As it turns out, when Vanessa said, "we need to get you a new wardrobe," she meant, "I'll pick you up on a Tuesday afternoon in my armored town car and we'll go to a boutique you've never heard of and I'll help you shop for an entire afternoon while a dozen bodyguards stand at each entrance to the building."
The boutique's owner leads them to a private room in the back; there are a few racks of clothing, shoes neatly lined up on the floor, handbags hanging from pegs on the wall, and a three-paneled mirror. There's also a side table with coffee and tea and a bottle of white wine, and a plush loveseat and chair, the latter of which Vanessa claims after dismissing the staff with a graceful wave and a grateful smile.
"Try whatever you like," Vanessa says to Karen, filling two wine glasses and offering one. Karen takes it, sipping with nervous haste. "I gave them your measurements; everything should fit."
(And hadn't that been hilarious to explain: 'My new fake boss wants to know my shoe size.' Foggy's eyebrows had shot upwards and he'd made a comment about weird rich people with more money than sense. Matt had grinned, while Karen had giggled and answered the email.)
There's a privacy screen in one corner, and Karen ducks behind it with her first selections. When she unzips the first - an aubergine sheath dress - she blinks at the tag. "Nnnnope," she whispers to herself, setting that one aside. The next is just as outrageous, and she fumbles through the hangers, familiar names on every label. She drains her glass, needing a little liquid courage before she leans around the side of the screen. "Um, Vanessa?"
The other woman looks faintly amused, as if she's been expecting this. "Yes?"
"Are you sure-?"
"Absolutely," Vanessa answers, genuine pleasure in her tone.
"...okay," Karen says, helplessly, then retreats. "Okay," she breathes to herself, and reaches again for the aubergine dress, surrounded by Klein and Karan and Siriano and Balenciaga. Eventually she just stops looking at the tags when she shimmies into each piece, careful and almost reverent.
The only mirrors are out by the racks, where Vanessa's sitting, ready with her glittering inspection, her commentary. Vanessa's never anything less than complimentary; she saves her criticisms for how the clothes look on Karen, which is a fine distinction. "Every designer has their own client," Vanessa tells her, standing behind her as they stand in front of the mirrors. "It can shift from year to year, season to season, but dressing well isn't about chasing them, changing yourself to suit the trends. It's about building a wardrobe with the trends that suit you." Her hands close around Karen's elbows, warm and steady as her smile.
Karen nods. She's always understood that, but it's a little more difficult to internalize when she's wearing clothes that cost more than her rent and which she's only ever seen worn by runway models.
"Here, let me find you something," Vanessa says, and crosses the room to rifle through the racks, muttering over each piece. Karen follows, trying to see what she sees. "So much black and white, it'll do nothing for your coloring unless you want to shift that a bit, but it would be a shame to lose that complexion under too many cosmetics, or to cover this hue," she tells Karen, stroking her hand lightly over Karen's hair. "Feretti will make you look like a toddler, we can skip all those. Burberry's too bohemian this season, you'll look like you're trying too hard. Chanel has a few good staples, as always, but some of the silhouettes are all wrong for your figure. Ah, here." She hands Karen a rich dark green jacket, a pale cream blouse, and a skirt in a color somewhere between wine and chocolate.
"Sure," Karen replies, a little dubiously. It's not a combination that she'd have picked for herself, but she's willing to give it a shot.
When she comes out from the changing area, Vanessa lights up and she beckons Karen over to the mirrors. "Ah, see? Come, look." She straightens the collar of the jacket, brushes down the hem of the skirt, fingertips grazing Karen's knee. "What did I tell you?" She gathers Karen's hair in one hand, twisting it gently to drape it over one shoulder.
Karen surveys herself, surprised at the subtle changes she sees. The autumnal colors make her look more mature, but not older, exactly. More serious, without being dour. The green of the jacket brings out the gold in her hair, somehow makes her eyes icier. "I see what you mean," she says.
Vanessa's hands rest gently on the back of her hips, her gaze appreciative. "Good," she murmurs. "We'll need to tailor the jacket, of course, but that's to be expected. Take it off, let me see fit of the blouse." She's already reaching up, fingers curling against the back of Karen's neck, tugging gently at the fine wool. Karen ducks her head to hide a shiver, pretending to fumble with the button.
