definition of “keeping up appearances” to include kissing, and Anissa’s not complaining. 10:35, they’ve retreated to the bathroom, and Anissa’s glad the ability to control her own density means she doesn’t have to bother with a bra. Less to take off that way. 10:37, she’s wedged into a bathroom stall, riding Grace’s thigh while she sucks hard on Grace’s nipples. 10:50, Anissa’s face is between that thigh and its mate.
11:10, they’re pulling their clothes back on and hurrying back to the table just in time for their fish to take the bait.
“Does this happen every time someone goes undercover?” Anissa asks when they’re halfway back to HQ, evidence in hand. She’s sticky and sweaty and two beers haven’t washed the taste of Grace out of her mouth, not that she wanted them to, not really. She was just… thirsty.
Grace grins and slaps Anissa hard on the ass. “Only if you’re lucky.”
“You often lucky?”
Another grin and a quick kiss instead of a slap this time. “Always.”