Title: Scissor Sisters and Wheelchair Brothers
Author: LM Simpson (Kady the Red Panda)
Pairing(s): Bianca/Irma, mentioned!Haddock/Tintin
Rating: M
Warning(s): Slash, femmeslash, sexual content, "Castafiore Emerald" spoilers
Disclaimer: I'm a nobody using copyrighted characters for my own scripted pleasure.
Other tidbits: For a kinkmeme prompt. I'm not really a Bianca/Irma fan (if we're talking about a Bianca pairing, show me a fanwork for Calculus and her and I'll love you forever), I'll admit. But the idea of writing Bianca as a lesbian (or bisexual) sounds interesting and just too irresistible to not write. As far as I know, this is the first femmeslash/yuri Tintin fanfic. "As far as I know" being the key clause.

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Bianca enters her bedroom, a red satin robe draped over her body and a white terry cloth towel wrapped around her head. Her maid, Irma, sits in a chair by her queen bed, playing with the stray embroidery floss from her latest project.

"Irmaaa," Bianca says, "Have you found your golden scissors yet?"

Irma looks up, blushes at her half-nude mistress, and just as quickly drops her head again. Playing with the thread once again, she sighs and shakes her head. "No, Madame. I haven't been able to locate it yet."

Bianca frees her damp golden locks, sets the towel aside the vanity table. She begins brushing her hair as she comments, "Don't get a run in your stockings over it, Irma. If we do not find it tomorrow, I will buy you another one."

Her project still occupies her sight. Biological blush reddens her cheeks. "Oui, Madame."

From the mirror's corner, she sees Irma still playing with the thread. The way she curls the strand around her finger reminds her of something less innocent, something Irma has done to her own hair before. Bianca grows curious—Irma loves her embroidery, but she is rarely this engrossed at a half-finished project. Rather than pondering which color floss to use next, she appears to be admiring it like it's a gem.

Bianca concludes that she wants to join in the awe.

She deliberately, lightly tugs her robe belt loose before lying on her belly on the mustard duvet Captain Hancock provided. She twirls some hair with one hand and rests the other on her chin.

"Irma," she asks in her most peepish voice, "May I please see what you've been working on?"

She clutches the project to her bosom like a mother clutching a child, like a person keeping a secret. She pushes her glasses back against her face, shakes her head.

"Oh, I would rather not at this moment," the maid says. She still blushes.

"Why not, Irmaaa? I've seen your work. Where I excel at singing, you excel at embroidery. I would never refrain from singing if you requested it from me. Why are you denying me a peek?" Bianca pouts.

Irma feels guilty, and not because she can see Bianca's cleavage.

Bianca crawls on all fours for a better look at the art within the hoop. She sees a floss feathered nightingale tweeting song notes on a tree branch green from Spring revival. The bird possesses emerald green eyes, similar to hers.

The songstress grins. "Oh, Irma! How gorgeous! Is that for me?"

Irma nods. "I was making it for your birthday, Madame."

"My birthday? I doubt that—my birthday is not for another three months!"

Irma sighs. Madame was never very easy to fool.

"It is indeed a gift for you. But not for your birthday. It's an offering for…"

"Irma! Come closer to me!" She summons the other to the bed. Irma rises, leaves the hoop on the seat.

Bianca gets on her knees, levels herself with Irma. "You don't need to prove your dedication and affection to me anymore!"

"But—"

"We've been together for ages! I will admit I can be quite a tyrant at times, but I always feel regretful the moment I realize what just escaped my lips!"

She clasps one of Irma's hands, further loosens the robe belt with her free hand. "Come on darling. Let's write a ballad of our own."

Irma forgets her questions when Bianca begins their quest with a kiss. Irma swims from the black sea her dress paints. Bianca rejoins her after her own trip from the red sea.

The nightingale drops onto her back amongst feather filled pillows, taking Irma down with her. Bianca inhibits Irma by setting her eyeglasses on the night table, but the maid still sees a pretty Milanese birdie well enough to resume.

The first challenge is simple and swiftly completed. The kisses vary, from light to deep to French style. The mistress holds her lover against her, between her, but not inside her beyond entwined, wrestling tongues. Irma's hand travels down and just before it visits the junction between Bianca's legs, but Madame stops her.

"Not yet," she whispers, before she nibbles on the maid's bottom lip.

When she is ready, Bianca signals Irma to journey on with a tap atop her head. Irma visits next the mountains on Bianca's chest. Her wet tongue climbs the peaks in record time, detours to admire the large rosebuds that top each peach white breast. She kneads them, licks them, suckles from them. Irma fights a moan as Bianca's hands explore her body.

Irma's feet meet the foot of the bed when she drops down, arrives at the dark blond mound. The juices seeping from Bianca's lips shoots more arousal in her own loins.

Bianca begins singing when the conductor's tongue tip taps her clit. The tongue is quick and constant, flicking up and down, and then side to side, and then in spirals, and then up and down again. She sings even higher when two, then three fingers enter and reenter the warm, inviting sauna under her little pink jewel. The two places guaranteed for Bianca to fly beyond the stratosphere are now simultaneously being played, and the sounds they cause Bianca to make turn Irma on in turn. Irma struggles to fight the urge to please only herself as she fingers Bianca with one hand and herself with her left. Bianca's notes prompt tongue and fingers to go faster and faster, harder and harder, until she goes beyond the apex.

Bianca comes not in waves, but in shudders.

Irma rests her head on Bianca's stomach when Bianca's finger finishes her off. Bianca's hand rubs up and down her back. Sweat sticks flesh against flesh, but neither protests.

Pax Romana ends with an invading thought reemerging in Irma's mind.

"Madame…"

"Yes, Irma?"

"Weren't you recently engaged to the captain?"

Bianca giggles. "Oh no, you silly thing. It's just yet another ridiculous rumor the paparazzi came up with. It should die down soon. Besides, Captain Harlot wouldn't want to be with me anyway. He's obviously a flaming homosexual. Tintin is too—I have already seen the two making out three times so far. Oh, they swore that Tintin was just readjusting the captain's collar, but their faces proved what was truly going on. I'm positive that as I speak, Tintin and he are having a great time on the ground floor."

Irma breaths in relief. "Oh good—I wouldn't want to be the homewrecker if that was the case..."

She looks up at Bianca. "…Are you ever planning on marrying, Madame?"

Bianca continues rubbing Irma's back, looks up and resembles a muse. "No, not ever, from the looks of it. At least, not until the laws change…"

Irma hopes that the laws change soon. She hopes that they change really soon.