"It's a little-" Karen says when Vanessa's drawn the jacket down and away; she suppresses the urge to cross her arms.
"Well, yes, you should be wearing a shell," Vanessa comments, twitching the seams of the semi-sheer blouse into place and plucking at it where it tucks under the skirt, evening up the gathers. Her palm lands on the small of Karen's back as she turns to survey the effect, burning like a brand through the silk. "Simple enough." Her other hand fusses with the collar before she slides two fingers along the visible line of Karen's bra strap. "I'll give you a budget for... incidentals."
Karen swallows, realizing just how close Vanessa is, their bodies glancing in half a dozen places with each movement, each breath. "That's-" she says, almost a whisper, "This is all too much, I couldn't possibly-"
Vanessa's eyes in the mirror are dark, knowing and calm. "It's up to you," she replies, layering meaning in each syllable, "Consider it a perk of the job, if you like." She drops her hand; it grazes against Karen's chest and smooths down her waist, stopping when the pinky hits the band of the skirt.
Karen inhales shakily, watching that patient touch wait there, curved over her belly button. The motion makes light glint off an almost indecently large diamond. "Your fiancee?" she says, using the fear of Fisk's specter as a lifeline.
"My husband allows me my indulgences," Vanessa says, leaning in so that her breath ghosts along Karen's jaw. "As I've allowed him his. Does that bother you?"
Karen shakes her head, licking her suddenly-parched lips. It's such a cliche, isn't it? Getting seduced by her boss. And yet, Vanessa's presence sends a rush of real, undeniable electricity along her nerves. Karen finds herself leaning back, increasing the contact between them. "...no," she answers finally. "I'm not bothered. It's fine."
As Vanessa's hand slips lower, Karen tells herself it's for the case. She already knows it's a lie.
--- end. I think*. ---
* although there's also something kicking around the back of my mind about Vanessa not being an idiot and knowing who Karen is and not caring ("keep your friends close" and all that), and about Karen going back to the law offices where Foggy goes "so how did it go" while Matt frowns, smelling Vanessa's perfume everywhere and Karen's just like "..." but I think what I have here can stand on its own. hopefully.
FILL [2/2]: Vanessa/Karen, seduction
The boutique's owner leads them to a private room in the back; there are a few racks of clothing, shoes neatly lined up on the floor, handbags hanging from pegs on the wall, and a three-paneled mirror. There's also a side table with coffee and tea and a bottle of white wine, and a plush loveseat and chair, the latter of which Vanessa claims after dismissing the staff with a graceful wave and a grateful smile.
"Try whatever you like," Vanessa says to Karen, filling two wine glasses and offering one. Karen takes it, sipping with nervous haste. "I gave them your measurements; everything should fit."
(And hadn't that been hilarious to explain: 'My new fake boss wants to know my shoe size.' Foggy's eyebrows had shot upwards and he'd made a comment about weird rich people with more money than sense. Matt had grinned, while Karen had giggled and answered the email.)
There's a privacy screen in one corner, and Karen ducks behind it with her first selections. When she unzips the first - an aubergine sheath dress - she blinks at the tag. "Nnnnope," she whispers to herself, setting that one aside. The next is just as outrageous, and she fumbles through the hangers, familiar names on every label. She drains her glass, needing a little liquid courage before she leans around the side of the screen. "Um, Vanessa?"
The other woman looks faintly amused, as if she's been expecting this. "Yes?"
"Are you sure-?"
"Absolutely," Vanessa answers, genuine pleasure in her tone.
"...okay," Karen says, helplessly, then retreats. "Okay," she breathes to herself, and reaches again for the aubergine dress, surrounded by Klein and Karan and Siriano and Balenciaga. Eventually she just stops looking at the tags when she shimmies into each piece, careful and almost reverent.
The only mirrors are out by the racks, where Vanessa's sitting, ready with her glittering inspection, her commentary. Vanessa's never anything less than complimentary; she saves her criticisms for how the clothes look on Karen, which is a fine distinction. "Every designer has their own client," Vanessa tells her, standing behind her as they stand in front of the mirrors. "It can shift from year to year, season to season, but dressing well isn't about chasing them, changing yourself to suit the trends. It's about building a wardrobe with the trends that suit you." Her hands close around Karen's elbows, warm and steady as her smile.
Karen nods. She's always understood that, but it's a little more difficult to internalize when she's wearing clothes that cost more than her rent and which she's only ever seen worn by runway models.
"Here, let me find you something," Vanessa says, and crosses the room to rifle through the racks, muttering over each piece. Karen follows, trying to see what she sees. "So much black and white, it'll do nothing for your coloring unless you want to shift that a bit, but it would be a shame to lose that complexion under too many cosmetics, or to cover this hue," she tells Karen, stroking her hand lightly over Karen's hair. "Feretti will make you look like a toddler, we can skip all those. Burberry's too bohemian this season, you'll look like you're trying too hard. Chanel has a few good staples, as always, but some of the silhouettes are all wrong for your figure. Ah, here." She hands Karen a rich dark green jacket, a pale cream blouse, and a skirt in a color somewhere between wine and chocolate.
"Sure," Karen replies, a little dubiously. It's not a combination that she'd have picked for herself, but she's willing to give it a shot.
When she comes out from the changing area, Vanessa lights up and she beckons Karen over to the mirrors. "Ah, see? Come, look." She straightens the collar of the jacket, brushes down the hem of the skirt, fingertips grazing Karen's knee. "What did I tell you?" She gathers Karen's hair in one hand, twisting it gently to drape it over one shoulder.
Karen surveys herself, surprised at the subtle changes she sees. The autumnal colors make her look more mature, but not older, exactly. More serious, without being dour. The green of the jacket brings out the gold in her hair, somehow makes her eyes icier. "I see what you mean," she says.
Vanessa's hands rest gently on the back of her hips, her gaze appreciative. "Good," she murmurs. "We'll need to tailor the jacket, of course, but that's to be expected. Take it off, let me see fit of the blouse." She's already reaching up, fingers curling against the back of Karen's neck, tugging gently at the fine wool. Karen ducks her head to hide a shiver, pretending to fumble with the button.
"It's a little-" Karen says when Vanessa's drawn the jacket down and away; she suppresses the urge to cross her arms.
"Well, yes, you should be wearing a shell," Vanessa comments, twitching the seams of the semi-sheer blouse into place and plucking at it where it tucks under the skirt, evening up the gathers. Her palm lands on the small of Karen's back as she turns to survey the effect, burning like a brand through the silk. "Simple enough." Her other hand fusses with the collar before she slides two fingers along the visible line of Karen's bra strap. "I'll give you a budget for... incidentals."
Karen swallows, realizing just how close Vanessa is, their bodies glancing in half a dozen places with each movement, each breath. "That's-" she says, almost a whisper, "This is all too much, I couldn't possibly-"
Vanessa's eyes in the mirror are dark, knowing and calm. "It's up to you," she replies, layering meaning in each syllable, "Consider it a perk of the job, if you like." She drops her hand; it grazes against Karen's chest and smooths down her waist, stopping when the pinky hits the band of the skirt.
Karen inhales shakily, watching that patient touch wait there, curved over her belly button. The motion makes light glint off an almost indecently large diamond. "Your fiancee?" she says, using the fear of Fisk's specter as a lifeline.
"My husband allows me my indulgences," Vanessa says, leaning in so that her breath ghosts along Karen's jaw. "As I've allowed him his. Does that bother you?"
Karen shakes her head, licking her suddenly-parched lips. It's such a cliche, isn't it? Getting seduced by her boss. And yet, Vanessa's presence sends a rush of real, undeniable electricity along her nerves. Karen finds herself leaning back, increasing the contact between them. "...no," she answers finally. "I'm not bothered. It's fine."
As Vanessa's hand slips lower, Karen tells herself it's for the case. She already knows it's a lie.
--- end. I think*. ---
* although there's also something kicking around the back of my mind about Vanessa not being an idiot and knowing who Karen is and not caring ("keep your friends close" and all that), and about Karen going back to the law offices where Foggy goes "so how did it go" while Matt frowns, smelling Vanessa's perfume everywhere and Karen's just like "..." but I think what I have here can stand on its own. hopefully.